summary: (includes smut) you and theodore have been friends since 4th year, and are like peas in a pod. there's nothing that can separate the two of you. so when theodore becomes increasingly jealous at the attention you're receiving after your glow-up the summer before 7th year, he decides he needs to take matters into his own hands.
authors note: i lowkey hate this i can't lie... but i really just wanna get all of my stuff out since i'm not going to be able to write NEARLY as much for essentially the whole summer :( anyway hope u all enjoy this!
🌷 masterlist
Everyone knew Theodore Nott was good-looking, in that effortless way where he never had to try to get other people’s attention and affections. Even so, he never let his ego swell, and never really paid attention to his or other people’s looks. He gave his hair a good tousle in the mornings, and that was that. He just assumed that’s what everyone else did. When his friends would rank girls in their year from prettiest to ugliest, Theodore could never give his opinion. He didn’t have one. He simply just never thought about those sorts of things.
Most people were surprised when the two of you became friends in 4th year. You weren’t ugly, no, but let’s just say you weren’t exactly a head turner. But none of that mattered to Theodore. That’s why your friendship with him was so refreshing. He understood you on a level that no one else did, because he saw who you were past your physical features that everyone else saw as unflattering or as flaws. He appreciated you for your humor and wit, the way you read people’s emotions easily, how you can turn any bad situation into a good one from sheer mindset alone. You were more of a side character to the rest of the world who viewed him as the main one, but the two of you were best friends, and that was all you guys needed.
The summer before you and Theodore’s last year at Hogwarts changed everything. Theodore had spent his summer with family in Italy, as he always did. But you were in for a change. Instead of heading to London like you did every summer, you and your girlfriends took a trip to visit the beaches of France. London was always awfully dreary and bleak, so imagine everyone’s surprise when you came back to Hogwarts looking tanner and… different. Very different.
Your personality remained the same, your carefree spirit still shining through. Your laugh, your friends, your brain, all worked the same. But everything about you, physically was different. You knew something was different immediately when Mattheo, Theodore’s best mate, actually asked you how your summer went when you met up with them in the train car on the way to Hogwarts. You almost choked on your water when he acknowledged your existence seemingly for the first time in the 3 years you had known him.
It was just a few weeks into the school year, and you were already receiving a bountiful amount of attention from boys. Boys, who in previous years had either ignored you or avoided you. Suddenly, everyone wanted to be your Potions partner. Everyone wanted to talk to you during meals in the Great Hall. Even girls were trying to recruit you into their social circles, acting like they were close with you or like they had been friends with you since forever. You didn’t mind the attention, no, but Theodore did. He hated it.
He knew it was selfish, but he had always thought of you as his best friend, and his best friend only. Even though he had a line of people waiting to be his friend (or more), he couldn’t stand the thought of you replacing him with someone funnier, more interesting, more deserving to be your best friend. He hated himself for every punch he felt in his gut when you smiled at another girl or waved at another boy. He hated himself even more for how weak he felt, and how he had no power to stop it.
But most of all, he hated himself for falling victim to this new charm of yours. He hated himself for noticing when your smile would linger on him, when your crinkled eyes would shine as they looked at him. He hated himself for watching you from across the room, just like every other bloke was now doing. He hated himself for not being able to control the blush that lingered on his cheeks every time your hand grazed his forearm or your foot touched his under a table. Theodore felt like he was losing his mind.
He knew he was bound to break, at one point or another. This tipping point just happened to be after the opening quidditch match of the season. Slytherin lost to Hufflepuff, out of all houses, which had only rubbed salt in the wound for Theodore. He had spent almost every second of the game focusing more on making sure his facial expressions didn’t look weird to you instead of catching the actual snitch. Of course, everything that he wanted to go right went wrong, and he ended up almost face-planting into the grass a multitude of times. After the match, he was absolutely pissed, mud stains everywhere and a clear look of frustration painted across his face. All he wanted was to see you and talk to you. So when he found you casually chatting with a Hufflepuff who’s face looked way too smug in Theodore’s opinion, he swore he could’ve exploded with anger. He wanted nothing more than to punch that smirk off of the Hufflepuff’s face. That would teach him a lesson.
“Hey,” Theodore murmurs from behind you right beside your ear, his glare fixed on the Hufflepuff as a sort of silent threat. You touch her, you’re dead.
“Theo!” you jump, startled as you turn your head around to look at him. “Where the hell did you come from?”
“We need to talk,” Theodore says simply, paying no regard to your question at all, turning all of his attention towards you. The Hufflepuff opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Theodore’s hand is on your arm, dragging you away firmly, your steps stumbling before eventually falling into rhythm next to his.
Theodore eventually drags you into the locker room, and you immediately shut your eyes, afraid of seeing something you shouldn’t. “Theo- I can’t be in here-”
“Who was that?” Theodore interrupts sharply, disrupting your train of thought. “And open your eyes. There’s no one here. The match ended ages ago,” he says bitterly, as if all of the time he had spent looking for you was somehow your fault.
You follow his command, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. “Ow- Theo!” you exclaim after yanking your arm out of his grasp. “Merlin, he’s just some guy I met in Potions. What has gotten into you?” As soon as the words fall from your lips, you start to notice his weariness, how taught his body stance is, and the dirt stains all over his uniform. Your heart starts to feel heavy with sympathy, but the moment is quickly broken.
“Just some guy?” Theodore repeats your words dryly, his voice laced with sarcasm. “He was looking at you like you were some piece of meat.” He rakes a hand through his damp hair, messy from flying, and exhales sharply. An Italian curse slips out from under his breath: “Stronzo.”
“Look,” he mutters, suddenly avoiding your eyes. “I don’t care who talks to you or whatever, but don’t just stand there smiling at them like that.”
Your eyes narrow, and you start to get defensive. “Since when do you dictate my choices?” you shoot back, feeling utterly confused by his difference in behavior. Theodore stiffens at your words, his dark eyes flashing with some emotion that you can’t quite name—hurt? Frustration? You can tell he doesn't like the tone in your voice. Not one bit.
“I’m not dictating anything,” he snaps, but it lacks its usual edge. “I just… fuck, bambina…” His tone makes you feel weak in the knees, your hand subconsciously grabbing his wrist to support him. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard through gritted teeth. Seemingly for once, Theodore, the guy who always has a snarky comeback or cold dismissal ready, is struggling to find words. “Since when do you let random people talk to you like that?” It comes out more vulnerable than intended, possessive without him meaning it to be.
“People just come up to me,” you answer defensively, crossing your arms over your chest as if ready to start a fight with him. “I don’t know. You’re the one who’s the expert on this kind of stuff.”
“Oh, don’t start,” Theodore mutters, his voice tighter than he intended. He forces himself to breathe, to catch his breath, to chill the fuck out. The way you crossed your arms with a protective and guarded stance, because of him, made an ugly feeling twist in his stomach. “Merlin, everyone is noticing now.” He seems to finally look at you properly, his dark eyes looking into yours. He has new freckles on his face now, probably from summer days in Italy that you hadn’t been a part of. It mildly irritates you, that even just standing there, pissed off, he looks unfairly good. Your throat goes dry.
“It’s just… weird,” is all Theodore can manage to say. This isn’t even about the Hufflepuff anymore.
“I think it’s weird too,” you say slowly, not really seeing where Theodore was trying to go with this. “But, it’s not like it changes anything between us. Right?”
It hits him then, as he looks at your clueless expression, that you haven’t changed at all, even with the new attention. It hits him like a bludger to the chest: you have no idea. No idea that he’d been watching. Noticing. Wanting.
“No,” he says a little too quickly, a little too stiff. “Of course not.” Yet, his eyes betray him. Dark and stormy with something unspoken as they flick over your face one more time before darting away again to the wall behind you. You awkwardly shift from one foot to the other, not really knowing what to say. This is uncharted territory for you—it had never been awkward with Theodore before. Even though you had both literally just agreed that nothing had changed, it feels like something has. You can tell that Theodore noticed the shift to awkwardness and hesitation as well, and that just made you feel even worse. This quiet tension between you two is completely foreign. You’ve never felt uncomfortable or cautious around him before, or second-guessed words or silences.
Theodore clears his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Wanna smoke?” he blurts out suddenly, jerking his chin toward the exit. You stifle a laugh, nodding a yes, and a tiny, relieved smirk tugs at his mouth. Typical Theodore, breaking the silence by asking for a smoke break. Although it did make the moment feel less gauche and more natural. “Let me get out of my uniform real quick.”
Once Theodore is wearing his robes, the two of you walk to your usual nook—a dimly lit alcove half-hidden by a stone arch. Theodore leans against the wall, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offering you one first. You hold the cigarette between your fingers and between your lips, leaning slightly forward so Theodore can light you up. The small flame that emits from his silver lighter casts shadows across his sharp features, and you can’t help but notice the haunting sort of beauty that he possesses. The routine feels familiar, safe. Something the two of you have done countless times before. You haven’t told a soul, but these memories of smoking with Theodore in the oddest places are some of your most cherished ones.
After Theodore lights his own cigarette, he takes a deep drag before exhaling smoke through slightly parted lips. For a second, the two of you just stand there, silent but comfortable again, the tension from earlier easing with each shared breath.
“So, do you want to talk about the shit show of the match you just had, or no?” you ask calmly, watching and waiting for his reaction through the smoke. He only scoffs, rolling his eyes, but it lacks real annoyance. It’s akin to exhausted resignation.
“Fuck no,” he mutters, tapping ash onto the stone floor. “I swear, my broom was possessed by some spiteful pixie or something.” He takes another drag before adding dryly, “Draco cheered so hard when I almost ate shit in mid-air.” The mental image of Draco laughing at Theodore makes you giggle. Or maybe it was just the nicotine in your bloodstream now. “Bloody stupid move, too. I should’ve just stuck to basic formations.”
You shrug. “Taking risks is fine. I’m sure you’ll do great next time. Malfoy’s a bitch, anyway.” Theodore snorts at that, smoke curling around the two of you as he smirks at your bluntness. Merlin, have you missed this. Talking to Theodore about everything and nothing, feeling completely at ease with him.
“Sì, absolutely,” he agrees, taking another lazy drag. “Draco’s got the personality of a moldy sock.” His insult makes you chuckle, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you start to concentrate on blowing rings with the smoke of your cigarette. Theodore watches you, mesmerized, as your rings curl and float between the two of you like ghostly hoops. It’s stupid. So stupid. But there’s something oddly comforting about this situation—the quiet shared smoke, the way your fingers hold the cigarette so gracefully and with practiced ease. It all makes his stomach do a traitorous little flip.
He quickly looks away before his thoughts can take root any further. “Show off,” he mutters instead of grabbing your body closer to his to kiss you senseless, which is what he really wants to do.
“You’re the one who taught me that, idiot,” you murmur, smiling up at him through your hooded eyes. Theodore’s breath hitches as he realizes how close the two of you really are, almost touching, and suddenly, the small space between the two of you feels charged.
“Oh, did I now?” Theodore plays dumb, but his voice comes out lower than intended. Rough around the edges. His words along with the teasing lilt in his voice make you subconsciously press your thighs together. He shifts slightly, accidentally-on-purpose closing that last inch so that his chest presses lightly against yours. You can feel his warmth through his robes. Merlin, this is dangerous. How can something as simple as leaning on each other feel like foreplay?
“You did,” you retort, swatting his shoulder gently with your free hand. “Don’t play dumb.” Theodore lets out a quiet huff of laughter, caught, yet he doesn’t bother to deny it. Instead, he just stays there, close to you, smoke curling into the air between you two like lazy whispers. It’s nice. Maybe even too nice. The kind of peace that makes your chest ache because it feels different now, the familiarity tangled up with something new and terrifyingly fragile.
Theodore takes one last drag before discarding the butt of his cigarette, his dark eyes fixed on your lips as you take another puff. “Wanna ditch dinner?” he murmurs, one hand moving to tuck a stray curl of hair behind your ear. His touch is so soft it makes your heart stutter. “I’ve got firewhisky in my dorm.”
You chuckle, shaking your head at his antics. “You’re just trying to avoid your friends so they can’t make fun of how badly you played today,” you tease softly.
“Maybe,” he admits shamelessly, nudging you softly. “Mattheo wouldn’t shut up about it. Called me ‘Disastro Nott’ twice already.” He plucks your finished cigarette from your fingertips, discarding it the same way he did his own. He has this habit of always finishing what you started, which you honestly find endearing. “Plus, I’d rather be with you anyway,” he adds, quieter now.
A cheeky smile adorns your face, his small confession making your heart swell. Despite all of the attention you’re getting from others lately, you still only glow under Theodore’s recognition and no one else's. “Let’s go then?” you say softly, interlocking your pinky with his, a habit you can’t seem to break since forming it sometime during 4th year when Theodore had to drag you away from a stray Puffskein that you wanted to smuggle back into Hogwarts and keep as a pet.
“Let’s go,” he responds, already turning to lead the way. The two of you walk close together, no rush or pretenses, your arm brushing against his with every step toward the dungeons. Just the usual flowy chatter that you will never tire of.
Once you step inside his dorm room, Theodore kicks the door shut behind you. His area of the room is typically messy, with clothes strewn over his chair, a half-empty bottle of cologne sitting on his desk, posters for Italian football teams peeling at the corners off the wall. Stepping into his space is like seeing all the layers of him, unfiltered and laid out. You always feel honored every time you’re let in to see something so personal.
He beelines straight for the small trunk under his bed where he kept most of his prohibited items, pulling out a bottle of amber firewhisky for the two of you to share. “Come here,” he mutters, and of course you follow without hesitation, sitting down next to him on his bed. You watch him twist off the cork with practiced ease, your gaze intense as he takes a swig straight from the bottle. “No glasses. We’ll have to drink like this.”
“Fine with me.” You take the bottle from him, taking a sip and wincing as the liquor slides down and burns your throat. “So, do you sneak girls into your dorm to do this often, or what?” You hand the bottle back to him, taking off your outer robe and throwing it somewhere across the room, the alcohol and your vicinity to Theodore making you feel warm. His gaze flickers to your legs, your skirt hiding close to nothing, and he quickly looks away, his throat bobbing with a controlled restraint.
Theodore scoffs at your words, as if they’re the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. Though, it’s not even a weird question to ask. Everyone knows that Theodore is nothing short of a ladies man. He has women fawning at his feet, waiting at his beck and call at any hour of the day. But he’s never paid attention to them before. He only pays attention to you. “This shit is for me and Mattheo. Occasionally Pansy if she needs a pick-me-up.”
Pansy. Her name makes your heart twist uncomfortably in your chest, yet you avoid dwelling on it. You hate the thought that Theodore might prefer other girls over you. But that’s just because he’s your best friend. Right?
You take the bottle as he hands it back to you, taking a larger swig this time. Swallowing is a challenge. Theodore moves to lean against the headboard of his bed, his long legs stretching out behind you as you sit on the edge of the bed. He watches you drink, and notices everything. The way your throat bobs as you swallow, how your nose scrunches slightly at the burn.
“You alright?” He asks quietly, not about Pansy, but about this. About sitting so close on his bed like it was normal when everything felt anything but. You bite your lip to stop yourself from saying something you’ll regret later.
“I just… I mean, maybe it’s just me. But don’t we feel, like, disconnected lately?” Theodore watches you turn your gaze around to him, and the thought of him being so wrapped up in his own stupid jealousy, noticing everyone else looking at you, that he hasn’t even considered how you might feel, makes him sick. He grabs the bottle from your hands, placing it down on the nightstand next to his bed, before he gestures you over. He contracts a leg so that you can move to sit in between them, setting it down again once you’re in the middle.
“Yeah,” he admits roughly. “We do.” One of his hands grabs your wrist gently to rub his thumb over your pulse point, as a soothing gesture. Your heart is beating fast.
“Do you– I mean, do you not…” you hesitate, not sure how to articulate your words properly without sounding like an insecure girlfriend. “Do you not like me anymore? Do you not want to be as close?”
Theodore’s facial expression twists, as if he can’t even fathom your words ever being true. “No,” he says fiercely, a bit too loud and immediate. Then, quieter, with his jaw clenched, “Merlin, it’s the opposite. I’m…” he trails off, fingers flexing uselessly against the bed sheets, his grip on your wrist tightening ever so slightly, as if he never wants to let go. How can he put this into words? That he’s been losing his mind over how hot you’ve gotten? That every guy looking at you made him want to punch something?
Instead of explaining, he speaks simply. Truly. “I miss us.”
You look down at where his hand is holding your wrist so tenderly, and you get the sudden urge to throw yourself onto him. It was definitely a bad decision on your part to mix your substances. Your thoughts are running wild, and you feel like you can’t control them. “I do too,” you whisper, feeling shy all of a sudden as you start to pick at the sheets under you with your free hand.
Theodore reaches out without thinking, calloused fingers under your chin, gently tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “Look at me,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your bottom lip. It lingers there for half a second too long to be considered casual, before dropping his hand like you burned him.
You tilt your head to the side, a clear look of confusion painted on your face. “Are you drunk or something?” Theodore lets out a short, breathless laugh.
“After a few sips? No, tesoro. I’m just… fuck.” He rakes a hand through his hair, his eyes finally meeting yours again. “I just missed this. Missed you. All summer.”
You can’t help yourself as you lean into him, settling into the familiar warmth of his body, his arm instinctually wrapping around your figure as you lean your head on his shoulder. You want to blame your behavior on the alcohol, on the nicotine, but deep down you know that this is your desire, your choice. “I missed you all summer too. I wanted to be in Italy with you.”
“Should’ve brought you,” he mutters into your hair, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.”
“I would’ve loved that,” you whisper, fully committing to your act as he helps you settle on his lap by putting your side onto his chest, the firewhisky burning a pit in your stomach and definitely giving you more confidence than usual. It feels painfully natural, the physical closeness between the two of you.
“Sei così bella,” Theodore whispers into your hair, his other hand tracing slow circles on your hip, his touches igniting a fire across your body, pooling low in your stomach.
“Translation, per favore,” you mumble, utilizing a phrase that Theodore had taught you years ago when you asked to learn parts of his native language. Your request made Theodore feel like the happiest man on the planet, but it also surprised him that it was possible for someone to care about him and understand him so deeply to the point of trying to learn something that he held close to his heart. He adores the fact that you remember.
You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his natural scent making you feel woozy. “You’re drunk,” he says in a stupidly fond voice, your closeness completely short-circuiting his brain. “You’re so cute when you speak Italian.” His fingers trail up to tangle gently in your hair, just playing with the strands. This whole scene is so fucking domestic it makes his chest ache.
“Shut up.” A warm blush climbs up the back of your neck, and you hide your face in his shirt. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying.” You can feel the rumble of Theodore’s chest as he laughs, deep and warm.
“Never,” he murmurs, stroking your head softly, caressing you as if you were some sort of pet. He isn’t making fun of you; if anything, it’s the opposite. The way you’re trying so hard for him sends a dose of pure joy straight through his heart.
“So what did you do all summer?” You ask, lifting your head off of his shoulder to be able to look at him, your hands on either side of him to prop yourself up. “Forget about me?” You can’t help but lean in subconsciously, your desire to be closer to him only heightened by the liquid courage coursing through your body.
You can feel Theodore’s entire body locking up the second your eyes met his, an almost pained look painted on his face. “Of course not,” he says softly, and you can feel yourself drowning in his eyes, in his presence, almost losing yourself in the process. “I thought about you every day, amorina, you know that.” You and Theodore had written to each other all summer, as the two of you always did every year. His letters detailed his adventures with his family, to what kind of snack he had on a random hike. But he never failed to mention how badly he missed you. It was your favorite part of each letter he’d write.
“Then why didn’t you tell me to come?” you huff, rubbing your eye with one of your hands, fighting the urge to yawn all of a sudden. Being with Theodore always made you feel safe, and therefore, sleepy. “France got boring after a while.”
“I didn’t think you were missing me like that,” he admits, his own hand brushing your cheek reverently. His tone has an air of vulnerability to it, as if he’s unsure of your affections. The tension is palpable; you can practically feel its presence physically straining between the two of you, your bodies pulling each other in like magnets. It feels impossible to stop yourself from wanting to be close to him, from wanting him to pay attention to you. At the end of the day, even with all of the new affections you’ve been receiving from others, you’d give it all up in a second just for Theodore to stay your best friend.
“So you’re admitting in person that you missed me, then?” You can’t help but tease him, feeling the weight of his words physically manifesting on your face in the form of a blush. Theodore’s eyes glint in the light, his smile deepening into a smirk as he grabs your hips, his thumbs tracing the skin under your shirt, giving you goosebumps on your arms.
“Of course. I missed you a lot. Every day. I’ll never be ashamed to admit that.” His voice is low, the look in his eyes scarily real and unguarded, as if he’s baring his heart out for you to do whatever you want with it. The atmosphere turns even more tense, even more charged, and you can feel your heart about to beat out of your chest. This closeness isn’t exactly new—the two of you had cuddled before, shared tiny spaces together, teased each other for years. But this energy was unlike anything you have experienced before, with him and in your life in general.
You whisper Theodore’s name softly, heart pounding as you watch him watch you with wide eyes. “Are you okay?” You can feel his chest quickly rising and falling, a sharp exhale through his nose at the sound of his name on your lips.
“No,” he confesses, voice gravelly. He lowers his head slightly, chest pressing against yours as one of his hands cradles your jaw. “I’m not okay.” His nose nudges your cheek, his hot breath trailing down your neck sending shivers down your spine. “I want you.”
“You have me,” you reply innocently, your mind not able to catch up to the pace in which Theodore was now setting for your relationship. “You always have. Since fourth year.”
Theodore’s breath catches, because until now, he hadn’t realized that “having you” could mean this. That “having you” could involve his hips grinding softly against yours, his lips grazing your jawline, his eyes drinking in this vulnerable side of you that no one else was ever able to see, that your shared history didn’t need to stop at the occasional smoking rendezvous, or studying in the library, or you cheering him on at quidditch matches.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to the spot behind your ear, inhaling your vanilla scent that was seemingly always stuck in your hair, feeling absolutely drunk off the high your presence is providing. “It’s making me crazy.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” you whisper breathlessly, boldly, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips touch your skin, your hands helplessly gripping his forearms. You’re not sure if you should push him away. You don’t want to.
“So, you’re admitting you’re mine, then?” He moves to be eye-level with you, and you can feel his long lashes fluttering against your cheekbones, his nose nudging against yours. The golden specks in his eyes shimmer in the warm lighting, and you swear you can melt right then and there, the endless abyss of his irises pulling you into the point of no escape.
Before you can even come up with a response that isn’t I love you so much it hurts, Theodore gingerly, hesitantly, presses his lips to the corner of your mouth. His eyes are open, watching your reaction, a silent question of if this is okay, if this is crossing any boundaries, and you have to stay calm, pretending like this isn’t what you’ve been praying for since you were 14.
But his lips also bring you back to Earth. What was this? Theodore Nott? Your best friend? Kissing you? You’re stuck in this state of shock where you’re unable to kiss him back but also unable to shove him away. Theodore can feel your hesitation the second his lips half-meet yours, and he breaks the almost-kiss just as fast as he initiates it, his forehead moving to rest against yours.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Too much?” Theodore’s whole body is tense with restraint now, giving you every chance to push him away. But Merlin is he hoping that you don’t. He’d dreamt about this.
Your eyebrows furrow with anxiety, your teeth chewing on your bottom lip to try and calm yourself. You look deep in thought. “Are you just, like, taking advantage of this situation? Because I’m here?” Your voice cracks. You can’t help it. This onslaught of emotions has taken you more off guard than you were prepared for. “Is this all I mean to you? Just an easy hookup? And then we can just forget about it or something?”
Theodore recoils from you like you’ve slapped him. “No,” he replies immediately, his voice sharp with offense. “Fuck no.” He removes his body from yours entirely, sitting up on the edge of the bed with his back towards you, as if he can’t even bear to look at you after what you just said, running both hands down his face. “Amore… Dio, I’ve liked you. For months. This isn’t–” a frustrated growl escapes him. “This isn’t some random shit.”
You immediately follow him, sitting up on the bed next to him, propping yourself up with your hands behind your back. “I… I don’t understand, Theo. I thought that we’re… best friends.” He turns to look at you, his expression wrecked, equal parts frustration and exposed.
“We are. Fuck, that’s the whole problem.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I want to stay your best friend, but I also want to kiss you with everything I have in me. I don’t–” another rough pause. “I don’t know how to do both.”
You slowly crawl towards him, your hands eventually making their way into his lap, your body propped up on your knees. “Let’s just try,” you whisper almost helplessly. You’re going through the same dilemma as him; it’s not like you want to change your dynamic, exactly, but the physical pull you feel towards him is undeniable, your need and desire for him overcoming any rational thought. You’ve always felt this pull towards Theodore, loving his attention and loving his touch. What would the harm be in seeing where things go, if things would turn into something more?
Theodore’s hands hover uncertainly at your hips, wanting to touch but needing permission first. “Yes,” he whispers back with no hesitation, leaning in slowly. “We can… try.” Then, his lips meet yours again—softer now, more exploratory. A test run of something that could either ruin or change everything.
You sigh softly into the kiss, tilting your head to deepen it. You shudder when Theodore’s hands land on your waist, steadying you by pulling you into his lap again, your legs straddling him. You can hear your heartbeat loudly in your ears, and you feel almost lightheaded because of how giddy you are that this is finally happening. This is definitely uncharted territory for you; you’ve only ever kissed one other boy before, back in 5th year, and it was a total shit show. But kissing your best friend? It feels so good, and so right.
Theodore groans into your mouth as you deepen the kiss, his grip on you tightening and pulling you flush against him as he drinks in everyone one of your shaky breaths, all of your tiny shudders. It all goes straight to his already hard cock, the one you can feel under your skirt between your legs. You feel absolutely not in control of yourself, your body taking the lead as you helplessly grind onto him.
“You taste sweet,” he mutters in between kisses, sliding one hand to cradle the back of your neck and angling for better access like this was something the two of you had been doing forever, something familiar and normal. You can only whine as he kisses you, his nimble hands gracefully undoing your tie, throwing it somewhere before slowly unbuttoning your shirt, exposing your pink bra. “Matches the color of your cheeks,” he teases, eyes darkening as he drinks in the sight of a part of you he’s never seen before. “You’re so beautiful.” His hands slide up your bare stomach, calloused thumbs brushing over the lace—teasing, but not rushing, every touch of his extremely deliberate.
“Theo,” you whimper, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth to ease the tension you were feeling, your hips subconsciously jumping slightly. “Don’t tease.”
“Can’t help it. You’re too pretty to not be toyed with,” he mutters, palming your right breast through the lace. His thumb circles your nipple, teasing the hard peak as his other hand slips under the fabric to pinch it directly. You can feel his cock strained against his sweats beneath you, and you can’t help but moan at all of the sensations mixing together, your hands squeezing on the area between his shoulders and neck.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, eyes blown wide in admiration, drinking in every sound you make and every tiny twitch. Theodore can feel your tension, the way you jump at every touch, the tight clench of your body. “You’ve never been touched like this before, have you?” The question makes you blush with embarrassment, but the feeling quickly subsides as he kisses you gently, reassuringly. “Tell me what feels good,” he whispers against your lips. “Please, bambina? Let me make you feel good. Let me make you feel things you’ll never be able to feel with any other man.”
Fuck. Your pussy clenches around nothing, your head in the clouds as you nod helplessly, because if he didn’t touch you more and now you feel like you might die. “It feels so good,” is the only response you can give, whining every time his fingers flick your nipple or massage your breast in his hand. Theodore’s chest swells with pride and the dangerous urge to ruin you so fucking good.
“Brava, my good girl,” he praises softly, before dipping his head to replace his fingers with his mouth. His tongue swipes over your nipple, his hand pulling the lace to the side before sucking hard, one hand still working your other breast. You gasp at the new sensation, and you can’t stop yourself from grinding even harder onto him, desperate for friction, the pleasure filling your senses. Every moan and movement that he elicits from you goes straight to his aching cock, so hard it’s physically hurting him. You didn’t even know it was possible to feel like this. To feel so good you could pass out.
Every rut of your hips against his throbbing cock makes him groan, the feeling of your wet heat through fabric almost too much to bear. “Dio, you feel that?” he rasps, lifting his head to watch you unravel. Your skin is damp from his mouth, glistening in the light, your nipples peaked and pretty. He slides a hand under your skirt, palming the soaked gusset of your panties. “You want more?” he asks almost mockingly, as if you aren’t completely wrecked and pliant on top of him.
You can’t say anything but his name, over and over again, as your head falls onto his shoulder. Theodore flips your skirt up for better access, not even bothering to take it fully off. “I-I feel weird,” you say powerlessly, the arousal growing in you with every passing second. You can feel Theodore’s breath coming faster and faster as he revels in the way you fall apart for him.
“Weird good, hm?” he assures you, nipping at your shoulder before his fingers slip under your panties, two of his fingers sliding through your folds. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans, circling your clit slowly with his thumb. “You’ve soaked me already, principessa.”
“Oh, Theo!” you exclaim, moaning softly as he toys with your clit. You’ve never felt any sensation like this before, and your toes curl as you buck your hips closer to his hand. “Fuck,” you whimper, legs shaking with purse desire. Theodore clearly loves the sounds you’re making, biting down harshly onto your collarbone or neck every time a desperate whimper leaves your lips.
He presses two fingers inside your cunt without warning, curling them just right as his thumb keeps working your clit. “Just like that, baby,” he coaxes, watching your face contort in pleasure. “Squeeze my fingers, tesoro. You’re doing so well.”
You whimper his name, biting your lip as your pussy clenches around his fingers. “Feels– ngh, feels tight.”
“I know,” Theodore murmurs, kissing your jaw as he pumps his fingers, stretching you just right, touching a part of you that you yourself hadn’t ever reached. Your virgin cunt is clenching around him like a vise, and it takes every ounce of his self-control to not flip you onto the bed and fuck you properly. “Relax, amorina,” he murmurs, slowly adding a third finger. You moan loudly at the intrusion, the sting of pain only adding to your pleasure.
The coil in your stomach becomes tighter with every passing second, your hips wildly chasing the pleasure that only Theodore can provide. “I-I feel weird, Theo. Please.” You don’t even know what exactly you’re begging for, only that you feel so dangerously close to something, only that you might float away if not for your hands digging into his shoulders, grounding you.
Theodore, on the other hand, knows exactly what you’re begging for. “I’ve got you, baby. You can cum, I know you can.” He curls his fingers against your g-spot, his thumb still rubbing circles onto your clit. Your back arches, your head tilted back as the coil in your stomach snaps. A borderline scream tears from your throat as you orgasm violently, for the first time, on his hand. Theodore holds you through it, fingers still working your pulsing walls gently as you cum. As he watches you, he vaguely thinks to himself that he’ll never be able to forget the way your cunt milks his hand, the way your skin shines with sweat, the way your mouth parts to form a perfect ‘O’ shape as you cum with his name on your lips.
“Good job, bella,” he praises, kissing your chest as you calm down from your high, holding you through the aftershocks as he pulls his fingers out with a slick pop. “You did amazing,” he whispers into your ear before kissing you softly. And then, simply because he can’t help himself, he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean.
“Theo,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist to try and stop him, but feeling too tired to use any of your strength. “That’s revolting.”
Theodore responds only with a smirk. “No, you’re delicious. I love how messy you are for me,” he teases as he licks the last of your arousal off. You shove his shoulder gently, your face red with embarrassment.
“Will you shut up?” you grumble, letting your body collapse against his. You feel limp, boneless, spent. Theodore’s lips find yours again, and he kisses you slow and lazy, different from the hungry ones earlier. You can taste yourself in his mouth, and you should find it disgusting, but you don’t. If anything, you find it hot.
Theodore breaks away just enough to murmur, “you okay?” His free hand strokes your back soothingly. You can tell he sees how wrecked you feel, your eyes heavy with drowsiness, your mind clouded with the aftermath of pleasure.
“Mhm,” is the only reply you can manage, your body completely reliant on Theodore’s to be able to sit upright. You know you should probably be thinking more about the implications of this event on your relationship, but the only thing you can think about is how good it feels to be able to touch Theodore in this intimate way and have him touch you as well. You feel fucking estatic.
“That was good, no? And with just my fingers.” You scoff, burrowing your face into the crook of Theodore’s neck, letting him pick you up and set you down onto his bed.
“You’re so cocky.” But as soon as your head hits the pillows, all of your sassy remarks escape you, the feeling of tiredness quickly overcoming you. Theodore laughs unguardedly and brushes the hair out of your face, hovering over you as he watches your eyes flutter shut.
“You should focus more on resting than insulting me, you know?” Theodore murmurs, laying down on his side next to you, admiring the blissed out look on your face, the flush of your body, your exposed skin.
You turn your head towards him, opening your eyes to make eye-contact. “But what about you?” You gesture to his painfully hard cock, still straining under his sweats.
“It’s not for you to worry about, amore,” Theodore says kindly, pressing a soft and gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’ll let you take care of me next time, hm?”
Your heart swells. “Next time?” you whisper breathlessly, wide eyes looking up at him. Theodore has always loved this about you—that your emotions are always painted so clearly on your face. You’re the definition of an open book.
“What, are you not interested?” he murmurs seductively, his dead eyes searching yours yet again, a devilish smirk painted onto his face.
You huff, cheeks puffing out as you shake your head. “Why do you always have to tease me?” Theodore chuckles at that, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he breathes in your scent again, now mixed with the distinct smell of sex. You cannot wait for the next time Theodore ruins you.
“Sorry, bambina. You’re so sweet, I just can’t help it.”
tom sits at the head of the dining table, looking at all of his followers: the knights of walpurgis.
lestrange, black, avery, rosier, and malfoy. . . who is staring at him with a stupid little smirk on his face.
“you are all dismissed,” tom says, clasping his hands together.
one by one, they all file out of the room - all of them except malfoy. again, what could he possibly want?
“can i help you, abraxas?” he asks coldly.
“no, not at all, my lord.” abraxas grins. tom is smart enough to see something foolish lingering beneath his follower's expression. “you see, i am in no need of assistance. it is not about what you could do for me, but what i could do for you.”
“what could you possibly have to offer me, abraxas? other than your gold - but must i remind you there are five other purebloods whose vaults i have access to?”
abraxas puts his hands in his pockets, letting out a sigh. “it is just you seem rather - tense, my lord. i only say this out of concern for your health and well-being. us - all of your dutiful followers have noticed it.”
tom clenches his jaw as he tries not to cast a crucio. “tense - how?”
abraxas purses his lips and shrugs, “i mean, lestrange and rosier can barely walk after their latest punishment - and that was not even their fault. you used to be far more lenient.”
tom feels a wave of anger wash through his mind, “are you questioning your lord's decisions?”
“no, my lord.” abraxas looks down sheepishly.
“then do not bother me about such nonsense again, lest you would like to join lestrange and rosier.”
“of course, my lord. i apologize for overstepping.” he then pulls something out of his coat pocket: a slim, vibrant pink business card. he places it on the table and slides it over to tom.
abraxas gives him sly wink, “but, just consider it,” he smirks, “thank you for your time, my lord.” he then saunters out the door with his stupid gait.
as soon as tom hears the door click shut behind him, he hesitantly picks up the card.
the sinful witches lounge! no disillusion spells needed ~ your secrets are safe with us.
ten galleons for door entry, twenty galleons to relax with our lovely witches ;), and fifty galleons for a private room.
prices are non-negotiable, and the usage of magic inside our establishment is strictly prohibited.
1445, knockturn alley.
he scoffs under his breath. did abraxas just give him the business card to a brothel? he should have expected nothing less from a malfoy - promiscuity was in their blood.
tom casts an inferno towards the card, watching the paper disintegrate into small pieces of ash.
he was going to be the most powerful wizard in the world. he does not care about being tense, and he has no time for frivolous activities such as sex. abraxas deserved an hour of torture for even having the confidence to suggest such a thing. and besides, tom’s reputation was far too high to risk being seen there.
his brain fumbles for a second, but abraxas is a malfoy, coming from generations of aristocrats, and he is presumably a frequent customer, so clearly there was no risk of sullying his reputation - no, no, he would not disgrace his dignity by going to such a place. . .
☆
tom stares up at the dingy building in front of him. to be fair, it looks inconspicuous - just another dark building in knockturn alley. he has his cloak covering his head, but he doubts anyone who frequents these streets would care about seeing him here.
he pushes the front door open, and the inside looks just like the outside: dark, dingy, and dilapidated. nothing like the obnoxious pink business card.
he sees a young witch sitting at a reception desk, prices are listed on the wall behind her, like it is some sort of cafe.
she’s smacking on muggle gum, flipping through a magazine.
tom clears his throat.
her eyes slowly trail up, and when they meet his, a large smile grows on her face. “well, hello there, handsome.”
he gives her an awkward nod as he pretends to look at the prices behind her.
“you look awfully nervous, are you a first timer?”
tom swallows his pride and nods. “yes.”
“mmkay.” she raises a brow and leans over the desk. “so, for starters: no face concealments.”
tom reluctantly pulls his hood back, holding back a scowl.
“was there something specific you were looking for today?”
tom did not even know why he came here today. he supposes he just wants to see if the recommended methods of stress reliefs were accurate, but how did that translate to picking a public or private dance?
the woman takes his silence as answer, “private room it is then. you look a little too conservative for all the public stuff.”
too conservative?
“sixty galleons, please.” she smiles, sticking out her hand. “and absolutely no refunds, obviously.”
tom grumbles, fishing through his pockets for his satchel of gold. he pulls out a handful of galleons - more than enough - and places it on the table.
the woman grins happily, pocketing the gold.
she sits up from behind the desk, gesturing for him to follow her. she leads him to a plain oak door, but once she mutters an incantation with her wand, it transfigures into a ruby red entryway.
when she swings it open, a loud bass immediately reverberates through his entire body. tom hesitantly follows, and is surprised to see how much larger the space is.
it is absolutely packed with people. various men and women are sitting at tables - laughing, dancing, drinking. and of course there is a large stage in the centre, with more than enough strippers on poles.
the woman laughs when she notices his ogling, she motions for him to keep coming.
she brings him to the furthest corner of the building where there is a beaded curtain leading to a hallway.
there are multiple doors, and she brings him in front of the first one on the left. there is a name card on the door - he reads your name out mentally, it sounds unfamiliar.
“a few rules: one, no magic, if that wasn’t obvious. if even a lumos is cast, you will automatically be hexed and ejected from the building. two, be respectful of that lovely lady on the other side of the wall or you will be cursed.” she hums for a moment, thinking. “i believe that’s all.”
“enter whenever you’re ready, and have fun, of course.” she winks at him before departing.
tom clears his throat as he enters the room. his mouth immediately goes dry when he sees you.
the only part of you thats visible is your lower half - but you are entirely bare and open. there’s not a single inch of skin that is not visible to his eyes.
you are on your back, and both of your legs are hoisted in the air, spreading you wide. tom nearly groans when he sees the condensation collecting between your legs.
well, this was not what he was expecting. he finally understands how men get away with coming here, the intimacy rooms are entirely anonymous.
“hello.” he says because he is a respectful young man.
“hi.” you reply, your voice is slightly muffled from the other side of the wall.
tom takes a tentative step forward, only a foot away from you. he feels like an idiot, he does not even know where to start or what to do.
“can i touch you?” he asks softly.
you giggle, "isn't that why you're here?’
he huffs out a laugh; he supposes that is true.
his shaking hands come to rest on the back of your thighs, trailing up to your calves, feeling the smoothness of your skin.
“your hands are so cold.” you whisper.
“sorry,” tom reluctantly pulls his hands away.
“i can warm them up for you. . .”
“i thought magic was prohibited?”
“it is,” you say slyly, “i want you to warm them up in my cunt.”
tom freezes, it is like your words had some sort of spell on him, because all of a sudden every single ounce of blood falls straight to his groin, where he can feel himself rapidly hardening.
his hands slowly come down to the back of your thighs once more, trailing them down once they meet the crevice of where your thighs meet your hip.
he leans down to get a closer look, and he does not know what possesses him, but he parts his lips and lets a glob of saliva drop from his lips. it lands directly on your clit, and tom brings his thumb to follow, rubbing his saliva into your wetness.
you let out a surprised gasp in response, and he takes that as an invitation to start rubbing firm circles on your clit.
“is this what you meant?” he asks, genuinely curious.
“yes,” you moan out.
he then lowers himself to his knees in front of you. he is grateful for the wall, because he would never be caught dead on his knees for someone.
tom opens his mouth slightly as he just stares like a stupid virgin. he watches your cunt twitch as his hot breath fans across your folds.
he leans forward and hesitantly licks your clit, groaning when the taste of your arousal hits his tongue. he is immediately hooked. his second taste is an open mouthed kiss on the entirety of your cunt, his jaw flexing as he keeps licking.
you are anything but silent on the other side of the wall, loud moans of yes, please, yes, fill tom’s ears.
he is not stupid, so he takes that as motivation to keep going. he moves his hands to your hips, using them as leverage to pull you closer to his face.
his tongue does not rest, and his continues circling it around your clit, once in a while flicking down to your hole. your wetness slowly starts to increase, and your cunt has really just turned into a mess. tom cannot believe that he did not do this sooner, he might have just found a new hobby, because it truly is better than simply fucking a witch.
your moans increase in volume, and tom takes that a sign you are getting close. he lowers his tongue to your hole, entering it with a firm push, and the same time, he brings his thumb back to your clit rubbing in a delightful pressure. his tongue goes in and out and in and out, and you clench down as you scream, finally climaxing.
but, tom does not stop, he keeps fucking your hole with his tongue, and his thumb refuses to stop abusing your clit. he is absolutely entranced, and he does not think he could stop if he wanted to.
finally, when your legs begin shaking, and your words turn into a blabbering sob, does he finally pull away.
“was that good for you?”
“yes, yes, please fuck me now.”
tom bites his lip as he rises to his full height once more. his hips are perfectly aligned with yours. he stares down at the obvious tent in his slacks, as he comes forward to press himself against you once more.
as soon as your cunt comes into contact with his clothed erection, you begin using your hips to eagerly grind yourself against him. the mess between your legs is surely soiling his expensive trousers, but tom cannot find it in himself to care.
he lets out a choked gasp as your hips roll against his.
“you feel so good.” you moan.
tom loses himself in the sensation of you giving his cock attention, it has been months since tom has indulged in anything remotely sexual, and he’s not sure how much longer he will last if you keep this up - and he has not even properly fucked you yet.
“wait,” tom whispers.
his hands drop to his belt, immediately undoing it, before tugging down his pants and boxers together. his cock springs up, flushed red at the tip. he has never been this hard before.
he strokes himself once before dragging his tip between your folds, purposefully applying pressure to your clit, before dragging it down to your entrance. yet, he still does not push inside, instead repeating his ministrations, dragging himself up and down.
“stop teasing.” you murmur.
and before you can say anything else, tom slips into you fully. with how wet you are there is practically no resistance as he rests his cock balls deep inside of you.
you gasp at the sudden intrusion, and tom has to stop himself from groaning at the sensation. his hands come to your hips, gripping your flesh so tightly his knuckles turn white. he needs some form of leverage - something to hold onto and ground himself so he does not immediately cum.
“move.” you say.
“you are quite bossy,” tom laughs, shaking his head.
you whine, “please.”
begging does seem to always do it for tom. he slowly retracts his hips, waiting until only his tip remains before entering once more with a deep thrust.
you both moan at the same time, and tom continues with his slow and deep thrusts. with every movement of his hips, he hears the squelch of your arousal and his precum mixing together.
when your legs start twitching, he increase his pace, beginning to fuck you in earnest.
“your cunt is worth so much more than sixty galleons.” he whispers, bringing his thumb to your clit once more.
you moan in response, as he begins to rub circles on your clit, continuing to thrust into you, pushing your body backwards with the roughness of his movements.
“i’m close,” you whisper, feeling the precipice of your orgasm approaching.
“fuck,” tom says.
he does his best to restrain his orgasm, as he fucks you harder and resumes his movements on your clit. your wanton noises increase in volume, and before he knows it he feels an intense rush of liquid coating his cock, and your cunt clenches down on him firmly, nearly trapping him in place.
he refuses to stop his movements, elongating your pleasure while chasing his own orgasm.
“are you going to cum in me?” you ask innocently.
“do you want me to?”
“yes, please.” he nearly moans at that. “i want you to fill me up.”
again, it is like your words have some sort of magical effect. his balls tighten and he feels like he is floating when he finally releases in you. his hips continue moving absentmindedly, stuffing you with more of his cum.
you are both breathless for a few seconds, and tom reluctantly pulls back. this is what he had paid for after all. he tucks himself back into his pants, and watches your swollen, red cunt begin to drip with his seed.
his hand comes to your folds once more, you flinch in response, but he ignores your protests of being too sensitive as he rubs his cum into you.
“how much do i have to pay to see your face when i fuck you?” he murmurs.
☆
abraxas attends the next meeting with a buzz of anxiety.
he realizes now that he was possibly being a bit too overzealous when he suggested the witches lounge, but it truly did come from a place of honest concern for someone he cares about.
his throat bobs as he enters the formal dining room. he is not entirely sure what he is expecting: perhaps tom will crucio him, hex him, or even send an avada his way.
but, his eyes nearly widen when he sees tom smiling at a joke rosier makes. and it was not one of those polite, strained smiles tom often did, abraxas could actually see his dimples.
what the bloody hell. . .
“abraxas,” tom says, still smiling, “it is nice to see you have joined us today.”
“of course, my lord.” abraxas tentatively sits down, trying his best to conceal his bewilderment.
he sits awkwardly at the table, his hands folded in front of himself. he is far too nervous to engage in any sort of conversation.
“abraxas,”
“yes, my lord?” he swallows a breath, trying his best to appear collected. he is waiting for the crucio, or the punishment. tom is surely about to send him on another terrible mission to moscow.
“thank you,” tom says casually, lifting his glass of whisky.
the rest of the wizards around them look perplexed as the all exchange confused glances - but abraxas knows. tom really did take his advice. and it seemingly worked because he does not think he has seen tom look this relaxed since first year.
before he can stop himself, he laughs. “any time, my lord.”
Summary: After 5 years of being single, you find your new roommate worming his way into your strictly planned routine. Suddenly, you aren’t the only one pulling all the weight, and you’re not sure what to do about it. The guard you carefully placed around your heart feels close to breaking, and you’re surprised to find you aren't entirely opposed. One romance novel and one rehearsal dinner later… the truth will come out.
warnings/tags: No use of Y/N. Post-college roommate AU. Not canon compliant. Mentions of romanogers or whatever their ship is called. Roommates to lovers. Idiots to lovers. Brief mention of the notebook by Nicholas sparks (cited in APA bc I didn’t know how to cite that in fanfiction lmao). Hyper independent!Reader. Anxious!Reader. Mention of past relationship. Light trauma and attachment styles. Angst because it’s my drug of choice. Smut (I’m scared). Soft!Dom!Bucky. Praise and dirty talk. PinV. Unprotected smut- please do not treat this like a sexEd class. Oral (F! Receiving). Fingering. He has a kink for taking care of you? Idk let me know if I missed anything.
MDNI !!! 18+
wc: 10k
Disclaimer: first time writing smut this detailed. Go easy on me, or don’t. I’ll be anxious about posting this either way lol. Proofread by me and only me (I have no friends to talk abt this with so like we should totally be mutuals tehe)
It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off.
So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning.
You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.
So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around.
You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.”
Oh, you were wrong.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing.
He opened your door.
The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all.
“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.
He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.”
He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.”
And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.”
He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.
It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded.
You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things.
It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up.
“What is it?” You spoke up.
He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond.
Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’”
Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page.
You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him.
He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”
You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.”
You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen.
When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?”
What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes.
You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?”
He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece.
“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.”
The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time.
You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.
When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side.
When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet…
You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages.
“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.”
“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000).
And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.
You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible.
Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf.
You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can.
You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–
“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”
The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?”
“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink.
“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.”
Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.
He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.
You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”
“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”
“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor.
He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”
You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”
The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.”
You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.”
“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.”
“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest.
You were certainly sharing air now.
The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–
You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…
You shook your head, not the time.
The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made.
So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly.
Now, you weren’t so sure.
You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick.
“Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”
You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“
“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes.
“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–”
He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”
“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–”
He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.”
He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…”
“Still, I–”
“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in.
“What?”
“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”
You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.”
He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”
It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours.
It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.”
You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing.
Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all?
All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating.
He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.”
You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves?
The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it.
“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Right.
You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend, moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…”
He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.”
You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”
You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”
He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”
“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?”
His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–”
Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely.
“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”
“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.”
You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots.
“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.”
But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.
“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees.
You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were.
You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away.
You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne.
It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it.
You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you.
But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out.
Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room.
You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”
His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here.
And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down.
Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat.
“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair.
You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.”
Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end.
You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too.
You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table.
It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile.
Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?”
You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon.
He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?”
“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them.
Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.
In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you.
That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves.
You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.”
It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal.
But he was leaving.
The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?
Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?”
You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–”
“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder.
“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”
You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!”
He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–”
“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own.
His brows furrowed, “Of what?”
“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.”
“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you.
“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him.
He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?”
You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention.
It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.”
“Me?”
“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say.
Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated.
But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.
When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel.
The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage.
And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind.
He walked to the bookshelf.
Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages.
Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink:
When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment.
Oh.
You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–”
“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”
You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”
“You got scared.” He understood.
You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?”
The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.”
You couldn’t breathe, “I—“
“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited.
Only until you said: “I love you too.”
Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right.
You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?”
His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”
“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper.
The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love.
He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?”
You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–
Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.
He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”
You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.
He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.
Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.
He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.
You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.
Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.
"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."
"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.
You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."
He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."
The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.
You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"
You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.
He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."
"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"
"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"
You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.
"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.
"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.
He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.
His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.
He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"
You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.
He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.
He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.
But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."
It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.
"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"
"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."
The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.
"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"
You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"
"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."
You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.
You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.
"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.
He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"
He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."
You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."
He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.
"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.
"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."
You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)
Please remember to repost and support your creators!
if you have never approached someone and asked for their number or sent the first message on a dating app you're not allowed to complain about a top shortage btw.
PAIRING: (ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky barnes x female!reader
SUMMARY: you catch your boyfriend cheating on you with another girl at your neighbour’s halloween party. bucky barnes, his hot and thoughtful dad, is ready to take care of your broken heart.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; mentions of reader's family; reader wears a skirt and makeup; original characters; (ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky; age gap (reader’s in her mid 20s; bucky's 40+); cheating; light angst; emotional hurt/comfort; lots of praises and pet names; smut; size difference; soft dom!bucky; slight jealousy; slightly possessive!bucky; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); dirty talk; nipple play; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); mention of reader being on the pill; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; riding; caught in the act (the ex boyfriend overhears them 🤪).
WORD COUNT: 14.4k
A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!
The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside.
You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.
By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.
When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.
The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.
The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.
The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.
The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.
Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.
You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.
Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.
“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.
Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”
“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”
“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.
“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.
“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”
“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”
“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”
“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”
The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.
“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”
You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.
“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”
A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.
It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.
In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.
During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.
Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.
Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.
You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.
It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.
“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”
That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.
“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”
Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.
You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.
When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.
Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.
He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.
The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.
Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.
That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”
Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.
Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.
It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.
At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.
You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.
And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.
You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.
During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there.
Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.
The silence that followed was mortifying.
Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.
The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.
Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.
You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.
In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.
It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.
You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.
Every relationship has its ups and downs.
This is just a rough patch.
This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.
Apparently not.
The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.
One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.
Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.
Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?
“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.
“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.
“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.
The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.
“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”
“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”
You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.
“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.
“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.
Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.
“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.
“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.
“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”
You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.
“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.
“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”
“You think it’s better if we wait?”
The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.
The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”
Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.
“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”
“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”
Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”
Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”
“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”
“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.
Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.
The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.
“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.
“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.
“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.
You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.
The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.
Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.
You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.
You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.
Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.
Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away.
The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.
“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.
“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.
With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.
In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.
“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.
“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.
The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.
“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”
Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.
“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.
“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.
“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.
Since March.
He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.
The floor crumbles under your feet.
The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.
The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.
You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke.
Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.
You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.
Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.
“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”
Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.
Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.
Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.
Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.
How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.
That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.
It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.
And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.
Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.
You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.
So he fell into another woman’s vagina.
Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.
He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.
After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?
You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.
The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.
How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?
It also means telling him about what happened.
The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.
Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.
You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.
Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.
When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.
“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.
“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”
You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.
“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.
“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”
You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.
“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.
“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”
He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”
You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.
When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”
“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”
Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.
“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”
The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.
Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.
You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.
“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.
He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.
Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.
“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.
“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.
Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.
“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”
You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.
“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.
“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”
Each word feels like biting broken glass.
From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.
Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.
His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.
Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.
Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.
“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”
“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”
Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”
Your jaw drops.
“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.
His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”
Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”
You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.
“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.
“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”
“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.
“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.
Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”
“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”
You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.
“You know I’m here for you. Always.”
He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”
“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”
“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”
Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.
“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.
“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”
You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”
He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.
Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.
A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.
The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.
Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?
Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.
When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.
Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.
“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.
“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages.
“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.
Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.
You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.
Your own boyfriend.
Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.
Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.
The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.
The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.
You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...
It shouldn’t happen.
“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”
“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.
“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”
Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.
“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”
“If anything, I kissed you.”
“We both leaned in!”
Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”
“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”
A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.
“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.
“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.
“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.
“I…”
“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.
“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.
“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”
He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.
“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”
“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.
Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along.
“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.
You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.
His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.
When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths.
Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection.
“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.
“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.
When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?
This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal.
“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”
“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.
“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—”
“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.
There is a brief, meaningful pause.
“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips.
“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.
“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.
Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.
“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”
You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”
“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.
It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should.
You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest.
“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up.
“Are you oka—”
“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”
“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe.
“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.
“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.
“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?”
“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm.
His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.
“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”
His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms.
“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.
“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid.
“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.”
The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.
You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.
He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it.
With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.
Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”
To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.
It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets.
Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”
Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.
“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”
And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.
You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.
“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”
Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back.
“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch.
“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”
“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot.
“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”
You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.
“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.
“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.”
“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”
You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does.
“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.
“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now.
“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.”
Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.
“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.
You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.
“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers.
It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip.
“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.
“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.
“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected.
Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.
He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.
“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.
“Want you to be the first.” You whisper.
“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.
“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.
“Feeling alright, doll?”
“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”
Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.
“Bucky.”
“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”
Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.
“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.
“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust.
Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans.
“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”
The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly.
“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”
“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.
“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.
“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.
“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.
“Holy fuck.”
Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes.
But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.
“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment.
Everything feels more sensitive like this.
You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.
You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.
Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.
You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.
“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.
“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.
“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.
“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.
“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.”
Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.
Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.
“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength.
“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up.
“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well.
“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster.
“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”
"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.
“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.
“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure.
“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.
“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”
With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.”
His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.
“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.
Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.
“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.
You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips.
“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.
“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.
“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕
I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo
1. You can’t hook up with anyone from his frat house, and he can't hook up with anyone from your sorority
2. Don’t do anything that would jeopardize you families reputation. No rumors, videos, or scandals.
3. Absolutely no dating each other's best friends. Ever.
Those three rules are the absolute most important rules that you kept sacred in your sibling bond. Rule number three wasn’t tempting at all to Mattheo since your best friend was a lesbian, but his best friend has always been charming.
Theodore Nott had never been tempting to you, always seeing him in the brotherly light. From seeing him form a band in your parents' garage to seeing him play his first show on an actual stage, you’ve never seen him in any other way.
The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber still lingers in your strongest memory; Mattheo laughing as he wiped grease off his hands onto Theodore’s pristine white shirt. Theodore hadn’t even flinched, just grinned and flicked Mattheo’s ear before tossing him the car keys. "Your turn to drive, shithead," he'd said, and Mattheo had whooped, peeling out of your parents' driveway like a maniac. You’d been crammed in the backseat, knees knocking against Theodore’s as the wind whipped through the open windows. That was years ago, back when the three of you were still figuring out who you were, back when rules were just jokes scribbled on napkins.
Theodore had always been there, a constant like the chipped green paint on your childhood dresser or the way Mattheo stole the last slice of pizza without asking. You remember him bent over his guitar in your garage, fingers bleeding from practicing too long, his voice rough from singing until dawn. You’d bring him coffee he never drank, just let it go cold next to his amp while he muttered lyrics under his breath. He never thanked you, but he’d always slide the aux cord your way when you walked in, like an unspoken truce.
The first time you saw him on a real stage, sweat dripping down his temple under the hot lights, you’d felt something twist in your chest, not attraction, just pride. Like watching your brother’s best friend finally become something more than the boy who slept on your couch after parties. Mattheo had elbowed you then, grinning. "Told you he’d make it," he’d said, and you’d rolled your eyes because of course Theodore would. He was relentless like that.
Now, standing in the crowded frat house with a red solo cup in hand, you see him across the room: Theodore, laughing at something Mattheo just said, his head thrown back, throat exposed. The sight is familiar, comforting. Then his eyes meet yours, and for the first time in eighteen years of knowing him, something weird forms in your chest.
You chose to ignore it, opting for a nice, classic hook-up - a thing you do when you can't figure out your feelings. Being the Sorority President of Kappa Kappa Alpha was always a tough job; it was tough being the daughter of someone in politics, but hook-ups were easy, responsibilities weren’t. As president, you had strict rules to follow; rules that kept your reputation intact, rules that kept your family’s name clean, rules that kept your brother happy. Rules you were currently breaking, with Theodore fucking Nott.
You weren’t sure when it happened, when the lines blurred between friendship and whatever this was, but now his hands were on your waist, his lips tracing the shell of your ear as he whispered something filthy that made your knees weak. The worst part? You liked it. You liked the way his fingers dug into your hips, liked the way his breath hitched when you dragged your nails down his back, liked the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
Mattheo would kill you if he found out. Not because Theodore was his best friend, but because Theodore was Theodore; reckless, unpredictable, and entirely too good at making you forget the rules. You could already hear his voice in your head: "You know better." But right now, with Theodore’s teeth grazing your collarbone, you didn’t care.
The music pounded in your chest, the bassline syncing with your racing heartbeat as Theodore pulled you closer, his grip possessive in a way that made your stomach flip. This was a bad idea. A terrible, horrible, delicious idea. And when his lips crashed into yours, you stopped thinking altogether.
You had originally planned to go after Jason Grace, a smart, charming blond. He was bisexual and currently going on and off with Percy Jackson, your ex-boyfriend, so you figured he'd be safe; no feelings, just fun. But when you downed your drink and headed to the bathroom to freshen up, you bumped into Theodore. It started with regular friendly conversation, then escalated to lingering touches, and before you knew it, you were pressed against the bathroom sink, his thigh between yours, his fingers tangled in your hair.
The bathroom door was locked, but the music from the party still seeped through, muffled laughter and shouts making you hyperaware of how reckless this was. His lips traveled down your neck, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the taste of your skin. You gasped when his hand slipped under your skirt, fingertips brushing the lace of your underwear. "We shouldn’t," you breathed, even as you arched into him. He chuckled against your pulse point, voice rough. "Then tell me to stop." You didn’t.
Theo had always been good with his hands; guitar strings, drumsticks, the way he could fix anything with a roll of duct tape and sheer stubbornness, but nothing compared to the way they felt on you now. Every drag of his fingertips sent sparks up your spine, every bite of his teeth made your toes curl. You were drowning in him, in the scent of whiskey and cheap cologne, in the way his body pinned you to the counter like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
His hands slide up your thighs, under your skirt, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. You let out a shaky breath, nails digging into his shoulders as he pulls them down just enough to expose you, just enough for his thumb to brush against the slick heat between your legs. "Fuck," he mutters, forehead pressed against yours as he rubs slow circles that make your hips jerk forward. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, but Theo catches it anyway, his grin predatory. "Louder," he dares, voice low. "Let me hear you."
The sink digs into your back, cold porcelain against your feverish skin, but you barely notice. Not when Theo’s mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting years for this. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have. His fingers push inside you, curling just right, and you gasp, thighs clamping around his wrist. "You’re so fucking wet," he growls, nipping at your jaw. "Been thinking about this? About me?" You don’t answer, too busy chasing the pleasure building in your stomach, but he already knows. The way your body responds to him says it all.
Outside, someone bangs on the door, shouting about needing to piss, but Theo doesn’t pause, doesn’t even flinch. His free hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat as his fingers work faster, deeper. "Come on," he urges, breath hot against your skin. "Let go. I wanna feel you." And god, you do, your vision whites out as you clench around him, muffling your cry against his shoulder. He swallows every sound, every hitch of your breath, like he’s committing it to memory.
When you finally come down, trembling and boneless, Theo pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and for a second, you forget why this was ever a bad idea. He spins you around swiftly, bending you over the sink, fisting your hair as he pulls your head back. "Look at yourself...so messy for me, and I only just used my fingers. Do you want my cock next? Or should I leave you aching?" His voice is rough, edged with something darker than teasing; possessive, almost cruel in its certainty that you’ll cave.
You grip the sink’s edge, watching your own reflection; cheeks flushed, lipstick smudged, Theodore’s fingers still slick between your thighs. The rational part of your brain screams that this is a disaster, but the way he presses his hips against you, hard and impatient, silences it. "You wouldn’t stop," you breathe, and he laughs, dragging his teeth over your shoulder. "Try me." You don’t. Instead, you reach back, fumbling with his belt buckle, and his groan vibrates against your spine.
He slaps your hand away, "Use your words," he growls, his grip tightening in your hair. The sting makes your breath hitch, and you can see the dark amusement in his eyes as he watches your reaction in the mirror. "Say it," he demands, pressing his cock against your ass through his jeans, the heat radiating even through the fabric. Your throat works around the words, sticky with humiliation and desire, "I want you to fuck me." His grin is sharp as a blade, victorious. "Good girl."
The buckle clinks as he undoes his belt, the sound somehow louder than the music outside. His jeans slide down just enough, his cock springing free, thick and already leaking. He spits into his palm, stroking himself once before lining up, the blunt head pressing against you. You whimper, bracing against the sink, but he doesn’t push in, just teases, dragging the tip through your slick, torturously slow. "Please," you gasp, and he chuckles, low and dangerous. "Please, what? Be specific." You hate him. You want him. "Please fuck me, Theo."
He sheathes himself in one brutal thrust, punching the air from your lungs. Your back arches, fingers scrambling against porcelain as he sets a punishing pace, each snap of his hips driving you harder into the sink. The mirror rattles, your reflection blurring wild eyes, parted lips, Theo’s hands leaving bruises on your hips. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear. "You feel fucking perfect," he rasps, and you believe him, the stretch bordering on pain, the fullness stealing coherent thought.
Somewhere in the back of Theodore's mind, he's concluded that he absolutely loves mirror sex. He loves the way your body looks pushed up against his, loves the way your lips part around silent gasps when he hits just the right spot, loves the way your fingers claw at the sink like you're trying to hold on for dear life. He shifts his grip, one hand wrapping around your throat, not tight enough to cut off air, just enough to remind you who's in control, while the other slips between your thighs, fingers circling your clit in time with his thrusts.
The sound of skin slapping against skin mixes with the muffled bass from the party outside, the rhythm filthy and relentless. Your legs tremble, your vision blurring as pleasure coils tight in your stomach, but Theo doesn't let up, doesn't let you catch your breath. "Look at you," he grits out, forcing your gaze up to the mirror. "Look how fucking wrecked you are." And you are, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, his fingers working you closer and closer to the edge until you're sobbing his name, and then he pulls his fingers away and stops moving his hips. "Not yet," he murmurs against your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to sting.
The denial is torture, your body clenching around him, desperate for release, but he holds you still, panting against your back. "Beg," he demands, voice rough. You hate how much you want to obey. "Please," you whimper, arching into him. "Please let me come." He groans at that, his grip tightening on your throat. "I want to watch you fuck yourself onto me," he growls. "Show me how bad you need it."
You rock your hips tentatively at first, then a sharp stinging sensation blooms on your cheek. Your eyes widen. Theodore just fucking slapped you. "Harder," he snaps, and humiliation burns through your veins, but it just makes your sopping wet cunt squeeze around him tighter. You move faster, watching yourself in the mirror, the way your tits bounce, the way your lips tremble as he controls the angle with brutal precision. Theo's breath comes ragged against your ear. "That's it, take what you need." His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he lets you use him; lets you chase your own pleasure while he watches with dark satisfaction.
The pleasure builds like a wildfire, spreading from your clit up through your stomach until you're gasping until you're so close you can taste it, and then Theo suddenly pulls out completely. You nearly scream, whirling around to glare at him, but he's already dropping to his knees. His hands yank your thighs apart before his tongue laps up your mess in one slow, filthy stroke. You collapse backward against the sink, fingers scrabbling for purchase as he eats you out like a man starved. Rough, relentless, sucking your clit until your legs shake. The first orgasm crashes into you so violently you almost knee him in the face, but Theo just growls and pins your hips down, refusing to let you pull away until he's wrung every last tremor from your body.
You're still spasming when he flips you onto your hands and knees over the bathroom tub, your stomach being propped up by the edge of it, his cock slamming back into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. Theo fucks you like he's punishing you; like he's trying to brand himself into your fucking DNA, and you take it, nails scraping against tile as he pounds into your oversensitive cunt. Someone bangs on the door again, yelling about needing to use the bathroom, and Theo snarls, "Fuck off," before biting down on the back of your neck, marking you in a way that'll be impossible to hide later.
Theo's rhythm falters when he gets close, his thrusts turning erratic, his grip on your hips bruising. "Tell me who you belong to," he demands, voice shredded raw. You don't answer—can't, not when every nerve is lit up like a live wire, so he slows to an agonizing stop, pulling out until just the tip remains. "Say it," he growls, and you sob, pushing back against him, desperate. "Yours," you gasp, and he rams back into you with a groan so deep it vibrates through your bones.
The mirror fogs up from your panting breaths, the scent of sex and sweat thick in the cramped space as Theo finally let's go, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a curse muffled against your shoulder. He doesn't pull out right away, just stays buried deep, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your trembling thighs. "Do you want another drink?"
summary: teacher!Steve x virgin!fem reader, you’ve been held back a year and will do anything to graduate, that includes Mr Harrington.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, dives straight into descriptive smut, m receiving oral, mentions of gagging, choking, spit, talks of deep throat. Dom!Steve, kinda?? Swearing, male masturbation.
word count: 2666k
If someone had told you a year ago that you were being held back instead of graduating, you wouldn't be surprised, but had they mentioned you'd be sucking Mr Harrington's dick for extra credit, you'd have your mind blown.
"You're all dismissed," Mr Harrington called out as the bell rang loudly, causing chairs to drag out against the carpet and people to bolt over to the door, creating a line of chaos.
You stood up and got out of your chair, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.
"Not you," he pointed, staring up at you from his stack of exam papers, "I need a word."
The door slammed shut.
You let your bag slide off your shoulder, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that echoed in the now-empty room and sat back in the stiff wooden chair, sighing loudly and narrowing your eyes at Mr Harrington. He knew you needed to get home and attend your study session for Math; holding you back wasn't going to get you any closer to passing your first module.
"Mr Harrington, can we make this quick? I really need to get going, I've got a study session that I told you about-"
Mr Harrington slowly walked over to you, circling your desk like a shark, closing in on the distance until his strong cologne overpowered your senses. He pulled the glaringly bright white sheet of paper from behind his back and pushed it firmly towards you against the dark wood, keeping two fingers pressed firmly on the edge, as if he was pinning a trapped insect. "Do you think this is acceptable?" he said in a low huff.
You locked onto the top corner of the paper, your eyes widened, and your lips parted at the angry 'F' circled in thick red ink. There was no way you had done so badly on a test about human anatomy; you were the sharpest tool in the box amongst everyone else in this class as a resit, so how could you receive such a shit grade?
You stared down, your breath hitching in your throat. Your lips still parted, but no sound came out. It had to be a mistake; a cruel joke. You were the one who actually read the textbook while the rest wrote dirty jokes and doodled crude drawings.
"Is this a joke?!" you asked honestly, "I know that I got everything right, everyone else managed to pass, and some of them don't even know how to turn on a fucking oven-"
Mr Harrington moved with a sudden, quiet grace, pressing his index finger to his lips. "Shh," he murmured, the sound more a command than a request.
He walked around to stand directly behind you. The weight of his palms settled onto your small shoulders. His touch was heavy and warm, pinning you against the back of the chair. You could feel the heat radiating through your vest top. As he leaned over, his breath brushed against your neck, and he whispered into your ear, "The difference between you and them is that you're a virgin, aren't you?"
Your cheeks started to burn, and your pulse thrummed behind your ears; it was no secret that Mr Harrington had a catalogue full of sexual experiences with numerous women, but it was a secret that you were a total virgin; you hadn't even been kissed.
"H-How did you know?" Your stutter betrayed you, causing you to break out into a sweat.
Mr Harrington didn’t pull away. Instead, he inclined his head, the tip of his nose grazing the soft dip of your neck. You froze. "I can practically smell it on you," he breathed, his voice gruff "They answer with the rhythm of experience. You? You just recite what you've heard."
He moved away and walked over to his door; the click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in his classroom. When he yanked the thin curtain shut, the hallway light was completely cut off, plunging you into the heavy, amber-hued dimness. He returned in front of you, his eyes studied you carefully, slow and possessive, reading into every late-night thought and shameful fantasy you’d ever had of him.
"Come here," he growled, unbuckling his belt and pulling the leather through the loops with a slow, rhythmic hiss that made the tiny hairs on your arms stand up.
Your heart began to race, and you quickly did as you were told. Mr Harrington grabbed you by the waist, pulling you into him. He collided with you, his hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back; his kiss a hungry, possessive claim that tasted of salt and heat. Your first kiss was your fucking sex-ed teacher, not a clueless boyfriend or rose-tinted first crush.
"You've never done that before, either, have you?" Mr Harrington unzipped his trousers and backed away, sitting down on his desk chair, the leather sighing as he sat, exposing the outline of his large and erect cock that throbbed through his red boxers.
"No, I haven't," you answered honestly, your words brittle.
"Be a good girl and kneel in front of me." He didn't blink, and his eyes remained locked onto you as he pulled out his throbbing cock and started slowly pumping it.
-
"Held back? Are you serious?" you argued with your principal, slouching in the old, cracked leather chair.
"You just need to pass your maths." The principal didn't look up from your file. He gestured toward Mr Harrington, who sat in the corner looking far too comfortable in his blue jacket and cap. A year ago, he’d been just another hire for the little league, and now he was holding your future.
Please don't make me his fucking baseball assistant.
You could already picture yourself hauling heavy equipment under the beaming September sun while Mr Harrington flirted with the single mothers and babysitters.
"Luckily for you, Mr Harrington is willing to take you on," Principal Higgins continued, finally meeting your eyes. "In return, you'll receive the extra credit needed to drag you across the finish line."
You shook your head and let out a cynical laugh, "If you think I'm going out onto a pitch and-"
"May I?" Mr Harrington didn't wait for you to finish, his eyes still fixed on you. He leaned forward, the sunlight catching the silver whistle around his neck. "You won't be on the field. You'll be in my Sex-Ed classroom. But we aren't talking about the birds and the bees." He paused, his gaze turning clinical. "We dive into the wreckage of trafficking and the reality of abuse. It’s a crash course in the darker side of the Hawkins community. If you want to work in the community, you need to know what 'vulnerable' actually looks like."
-
You sank to the floor, your knees dug into the rough and scratchy blue carpet as you watched him masturbate, something you had never seen anyone do before. Mr Harrington smirked and bit his lip, focusing his gaze on your mouth.
"How do I look?" he asked, still pumping his length.
Mr Harrington looked utterly mouthwatering, exquisite, handsome... he looked powerful.
"Perfect." You blurted out, unable to take your eyes off his hand, gripped tightly around himself.
"Do you want to make me feel good? To gain that extra experience?"
The smallest bead of pre cum slipped out of him, and he slowly spread it across the head of his cock with his thumb, making the skin beneath glisten. You nodded your head quickly, rather eager to take it in your hands... to feel another person in such an intimate way.
"I do," you replied, "so badly."
Mr Harrington let go of his shaft and grabbed your hand, pulling you over to him. He cupped his hand around yours and placed it around his erection, slowly closing your fist around it, hard. He started to guide your hand, up and down, up and down. Your heart began to thump again, and the redness crept back across your cheeks and up to the tips of your ears.
"Fuck," he moaned out, finally letting go "just like that,"
You continued to copy his example, pumping his length and feeling it throb in your hand. Aside from being utterly huge, his skin was perfect and incredibly soft; you wondered what it would be like to rub it against your face, your lips... to feel it inside your mouth. Mr Harrington's gaze switched from hungry to focused. He was completely starstruck by your reaction, your innocence, and the twinkle of eagerness and mirrored hunger in your eyes.
"Mr Harrington, I want to feel you..." you spoke up, making eye contact, "I want to feel you in my mouth."
Mr Harrington couldn't believe his luck, and he felt his own heart thump in excitement. You wanted him.
"Come closer then, sweetheart." He purred.
You followed his orders and inched yourself closer to him, hovering over what would be your dinner. Mr Harrington once again brought his palm to your head and tangled his fingers into your hair, pulling you that close to him, your lips grazed the head.
"Open wide."
Opening your mouth, Mr Harrington pushed you down, his large length invaded your mouth, and you started to splutter; there was no way you could fit every inch inside of you, but that didn't matter for now. He tasted salty and lightly soapy, and his skin against your tongue felt as soft as silk.
Mr Harrington kept his grip on your hair, guiding you once again, up and down, up and down, as you gently sucked on his engorged dick. Your lips and cheeks were beet red and covered in your clear saliva and spit. Mr Harrington's eyes follow your every move. He looked incredibly comfortable and relaxed in his sleek and crack-free leather desk chair, and as he leaned back, he brought you down further on his length, taking more of him in. You started to gag and dribble.
"That's it," he moaned, "choke on my dick, that's a good girl."
The sight of his mouth opening and groaning in pleasure made your clit go fluttery, and pairing that with his pet names and dirty talk, you could feel your underwear dampening. How you ended up on your knees when moments earlier Mr Harrington was standing next to your desk, handing back your paper with a ridiculously low grade felt surreal, but looking back, he had given you signs all month that he was intending to take you.
It started with a smirk after agreeing to sit his class for extra credit, the type of smirk that spread across his face from ear to ear, spelling out Trouble.
-
You sat there in silence, 'fuck, I probably should've begged to be a baseball assistant after all.' Letting out a sigh, you gave in and shrugged. You needed to get out of Hawkins High and fast; being held back a year would already delay your career and college opportunities.
"Alright, fine." You said quietly, Mr Harrington stared at you, a wolfish smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth, showing the glint of his perfect teeth; you were exactly where he wanted you.
"You'll be taking my class three times a week, and there are always more opportunities to develop in my class. I'll be seeing you after the summer break."
Mr Harrington stood up, his chair scraping against the floor and shook firm hands with Principal Higgins and left. You followed him out as he high-fived and greeted students spilling out of their classes. There was so much to think about, being held back, having to retake Maths, and now having three classes a week with Mr Harrington, which seemed easy enough compared to everything else. From what you heard, the lowest grade was always an easy B. Nobody failed his class.
“How hard can it be?” You whispered into the empty hallway, the sound swallowed by the slamming of lockers and cheering amongst students. You adjusted your bag, unaware that the easy B you were chasing was about to cost you a hell of a lot more than just a few hours per week.
-
Long laces of saliva hung from your mouth, dribbling down Mr Harrington. He gripped your hair tighter and faster, making you squeal out loudly against his touch.
"Fuck, I'm sorry, baby." he released his grip slightly but still kept you held down, "I'm getting carried away... I want to finish in your mouth so badly."
Your eyes widened at the thought. What were you meant to do if he did that?! Spit? Swallow? Hold it in your mouth until he tells you what to do?
Tiny beads of sweat spread across Mr Harrington's forehead, and his perfect white shirt was now full of creases. "Can you make me do that?" he sounded needy, desperate.
You nodded and tried to smile as you carried on sucking and slobbering on his shaft.
Mr Harrington started to thrust into your mouth, bucking his hips wildly. You scrunched your eyes shut and tried to keep your mouth as still as possible. Your lips were red, tingling and reaching a new level of numb; you were sure that Mr Harrington was going to destroy your tiny mouth. You were shocked that you almost took him in all the way on the first dunk.
"Keep doing exactly that," He groaned deeply, "don't stop."
Not giving up, you followed his orders and maintained speed and intensity, up and down, up and down. Mr Harrington arched his back in his chair and drew his eyebrows together as his lower jaw dropped open, showcasing his glistening tongue. You could feel the strong and rhythmic throbbing of his shaft against your tongue, and a fast shooting of warm liquid hit the back of your throat before the rest of it slowly oozed out and filled the back of your mouth. He slowly pulled out of your mouth as you relaxed your tired jaw, you swallowed his seed and licked your lips.
Mr Harrington's eyebrows raised, and he tilted his head to the side, grinning. "I'm impressed," he said happily, masking his sudden exhaustion. He let go of your hair completely and carefully untangled his fingers, leaning over to his side, he pulled out a handful of tissues from the box on his desk. He then gently brought the tissues to your face, wiping all of your hard work and his help off your cheeks, chin, and delicate hands.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked softly, his hungry eyes melting with concern.
"You didn't, I promise," you replied gently, finally standing up with weak and sore knees.
Mr Harrington meticulously cleaned himself up with more tissues and pulled up his red boxers that were damp from your saliva, whilst he pulled up his trousers and buckled his belt. You slowly and wobbily walked over to your desk and picked up your F-graded paper, bringing it over to him, feeling proud of your physical.
"I think this needs re-grading," you said quietly, blushing a little.
Mr Harrington shook his head and didn't acknowledge the paper, "It needs re-writing," he sighed, "your deadline is next Wednesday."
"A-Are you serious?"
"Next Wednesday, and between you and me, call me... Steve, now get going or you'll miss the rest of your math study."
You scrunch up the paper in your fist and spin on your heel, swinging your bag over your shoulder. You reach for the door handle and pull the door open, almost clumsily falling backwards as it was still locked. Steve chuckled and walked over to the door, unlocking it and opening it wide for you.
You burst out into the corridor, the cool air flowing through your hair, and you quickly ran out of Steve's classroom. Your mind raced quicker than your steps, you couldn't stop thinking about the sound of his moans, his pleading, the taste of his cum and the feeling of him thrusting in and out of your mouth. You didn't know much about what you missed in Math Study, but what you did know was that your world just became a hell of a lot bigger with Steve.
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