bucky barnes x f!reader, 15.4k (grab your water bottle)
🍒 SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ MDNI!!!, please read the earlier parts or it won't make much sense!, english is not my native language, no use of y/n, SEXUAL THEMES, MODERN AU/not canon compliant, eventual smut, VIRGINITY LOSS (extremely planned), attempts at romcom and girlhood vibes, coarse language, probably wrote new york wrong, original side characters
❤️ READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader is able-bodied and has hair
📌 CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, mentions of therapy and disorders, attempts at writing flirtation and chemistry, hooking up, depictions of first-time sex, fingering, oral sex, dirty talk, piv sex, nicknames ("baby", "angel", "doll"), overthinking, drama, alpine barnes is in this :) let me know if i missed any warnings!
💋 AUTHOR'S NOTE: bear with me as i yap
1) this is my second time writing bucky ever and my first time writing bucky smut??? also my first long-form EVER??? you don't understand how NERVE-WRACKING working on this has been. i pulled so many long nights my dudes you don't understand. i wrote and rewrote like a clinically insane person and even now i'm not sure if this good. i know quantity ≠ quality but if this flops i'll highkey crash out LMAO i'm so tireddd
2) it's a "modern au" so avengers doesn't exist, hydra doesn't exist, civil war never happened etc. this is not the canon universe! i wrote bucky with the thunderbolts* black-gold vibranium arm and twatfs-ish trauma levels
3) this will be continued in side b which should drop immediately! wanted to make this a one-shot but i hit tumblr post limits!
Tourists and locals, pre-gamers and seat-warmers, all sardined into one long bar counter. The concept of personal space is getting thinner by the second. It smells like stout spillage and sweat. A version of peak hour N train that doesn’t move, but is somehow infinitely happier, because it’s Jimmy’s.
Bucky is not sure how he ended up here in the first place.
See, here’s the thing, being one James Buchanan Barnes. Sometimes he feels like he’s two different people trapped in one body. It sounds extreme. His ex-therapist ruled DID and BPD a long time ago. Until today he still doesn’t know how to verbalize it in a more… correct way.
Despite the protective layers of age-old pessimism, half of him still quietly craves connection with the world. Acknowledges that he misses hanging out with friends. Makes plans for the near future, even if he wavers. Says yes to stuff occasionally. Downloads dating apps despite his own hum-and-haw, because Sam kept pestering him to until he’s gaslit. How bad could it really be?
The other half of him regrets every decision the first half of him made.
“You’re just… an extremely cautious optimist,” Steve once said, good-natured in a way that’s unmistakably him. Sam called him a “flaky introvert” instead. He would’ve barked something back if he had the energy to. If he didn’t think they were right.
Because yes, technically Bucky did agree to hang out with Sam and Nat on a Friday night for once, instead of “brooding in his brownstone cave”, as they called it. He said nothing other than “👍🏻” when they suggested meeting at Jimmy’s. =
And when the girl from Tinder he’s been texting for the past couple of days asked if he wanted to meet up on that same Friday night, he thought it a harmless move to converge plans instead of cancelling one of them.
Let her meet his friends. Get his friends to vet her. That’s what normal people do, right?
That Bucky never learns the pitfalls of optimism. This Bucky is dealing with the consequences.
Consequences being Liz—his Tinder date, if you could call it that—sitting between him and an amused Nat. Liz came dressed in a flattering yet biohazardously orange blouse, engaging the redhead in astrology-based small talk.
Consequences being Nat and Sam slipping their thinly-veiled teasing in conversation. Mostly to get a rise out of him—a blush, a groan, anything. Bucky has never introduced a girl to them! Bucky only reacts with old man emojis in the group chat! Bucky texts her actual words? She must be special!
Truth be told, Liz is normal.
Something Bucky’s not quite used to, but thinks he needs at this stage of his life.
Nothing is wrong with Liz. Nothing is right, either.
Every interaction is pleasantly bland. He can feel the gaps in their texts like cold air in a room. Their conversations are similar to those exchanged in corporate team building exercises, the kind that says ‘we’re friendly, but we’re not friends’.
He’s still waiting for this thing called chemistry.
Maybe it’s his fault. He remembers a time he could make a room full of women swoon, but that was far too long ago. A full eternity before the call of duty made him a different man. One with a metal arm, enough trauma to cover a therapist’s annual salary, and next to no charm.
Sam once compared his emotional walls to that of a hundred-year-old crustacean. Bucky flirted with his sister in return.
Sarah was great, but they’re better off as friends.
Meanwhile, Bucky decides that whatever this is with Liz is worse than that. In a bar built on history, grimy counter, and sticky flooring, sitting next to a girl in a brilliantly orange top—a girl he thought he was interested in—all he feels is the crushing weight of unremarkable ennui.
He wonders if this is how it’s supposed to be. If this is what normal feels like.
Bucky can’t decide if he’s thankful or sorry when a group of overexcited patrons jostles into her, causing her to spill some beer down her own shirt. The expression on her face is extremely calm despite the disaster, and she turns to him with a polite smile.
“Well, Bucky, that’s my cue. I don’t think we’re a good match. Thanks for the beer.”
He musters a “no problem, it was nice meeting you.”
Then she waves goodbye to his friends and slips out into the purple-pink evening, wearing the wet spot on her shirt like a badge of honor. Head held up high.
Between the two of them, she had more guts to stop second-guessing and face the music. To call it off.
Bucky sips his lager.
Yep. He’s fucking hopeless.
Right as you round the corner to Jimmy’s, you bump into a girl wearing a stylishly asymmetric top in a shade that immediately reminded you of Cheetos dust. She looks beautiful in her outfit despite the liquid stain on her chest, but it’s the way she walks that catches your attention.
Chin up, eyes straight ahead, footsteps fast enough to get out of the bar without looking like escaping.
It’s stings with familiarity.
You can feel how things did not pan out the way she planned. That she left with just enough pride to dust her shoulders. A type of pained perseverance. Let the sun set on her efforts. It will rise again tomorrow, and so will a new opportunity.
You’ve been her before.
Suddenly the jovial chatter coming out of Jimmy’s terrifies you.
But it’s too late to chicken out.
You’re dressed up for the evening: a cute tee paired with a denim miniskirt that made your ass look like a revelation (according to your friends), and ankle boots that’s seen half of New York under their soles. You’re wearing the right amount of make-up to look like you aren’t. Made your way to the bar with too much purpose to be stopped by TikTok street interviewers.
Well, here you are. To hunt or be hunted.
You take a breath and walk in.
Upon entering, your eyes scan the incredibly congested counter and find only one empty seat in the entire establishment.
It’s almost all the way to the back, right behind three older men who all wore Hawaiian prints and sound British—you can hear their sports talk all the way from the entrance.
On the left of the unoccupied bar stool is a drop-dead gorgeous redhead that Vicki would fall to her knees for, sipping on her martini glass. To the right sits a man: dark hair, midnight blue shirt and jeans, with a side profile that resembles a statue in the Louvre.
Vicki would definitely kneel for him, too. Best spot in the house, she’d say.
Also the most intimidating, because these two absurdly attractive individuals are already looking at you. So is the man on the redhead’s left, wearing a brown suede jacket, just as handsome. You suspect they must be the best looking friend group the city’s ever seen since the Gossip Girl cast.
Something clicks.
The empty seat. The lady in the orange top, walking out of this very bar just moments ago...
They’re not so much looking at you as they are watching her leave.
Then the redhead smiles, all pretty and dangerous, and you nearly freeze. There’s a glint of playfulness in her eyes—she must have caught the understanding settling down on your facial muscles.
You school your expression into a polite smile.
From the looks of it, that lady was Blue Henley’s date, and Red has no stakes other than being an audience seeking entertainment. Sitting there is equal to stepping up on a stage—you’re a contestant on a game show where you don’t know the rules, and the last player walked away with a beer stain and wounded pride.
There’s nothing to be scared of, you tell yourself. You’re not here for any of them, you’re here for a drink.
You approach the bar.
“Is this seat available?”
“Not emotionally,” Red smiles, sounding as sultry as she looks. She pats the empty seat next to her.
You thank her and sit, hand smoothing down your skirt.
“You on back-to-back dates or somethin’, Buck?” The man in the brown jacket pipes up. You glance, taking in his sharp buzz cut, then at the friend he’s talking to: the supposed serial dater to your right.
Who has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.
You get lost in them for a second. They remind you of submerging your bare skin into a lake. Toes first, then thighs, then all the way up to the nape of your neck. Cold. Clear. All too exposed for its depths.
Some people are born with a winning ticket to the genetic raffle. This man is undoubtedly one of them. His is a category of handsome that turns a girl’s brain to ‘blablabla, proper name, place name, backstory stuff’ when spoken to.
“I thought the top looked good on her,” you comment, not wanting them to think you’re mute. “Like a tangerine. Very summery.”
“Don’t think it was her outfit that our friend had a problem with.” The redhead gives you the most subtle once-over you’ve ever experienced, before extending an immaculately manicured hand toward you.
You know what this is. A ‘you may proceed to hit on my hot friend’ kind of green light. In Red’s case, it’s the guy in the blue henley, whose date walked out not five minutes ago.
“Natasha. But call me Nat.”
You shake her hand and offer her your name. The man to Nat’s left—the one with the buzz cut—introduces himself as Sam. You give him a little wave.
“Tell us about yourself, contestant number two.” Sam asks with a grin behind the lip of his half-empty pint.
You chuckle. “What am I competing for?”
You turn to the man he called ‘Buck’ who hasn’t spoken so far. His gaze on you is almost analytical. A little curious, a lot of caution.
“James,” he finally offers, shaking your hand.
Firm. Slightly damp even after he’s wiped the obnoxious condensation from his pint off his jeans. You grip back like you’re doing your best to not react to his voice. It’s a deadly blend of smooth and husky.
The game show starts to make a little more sense, as if the only way to learn is by playing. He’s the prize.
What the heck. With those eyes? You’ll play.
“Where’d ‘Buck’ come from?” you ask.
“It’s Bucky, actually. Buchanan. Middle name.” He lets your hand go.
“Well, sorry it didn’t work out with your date,” you weigh your options, “James.”
“Don’t be,” Nat pipes up, taking a sip from her glass. “She tried to guess my star sign five times.”
The bartender—too young and too female to be the legendary Jimmy himself—swings by to take your order.
Sam shrugs. “Gotta respect the hustle.”
“How long did she last?” you ask.
“Almost an hour,” that’s Nat. “Not bad for a first date.”
You turn to James, a faint disbelieving smile on your lips. “You bring your friends along to first dates? That’s mean.”
His brows furrow, mouth hidden behind the lip of his glass. “What do you mean, mean?”
“I mean, if I were her, I’d definitely feel intimidated. Like you’re ganging up on me.”
“Does it feel we’re ganging up on you right now?” Nat smiles. It reaches her eyes and you feel a little at ease.
You smile. “A little too early to tell.”
Twenty minutes later, Bucky is resigned to the fact that his friends just can’t stop talking to a stranger about his failed date.
Nat and Sam are engaging conversationalists. You keep up with them perfectly, like a substitute musician falling into a familiar beat. Knowing his friends’ talent for turning words against him, Bucky settles for speaking only when the situation calls for it, which is rare.
But when it’s not? His eyes are fixed on you like they’re scanning an unknown profile for threat vectors.
The bartender places your drink on a warped coaster in front of you and Bucky filters the choice into one of five different theories he’s already built about your personal life. He watches the way you cross and uncross your legs in that short skirt like it’s a stakeout. Logs how many times you drum your fingers on the counter, and the pattern in which you do it—pinky to thumb instead of the other way around.
Considers your posture. Studies your diction. Stares at your face.
Except his advanced analysis is overridden by a simplistic, silly thought.
He finds you pretty. Real pretty.
Liz was, too, but there’s something about you that arrests his attention span beyond habitual reconnaissance. He can’t classify what exactly it is, and it infuriates him. It’s also addicting.
You caught Nat off-guard with a comment that made her laugh. Returned Sam’s service ace banter. Glimpsed at the gold patterns on his left hand under the sleeve of his henley, but didn’t stare, didn’t ask.
Whoever coined the phrase ‘like attracts like’ should be satisfied at how correct it is, because there’s a hidden layer in you that Bucky immediately perceives past your persuasion. The thing that’s keeping him from figuring you out.
Caution. The same one that he wears, clear as a Times Square billboard. Yours is more covert, like cigarette smokes and bathroom mirrors.
“She was his first ever Tinder date, y’know.” Sam’s words snap him out of his reverie.
Nat brings it home. “Probably his first ever date in almost ten years.”
The shock is plain on your face when you look at him. He braces himself, preparing a wry deflection in his head—
“You met her on Tinder?”
—which he ends up not using, because somehow that’s what you choose to question, and not the part where he hasn’t dated in a decade. He nods anyway.
You shake your head, chuckle spelling out vindication.
“I know I said I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but I’m really not surprised.”
“Not a fan of Tinder?” he asks.
“And the rest of them,” you make a face. “Too many dick pics. Also it just doesn’t work.”
“So you’re single.” Natasha cuts in casually. She goes for the jugular the same way a cat starts a fight, except Bucky knows this is just fun and games.
“If I say it’s by choice, does it make me look better or worse?” you joke.
That’s an opening, and sure enough, Sam takes it. “‘Single by choice’ is what Bucko’s been for years.”
“Yeah? Why now, then?”
“Intervention,” Sam points an accusatory finger at him, emphasizing all four syllables.
“Translation: they forced me,” Bucky retaliates, tone clipped.
“Social reintegration,” Nat smooths over. “He’s even more of a recluse than he already is since his best friend moved away. It’s our job to make sure he still knows how to talk to people.”
Bucky quietly takes a swig of his beer to prevent a groan from escaping. Nat loves a reaction. He tries not to give too much of it.
“I know what it feels like. The friend moving part.”
He blinks, almost missing your words below the din of the bar. Those words don’t usually mean anything, but the way you said it, he believes in you.
“I bet you go out, though, cute girl like you.” Nat smirks, elbowing your arm.
And just like that, your attention is snatched away from him.
“Are you flirting with me?” you ask, fixing your hair playfully.
“I don’t know, would you like that?”
You elbow her back. Nat laughs. Bucky watches you drink from your glass—the same thing he did earlier.The same habit of swallowing unspoken words.
“Might as well show Bucky how it’s done,” the redhead teases.
“Romanoff, I swear,” he sighs, hand running through his hair.
Your smile blooms into a short laugh. It’s a pretty sound.
Sam finishes his beer before leaning forward to catch your attention.
“Seriously though, why are you single?”
“Don’t listen to him, he’s an uncle,” Bucky snaps.
He’s known Sam for over fifteen years. That’s longer than some white-collar crime jail terms. That’s the reason why he’s so tolerant of the latter’s your-business-is-mine teasing.
But you? You walked into this bar less than thirty minutes ago. If Sam ends up chasing you away because of a stupid question, Bucky will never forgive him—or himself for letting it happen.
Wait, what the fuck was that?The implication flies past him like he’s a batter with slow reflexes. Strike.
Realization sets in. He wants you around.
Sam’s lips curl into a smirk and Bucky swears he feels the smugness of knowledge radiating out of his friend. He responds with a wordless glare, one that Sam’s grown immune to.
Luckily you seem to be none the wiser.
“I’m just picky,” you reply.
“So is Bucky,” Nat murmurs from the lip of her glass.
He hears it. You probably do too. Neither of you respond.
A minute later, nobody seems to be able to hear anything with the chaos bursting in the bar.
Shouted orders, the football game on TV getting into a heated fourth quarter, British bickers about whether a hundred million pounds will get Arsenal out of their loser status in the European league.
After the nth time of going ‘huh?’ and ‘what was that?’ like everyone forgot their hearing aids, Sam sits ramrod straight and throws both hands up.
“Aight, we need to bounce. I’m not gonna be made to feel like a senior citizen on a Friday night.”
The three of you pay up before following him outside just to breathe something else other than bitters and dankening air quality. Too bad the ventilation at Jimmy’s isn’t as good as the vibes.
You linger at the edge of the bar, digging around your handbag for something that’s not a fifty-dollar bill, frowning in frustration. Bucky hovers a hand over the search and smoothly slides a ten to the bartender.
“It’s on me,” he says, eyes meeting yours.
You sigh like you got a deadline extension. “I swear I have change in here. Let me cover yours at the next place.”
Bucky shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing. “None of that, please.”
He’d like to punch himself. Once upon a time, he could pull a Casanova move, whisper something suggestive next to your ear like “how ‘bout we make that next place mine?” and take a step back just to memorize the way you blush. God knows the amount of girls he used to bring home like that.
That was, what, ten years ago? These days he’s reduced to anachronistic chivalry and short sentences.
“You’ll have to stop me from paying you back, then.” You hum, the challenge poorly concealed in your tone. As if the two of you are playing Catch the Check and you’re a pro.
Bucky briefly wonders if you do this with other men. Pretty young thing like you, showing a guy a genuine good time just by talking to him, and then tug-of-warring over who gets the bill. A test, like you’re trying to figure out how strong his grip is. Will he stumble or will he pull you over the line?
His pulse catches off-rhythm, pumping courage in his veins. If you want to play…
“You’d like it if I did, wouldn’t you?”
The lush baritone wraps around the words, forming a suggestion made of silk. A glimpse of a promise, enough to be heard above the noise. Nothing too forward.
You’re holding up relatively well by his standards—freezing only for half a second before you fix a strand of hair behind your ear. A telltale sign of the nerves, however small.
He’s affecting you. Good.
“I’m serious, James, let me pay you back,” you sigh.
“So am I. It’s on me.”
As the two of you slowly walk outside, trailing behind Nat and Sam, he discovers you’re a stubborn girl. He sees it in the purse of your lips, like you’re accepting more than just happy hour beer. Eyes trail down your face, drawn like a magnet: they’re plump and dewy. From your drink or some type of lip gloss, he’s not sure.
He’d like to find out.
Your lips curl into a gentle smile and he blinks. Did you catch him staring?
“Fine, you win. Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he replies. He said about the same thing to Liz, except you’re leaving with him and his friends to a second place. Sam and Nat are arguing about that a few steps ahead.
The tug-of-war tension loosens. He’s still holding the rope, wondering if he succeeded. If buying you a beer should make him feel like he won the lottery.
“Y’all good with a fish and chips kind of place?” Sam asks, five feet ahead, phone in his hand. You give him a thumbs up. He mirrors it.
Then Bucky watches you fall into stride next to Nat, talking to her like you’re old friends.
Something flutters in his stomach. It’s not the alcohol.
The second place is one street over, an Irish pub called Connolly’s.
Its interior is covered in wall-to-wall wood panels, warm brown reflecting yellow lights that hang from the ceiling. There’s a pool table in one corner and an empty stage in another. On it is a single mic stand and a packed-up drum set. There are a number of little Irish flags around—in the hands of a Saint Paddy bobblehead on the bar counter and lodged in one of the wall sconces.
When you’re seated, the waiter asks if you’re here for their trivia night.
“Yes,” Natasha says with a beaming smile before any of you can say a word.
The waiter returns with four stouts, five papers, and a pencil.
Right after food is ordered, a portly old man takes the stage. Head of white and Metallica t-shirt of black. He introduces himself into the mic as Collin, your quizmaster for tonight.
“You look like you have the best handwriting on this table,” Sam says offhandedly. Just like that, you become the team’s designated answer-writer.
“What’s our team name?” you stack the papers into a neat pile as Collin goes over the rules. No Googling, no shouting out answers, and no debating with the quizmaster over what’s right. The first round is about to begin. The category is food and drink.
“We Just Met,” Nat suggests, legs crossed, relaxed.
Bucky sees it. At least tonight, out of the ordinary doesn’t mean danger. He feels the same.
Sam balks. “You’re naming our team ‘We Just Met’?”
“Hey, I’m not hearing any suggestions coming from you.”
You laugh, writing down ‘We Just Met’ on the top right corner. “Done.”
“Not you, too!”
“It’s only factually accurate if I write it. I just met you all.”
Looking up, you catch Bucky’s eyes from across the table. He’s sitting right in front of you, knees brushing up against yours. You can feel Sam and Nat too—the tables in this place are so damn small—but each brush of Bucky’s jeans against your bare knees feels like a flare signal.
Then he smiles at you and they turn into fireworks.
“Whatever,” Sam replies with poorly concealed grin while Collin explains what double-or-nothing means. The same waiter drops off a bucket of fries for your table.
“—as usual, first place gets a bottle of wine on the house.”
Apparently that’s enough for Natasha to lock in.
“Come on, Wilson. We need to win this.”
“Be so for real! Like you can’t buy fifty bottles of whatever they’ll give us.” Sam scoffs, hand gesticulating in the air like he’s over it, but the pub breaks out into claps and hoots and he immediately sits up straighter.
You speak to Bucky, who wears a look of restrained amusement on his face.
“Are you any good?”
“Geography’s my best shot. You?”
“Music. But only if I’m lucky.”
It’s a blur of questions and answers after that.
The men argue in quiet hisses over which country produces more saffron between Iran and Morocco. You’re writing down answers and taking notes whenever the group is undecided. Nat remembers past questions to revisit before pencils down.
Bucky doesn’t hide how captivated he is when you animatedly lecture Sam on how sukiyaki is not the same as shabu-shabu.
Then, almost like it’s predestined, the music round arrives.
You wiped the entire category with your answers, save for two of Bucky’s. ‘A tune off its leash’ is cryptic trivia-speak for Unchained Melody, and ‘Scandinavian forest’ is simply Norwegian Wood. He thinks it’s crazy that nobody at the table knows that one.
“It’s The Beatles,” he argues.
“You have the music tastes of a centenarian, Barnes,” Nat taunts.
He snarks back from behind the lip of his glass. “Don’t make me regret helping you win, Romanoff.”
Sam submits the paper for scoring and you take your phone out.
“Is it this one?” you show him the screen. You’re on Wikipedia, a vintage album cover at the top of the article. He nods.
“Never heard of it.” You scroll, poring over the page for more facts.
Bucky decides to tease. “Never heard of The Beatles?”
“Come on! I mean Norwegian Wood.”
You slap his hand lightly, a rogue smile on your face. Wider than the ones he’s seen so far. It has nothing to do with the alcohol, because something is rushing through him, and he has a feeling it’s the same as the one in your system.
Chemistry.
Serotonin from the free salted peanuts. Dopamine from correct answers. Oxytocin from hanging out with his friends… and feeling your skin on his, even for the briefest moment.
The table is quiet while Collin reads out the points as it stands, and Bucky knows he’s been made.
Whatever subtlety in his system freewheels down a hill, ending in a crash-and-burn. A wreck for his friends around the table to see. Natasha hides her smirk with her drink. Sam’s eyebrows are already wiggling scandalously.
You’re listening intently to the scores.
“—with a perfect twenty points thanks to double-or-nothing, it’s Team We Just Met!”
His heartbeat catches—because he’s the first person you choose to smile at. He scolds himself. You just happen to be sitting across him.
Food arrives and the game continues. Hands criss-cross over the small square table, digging into a half-eaten fries bucket and dipping cut-up fish into tartar sauce.
Bucky warns them of Team Never Gonna Quiz You Up tailgating just one point behind. Nat notices you’re not eating because you’re busy being the designated writer, to which she stabs some food to feed to you. You open your mouth like being spoonfed by others is a regular thing.
“Can’t have you starving,” she says.
Sam hands you a napkin along with your drink. You take it graciously with your free hand. Nat whispers the answer to question five in your ear. You don’t stop writing.
There’s a tug on the corner of Bucky’s lips that isn’t a smile. He knows what they’re doing. Feels the heat churning in his stomach when Sam gives the quickest jerk of his chin towards you, mouthing ‘do it’. You’re absolutely crowded with attention as it is—writing down answers, staying hydrated, getting fed by a group of people you met an hour ago.
Whether they’re playing wingman/wingwoman or trying to make him jealous, Bucky still can’t decide.
He mouths back a ‘shut up’ to Sam before picking up a steak-cut fry and nudging it against your lips with his right hand.
You nibble on half of it without looking up, too busy scribbling the answer to question six. God, you’re way too trusting. He should be concerned.
Then you take the last bite and your lips brush the tips of his fingers. His heartbeat snags out of its usual pace. Bumpy. Messy.
Bucky demands to write for the next round so you can eat properly.
Picture round comes last. You’re handed a paper with pictures of famous beach destinations printed on it. It’s pixelated and streaked white in places, clearly having come out of a printer that needs to be retired.
You walk over to Bucky’s side for a better look, bending over with an elbow locked on the desk—the same pose Nat and Sam are in.
The three of you deliberate whether picture 4 is Maldives. Bucky fiddles with the pencil, trying to reckon with a hint of your perfume, floral and sweet above the fish and chips grease.
He writes ‘Maldives’ under picture 4 like his cognitive functions are intact. The rest of you to rush for answers. Sam curses, something about sand looking the same regardless of geopolitical borders.
You’re two points away from beating the team currently in first place. Tensions are rising, but the kind Bucky feels is entirely different, thanks to the shape of your body next to him.
Three minutes later, picture 4 was, in fact, not the Maldives.
Team We Just Met ends up in second place, still two points behind Team Let’s Get Quizzical. Close but no cigar.
“I just spoke to the bartender,” Nat slides back into her seat. “They’re regulars. Been bribing the waiters to google the answers since the beginning of time. This whole thing’s rigged.”
Sam snaps, his foot stomping once on the sticky floor. “Miss me with that shit, man. That’s low.”
“We tried,” Bucky placates. A staff tiptoes by to clear the plates.
You stand up, stretching your arms above your head. He tries not to look at your midriff.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” you announce.
Once you’re out, Connolly’s is a lot morelively, but your table is missing two people.
Nat and Sam.
“Where’d they go?” you ask Bucky as you sit back down. He licks his lips with a sidelong glance that implies annoyance.
“Home,” he answers, “they ditched us.”
“What?”
“Yup.”
“Are they that pissed for getting second place? I thought we were having a good time,” you sit down, reaching for the last dregs of your stout, but the urge to drink is gone.
“We were.” Bucky says, picking up his glass like he’s mirroring you. Then his pretty eyes darken a little.
“We are, aren’t we?”
You look at him, feeling something in the air shift.
“Are we, though? You got ditched twice today,” you tease.
“You’re still around,” he says, eyes looking straight into yours as he leans forward, words clear over the noise of half-drunks and music from the speakers.
The table at the corner erupts in rowdy laughs as a bottle of wine is brought over to them. Must be the winning team.
Your heart pounds. You want to blame it entirely on the stuttering bassline that vibrates in your chest, but you can’t. Not when the real reason is the man sitting across you.
Because you feel it. The pull.
You’ve felt it since Jimmy’s, the way you can taste his stare from the corner of your eye while you talked to his friends. How his voice sounded like a wicked promise when he was just insisting on covering for your beer. The way he’s just this side of inspecting, inviting—staring at you while his grip around the glass twitches ever so slightly.
Like he wants to touch.
You feel like a special clump of static when you’re reflected in his eyes.
“So what happens if I ditch you?” you smile, testing the waters.
“Then I’m stupid.”
“Why?”
“‘cause right now, I’m really thinking you won’t.”
What are you supposed to say to that? There’s warmth in your throat that melts whatever smart response you usually have. A titillation. A seduction.
You’re malfunctioning. You hope he doesn’t notice.
There’s a hint of unease in his blue eyes, the kind that surfaces when the silence stretches too long. You’re making him wait.
“Is that why your friends left? To leave us alone?”
He blinks. Lingers on the pause. “Maybe.”
You smile with one eyebrow raised. “Did you ask them to?”
“No,” he lets out that little laugh again, the one that shows the crinkles by his eyes, “they said something about their stomach not taking the fish and chips too well. And the loss. Both really bad excuses.”
“Mm. Bad excuses, but really good friends,” you hum.
His knees brush against yours. No other legs to bump into this time except his. The hand on the table is suddenly right in front of yours, only half an inch before fingertips brush.
Lips pursed, you allow yourself one second to deal with the fact that James Buchanan Barnes—a man you met two, maybe pushing three hours ago—might be the first person in your life to take you to bed.
Your mouth turns dry at the thought, overcome with nerves.
But there’s anticipation on the tip of your tongue.
Isn’t this what you studied for? Graduated with honors from whatever university Isha and Vicki will co-found for virgins who no longer want to be one?
He looks at you. You know he’s waiting. Red light, yellow light, green light.
A beat.
“You wanna get out of here?” you finally ask, voice hushed.
His shoulders relax like he’s been holding his breath, then he nods, lips curling into a smile. A picture of relief with darkened eyes.
“Yeah.”
Next thing you know, the two of you are standing up: you shouldering your handbag, him about to down the rest of his Guinness…
…before somebody crashes into him from behind, spilling stout all over your shirt and the table between you.
There’s a cataclysmic silence.
The culprit shuffles away, too tipsy to notice the disaster they’ve unleashed in their path. There’s beer all over Bucky’s fingers, all over your shirt—his eyes zeroing in on the blooming stain, mouth parted.
“Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry—”
Then you laugh, full-bodied from your belly. You clutch the wet fabric away from your skin, and the tension fizzles out like the foam on the lip of his glass.
“Are you cursed? Your date got beer spilled on her earlier, and now—” you wheeze out, still smiling, not even bothering to fish out the tissues you know you have on you.
Bucky shakes off the shock, firmly putting the glass down on the table before rushing all two steps toward you to assess the damage. Fingers pinch gingerly at the cotton, right next to where your hands are, making you painfully aware of how close he’s standing as he stares at the wet spot like his world is ending.
He chuckles, awkward but charming in a way you haven’t encountered before.
“Cursed sounds about right. Sorry, doll.”
You have half a mind to tease him for being old-fashioned—first The Beatles, now doll—but your heart is busy lurching at the way the nickname lands.
“Not your fault. It’ll wash.”
He looks like he’s considering something.
“How ‘bout I wash it for you?” his head tilts towards the entrance. “My place is a fifteen-minute walk from here.”
You hum. “And what will I do while I wait for the laundry?”
Shit, that sounded more suggestive than you intended it to be.
He smiles, and it’s so boyishly charming you feel your walls of reinforced metal cracking like cheap dollar-store plastic.
“There’s stuff to drink at my place. A TV. Pack of cards somewhere, if that’s what you want.”
There’s a pause, as if he’s giving you an out. “It’ll only take an hour to wash and dry.”
You bite back a grin at the near silliness of the situation—and yourself, because you did not come prepared with contingency plans for a drink being spilled on you, and yet it feels so… right. More than any womanmade strategy ever could.
Hell, you dare say you’d be satisfied even if he didn’t sleep with you. Disappointed? For sure. But you live for a story, and if this isn’t one, or at least the start of one, you don’t know what is.
“Let’s go, then.”
Bucky leads you toward the exit with a warm hand on your lower back, carefully guiding you past throngs of people to shield you from another spillage-related accident. Thankfully, none occur, and the two of you make it outside to the dry night air and cracked pavement.
The beer makes your shirt stick to the skin of your stomach. It should feel icky, but the gentle breeze is somewhat comforting.
The sun has set for a good couple of hours, leaving neon lights to illuminate the streets. It’s nothing compared to Broadway, but the flashing reds and greens are proof that the city is still alive. Bright shish kebab stands occupy the junctions, their signs visible in the distance. Sixth Avenue’s pulse fuels yours.
Or maybe it’s Bucky that does, as he wordlessly moves you to the inside part of the sidewalk.
You’re pleased to find that he’s not as stoic as he seems, especially without his friends around. As you fall into each other’s step, so does the conversation: his Brooklyn origins, your job, if dinner was actually so-so or you’re just bitter from the loss. “Watch out for that oil slick.”
Arguing over the best coffee place in Midtown—he thinks your pick is ludicrous. Sharing stories from troublemaking days.
That sort of thing.
The natural, easy sort of thing.
You arrive at a row of brownstone apartments not too long after. Bucky freezes at the entrance like he forgot his keys, except he’s holding them in his right hand. He turns to you.
“I, uh, hope you’re not allergic to cats.”
“You have a cat?”
He swallows, then nods. “Is that a problem?”
You shake your head, extremely serious.
“Say less. I love cats.”
You see Bucky’s shoulders relax—the second time tonight.
Alpine Barnes greets you at the door and Bucky watches you fall in love.
He slips into the kitchen to pour two whiskeys on ice, eyebrows furrowed—not in concentration, but in mild disbelief over how smitten you are with his cat.
He shouldn’t feel like a jilted lover. Not when he’s a man you just met who spilled beer on you.
Not when you’re ten steps away, sitting on his couch, wearing his shirt.
It’s one of his looser, older t-shirts. There’s no washed-out print to show for it, but a hint of time’s touch is apparent in the faded cobalt blue. A temporary substitute while your beer-stained top tumbles in the wash, the low hum of the machine steady in the background.
You look good. Which is rather concerning, because the end of the sleeves just about brush your elbows and the neck’s a little too big. It’s ill-fitting in every sense of the word, yet the mere suggestion of your curves is enough to entice him.
Bucky knows you’re beautiful. Has been painfully made aware of the fact since you sat next to him at Jimmy’s.
What he hasn’t fully calculated yet is the possibility that you’ll be spending the night at his place.
He didn’t even consider taking Liz home, literally or metaphorically, and he’s talked to her longer than he’s known you… if texting qualifies as talking.
There’s a really cute stranger in his house. How is he supposed to think when he can’t stop staring?
You can’t, either. Except you’re staring at Alpine and not him.
The kitten he brought home is getting distracted by the kitten he keeps at home. Brutal.
Bucky approaches the couch. Places the two glasses on the coffee table. Stands in front of you, taking the scene in.
Alpine is on your lap, her little face tilted up at you with affectionate slow-blinks like you’re the one spending extra dollars on the more expensive Purina. You’re clearly holding back a tall wave of affection as you pet his cat’s head, mouthing “you’re so cute” and “such a sweet girl” as if they’re secrets you don’t want him to hear.
He finally sits next to you, metal arm slung around the back of the couch.
“Is she usually this friendly?” you beam. Bucky’s stomach does a flip.
“Yeah, she doesn’t exactly meet a lot of people. Loves the attention.” He reaches over, flesh hand brushing one long stroke down the cat’s body. She arches into his touch.
“And here I thought I was special,” you chuckle.
“You are,” he says, not sparing a beat. He hands you your glass of whiskey.
Eyes meet. Fingers touch. He sees the beginnings of a blush on your cheeks.
You deflect, smiling as you take the glass out of his hand. “You know I pegged you to be a lone wolf, not a flirt.”
“Yeah?” He hates that he has nothing smart to say.
“You must do this a lot.”
He shakes his head, sipping his drink. “Natasha was telling the truth.”
“Hm?”
“It’s been… a long time since I went out with a girl.”
You adjust the way you sit. Alpine meows once, a soft protest before she circles on your thighs, finding a different position.
“What about bringing one home?” Your words are designed to bait, but the smile on your face is warm, kind—like he doesn’t have to say anything he doesn’t want to.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he murmurs, lips tugged into a soft smirk.
“I’d like to know if I’m Alpine’s favorite.”
As if uncomfortable being in the literal middle of a banter, Alpine decides to hop off your lap, tail curling high. The two of you watch as she trots and disappears somewhere behind the kitchen island.
He laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t have the answer. Only got her a few months ago.”
“Is she a rescue?”
“Something like that. She sat on my bike and wouldn’t budge.”
“So it’s forced adoption,” you chuckle. The image of it is enough to tickle you—a snow white cat on the seat of a bike, probably a mean-looking contraption of jet black and chrome, Bucky not knowing what to do as he hovers.
“Basically. Between the two of us, she’s the real iron fist.”
You chuckle. “She’s smart.”
“You think?”
“She picked the right person to take her home.”
You stare at him. The double entendre isn’t lost on you. You let it hang in the air, heavy like a proposition. When you’d normally grimace at the sound of your own voice saying such things, this time you feel… secure. The mental tremors of unease are mostly gone, steadied into something solid. A brand of poise you aren’t used to wearing on your sleeve.
It fuels you to inch closer to him, feeling the weight of his metal arm sinking into the couch right behind your shoulders. He doesn’t pull away, half-lidded eyes simply taking in your maneuver.
“How did you handle it?” you ask quietly.
“Handle what?”
“Your best friend moving.”
Ice clinks within glass.
He sighs. Stares into the caramel-colored liquid at the bottom of it.
“Barely did. We grew up together. He was family—still is.”
“Do you keep in touch?”
“All the time,” he smiles, but it’s tired.
You know that face. Probably wore it yourself for a decent amount of time after Vicki left, and then Isha not long after. It depicts the grudging acceptance that the world doesn’t care about instant messaging or video calls—it still ends when they left, giving way to a new reality. One where you can’t drop by your friend’s place to watch a shitty movie just because you feel like it. One that turns every call into a life update because your lives are separate now.
One where—regardless of the absence of any hard feelings—you still feel left behind.
“Where’d he go?” you whisper, watching the blue in his eyes almost flicker.
Bucky nods. “London. To be with his girl.”
“Not exactly around the block anymore.”
“You tell me.”
You purse your lips. “My best friends left not long after we graduated.”
“Where are they now?”
“LA. The other one Malaysia.”
“Wow,” he raises his eyebrows. “Malaysia’s not exactly close either.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, leaning back against the couch, feeling his cybernetic arm against the base of your skull.
To your relief, he doesn’t flinch.
“We text. Have regular calls. It’s still not the same.”
“Nothing is.”
You take a sip of your drink.
“Sam and Nat are nice.”
He nods, falls silent for a moment.
“They are.”
On a different kind of day, you’d call it delusion.
But now, sitting in his sparsely decorated living room, you swear his eyes are speaking to you. Whispers in secret syntax waiting to be solved. Blue pools that spell contented loneliness, one that you know all too well. Felt for months. Learned to mask.
Except it’s probably just as transparent in your eyes, because there’s no room for a barrier when all you can sense is him. The shift of his metal arm on the backrest, plated fingertips on your hair. Tentatively hovering. Wordlessly asking. Waiting.
He looks at you as if you’re some kind of balm to life’s bitterness.
You want it. His attention. His affection.
You tilt your head back lightly, allowing his hand to fully rest on your crown, welcoming his touch—the same way Alpine leaned into his hand earlier.
Then Bucky strokes your hair, all soft and sweet, and your ribs feel like they’re being punched from the inside.
Because you following him home has never been about the sheer mass of his arms filling up that henley, or the poetic line of his jaws, or the way he’s touching you now.
It’s his anchoring presence throughout the night. The quiet interjections and polite insistence. The deliberation when he flirts with you—not because he’s scared he’ll look stupid, but because he wants to make sure you’re comfortable.
You spent years cultivating reliability in instinct and intuition. You’d proudly say you trust your gut.
Right now it says you can trust him.
“You never asked,” he murmurs.
“Hm?”
“About my arm.”
You blink, watching its metal plates reflect the living room light. He didn’t hide it when you met him at the first bar, gold veins on black plates running down his forearm under the rolled-up shirt sleeve. You wonder if there was a time when he had to hide it. If there were too many questions.
“I figure you’ll talk about it if you want to,” you admit softly.
He blinks, then smiles. “Fair.”
“Cool arm, though.”
His hand stills on your head, no longer caressing your hair, and you find yourself missing him already.
But then there’s a chill of metal as it slides down to the nape of your neck, moving to cradle your jaw. The sensation sends your breath to a tailspin.
His thumb is on your chin, gently making you look at him. He stares, eyes flickering between yours and lower.
Your lips.
“Can I kiss you?” he whispers.
Bucky is fluent in the language of waiting, yet this moment sees him bristling with uncertainty.
It’s a shot in the dark, or so he thinks. But is it truly—when you agreed to come home with him, when you were the one to rest your head on his arm like it’s not almost as heavy as his soul?
You part your lips to say something, then close them back. It’s enough to send him spiraling.
Then you pluck the whiskey glass out of his other hand and place it on the coffee table along with your own.
“Don’t need you spilling any more liquor on me,” you whisper.
You press your lips to his. Gentle. Light.
He doesn’t gasp, doesn’t breathe. The world spins and stops like it would in a car crash condensed in half a second—
—then he kisses you back, slanting his face against yours.
It’s slow but deep. He pulls you in like a tide, one arm wrapping around your waist, his other hand back at your face, thumb stroking your cheek.
The beat of your heart is loud in your ear, urging your hands to do something, anything. So you snake them up his chest, one of them moving further to sink into his hair.
A soft groan emanates from between his breastbone and he breaks the kiss. Even if it’s just an inch, the distance feels colder than it should.
His blue eyes are dark with desire.
“You want this?” he whispers.
You nod.
“Say it.”
“I want you,” you whisper, the three syllables unmistakable, fingers coiling around the strands of hair near his nape. Your other hand on his chest feels it rise with a shaky inhale, heartbeat loud under your palm.
He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at you like you’re a byproduct of delirium—like he can’t believe this is really happening.
Then he crashes his lips into yours again and you cling onto the front his shirt. He’s so warm. The fingers in your hair guide your face to his. Noses mash for a second before you turn, capturing his mouth at a different angle. Lips part when you sigh.
His tongue swipes against yours and you moan quietly into each other’s mouths.
You taste malt on him: smooth, full-bodied, and inching you closer to intoxication more than actual alcohol ever can.
His big hands travel to your torso, circling your waist, groping your hips, making you gasp when he lifts you up to perch you on his lap. His arms cage you by your back. Just as more feels impossible, the kiss deepens.
“James—” you pant into his mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” he shifts, lips dragging open-mouthed kisses across your jaw and neck.
“Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Just noses your jugular and inhales. You shiver.
The hands on your back now slip under your shirt—his—while he returns to your bottom lip, tugging and sucking until it’s swollen. You’re thankful for his broad shoulders anchoring your hands, because the indulgence of his pace begins to wear off, replaced with urgency. Not immediate, but there nevertheless: the tug at your hair to expose your neck for him, how his mouth closes over your throat.
Poorly hidden heat.
Your eyelids flutter open when he grinds his hips into yours, letting you feel the hard line of him right at your core, firm and insistent under his jeans. A muffled whimper escapes you while your nerves catch fire.
It feels so good. Almost too much.
It chips at your resolve. The confidence you found earlier is temporarily replaced by alarm, your pounding heart the siren.
“James, wait,” you whisper.
He pulls away like he’s been burned, eyes darting across your face to search for signs of discomfort.
“I—” you swallow, coming up blank. The words escape you, formless on your tied tongue.
He waits, dilated pupils locked on yours.
“I’ve never... gotten this far before.”
Blue eyes widen by a fraction, and as if triggered by a switch, the defensive walls around you come up. The heat in your blood cools.
You told him because you wanted to, but was it the right thing to do? Is it a mistake? The thought of taking things further without him knowing felt like a deception despite the two of you not owing each other anything, much less the truth. His silence makes you want to take it back, play it off as a joke, whatever it takes as long as he doesn’t—
“Really?”
It’s too late now. You nod, heart wild in your chest.
“You haven’t…? With anyone?”
You shake your head, looking down at your hands on his shoulders.
He does that thing again, metal arm moving your chin up so he can look at you.
“Are you sure you want it to be me? Tonight, now?” his voice is quiet, infused with awe as his other hand strokes calming circles on your waist with his thumb.
The question is simple. The answer is yes.
So you nod. This time, your gaze has nowhere to run.
“Want you,” you whisper.
He exhales, breath slightly strangled.
“It’s been a while for me.”
“You already said that,” you move your arms to wrap around his neck, leaning down, “I don’t really care.”
The both of you stay like that for a while—face to face, chest to chest, tasting each other’s air. Two people convinced that the other would leave, except none of you move. Just waits. Seconds, a minute, however long it takes to arrive at acceptance.
Until he slowly, finally kisses you again.
This time, the barrier of his self-control is brittle, betrayed by a low growl and large palms drawing heat paths under fabric. Up your chest from below his worn blue shirt. On your thigh inching up under your denim skirt. All over you with a hunger.
His hips grind into yours again, letting you feel his need.
You let out a soft “oh”, wayward thoughts already picturing what happens next.
Skin, you think. You want his skin on yours.
Like he’s reading your mind, he grips the hem of your shirt. His eyes ask for permission. You grab his hands and raise your arms, taking the shirt off, a pile of faded cobalt on the floor.
“God, look at you,” he rasps, thumbing the hem of your bra.
You came prepared. It’s a pretty piece, delicate and a little expensive. The kind that makes you stand up straighter and meet people’s gaze until they’re the first to look away.
But Bucky doesn’t look away, eyes greedily roaming your chest and stomach, fingers skimming over bra cups.
Two hands grip your waist, one cold and the other warm. He moves you to stand up between his legs. You do as you’re wordlessly told, chest heaving as you watch his fingers undo the button and zip of your short skirt, taking it off like he’s jealous of the way it gets to cling onto you.
The denim falls uselessly on the ground, pooling at your ankles.
Your panties match, snug like sin on your hips, drawing his eyes to the apex of your thighs.
Bucky’s jaws lock, eyes glazing over.
His hands are on you again. This time you feel the loss of gravity as he hoists you up, standing. Your legs instinctively wrap around him. Hands hold on to his back, surprised at the way he’s pressing his mouth on your neck even as he carries you to his bedroom, parting only after he’s laid you down slowly onto the mattress.
He follows suit, lowering himself on top of you, planting an arm at the side of your head. His other hand trails up your hip, brushing against your stomach before he palms your breast in earnest.
All while looking at you like you’re sacred ground.
“Fuck,” he husks, “so fucking pretty. Like an angel.”
Bucky traces a finger down the intricacies of your bra like he’s committing them to memory. You see his eyes, black under the bedside lamp. The pad of his finger brush against your nipple perked from under the cup. You sigh.
“No one’s touched you like this before?”
You shake your head. His hands still roam, just slower, relishing each goosebump that blooms on your side when they tease you. He tears his eyes away from your body and looks at you.
“You ever touch yourself like this?”
If your face wasn’t red before, it has to be now. A direct contrast to the chill on the tips of your toes.
“Don’t lie.”
You nod.
He curses under his breath, then adjusts the pillows behind you so you can lean against them.
“Wanna give you more. Can I?”
You shiver, voice airy. “Yes.”
He leans down, lips against your ear. “Gonna let me learn how to make you feel good.”
Heat shoots between your legs at the gravel in his voice. He’s touching you again, fingers lightly running up and down the valley of your breast while he pants against your ear.
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop. Doesn’t matter when. Tell me anytime.”
You share a look.
“Understood?”
You nod.
He pulls you and you sit up, mouth once again finding his. Your hands fly to his hair, vaguely aware of how mussed-up it is, and he slowly traces fingers down your back until they meet the clasp of your bra.
“Can I?”
“Yes,” you murmur, kissing his jaw.
A second later, the straps on your shoulders loosen, and his flesh hand cups your chest under the bra. Squeezes. You pant into his ear.
Bucky gently pushes you down on the bed again, only to chase you obediently, leaning over you with a hand still glued to your breast, thumb circling your nipple. Rolling. Teasing. He pinches it. Your head lolls to one side, a reedy sound resembling his name escaping your lips.
He stares at you first before bending down to take a hardened peak in his mouth.
You arch, lips parted to gasp.
His hand tends to your other tit. He gropes, flicks, tugs, all while his warm tongue laves you with attention. Your breath becomes sporadic, too lost in the way he plays with your body.
“You like this?” he asks with his mouth full, eyes pinned at your face. You’ve never seen a man look so hungry.
Before you can even form a thought, his teeth scrapes just slightly against your nipple and you moan, spine bowing to give more of your body to him.
He’s got his answer.
He switches to your other breast with the same kind of cruel precision—slow swirls and teasing tugs—until he parts to look at you. Tits wet with saliva. His. Thoroughly tormented. Proof of his good work.
Eager hands rid you of the bra that hangs uselessly on your sternum, clearing the path for him to plant his lips down your body.
Open-mouthed kisses litter your neck and throat. By the time he reaches your collarbone, he’s already sucking marks on you. Paints your chest with love bites to the sound of your pleasure. You run your fingers through his hair, nails lightly raking against his scalp.
He growls the first time you do it. So you do it again.
Then he’s all the way down to the tops of your thighs, nose nudging the material of your underwear. Your legs lock and he tuts, parting them easily with his hands until he rests between them.
Bucky makes eye contact as he leans forward, mouth kissing you through your wet panties.
The sound that escapes you is downright sin, broken and begging. His lips move. He moans, wrecked, the sound vibrating through your pussy. He’s all too aware of the state of you—soaked through, trembling, needy.
“Can already taste you like this,” he breathes, all shaky from making out with your clothed cunt. “So good, so damn sweet, angel. For me?”
Your legs quake in response and he pulls away as if chastising you. You look up at him, lashes fluttering like even the outer parts of your body can’t handle the pleasure. A surge of nerves spiders through you, hazy and dizzying.
If this is what it feels like now, how are you supposed to handle what happens next?
He kisses the inside of your thigh and whispers against it, fingers already gathering at the sides of your underwear.
“Can I take this off?”
You don’t know how but you shake your head, chest still heaving from his mouth on you. Bucky blinks up at you, a soldier at attention.
“Take your clothes off first,” you breathe.
He’s still fully dressed, but not for long. You watch as he rises over you, on his knees between your legs, hands peeling his midnight-colored henley off of his skin.
He’s beautiful underneath. He’s smooth except for the scar ravaging the joint of his left shoulder and smaller ones dotting the expanse of his chiseled chest. Dog tags jingle on a ball chain, landing on his sternum. Like you, he’s beginning to sweat.
He looks more than just a man.
Then you hear his belt, the buckle dropping on the floor with a thunk as he rids himself of his dark blue jeans. Only a second transpires for you to catch the heavy bulge hidden beneath black boxers—he’s already crawling back to you, hot breath mingling with yours as he kisses you once.
You pant, reaching to peel your underwear off. A promise is a promise.
Bucky kneels between your legs and looks at you.
His mouth opens in something that resembles reverence. A long broken groan dragged straight out of his thorax as his eyes see you. Bare. Wet.
He takes over your hands, tugging the panties down until they dangle off your ankle and are discarded thoughtlessly. The words that come out of him are rushed, slurred.
“Jesus Christ, doll, you’re killing me.”
Then his lips press on your knee, trailing up to the insides of your thigh, hand gripping the flesh of you as he parts your legs again. An arm reaches up to find your fingers, only to lace it with his.
“You’re trembling. You okay?”
You barely notice until he points it out.
The truth is, online learning and qualitative interviews don’t prepare you for sex. Having sex does. And here you are, still nervous, despite your experienced mentors and neurotic diligence.
“I—you’re staring,” you whisper.
“So?”
“It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“It’s hot. You’re hot,” he counters, brushing your folds with an index finger. That alone sends a shudder up your spine. You move your arm up to cover your eyes, body twisting.
As if hiding other parts of you can make it better.
He tuts once, a reprimand. You sense the weight of his knees on the bed before he grabs your wrist, eyes immediately finding yours.
“None of that, angel. Wanna see your face when you feel good.”
Bucky stays there, sitting on his heels, forcing your legs to frame the width of him. He moves his hand to your hip, the other between your thighs. It’s too much, the way he looks at you. He hasn’t really touched you, and already your chest feels full with every emotion: embarrassment, anticipation, pleasure, want.
You close your eyes and let your head fall to the side.
“What did I say, baby?”
His hand is on your jaw, carefully moving you back until you’re looking at him again.
“You want me to stop, is that it?”
The thought stings like no other. You shake your head, keeping your eyes on his.
“You want to show me how you touch yourself, or do you want my fingers?”
Your eyes widen, lips part.
His voice is stern. The look on his face is anything but—soft, almost kind. You breathe a few times, finding the words, praying your voice won’t break when you say them.
“Your fingers… please.”
“Good girl.”
Just like that, his middle finger circles your wet entrance, sliding up to coat your clit with your own slick. You squirm. His metal hand holds one side of your hip in response.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs, catching your stare. “Tell me if you want to stop, okay?”
Then he sinks a finger into you and you feel dizzy. Hands grab onto the bedsheets at your sides, clenching just as your pussy does around his finger. He huffs.
“So tight, baby,” he grits. “Too much? Hurts?”
You shake your head.
Bucky steadily glides up to his knuckle, a faint smile on his face at how affected you are already.
“How’s it feel?”
You let out a faint mewl.
“Words, doll.”
“It’s—bigger than mine,” you mutter, dazed. You’ve pleasured yourself before, but you can tell Bucky is reaching parts of you you didn’t even know existed. You blink up at him, mouth open.
“F-feels so good.”
That seems to be enough to launch him into action.
He moves. Out slow, in even slower.
He’s always watching. Always vigilant. Like there’s a corner of his brain dedicated just for memorizing the flutter of your eyelids and the sound of your voice.
Then you tell him it feels really good in a hushed whisper, and one finger becomes two. You melt slowly, a soft mass on the mattress, pliant and willing. One of your legs is bent up per his hands-on guidance, giving him more room to ruin you as the patient pace of his fingers slips into something insistent.
Out slow, in fast, chasing a spot in you that makes your hip grind towards his palm when his fingers are fully in you.
He lets you use him. Lets you ride his hand.
“Feel that? Feels good, yeah?” he pants, eyeing the way you melt against the mattress. “That’s your sweet spot, angel. You like it right here.”
You keen, high-pitched and weak, walls clenching around his fingers. He chooses that moment to flick your clit with his thumb.
You try to warn him.
“J-James, I’m…”
He leans down to speak in your ear. “Mm-hmm. Can feel you. I’m right here, you’re doing so good.”
“Please, so close—”
“Let go, baby. You can do it. Come on my hand.”
The coil snaps.
He lets you ride through it, eyes watching the lost look on your face as you writhe, walls spasming intensely around his fingers. You can’t help but moan at the loud rush of pleasure through your veins, back arched completely off the bed. Blood boils, nerves tingle. His fingers are still going, pumping, the drag of them against your walls sending you higher.
You eventually slump back down, hair a mess, breath still stuttering, legs still trembling.
Bucky doesn’t look away once, blown-up pupils recording every single twitch, every single sound.
His fingers slow and he takes them out carefully, his other hand stroking your hip in lazy circles. Even in the haze of your pleasure, the quiet squelch between your thighs is not lost on you.
You blink your eyes open, weak and bleary.
Just enough focus to see him.
Enough to catch him lick his fingers.
“Fuck,” he hisses, looking down at you as he cleans them. “Tastes so good.”
“James,” you pant, calling him for you don’t know what. But he heeds, dipping low, face between your legs—
—and closes his mouth, his hot and open mouth, over your soaked entrance.
You let out a wail.
His tongue is sin, lapping at you in relentless punishment, flat on your slit, pointed around your clit, drawing damning circles. And then there’s the sounds. His loud moan against your cunt spells out hunger, the sloppy licks hinting at desperation. Your hips undulate, hand in his hair, as if the concept of shame no longer exists in your body.
How could you hide from him when he wants it this much?
“You’re so fucking wet,” he groans into you, “all for me. All for me.”
You don’t know if you’re soaking him or if he’s drooling all over your cunt. Either way, you’re teetering too close to the edge to care, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t breathe.
There’s no trace of patience or kindness in the way he eats, like he’s no longer doing this for you, but for him.
Somewhere in the back of your head, you realize this, the slow emergence of him. The threads of age-old self-discipline unraveling at the face of you.
Somewhere in the back of your head, you feel him come alive.
It’s in the way he fucks you with his tongue, how he wants more as he grips the flesh of your ass and pulls you against his face, the sound of his moans muffled against your cunt.
You feel it in the way you’re coming again.
You rock into him in earnest, chasing, needing. Moans climb. So does your spine, a telltale sign that precedes ruin.
“That’s it, gonna give me another one,” he growls, “I need it. Come on my tongue, angel.”
Your breath shatters into pieces when you do.
He doesn’t stop. Not immediately. You’re sobbing even after he does, unshed tears on your lashes, shaking and spent and overstimulated. He sits on his heels and licks his lips, watching your sweat-glistened body twitch in the low light.
There’s wetness dripping down his stubble, a mix of drool and cum. He wipes it off with his finger.
Next thing you know, he’s leaning on top of you, stroking your hair like he did in the living room. Soft. Slow.
“Still with me?” he murmurs, pupils still dilated.
You nod, trying to swallow. God, your throat’s dry.
“We can stop if you want. Don’t have to go all the way.”
It’s really unfair, how he switches back so easily to being sweet again, as if fireworks aren’t still going off in your nerves. They ebb away eventually, the smoky haze lifting, but not without leaving little residues in your bloodstream. Your core throbs.
It wants more. You want more.
You lift your hands up to his forearms, sliding them up biceps, then shoulders.
“James?” you whisper.
He hums, listening.
“I promise I won’t hang around your apartment. I promise I won’t find your phone in the morning just to try and get your number. I promise I won’t act stalker-y and go to Jimmy’s or Connolly’s or any other bar in the city just to see you,” you say.
“Please…just fuck me.”
It takes two seconds, but a look eventually takes over his face—the lopsided tug of his lip, faint and barely there, just enough to suggest he concedes. He swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, eyes hypnotized. You’re sure you look ten times worse underneath him, flushed and wrecked in the aftermath of two orgasms—the first two given to you by someone else.
Then he opens his mouth and you’re throbbing again.
“See if you can still talk like thatafter I’m done with you.”
His right arm leans over towards the nightstand and fishes out a box of condoms from a drawer for you, his other hand tugging the waistband of his boxers down.
“Y’know what to do with that?”
You nod. Every part of you buckles at the mere task of taking a packet out, thanks to the lingering buzz of your climax, but you do anyway.
When you look up, he’s naked. You try to breathe at the sight of him. You fail.
Whatever filthy link Vicki adds to your watchlist can’t possibly prepare you for this—for him. Because despite their build and beauty, you can’t care less about the men in those videos, not beyond what you can learn from them.
But this is James Buchanan Barnes, whose cock is leakingand veiny and more than big enough for you. Who listens to The Beatles and knows what the capital city of Mongolia is called. Who has a really cute cat. Who’s been through so much yet still tries his best not to let it show.
Who’s known you only for a few hours, but has already managed to know more than you know yourself.
“Remember what I said?”
“Hm?”
A hand rests on your cheek.
“You tell me to stop and I stop. No questions asked. Tell me if it hurts. If it doesn’t feel good.”
There’s a twinge in your chest that you don’t think has anything to do with lust. You nod.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Good,” he kisses your temple. “Now, do you wanna put that on me, or should I do it myself?”
You don’t answer, just tear the foil and roll the condom onto him.
“Did you check for rips?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good girl. Lay back for me.”
You do as he says.
Bucky leans over you again, nestling his large frame between your legs. He makes you spread them like a practiced movement embedded in his muscles. The weight of his cock slaps on your stomach and you bite your lip at the sight.
That’s how deep he’ll be in you.
“Can’t believe you haven’t done this before, beautiful thing like you,” he rasps, palms sliding up your stomach, your tits, your face. “Can’t believe you’re letting me give it to you.”
This is it. Your first.
A sudden sentimentality twinges in your chest over the thing you were so eager to get rid of—not a whole lot, just a hint. You’re possessed with the need for a type of compassion that doesn’t usually belong with the carnal. For closeness.
Maybe it’s because you’re with him.
“James,” you breathe. “Kiss me?”
He leans down to capture your lips with his. Tongue slides in to meet yours. There’s a slight tang you have not tasted before, and your thighs clench when you realize it’s you.
Then he parts. “Ready?”
You nod.
Your eyes find his, watching the way he guides himself into you with his hand, the other gently gripping your thigh. He’s heavy against your folds.
Then he pushes in. Slow. Agonizing.
“Oh—”
“Relax for me, baby.”
The stretch grows and grows and your chest rises like you can’t breathe out. He inhales, sharp and hissed, glowering at the sinful clamp of you around him.
“F-fuck… you’re so tight—”
When his tip catches inside of you, you whine, hands gripping his arms.
“Does it hurt?”
The crack in his voice sounds like he’s the one in pain. You shake your head. Bucky’s eyes follow yours, hand brushing hair out of your face, and then his lips chases your skin, pressing kisses on your temple and cheek.
Kisses you dare say are chaste.
“Can you take more?” he whispers. “Don’t have to, angel. Just say the word, okay?”
“Yes, just—slowly, please—”
He shivers at your words, then buries the rest of him inside, inch by inch.
Everything feels just shy of a sting, not quite a burning pain, but enough for you to feel. His cock pulses inside of you and blood rushes all over, inundating you. Yet there’s more. Of him—not just his cock disappearing into your body, but him.
Him whispering praises at you, cooing comforting words, breath caressing yours as he keeps his eyes on you at all times.
“God, you feel so fucking good.”
“Pretty girl. Taking it so well. Just a little bit more, ‘kay?”
And then, when his cock is all stuffed in you:
“There we go. That’s it. That’s all of me, baby.”
You breathe, chest heaving, feeling the stretch, adjusting to his size. He dutifully watches. Waits, as if you can’t feel the eager twitch of his cock inside you.
He’s so deep. You’re so full.
Thoughts come flooding as much as emotions, too overwhelming to push away, too vulnerable to acknowledge when you’re under him like this. You’re not naïve enough to believe that this is how every girl’s first time transpires. You’ve heard of much worse—of pain, of being used. Stories to you, realities to them.
Not everyone gets to be so lucky. So cared for.
What exactly did you do to deserve this?
“You okay?”
There he is again, checking in on you like he’s not part of the equation. You ache.
Bucky’s blue eyes flicker.
His attention has always been on you, but now it’s different. He doesn’t know when it happened. When he stopped looking at you like he’s deciphering an atypical delta. When you were no longer a string of semiotics.
Maybe the lens shifted when he saw Alpine making biscuits on your lap, or felt your hair against his metal arm on the couch. All he knows is he’s not looking at you like he does the rest of the world—a codex to decode. Not anymore.
Now he looks at you like you’re real.
And you haven’t answered him yet.
“Sweetheart?”
You blink away your hazy gaze, eyelids and heartbeat fluttering. Why did he call you that?
“Hm?”
“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” he asks again, watching the rise and fall of you as you fight for air in your lungs. You nod, a little flustered.
“Not really, just, um,” you stammer, “you’re big, it feels so… full.”
His cock twitches inside you, evident and so damn hard. You clench around him like it’s instinct. He calls your name like he’s praying.
“Can I move?”
You nod, arms around his neck.
The first time Bucky’s cock pulls out of you is hell. The second time he pushes into you is heaven.
He groans out a curse as he sinks, pleasure pulsing through him as your cunt pulls him in like a silk fist that doesn’t ever want him to leave. A slow rhythm begins to build in his hips. He drags it out, slow and steady, almost torturing himself in the process.
You moan at everything, too sensitive to maintain coherence. His breath in your ear. Strong grip on your hip. The measured thrust of his cock.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs. “Does it feel good, doll?”
“Yes—f-fuck—”
Again, you sense it. That tenuous way his composure crumbles to make way for something more. You felt it when he started fucking your pussy with his tongue. You feel it again now.
But not without a final warning.
“Tell me to stop.”
The words are the same but they’re snatched out of him like they hurt. Like he can’t take it anymore.
So he gives.
He thrusts into you in one stroke that’s no longer delicate—just deep, so much that you feel it in your stomach.
You cry out. Not with the kind of pain you expect, but with delight.
And just like that, the pace is made over. A little faster. A lot harder.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking wet,” he pants shakily on your neck. “Hear that?”
You do. The slick sounds of his cock plunging into your pussy sends heat all over your skin, making your cheeks burn. Tears pool in your eyes, while you catch the proud glint in his, like he’s an hellish emissary sent to corrupt you and he’s succeeding. Your hands scramble to his back, looking for something to hold on to.
Bucky’s eyes glaze.
He’ll remember this, he thinks to himself, the sight of you losing your mind underneath him.
His thrusts turns into slams. Your knees are bent, legs bracketing his chest like they’re a shape to come home to. Hips writhe from each shockwave he fucks into you, so much that he has to hold you down against the mattress. Your lashes are strewn together, wet with tears.
The tip of him presses against a spot deep in you that you were never supposed to reach on your own. Your cunt clamps hard around him, a gasp stolen out of your throat. Bright white—a microsecond of a flash bang behind your eyes.
As if triggered by your reaction, his lips loosen, murmuring against your jaw and cheek and temple.
“You like that? Like it there?” He thrusts again, hitting that spot.
You cry out.
“Feels good? My angel likes it deep, huh? Here, let me help.”
Then a hand moves to your lower belly and presses.
You arch off the bed.
“Oh my god…!”
“Let me show you how it should feel, baby.” He pounds into you, hand still firm, panting as he speaks. “There—feels good there, yeah? Gonna give you everything.”
You sob, incoherent.
“Yes, fuck—keep making that sound. You’re so good for me.”
Your nails claw at his arm, the other hand pulling at his hair. You look at him, lips swollen, sweat on his brow, the flutter of his lashes whenever you clench around him. The way he splits you open with his cock is unfair.
You feel so full. So good.
“I know, I know, baby.” he murmurs.
A coil tightens. The sheer saturation of desire makes you dizzy, body trembling with need, hips rolling up to meet his. You call out his name, reedy and high-pitched. Begging.
“James… please, please, don’t stop.”
He groans. “I won’t. God, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight—”
He doesn’t stop. A hand slides under your thigh, hiking your leg higher till it hooks on his shoulder. The new angle spots the edges of your vision white.
The air is thick and heavy with the thrum of sex and something else that runs deep—as deep as the tension in your gut, throwing your world off its axis, like you can’t imagine what anything feels before this, before him.
Like he’s always meant to be here.
It’s then that he moves his hand between you, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. A seismic force ripples through you.
You nearly scream.
Every inch of you spasms, so close to the edge, so close to igniting.
“I can’t, gonna, ah—”
“You can. Look at me. Wanna see when you come… fuck!”
It takes everything, but you do.
You look at him as he grits his teeth, gaze piercing yours. Each breath out of him heavy, each thrust into you firm. Like he wants to fuse himself into you.
The chase doesn’t last long. Maybe seeing him look at you like he needs you to come for him is the reason why.
Your hips stutters. Whines turn into moans. Shockwaves hit your body like a celestial collision, seizing your chest.
“That’s it,” he growls, pace growing chaotic with abandon, “give it to me, angel. Come on my cock.”
You arch with one loud cry, wound up tighter than a wire. The orgasm crashes, powerful, violent, forcing noises out of you that sound like liberation. You’re twitching from thigh to toe, white-hot waves overwhelming your senses.
He grunts, hoarse and broken, as if your climax is a kind of heaven he isn’t allowed. But his body shudders, tremors, and he comes, cock still pounding in you. His mouth opens as a long guttural groan is dragged out of him, shaped vaguely like your name.
Then everything is still.
Aside from chests heaving for air, neither of you move. He’s slumped above you, breath puffing heat against your neck. You’re blinking, trying to focus your vision.
Then hands slowly twitch alive. Yours. They stroke soothingly down his back, apologizing for the crescent moons you dug into his skin.
His voice breaks the silence.
“You’re so goddamn perfect, baby,” he sighs, kissing your throat, then your jaw, your cheek, your temple.
“No, you are,” you reply, as out of breath as he is. You barely recognize your voice, hoarse from overuse.
He looks down at you, a smile on his face—languid, proud. He deserves to be.
“You alright, doll?”
You nod. The prickles of pleasure remain on your skin, but you’re breathing again.
“More than alright.”
“You sure? It’s not too much?”
Shaking your head, you run your fingers through his hair, staring up at him.
“No, it’s amazing. You were amazing.”
If you were still at the bar, you would tease him for the blush dusting his cheeks.
You have to give him credit for trying not to look affected, jaws clenched, eyes locked onto yours. You smile, finding it endearing that he’s flushed after taking your virginity in the most perfect way possible.
You decide to tease him for something else, mindblowing orgasms be damned.
“You sure you weren’t lying about not having done this for a while?”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m just asking,” you smile, fingers caressing his stubble.
He’s dangerously close again. The gleam in his eyes suggests the gloves are off. Like he’s going to be mean.
“You joking around like that means I still haven’t fucked you right, angel.”
There it is, that dangerous dip in his voice. You shiver, maintaining your mask of composure despite the rampant pounding in your chest. You can’t tell if you’re excited or terrified.
Maybe it’s both.
He takes your wrist in his grip and slowly pins it next to your head.
Then smiles.
“Let’s fix that, shall we?”
You wake up first, back against his chest.
Slowly, your mind catches up with your consciousness, orienting itself with a stream of observed facts. Mechanisms designed to reap your soul back into your body.
Fact one: it’s morning. You can’t see the window from your side of the bed, but it looks like a clear day outside. Fact two: you’re thirsty. Fact three: There’s a soreness all over your muscles and between your legs—all the right spots.
Turning, you look at him. James.
And just like that, you’re awake.
He’s still beautiful. Still asleep. Most likely exhausted.
Last night he unleashed on you. Partly for your pleasure, partly for his in making sure you don’t have an ounce of attitude left in you—even though you’d argue there was barely any to start with.
After he fucked you on his cock for the first time, you quietly asked if you could learn how to suck it for him. He groaned at that. Came from it. Paid it back to you twofold: one while you rode him, another from behind, when he noticed your calves couldn’t hold you up any more.
An all-in-all educational night.
He tended to you through it all. Whispered sweet, filthy things that could make the most seasoned romance writer blush. Showed you how: hand guiding yours, gripping your hips, spreading you open. Made you feel better than you thought was bodily possible.
He tended to you even afterwards. Properly. In the way Isha taught you to ask for, except with him, you didn’t have to. He lifted you in his arms and brought you to the bathroom. Wiped you down with a warm towel. Kissed your cheeks and eyelids. Carried you to the bed again and cuddled you till you drifted off.
And now you wake up naked in slow-creeping dread.
The feeling blooms like a bloodstain on you. It’s not so much like a twisted knife, but rather a noose around your neck. Agonizing and gradual, until suddenly it’s hard to breathe.
You’re drowning with thoughts, rising to your chest, all-consuming and bleak. The kind you thought you trained yourself out of. The kind that would make you take note written in red on a journal page. You feel it like you didn’t spend months building a version of yourself you feel confident in. Like you owe some kind of payment for all the good days in your past.
Your plan was to get good cock in your pussy and call it a night. Didn’t even matter if it didn’t come to pass.
What you got was more than that.
An honest-to-god fun time with really cool people—one of whom happened to be the most good-looking man you’ve ever laid eyes on. Then he took you home and slept with you in a way that skewed your standards forever.
You have no reason to complain about the beer on your shirt.
All this time—hours, days, weeks, months, years. Plotting to get out of your small town. Living life. Bettering yourself. All because you were hell-bent on getting it right.
Now that you’ve got it, you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to do with it.
He was perfect. So perfect, so sweet, so good to you. A dream come true, in a way.
You realize nightmares are also dreams.
Because in treating you right, he sees you. And you fear being truly seen.
Past your educated confidence and best-laid plans, into the parts of you you never show. The ugly parts. The part that weaponizes expectations just to keep people from getting too close.
Letting him see you is the same as giving him a loaded gun to shoot you with: stupid and dangerous. Those adjectives were not part of your plan. None of this was part of your plan.
You were supposed to be able to walk away easily. Now you can’t. Not just because he fucked you so good you’re not sure your legs are alive, but also because you realize you don’t want to.
You don’t want to leave.
You want to make him coffee and kiss his eyelids good morning. You want to study him from cover to cover—does he have any siblings? what did it look like, growing up with Steve? why’d he name his cat Alpine? does the metal arm hurt when it rains?—and then make an itemized list of what he likes.
You want to look into his eyes and immediately know what he’s feeling.
You want to get to call him Bucky.
A voice echoes in your head. Your own. I promise I won’t hang around your apartment. I promise I won’t find your phone in the morning just to try and get your number…
If this were a sitcom, a laugh track would play, right fucking now.
Because now, you stare at his sleeping face and feel your heart speed up with want. And it’s not the kind that invaded the air last night—or maybe it was and you were too far gone to tell.
You feel the very foundations of you shake. The principles you hold on to, the ones that guided your life, your choices, your sacrifices—they crumble in this beautiful morning.
You just got your virginity taken in a way that set back feminism a couple of years. You learned a different meaning to the phrase ‘fuck the patriarchy’.
The world you are so determined to know and learn? How Iran is the largest saffron producer —his answer during trivia—, the perfection of slavery through consumerism, how one could feasibly emigrate to Canada…
All sorts of knowledge you’ve accumulated throughout the years, completely forgotten for a few hours yesterday night. You’d gladly forget all of them again, and then some.
Only if it meant getting to know him better. Only if it meant getting him.
One last gospel truth remains. ‘The world treats you the way it perceives you.’
There was a reason why he brought you to his place last night that was more than just being kind to your ruined shirt. A reason for the lingering stares even before you stepped foot into his apartment.
Whatever that reason was, he perceived you enough to take you home. It was his perception that made him want to kiss you.
He hasn’t turned away. Hasn’t pulled back or politely asked you to leave. At least not yet.
But that’s because he hasn’t seen all of you. He barely even scratched the surface. The ‘how to get laid’ Google Docs will probably disgust him the most.
Once he does see you, he’ll realize you’re not worth looking at.
You bite your lip.
The finality of that single thought freezes the tips of your toes.
You have to leave. Before he wakes up.
Before he leaves first.
You go through the motions silently. Get off the bed, careful enough not to wake him. Pick up your underwear on the floor, your skirt in the living room, your shirt in the wash. The cycle completed itself last night, but the two of you were too busy to care.
The moment you’re dressed and ready leave, you see two whiskey glasses on the coffee table. The liquor sits there, unfinished, diluted by melted ice.
You decide to wash them, placing them neatly on the drying rack. Like a murderer removing traces of their presence from a crime scene.
Like you never existed.
The bedroom door is ajar. You can see him from the living room, still asleep, eyes closed under crumpled sheets.
Something about the sight of him like that possesses you right then and there.
Moves your feet back to him, crossing the threshold of the living room until you’re hovering over his side of the bed. Over him.
Leaning down, you risk stroking his hair, light as a feather. He doesn’t even stir.
Then you kiss his temple. Slow, gentle, everything.
A ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ rolled into one.
You pad quietly towards the front door, not looking back.
Then a meow, just as you pull at the knob.
Alpine appears by your feet like a ghost, looking up at you with eyes as big and blue as her father’s. There’s a tilt in her head, as if she’s asking: where are you going?
You bend at your knees and lean down to give her one last kiss on her forehead. She chirps, bumping her head to you.
Went to watch the Thunderbolts the day it came out ago and let’s just say 23 year old me still loves Bucky Barnes just as much as 13 year old me did, the “phase” has never left me. He’s a character I can never let go of no matter how much time passes. I keep up with him just as much as I did 10 years ago. I truly can’t get enough of him, I love him so much!
Bucky, trying to be a politician and realizing how inefficient it is at stopping bad guys quickly: Welp. I can't debate, diplomat, or deposition my way out of this one.
Bucky, loading his explosive disc launcher: Detonate it is.
warnings: MDNI, reader x logan, i feel like i should mention there’s a bit of father/daughter cuteness with logan and rogue (i can’t help myself i miss them), porn with tiniest amount of plot, p in v, panties stay on, unprotected sex
- christmas themed fic obvs! merry christmas guys hope you all got what u wanted under the tree (tearing up because hugh jackman wasn’t there BUT i did get a cutout, calendar and shirt of him😝)
the x-men mansion was buzzing with holiday cheer, a welcoming warmth against the outside bitterness. today is christmas, and the atmosphere was filled with laughter, music and the smell of baked goods wafted through the halls. later tonight, everyone would do their secret santa exchange and you, like everybody else, had been eagerly waiting for the moment when you could finally stop waiting and could open your gift.
but, the one thing you were even more excited about, was the look on logan’s face when he sees what you had gotten him. somehow, you had drawn out your boyfriend’s name from the hat this year and, god, was it hard to find something for him. your struggle to find something for him was quickly overcome with a brilliantly personal idea.
so, here you are, on your bed, placing logan’s favourite blue lacey panties of yours and a polaroid picture in a small rectangular box wrapped in festive paper and tied with a shiny blue ribbon. the polaroid picture in question was a filthy picture of you from a couple days before, spread out with your cunt on full display, post-orgasm, cheeks flushed and arousal soaking your pussy. you just couldn’t help yourself, what else were you meant to do when you were horny as fuck and logan was on a mission?
your train of thought was soon disturbed by the opening of your door and in came logan. you were quick to hide the gift under the bed and you gave him a smile, in attempt to make it look like you weren’t just wrapping his secret santa gift up.
“what’s got you all smiley?” logan chuckled and raised an eyebrow when seeing your grin wide on your face.
“oh, nothing, don’t worry about it lo,” you giggled, biting your lip to stop you from giving yourself away. “soo, did you get your person their secret santa gift?” you asked, wondering if he even bothered this year.
“yeah, i did. i got rogue this year so i figured i’d get her something. got her some makeup and chocolate” he spoke grumpily as if he was buying her stuff against his own free will.
“that’s really sweet of you, lo! surprised u even did it this year” you tease him and he rolls his eyes in mock annoyance.
“yeah, yeah, whatever.” he huffs out but you notice him trying to hold back his smile. “anyways, who’d you get? or are you still not gonna tell me?” he question with a hopeful look in his eyes.
“that defeats the whole purpose of secret santa y’know that, baby? you will find out soon, you desperate man” you smirk and play nudge his stomach as he scoffs and tries to act annoyed but his walls tumble down at the noise of your laughter and his heart warms.
“we should get going now, right lo? can’t have you waiting to find out who’s name i pulled out any longer” you giggle and logan groans.
you begin to get up and put your shoes on as you realise you probably should be going downstairs to gather up for the gift exchange, seeing as you are already late. you grab your gift and hide it in a bag and then you wait for logan to put on his leather jacket and take his gift too. once you’re both ready, you give him a quick peck on the lips and intertwine both yours and logan’s hands together. you smirked to yourself, knowing of what’s to come.
the both of you swiftly make your way to to the christmas tree where all the adults and some of the older kids were gathered around. christmas lights twinkled around the room, stockings - with everyone’s name sown on it- were hung by the grand fireplace and chatter filled the space up with a cozy ambience.
“i’ll be back” you say to logan, letting go of him and walking off towards the tree to place your gift for him under it, before he could grumble about being alone. oh how you can’t wait for the gift exchange, your patience is going down by the second.
your eyes wander around the room before they land on storm and jean and you smile, making your way towards them.
“look who finally decided to join us!” storm teases while embracing you in a friendly hug.
“i’m surprised logan even came for it this year, normally the guy just stays outside while smoking his beloved cigars” jean snickers and makes all three of you fall into a fit of giggles. “hey, who’d you get for the secret santa?” jean questions while sipping on her drink.
you smirk at them and a little giggle comes out “i got logan” you say, biting your lip to stop your laughter from erupting even more.
“girls! come on, we’re opening the secret santa gifts!” scott shouts out before you guys could say anything else about the topic at hand, and you three step towards the christmas tree and huddle together.
you sit on the couch alongside your girl friends, surrounded by the glow of the massive christmas tree. the sound of laughter and the occasional tearing of wrapping paper filled the air as people opened their gifts one by one. you turn around and notice logan, leaning against a wall, nursing a bottle of beer. his gaze was already on you and you smile, winking at him.
it’s rogue’s turn to open her gift and she absolutely loves it. even though logan doesn’t give up his identity as the mystery giver of said gift, you notice him smiling to himself - proud of what he had gotten her.
soon enough, everyone had opened their gifts - you had gotten a gorgeous silver necklace from kitty with a heart pendant in the middle. well, everyone but one final person, logan howlett.
“alright, logan, you’re up!” rogue beams, signalling for him to come over and open it with everyone. he grumbles yet he still makes his way over, curiosity getting the better of him. he leans over to grab the perfectly wrapped gift with his name written on it and stands back, closer to the wall, while gently untying the delicate ribbon.
your legs bounce in newfound nervousness, what if people saw? you clearly didn’t think it through very well but you pray to yourself that he doesn’t take it out of the box. you watch his every move, waiting for him to finally peek inside the box, the one-sided tension growing in your body.
logan slowly takes the lid off of the box and he tenses, stopping himself, making sure not to take the contents of the gift out for everyone to see. his pupils dilate at the polaroid of you, tongue sticking out, eyes rolled to the back of your pretty head and your swollen pussy all on show with your glistening juices dripping down your cunt. underneath the polaroid he saw the perfect blue panties he’s had to repurchase you dozens of times from the amount of times he’s ripped them off of you.
“s-shit..” he murmurs to himself, feeling the tent in his jeans grow. the room was trying to figure out what was even inside the box and why he seemed so off. you, on the other hand, smirked to yourself as you felt a sense of victory at the reaction you got out of him.
logan quickly closed the box and glanced up at you with darkened eyes, his face radiating off want and desire and you simply smirked at him, winking, as you felt yourself dampening on the spot from his intense gaze, ignoring the way he made your tummy flip.
“sooo, what’d you get?” rogue said to cut the uncomfortable tension everyone else sensed in the room.
“nothing” logan’s voice dropped an octave as his eyes remained on you the whole time. you shuffled, feeling vulnerable under his gaze.
everyone knew they weren’t getting an answer from logan, so they dropped it at that, continuing their conversations and acting as if nothing had even happened. you also tried to pretend like it was just a normal christmas day, but you saw logan, his gift still in his hand, and he was striding towards you.
your heart rate fluttered when he briefly stopped infront of you - breathing heavily, knuckles white from the grip on the gift and his nostrils flaring in need.
“o-oh! hey, baby! wha-” your stuttered out sentence was swiftly cut off by logan picking you up by the waist with one arm and throwing you over his shoulder.
“logan! logan, put me down!” you shout, bashing your fragile hands on his stone hard back.
you continued with your pleads and apologies in attempt to get him to put you down, but the rush of arousal hit you hard, the possessive act sent floods of heat through your veins. your own body betrayed you as you feel yourself dampen even more and your nipples were slowly hardening.
logan pays no mind to your lousy attempts and he makes his way to your shared room, slamming then locking the door behind him. he tosses you and the gift onto the bed, following you down with his own weight. he leans in close, his face hovering just inches from yours, his hot breath fanning over your lips. you can see the raw desire in his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with lust. you can see his hunger for you written all over his face. without warning, his crashes his lips against yours in a searing, passionate kiss. it’s not gentle or sweet; it’s a kiss born out of desperation, need and untamed thirst. you pull away breathless, and begin to speak.
“lo? you okay baby?” you tease, a playful glint in your eyes but all confidence is lost when you see his face not even twitching to smile. you rake your hands through his hair and he leans into your neck to bite into the supple skin, making you gasp and tilt your head back to give him more access. his tongue laps to gently suck over the mark to soothe the sting as he continues to litter your neck with kisses and purple bruises.
“l-logan..” you whine, exhaling sharply as you feel tears pooling in your eyes from the overwhelming sensations on your neck. after what feels like forever, logan pulls away to admire his work and he reaches for the gift box, opening it to pull out the familiar lacy blue panties he adores.
“need to fuck you with these on you” he rasps, slowly stripping you of your clothes until you’re bare for him, exposed and defenceless.
“christ, you’re just soaking for me darlin’, arent you? filthy fuckin’ girl, you get off on me carrying you around, baby? you like knowing i can pick you up whenever i want?” he smirks, seeing your cheeks flush pink while you nod weakly at him.
“don’t worry doll, i’ll help you out.” he grunts, tapping your hip signalling for you to lift them as he makes you wear nothing but the panties.
“perfect, you look perfect like this, baby. you wanted this, hm? wanted my attention with the gift? you got it now, i’ve got you.” logan says while quickly unfastening his belt and getting rid of his jeans and boxers. his tip was leaking with beads of pre-cum, his tip swollen and red, and he gently pulls your panties to the side and places himself in his spot between your thighs.
“p-please lo, want you to fuck me” you whine, your neediness displaying as he teases you by rubbing himself on your weeping folds.
he wanted to watch you squirm just for a little while longer, but his little self restraint disappeared when hearing your sweet voice begging for him. he lines himself up at your pulsing hole and before you could say anything more about needing him, he plunges deep into you, knocking the air out of your lungs as you both let out a deep moan. he begins to move slowly, pulling out before slamming back in, pounding into you mercilessly.
“love this pussy, always so fuckin’ tight for me” he growled, his breath hot against your ear as he continued thrusting into your wet heat, vigorously.
his words only fueled the fire burning inside of you and your walls clench around him tightly. “harder, please logan, i want you to fuck me harder” you begged, voice strained with pleasure.
“you want it harder, baby?” he smirks darkly before slamming into you with renewed intensity. “like this, baby?” he asks as his hands make their way to your hips, pushing you down even deeper onto him.
“j-just like that lo, so fucking good b-baby.” you moan loudly, tears prickling at your eyes from the profound pleasure-pain.
the bed creaks with every thrust while the bed frame hits the wall, creating a rhythmic thump-thump-thump. “making such a mess on my cock. ‘m gonna fucking ruin this pussy, doll” he groans, while reaching down to rub tight circles on your clit.
as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you, you can feel every ridge and vein of his thick member stretching your inner walls. you clench around him, the knot in your belly tightening, making him groan and shudder above you.
“i’m gonna come lo, so close” you whimper out as he continues to drill into you, his cock dragging deliciously against your sweet spot with each stroke as he drives you closer to the edge.
“i know, baby, that’s it. be a good girl for me and come on my cock, doll” logan grunts into your ear as you scrape your nails down his back, leaving marks which are quickly healed again. you throw your head back and arch into him as you convulse and spasm around his length, your orgasm crashing over you, making him groan in pleasure while you moan into his shoulder and dig your nails deeper into his back.
he works you through your orgasm as his thrusts become desperate, his own release stirring inside of him. with one final and brutal thrust, logan buries himself deep inside of you and he holds still. his cock throbs and pulses as he releases his hot seed into you.
“s-shit, so good for me..” logan grunts, his face contorting with pleasure and his chest heaving erratically. he pulls out with a wince as he lays next to you on his back. you move to lean onto his chest, the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothing you. logan’s arm tightens around you as he leans in to kiss your head while gently stroking your hair.
“i guess you liked your gift then?” you giggle and look up at him with your fucked out smile, already knowing his very obvious answer.
logan chuckles and glances down at you, admiring your post-orgasm beauty. “loved it, baby. might have to somehow make you get me again next year.” he grins while tracing patterns on your arm.
you giggle and move upwards, your noses brushing against each other, lips barely an inch apart. “merry christmas, logan” you whisper, leaning your forehead to press against his.
“merry christmas, darling” he whispers back, smiling softly at you before closing the distance between you both to share a soft and sweet kiss.
❆ i rushed this so badly and didn’t proofread it so i’m sorry if some bits don’t make sense and wrongly punctuated guys!! but also i’ve been so busy this past week i literally am surviving off of what feels like zero sleep at all. hope u did enjoy this tho we all need some christmas logan content.
✧₊⁺ i knoow its such an overused dynamic but i cant help myself i love it. i so badly need logan to just take control of me and do give feedback on where i can improve i need it ✧₊⁺
“relax sweetheart, it will feel good once you do” logan grunts out, slowly pressing his tip into your tight hole.
“l-logan! oh lo, y-you’re too big!” you hiss out, feeling stretched and already full just from the fat head of his cock burning your gummy walls.
“shhh, she’s taking me just fine, hm? look at that, i’m squeezing right in” he smirks as he look down to where you’re both connected, your juices already leaking down his shaft, as he bottoms out with a loud groan.
he gives no time for you to get used to the generous size of him as he pulls out leaving just the tip before slamming back in. he sets a rapid pace as he thrusts in and out, kissing your cervix with every rut.
“f-fuck baby, you’re gripping around me so tight” he growls out, leaning down to bury his face in your neck, biting and sucking to leave his mark on you, yet remaining at his vicious pace. he wants needs everyone to know who you belong to.
“oh, daddy i’m so full, your cock feels s-so fucking g-good” you mumble out, eyes rolling all the way back as you moan with every thrust into you. “m-more, please daddy..”
“greedy fuckin’ whore” logan scoffs at your desperation yet he presses his thumb to your red, puffy button and moves it in swift circles which have you clamping down on him impossibly harder. you’re hands claw at the sheets, you swear you can see galaxies at this point, and the pleasure from both his finger on your clit and his hips snapping into you is all too overwhelming.
“w-wait lo, s’too much” you sob beneath him, squirming away, but he doesn’t stop and instead drills harder against your cervix. he grabs both your wrists and pins them above your head with just one of his hands while he continues his assault on your clit with the other hand.
logan chuckles “this is what you wanted, right doll? so quit squirming and fuckin’ take it” he snarls into your ear, his breath hot against it and his groans take over your hearing.
you soon give up with your pleads to slow down and instead let him use your now pliant body. so willing. logan hikes one of your thighs up to his pleasing - manhandling you as if you were merely a toy. strings of ‘uh,uh,uh’s’ are all you can slobber out and soon enough you’re crumbling down with the intensity of your orgasm.
logan groans at the even tighter feeling and he fucks you right through your release and all you do is just moan and whine while being fucked dumb on his girth. soon enough, you feel him throb in your heat and he jackhammers into your cunt, chasing his own orgasm.
“gonna cum in you princess, make those pretty noises for me, let everyone hear what a cumslut i’m making of you” logan smirks as he watches you let out your lewd moans for him. so obedient.
“f-fuck” logan’s hips begins to stutter and then he halts into you, as deep as he can, as thick spurts of his load stain your insides white, plugging you full of him.
“im gonna stay right here, princess” he releases his grip on your wrists and moves his hand towards the thick bulge in your lower stomach. he presses down gently, letting you feel the imprint of his girth in your core, and you whine, feeling overworked and spent.
“gotta make sure you can take daddy’s cock easier next time, hm?
warnings: fluff!!, established relationship, misunderstanding, crying, soft!logan
࣪𖤐. ࣪i’m dying with cramps rn and i get so emotional on my periods and i just need need need logan to take care of me. i imagined x1!logan or x2!logan but you can obviously imagine whichever version you want<3 ࣪𖤐.
currently, you’re curled up in bed, a groaning mess, with about 3 blankets stacked on top of your pained body. your day has been awful - your mission didn’t go to plan, scott scolded you for the most idiotic reason ever, your period cramps are hurting like a bitch, and logan is nowhere to be found.
you told logan that you were on your period and after that he hastily left your room with no explanation.
did he get disgusted? did he leave to never come back? your mind paced with overwhelming thoughts about logan and your day in general and you begin to feel tears well in your eyes. you soon find yourself to be a sobbing mess, your tears drenching the white satin pillows a greyish colour and your streams of tears never seem to stop.
“baby? are you here?” logan’s gruff voice fills your ears and you hear him inching towards your room.
the door creaks open and you slowly sit up to see logan carrying flowers, chocolates, pads and a heated bottle. your boyfriend notices your puffy eyes and concern washes over his face while he rushes towards you.
“what happened, doll? what’s wrong? why are you crying sweet girl?” logan sits beside you on the bed as he tilts your chin with his finger to make you face him. his rough hands gently wipe your tears away as his worried expression etches further onto his face.
“i-i thought you left me.. and i dunno, everything’s been horrible today” you sniffle as you nuzzle your face into the comfort of his chest.
logan feels an immense amount of guilt take over him and he is quick to wrap his arms around your body while one hand lands in your hair, pushing you deeper into his neck. he softly strokes your hair while pressing kisses to the top of your head.
“oh darling, i would never leave you, i went out to buy you stuff to help. i’m so sorry doll” logan whispers as he takes your head out of the crook of his neck. he looks at your vulnerable expression and he leans in to kiss the tip of your nose.
you smile gently at him as your fears are quickly dissolved with logan’s loving words and you lean in to press the sweetest kiss to his soft lips. the kiss was patient and gentle however you are quickly cut off by a sharp cramp in your stomach, making u wince and pull away while you begin to curl up again.
logan is quick to step in and he reaches for the hot water bottle as he places it on your stomach and he curls up behind you.
“thank you lo” you hum out as the pain is quickly forgotten about with the heat, of both the bottle and him, soothing your body. you feel his large arms enveloping your body and he lets his hands rest on top of the bottle which gives you a comfortable amount of pressure to keep you grounded.
“of course darlin’, anything for my girl, hm?” he hums out, his sweet and caring side ,which is only reserved for you, evidently showing. you love that about him, how only you get to see this side of him, his sweet acts for your eyes only.
you begin talking about your day and explain everything that just went wrong. logan doesn’t say anything but instead just listens and hums in acknowledgment. he understands that sometimes you just need someone to listen and be there for you. however, the conversation begins to consist with you both talking heavy shit about scott - the asshole. you end up in a fit of laughs while logan grins to himself at your cute smile.
“was i being a bit dramatic with the whole you leaving me thing?” you giggle softly, suddenly realising how silly you sounded. logan chuckles behind you and his fingers trace figure eights on your belly.
“maybe, but it’s okay, i’m here now. you need anything baby?” he questions, ready to do whatever you want him to.
“hmmm, can you just stay here with me?” you whisper as you turn to the other side to face him and you find your place on his chest.
“i’m not going anywhere.” he softly speaks while stroking his fingers lazily up and down your spine. soon enough, you begin to drift off with a smile spread on your face. logan chuckles at how quickly u fall asleep as he presses one last kiss to your forehead.
“i love you princess” logan mumbles before drifting off to sleep with you. you both find peace in eachother and logan finally feels comfortable with someone, like he never has before.
i really hate this but i just needed to write it because i’m experiencing the worst pains i’ve ever felt in my life. i feel as though my stomach is being used as a punching bag and then stabbed at repeatedly. help me pls
anyways pls give me tips and feedback if u have any i need to improve on my writing desperately😙
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
yousharknotpass
dededos
jacobvanloon
baratheonpilled
areudirty
