Sweetly Feral

Woah

[winteryn]

RAW & OLDER

18+ | MDNI - masterlist

PAIRING: (ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky barnes x female!reader SUMMARY: you catch your boyfriend cheating on you with another girl at your neighbour’s halloween party. bucky barnes, his hot and thoughtful dad, is ready to take care of your broken heart. WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; mentions of reader's family; reader wears a skirt and makeup; original characters; (ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky; age gap (reader’s in her mid 20s; bucky's 40+); cheating; light angst; emotional hurt/comfort; lots of praises and pet names; smut; size difference; soft dom!bucky; slight jealousy; slightly possessive!bucky; big dick bucky organization (🙂‍↕️); dirty talk; nipple play; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); mention of reader being on the pill; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; riding; caught in the act (the ex boyfriend overhears them 🤪). WORD COUNT: 14.4k A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!

The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside. 

You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.

By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.

When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.

The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.

The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.

The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.

The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.

Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.

You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.

Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.

“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.

Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”

“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”

“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.

“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.

“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”

“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”

“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”

“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”

The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.

“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”

You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.

“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”

A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.

It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.

In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.

During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.

Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.

Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.

You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.

It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.

“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”

That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.

“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”

Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.

You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.

When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.

Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.

He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.

The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.

Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.

That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”

Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.

Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.

It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.

At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.

You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.

And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.

You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.

During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there. 

Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.

The silence that followed was mortifying.

Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.

The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.

Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.

You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.

In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.

It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.

You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.

Every relationship has its ups and downs.

This is just a rough patch.

This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.

Apparently not.

The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.

One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.

Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.

Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?

“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.

“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.

“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.

The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.

“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”

“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”

You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.

“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.

“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.

Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.

“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.

“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.

“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”

You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.

“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.

“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”

“You think it’s better if we wait?”

The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.

The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.

“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”

Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.

“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”

“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”

Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”

Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”

“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”

“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.

Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.

The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.

“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.

“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.

“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.

You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.

The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.

Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.

You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.

You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.

Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.

Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away. 

The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.

“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.

“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.

With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.

In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.

“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.

“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.

The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.

“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”

Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.

“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.

“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.

“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.

Since March.

He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.

The floor crumbles under your feet.

The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.

The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.

You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke. 

Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.

You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.

Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.

“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”

Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.

Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.

Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.

Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.

How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.

That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.

It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.

And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.

Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.

You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.

So he fell into another woman’s vagina.

Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.

He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.

After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?

You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.

The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.

How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?

It also means telling him about what happened.

The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.

Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.

You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.

Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.

When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.

“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.

“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”

You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.

“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.

“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”

You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.

“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.

“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”

He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”

You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.

When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.

“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”

“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”

Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.

“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”

The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.

Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.

You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.

“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.

He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.

Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.

“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.

“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.

Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.

“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”

You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.

“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.

“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”

Each word feels like biting broken glass.

From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.

Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.

His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.

Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.

Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.

“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”

“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”

Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”

Your jaw drops.

“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”

You shake your head, swallowing.

“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.

His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”

Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”

You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”

“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.

“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.

“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”

“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.

“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.

Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”

“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”

You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.

“You know I’m here for you. Always.”

He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”

“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”

“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”

Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.

“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.

“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”

You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”

He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.

Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.

A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.

The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.

Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?

Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.

When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.

Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.

“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.

“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages. 

“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.

Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.

You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.

Your own boyfriend.

Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.

Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.

The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.

The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...

It shouldn’t happen.

“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”

“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.

“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”

Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.

“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”

“If anything, I kissed you.”

“We both leaned in!”

Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”

“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”

A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.

“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.

“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.

“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.

“I…” 

“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.

“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.

“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”

He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.

“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”

“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.

Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along. 

“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.

You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.

His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.

When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths. 

Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection. 

“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.

“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.

When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?

This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal. 

“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”

“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.

“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—” 

“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.

There is a brief, meaningful pause.

“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips. 

“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.

“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.

Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.

“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”

You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”

“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”

A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.

It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should. 

You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest. 

“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up. 

“Are you oka—”

“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”

“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe. 

“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.

“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.

“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?” 

“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm. 

His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.

“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”

His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms. 

“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.

“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid. 

“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.” 

The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.

You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.

He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it. 

With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.

Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”

To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.

It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets. 

Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”

Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.

“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”

And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.

You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.

“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”

Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back. 

“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch. 

“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”

“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot. 

“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”

You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.

“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.   

“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.” 

“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”

You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does. 

“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.

“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now. 

“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.” 

Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.

“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.

You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.

“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers. 

It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip. 

“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.

“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.

“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected. 

Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.

He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.

“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.

“Want you to be the first.” You whisper. 

“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.

“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.

“Feeling alright, doll?”

“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”

Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.

“Bucky.” 

“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”

Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder. 

“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.

“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.

“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust. 

Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans. 

“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”

The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly. 

“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”

“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.

“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.

“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.

“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.

“Holy fuck.”

Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes. 

But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.

“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment. 

Everything feels more sensitive like this.  

You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.

You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.

Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.

You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.

“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.

“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.

“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.

“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.

“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.” 

Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.

Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.

“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength. 

“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up. 

“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well. 

“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster. 

“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”

"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.

“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.

“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure. 

“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.

“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”

With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.” 

His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.

“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.

Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.

“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.

You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips. 

“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.

“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.

“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕

I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo

[eternallyniah]

Okay but where’s my 6’5 brown eyes black hair thick thighs man ?

[aderna01]

WE ALMOST BROKE UP AGAIN LAST NIGHT

song: We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night by Sabrina Carpenter

paring: pre-wakanda!bucky x f!reader

summary: your relationship feels like it’s coming apart, held together only by the hope and intimacy you’re still clinging to. bucky keeps pulling away from you, haunted by his past, by the people he hurt, by the fear that the darkness in him might spill onto you. he loves you deeply, but he’s convinced that loving you is dangerous. so he tries to let you go before he believes he’ll ruin you too.

warnings: angst, sad bucky, struggling relationship, brief smut: oral (m! receiving), pnv, mentions of bruising and nail scratching. some fluff but its lowkey like fake because its actually sad? (lmk if i missed anything)

word count:  2.9k (this was supposed to be a drabble ngl ;-;)

a/n: lets be honest, i didn’t proof read. i apologize in advance for the ANGST you’re gonna encounter. i heard an audio of sebastian stan getting emotional and i’ve been singing this song all day so i lowkey had to write this. sorry not sorry, i love u all. xoxo, enjoy :)

─˖· masterlist

bullshit repeats itself, is that how the saying goes?

you watch him pace across the living room floor, his movements sharp and erratic. the worn wooden boards creak under his weight with every step, a rhythm that's become all too familiar in your shared apartment. it's three in the morning, and neither of you has slept. the argument started hours ago, though you can barely remember what triggered it this time. something about him flinching when you reached for him in the dark, something about the nightmares that have been getting worse again.

"i can't do this anymore," he says for what must be the hundredth time, his voice raw and broken. "i'm poison to you. everything i touch turns to ash."

your fingers twist in the hem of your oversized t-shirt – his, actually – as you watch him. bucky barnes, the man you've loved since you met him in romania, looks more like a ghost than a person tonight. his eyes are hollowed out, haunted by things he won't speak of, things that live in the dark spaces between his memories and his reality. you know he's thinking about hydra, about the blood on his hands, about all the lives he's taken. you know he's thinking about how unworthy he is of your love.

been here a thousand times (selective memory, though)

"we've been here before, buck," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "we always work through it."

he stops pacing and turns to face you, his blue eyes clouded with pain. "that's just it. we shouldn't have to 'work through it.' normal couples don't have to 'work through' the fact that one of them is a brainwashed assassin who could snap at any moment."

"you're not an assassin anymore," you counter, standing up and walking toward him. "that's not who you are."

"but it's part of me," he says, his voice cracking. "it's in my blood, in my bones. i look at you sometimes and i see everything i could destroy. i see how fragile you are, how... breakable. and i'm terrified that one day i'll be the one who breaks you."

you reach out to touch his face, but he flinches away from your hand like it's fire. the rejection stings, but you've learned not to take it personally. it's not you he's rejecting – it's the darkness inside himself that he's afraid will taint you.

i hear it in his eyes, he sees it in my tone

"i'm not as fragile as you think," you say, your voice stronger now. "i knew what i was getting into when we started this. i knew about your past, about the winter soldier."

"no," he shakes his head, his movements frantic. "you didn't. you couldn't have possibly understood what it would be like. the nightmares, the flashbacks, the way i freeze up sometimes. the way i can't stand to be touched when i'm having a bad day. you deserve someone whole, someone who can give you everything you need."

"i need you," you say simply. "just you. not some perfect version of you, not some sanitized version. i need the real you – nightmares and all."

is what it is and it's predictable

"and what happens when the real me hurts you?" he asks, his voice barely audible. "what happens when i have a nightmare and i don't wake up in time? what happens when hydra comes for me and you get caught in the crossfire?"

"then we deal with it," you say, stepping closer until there's barely any space between you. "together. that's what couples do, buck. they face things together."

he looks down at you, his expression unreadable. you can see the war raging behind his eyes – the desire to stay warring with the conviction that he should leave. you know he's right to be scared. you know the risks. but you also know that life without him would be a kind of death, a slow fading into gray nothingness.

all the "i love you's" and "i'm sorry's" were said

"i love you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "god, i love you so much it hurts. and that's why i have to let you go."

"i'm sorry," you reply, your own voice trembling now. "i'm sorry you're hurting. i'm sorry i can't fix it for you."

you reach up to cup his face in your hands, and this time he doesn't pull away. his skin is cold under your palms, his jaw tight with tension. you can feel the slight tremor in his muscles, the constant readiness for a fight that never comes.

we had our sex and then we made amends, that's right

your lips find his in a desperate, hungry kiss. it's not gentle or sweet – it's teeth and tongues and bruising force, a battle of wills and desires. his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against his body as he deepens the kiss. there's an urgency to your movements, a frantic need to connect, to bridge the chasm that's been widening between you for months.

clothes are shed in a flurry of motion, discarded on the floor like yesterday's arguments. his mouth trails down your neck, leaving a path of fire in its wake. your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything he has to give.

called it a false alarm to all of our friends

he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to the bedroom. the door slams shut behind you, sealing you in the bubble of your shared world – a world where there are no hydra agents, no nightmares, no past traumas. there's only the two of you, only this desperate need to feel alive, to feel connected, to feel something other than pain.

then we almost broke up again last night

his movements are rough, almost punishing, as he enters you. there's no tenderness here, no gentle exploration. this is raw and primal, a desperate attempt to outrun the demons that chase him. you meet his intensity with your own, your nails digging into his back, your hips rising to meet his thrusts. tears stream down your face, but you're not sure if they're from pleasure or pain. maybe both.

(we almost got so close)

afterward, you lie tangled together in the sheets, your bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with the scent of sex and regret. his head rests on your chest, his ear pressed against your heart as if he's trying to memorize its rhythm. your fingers stroke through his hair, gentle now, soothing.

"don't leave me," you whisper into the darkness. "please, buck. don't leave me."

he doesn't answer, but you feel his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. it's the closest he'll come to saying yes, and you cling to it like a lifeline.

and when i reached to pull the plug

morning comes too soon, as it always does. the first rays of sunlight filter through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. bucky is already awake, watching you with those haunted eyes of his. you can see the decision has been made again – he's going to try to leave.

i swear, he starts working out

"coffee?" you ask, sitting up and pulling the sheet around you.

he nods, his gaze never leaving yours. "yeah. coffee."

you make your way to the kitchen, your movements stiff and sore. the routine is familiar, comforting in its normalcy. you measure out the coffee grounds, add water, press start. the machine gurgles to life, filling the small space with the rich aroma of brewing coffee.

and on the days i'm a little much

bucky appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. he's pulled on a pair of sweatpants, his chest bare. the morning light catches the silver of his left arm, making it gleam. there are new scratches on his chest – from your nails, from last night's desperate coupling. you feel a pang of guilt, of shame.

that's when i tell them how sweet he treats me

"i was thinking," he says, his voice still rough from sleep. "maybe we could go to the farmer's market today. get some fresh vegetables. make that pasta you like."

your heart leaps at his words. it's an olive branch, a peace offering. it's him trying, even when it's hard, even when everything in him is screaming that he should run.

and how no other boys compete

"i'd like that," you say, turning to face him fully. "i'd really like that."

he crosses the distance between you, his flesh hand coming up to cup your cheek. his thumb strokes across your skin, gentle, reverent. "i'm sorry about last night," he says softly. "about... everything."

"you don't have to be sorry," you reply, leaning into his touch. "we're in this together, remember?"

he nods, his eyes closing briefly.

i know how it looks, i know how it sounds

the farmer's market is bustling with activity, a riot of colors and sounds and smells. you weave through the crowd, bucky's hand clasped firmly in yours. it's a simple gesture, but it feels monumental – a declaration to the world, and to yourselves, that you're still here, still fighting.

least we'll give 'em something to talk about

you buy tomatoes and basil and fresh pasta. bucky finds a stand selling homemade bread, still warm from the oven. he tears off a piece and

feeds it to you, his fingers brushing against your lips. the gesture is so domestic, so normal, it makes your heart ache. you catch the eye of an older woman browsing nearby, and she gives you a knowing smile. you wonder what she sees – a young couple in love, or something else? does she see the tension in bucky's shoulders, the way his eyes constantly scan the crowd? does she see the faint bruises on your wrists from where he held you too tight last night? or does she just see two people holding hands, sharing a moment on a sunny saturday morning?

all the "i love you's" and "i'm sorry's" were said (sorry's were said)

"i love you," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. it's not the desperate, broken declaration from last night. it's simpler, steadier, like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

"i love you too," you reply, squeezing his hand. the words feel both true and false, a promise you're not sure you can keep but will die trying.

we had our sex and then we made amends, that's right

back home, you put away the groceries while bucky starts a pot of sauce. the domesticity of it all feels surreal, like you're playing house in someone else's life. you move around each other in the small kitchen, a careful dance of avoidance and connection. his hip brushes against yours as he reaches for a knife, and you both freeze for a moment, the air crackling with unspoken tension.

called it a false alarm to all of our friends

"steve called," he says, his back to you as he chops garlic. "while you were in the shower. wanted to see if we wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow."

all your friends knew… obviously they knew, they could tell. steve invited you guys for dinner when he sensed something was off, you guys knew that.

"and?" you prompt, leaning against the counter.

"i told him we’d go," he replies. "told him we were good."

you close your eyes, a wave of relief washing over you. it's a lie, of course. you're not good. you're hanging on by a thread, but it's a lie you can live with, a lie you need to believe. it's the false alarm you'll send out to your friends, the signal that everything is fine, that the fire has been contained once again.

then we almost broke up again last night

the sauce simmers on the stove, filling the apartment with its rich aroma. bucky stands behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. you can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a rhythm that's both comforting and terrifying. you lean into him, letting yourself believe, just for a moment, that this could be enough, that this fragile peace could last.

you say we're driftin' apart

"we can't keep doing this," he says, his voice soft but firm. "this cycle. the fighting, the... making up. it's not healthy. it's not fair to you." he added, his face slightly frowning.

i said, "yeah, i fucking know"

you turn in his arms, looking up at him. "i know," you say, your voice sharp with frustration. "i know it's not healthy, bucky. what do you want me to do? let you go? let you run away and pretend you can escape this by yourself?"

big deal, we've been here before

"maybe that would be better," he says, his eyes pleading. "for you, at least."

"don't you dare say that," you snap, pushing away from him. "don't you dare pretend that leaving me would be some noble sacrifice. it's not. it's cowardice. you're scared, so you're running."

and we'll be here tomorrow

the fight escalates, words flying like shrapnel. old wounds are reopened, new ones are created. you're both crying now, angry, hurtful tears. you say things you don't mean, things you can't take back. he tells you he's a monster, you tell him he's being selfish. it's the same script, the same scene you've acted out a hundred times before.

oh

and then, as suddenly as it started, it's over. the anger burns itself out, leaving behind the familiar ashes of regret and sorrow. he sinks to the floor, his head in his hands. you stand over him, your chest heaving, your anger replaced by a wave of overwhelming sadness.

all the "i love you's" and "i'm sorry's" were said

"i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice muffled by his hands. "i'm so sorry, doll. i don't mean to... i just..."

"i know," you say, your voice softening. you sink to the floor beside him, pulling him into your arms. "i know."

we had our sex and then we made amends, that's right

he's crying now, really crying, silent, shuddering sobs that wrack his entire body. you hold him, rocking him gently, murmuring meaningless words of comfort. his tears soak through your shirt, hot against your skin. you can feel the desperation in his touch, the way he clings to you like you're the only solid thing in a world that's constantly shifting beneath his feet.

called it a false alarm to all of our friends

later, after the tears have subsided, after you've wiped his face with your thumbs and kissed his eyelids, you lead him to the bedroom. the sun is setting now, casting long shadows across the room. the light is soft and golden, making everything look beautiful, even the broken parts.

then we almost broke up again, oh

he lies back on the bed, his eyes closed, his expression weary. you straddle him, your hands resting on his chest. you can feel his heart beating under your palms, a frantic, desperate rhythm. you lean down, your hair falling around his face, and kiss him. it's a gentle kiss, a tender kiss, a kiss that says everything you can't put into words.

we almost broke up, we almost broke up again

his hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. his eyes open, and the look in them takes your breath away. it's a mixture of love and pain, hope and despair, a reflection of your own tangled emotions.

we almost broke up, we almost broke up again

you move against him, a slow, deliberate rhythm. there's no urgency this time, no desperation. it's slow and sweet and heartbreaking. it's an apology, a promise, a prayer. it's you saying, without words, that you're here, that you're not going anywhere, that you'll keep picking up the pieces as long as he keeps letting you.

gave me his whole heart and i gave him head and then

you take him into your mouth, your movements slow and deliberate. this is your offering, your sacrifice. this is the one thing you can give him that no one else can, the one thing that can silence the demons, at least for a little while. his hands tangle in your hair, his hips rising to meet you. you can hear his breath hitch, can feel the tension coiling in his body. you look up at him, and his eyes are closed, his head thrown back in ecstasy. in this moment, he's not the winter soldier, not a victim of hydra, not a broken man. he's just bucky, your bucky, and he's yours.

we almost broke up, we almost broke up

afterward, you lie curled up together, the sheets tangled around your legs. the room is dark now, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside, casting a faint glow across the room. you can hear the sound of traffic, the distant wail of a siren, the normal sounds of a city that's still alive, still moving, even when you feel like your world has stopped.

yeah, we almost broke up again

"stay," he whispers, his voice thick with sleep. "please, just... stay."

you tighten your grip on him, your face buried in his chest. "i'm not going anywhere," you reply, your voice muffled by his skin. "i'm right here."

you know it's not a solution. you know it's not a fix. you know you'll be here again, in this same place, having this same fight, making this same desperate, heartbreaking choice. but for now, in the quiet darkness of your shared bed, it's enough. it has to be.

─˖· masterlist

*also thanks @uzmacchiato for the gorgeous banners <3

[stupendousidolqueen]

how i feel after downloading tumblr only for the x reader fics

[mindfulmesses]

canon event ladies

[sebastianstansituation]

Sebastian Stan

2009 GQ Magazine

Photoshoot Outtakes

[ifwgossip]

How I feel when the author describes y/n as petite, zero figure, -50 kg weight, hourglass, perky 💔💔

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

MAY YOU NEVER LOSE YOUR HYPERFIXATION

[flow33didontsmoke]

when y/n does something so bad/embarrassing you have to facepalm and close your eyes for a minute

[buckybsdoll]

[danysdaughter]

HR Can't Save You

pairing | pervy!boss!bucky x employee!reader

word count | 13k words

summary | your pervy boss, mr. barnes tried to drug you at the office party — now he’s yours to use, and he likes it more than he should.

tags | (18+) MDNI, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, boss x employee, dark smut, dubious revenge, face sitting, oral sex (f!receiving), grinding, unprotected sex, degrading praise, power play (reversed), smut with plot, mutual obsession, internalized depravity Non-consensual drugging (attempted), DUBIOUS CONSENT/NON-CONSENSUAL SEX, sexual coercion themes, degradation, filming without consent, revenge sex, morally ambiguous/depraved reader, lowkey dead dove: do not eat, #women in male dominated fields

a/n | look. i just wanted to write some filthy office smut and accidentally created a morally bankrupt two-person power spiral. i do not condone drugging, manipulation, or workplace harassment—unless you're bucky barnes, in which case... carry on.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @uzmacchiato

The elevator dinged open with that same mechanical chirp you’d come to hate. Stark-white lights. Too much glass. That sterile scent of money, perfume, and office-grade desperation.

You stepped out, heels clicking across marble tile—sharp, intentional. A rhythm. One you controlled.

“Morning, sweetheart,” came the voice.

You didn’t need to look. You knew the tone too well—warm for everyone else, syrupy for you, sticky enough to rot your teeth.

He was already leaning against the doorway to his office, coffee in hand, smile curved just a little too wide.

“Late night?” Bucky asked, head tilted. Blue dress shirt rolled to his forearms, watch gleaming like he knew where your eyes would go. “You look like you could use a long… slow… morning.”

You kept walking.

“Morning, Mr. Barnes,” you muttered, flat as concrete.

That got a grin out of him. “So formal. C’mon, you’re killin’ me, princess.”

You didn’t slow down. But you felt it—the way his eyes dragged along your body, like he was undressing you just enough to make it believable if anyone else looked.

The open office buzzed behind you. Phones ringing, typing, someone laughing too loudly at something not funny. The interns giggled near the copy machine. A group gathered around the espresso machine, sipping foam like it was champagne.

They all loved him.

Charming. Fair. Cool boss who never micromanaged. Remembered birthdays, handed out bonuses, made everyone feel seen.

Except you.

You didn’t get smiles in meetings. You got stares. Lingering ones. Didn’t get praise. You got princess.

And you weren’t crazy. You knew the difference between friendly and fuckable.

────────────────────────

Later, at your desk, you felt him come up behind you before he even spoke. His cologne hit first—something warm and leathery. Too close.

“Hey, honey,” he said low, close enough you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck. “I had notes on that pitch deck you sent. Slide seven’s still a little sloppy. Might need you to stay late tonight.”

You turned your head just slightly. “I sent that after midnight, and you reviewed it already?”

He smiled. Didn’t even try to hide it.

“Didn’t get much sleep. Had something better to look at.”

His eyes flicked down your blouse for one second too long.

You stared back—flat, unreadable.

“If you’re implying something inappropriate, Mr. Barnes, I'll have to file a complaint.”

He chuckled. “Relax, sweetheart. Jesus. You’re always so wound up. Just tryin’ to make your day go by a little smoother.”

“Then how about you stop hovering over my shoulder?”

He held up both hands, backing off like he was giving you space—though you both knew he’d just invade it again tomorrow.

“You got it, princess. Didn’t mean to rattle you.”

And with that, he was gone. Whistling. Smiling at someone like he didn’t just slide a threat beneath his charm.

────────────────────────

The day dragged.

Emails, deadlines, polite smiles through clenched teeth. Conference calls where people said nothing for an hour and still called it productive. You kept your eyes on your screen, fingers typing too fast—because it helped. Helped to keep your mind somewhere else, anywhere but on him.

Bucky walked the floor like a king. Buttoned-up, sleeves rolled, charm weaponized. He asked about people’s weekends. Laughed at the dumb jokes from accounting. Dropped a $50 Starbucks gift card on someone’s desk “just because.”

No one blinked.

Of course they didn’t. He was nice. A little flirty, sure. But that’s just Bucky. You should take it as a compliment. Relax. Smile. Lighten up.

You didn’t.

You waited until the floor quieted. Lunch hour—half the office gone, the rest too buried in takeout and spreadsheets to notice anything.

You went to the break room.

There was something peaceful in the motion: opening the cabinet, finding your mug, filling the kettle. Small, quiet rituals. A moment where you could breathe.

Until the heat of his body hit your back.

You didn’t even hear him come in. Didn’t see him.

You just felt it—that sudden press of presence behind you. His chest grazing your shoulder blades. His breath, warm against your hair.

“Oh—didn’t mean to sneak up on you, sweetheart.”

You froze, mug in hand, halfway to pouring.

He reached up, stretching one arm over your head. His shirt tightened across his chest. His other hand braced against the counter beside your hip.

You were trapped.

“Just needed sugar,” he said casually, as if this was normal. As if his chest wasn’t brushing yours, his thigh not grazing the back of yours like he didn’t care who walked in.

You stayed quiet. Because what could you say?

He wasn’t doing anything.

That was the game. He never did anything.

Just stood too close. Smiled too long. Let his hand linger when he passed you something. Made you feel dirty for reading into it—even when you weren’t.

His voice dipped, like a secret.

“You always smell so fuckin’ good, you know that?”

Low. Not enough to carry beyond the breakroom walls.

You stiffened.

“Bet your sheets smell just like this.”

You set the mug down. Turned. Stared him dead in the eye.

He smiled, sugar packet in hand like nothing happened. “Relax, princess. Just sayin’.”

He winked. Walked out.

Left you standing there—heart hammering, mug forgotten, skin crawling.

And just like every time before, the cameras wouldn’t see anything. HR wouldn’t believe anything.

Because Bucky Barnes? Was a gentleman.

────────────────────────

You found a rare moment of quiet at the back of the office—the smaller kitchen, the one no one really used unless the main breakroom was full. Less traffic. Less… him.

You stood at the counter, nursing your coffee like it might save you. The silence helped, even if just for a second.

Then footsteps. Soft heels. Familiar rhythm.

“Hey,” Sharon’s voice came, warm and breezy as always. “Didn’t think anyone else knew about this spot.”

You gave her a quick smile. She was easy to talk to. Grounded. Cool under pressure. Everyone loved her.

“Needed a breather,” you said. “The espresso machine was out anyway.”

She chuckled, popping open her seltzer. “I told them not to trust that new vendor.”

You hesitated. Then spoke—carefully, “Hey… can I ask you something?”

She glanced over, eyes curious but relaxed. “Of course.”

You stared into your mug for a second, weighing it.

“It’s about Mr. Barnes.”

That got her attention. Her brow arched just slightly, but she didn’t say anything—just waited.

You kept your tone light. Neutral. Non-accusatory.

“Do you ever… feel like he’s a little inappropriate sometimes? Like, just… with the way he talks? Or how close he gets?”

Silence.

Sharon blinked slowly. Then she smiled—gently, almost pitying.

“Oh, honey.”

And that told you everything.

“You’re overthinking it,” she said, voice soft but firm. “Bucky’s harmless. He flirts with everyone. It’s just his way.”

You forced a smile. “Right. Yeah.”

“He’s old-school,” she added, like that explained anything. “Chivalry, all that. I promise, if he actually stepped out of line, I’d be the first to say something.”

You nodded, but it felt robotic. Your chest tightened.

“I just… feel like he’s different with me,” you murmured.

She waved a hand. “He probably just likes your work ethic. You know he pushes the people he thinks are good.”

That one stung.

You wanted to argue. Say it wasn’t about deadlines or performance reviews. That you could feel him looking at you through your clothes. That you could smell his cologne hours after he passed by.

But Sharon was already walking off, patting your arm.

“Don’t let it get to your head, okay? He’s a good guy.”

And just like that, you were alone again.

Coffee gone cold. Skin crawling. Mouth dry.

And outside that tiny breakroom door, Bucky laughed at something by the front desk—voice full of warmth, charm, and power.

No one saw him the way you did. And maybe they never would.

So you ended up staying late.

Not for the work. You could’ve finished that report hours ago. But leaving meant walking past his office. Past that glass wall he always kept open just enough to catch your reflection. Past the possibility he’d call out one of those stupid names again.

Princess.

Sweetheart.

Honey.

Like he was tasting the word before saying it.

So you stayed.

Let the office go quiet. Let the lights dim on their own. Pretended the silence was comforting, even though it made everything worse.

Your screen glared back at you, the spreadsheet long since forgotten. Instead, you stared blankly at the internal memo still pulled up on your monitor.

“Reminder: Quarterly Mixer – This Saturday @ 7PM! Come celebrate with drinks, food, and the best coworkers on Earth! (Yes, that means YOU!)”

You’d read it four times already.

Couldn’t bring yourself to delete it. Couldn’t bring yourself to RSVP. You didn’t want to go.

God, you really didn’t want to go.

The thought of being in that kind of setting with him—music, alcohol, soft lighting, no desks between you—made your stomach twist. And not because you were scared he’d do something worse.

No. It was because you weren’t sure what you’d do. Because maybe Sharon was right. Maybe it was just you.

Maybe you were overreacting. Maybe he was just flirty. And charming. And hands-on. And you’d made it into something worse in your head because you didn’t like being looked at like that.

Maybe you just didn’t know how to take a compliment.

You rubbed at your temple, the fluorescent lights buzzing too loud.

It was driving you insane—this gaslight-loop of doubt. One second, you were certain: he was a sleaze. The next, you felt crazy for even thinking it.

Saturday Night

You barely recognized the place.

The fluorescent overheads were off, replaced by string lights and dim glows from floor lamps pushed into corners. Soft music floated through the air—jazzy, upbeat, expensive-sounding. It smelled like catered finger food and someone’s too-strong cologne.

The office didn’t look like the office. And that made it worse somehow.

You stepped off the elevator, tugging your dress down for the fifth time—not because it was too short, but because you felt too exposed. Too seen. It clung to your thighs like heat, shifted too easily when you moved.

You should’ve stayed home.

But now you were here, and you knew exactly why you’d come.

You weren’t even sure if it was to prove a point—or prove yourself wrong.

The bar was set up where reception used to be. A mini station with backlit shelves, clean glasses, a bartender in black sleeves rolling them up. Everyone laughed a little louder than usual. Smiled a little wider. The tension of workweek deadlines washed out by open bar and soft playlists.

You spotted them near the far corner—your somewhat friends. As close as it got in this building.

Sharon, pristine as ever in a sleek jumpsuit, sipped a cocktail like it had been custom-made for her hand. Maria, in a blazer and jeans, leaned against the wall with the ease of someone who didn’t get rattled by anything. And Rhodey, drink in hand, already mid-laugh at something Sharon said, his smile bright under the lights.

You walked up as casually as you could, past the clusters of people you barely knew. Past interns showing too much skin and directors acting too loose. Past the desk where Bucky usually sat during meetings.

Gone now. Just lights. Music. And you, pretending this was fine.

“Hey, there you are!” Sharon said, spotting you. “Look at you, damn.”

You gave a soft smile, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Rhodey added, raising his glass. “Glad you did, though.”

You nodded, even if it felt like lying.

Maria handed you something pink and dangerous-looking. “Drink. Don’t ask what’s in it.”

You took it—sipped—smiled on instinct.

Nothing wrong. Nothing off.

Just coworkers. Music. Drinks. And the low throb of tension somewhere beneath your ribs, humming like it was waiting for something.

You felt him before you saw him.

That familiar scent—warm spice and something expensive—cut through the air like it had claws. And then the soft clink of ice in a glass. That low, slow voice.

“Evenin’, folks.”

Your spine straightened. Eyes didn’t move. Not yet.

Then Sharon’s voice lit up. “Look who finally decided to show.”

“Fashionably late,” Bucky answered, tone easy, that damn smirk tucked behind the rim of his glass.

He looked unfair.

Black dress shirt, collar open like it was an accident—like he couldn’t be bothered to button all the way up. Sleeves rolled, forearms out. A neat silver watch that caught the light when he lifted his drink.

And the worst part? He didn’t even look at you at first.

He slid into the conversation like he’d been part of it all along. Said something slick to Rhodey about the open bar. Laughed with Sharon about last quarter’s chaos. Leaned in close to Maria, murmured something that made her chuckle and shake her head.

You stood stiff, sipping your drink, eyes forward, willing your body to stay calm.

Then—finally—he turned to you.

“And look at you,” he said softly, eyes dragging over your dress like it was meant for him. “Didn’t think you liked parties, sweetheart.”

You kept your tone even. Cold. “Mr. Barnes.”

The air shifted, almost imperceptibly.

He smiled, and it was all teeth and secrets.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low, lazy. “Don’t be like that. It’s Bucky tonight. No titles, no deadlines.”

You didn’t answer.

Then he turned back to the group, all charm again.

“Mind if I borrow her for a second?” he asked casually, like it was nothing. “Need to talk work. Real quick.”

And just like that, your maybe-friends betrayed you.

“Of course,” Sharon said with a smile.

“Don’t keep her long,” Rhodey added.

Maria nodded, already halfway back to her drink.

They didn’t see it. They never saw it.

Bucky gestured toward the hallway with his glass. “Just a minute.”

You hesitated. Then followed—because what choice did you have?

Your heels echoed off the hallway tile, now dim and unfamiliar in the party lighting. He walked ahead just slightly, guiding with that casual confidence, like this wasn’t just another play.

Instead of steering you into some dim hallway, Bucky led you to the bar.

Not the crowded part near the reception—the side nook where the lights dipped lower and the buzz of conversation thinned into background static. It was quieter there. Warmer. Two empty stools and a bartender too busy wiping glasses to care.

He gestured for you to sit, then slid onto the stool beside you. Elbow resting on the bar, one leg loose, turned slightly toward you. Still casual. Still confident. But not looming. Not smirking.

He looked… normal.

“Didn’t mean to make a thing of it,” he said, voice low but smooth, like he was finally dropping the act. “Just—wanted to talk. Clear the air.”

You didn’t answer. You just sat stiff beside him, drink in hand, every part of you coiled tight.

He glanced sideways.

“You’ve been here what—three months now?”

You nodded once.

“And I know I’ve got a reputation,” he continued, lips twitching like the idea amused him. “Friendly. Loud. Maybe too much. But that’s just me. I’m like that with everyone.”

You said nothing.

He huffed a quiet breath, “Didn’t realize it was coming off different with you. That’s on me.”

His tone wasn’t defensive. Just… calm. Measured. No jokes. No wink.

You didn’t know what to say.

For a split second—a dangerous, tiny second—you felt bad.

He turned toward you slightly, elbow still resting, wrist loose over his glass.

“Look, sweetheart—” He caught himself. Smiled, sheepish. “Sorry. Habit. I mean—look. You’re good at what you do. Sharp. Focused. You keep your head down and your mouth shut. It’s intimidating.”

That startled a short laugh out of you before you could stop it.

“There it is,” he said, grinning. “Knew you could smile.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to let the warmth reach your cheeks.

“I just thought maybe if I lightened the mood, joked a little, you’d… loosen up. Guess I overdid it.”

You sipped your drink, still watching him.

Still waiting for the catch.

But there wasn’t one. Not yet.

He was just sitting there. Casual. Human.

And for the first time in weeks, the knots in your shoulders started to ease.

Maybe Sharon was right. Maybe he was just one of those guys—cocky and oblivious, not malicious. Maybe you had overreacted. Maybe it really was in your head.

Maybe…

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he said softly, “but I’d rather work with someone who doesn’t flinch every time I pass their desk.”

Your throat felt tight. You hated how reasonable he sounded.

He raised his glass toward yours.

“To a fresh start?”

You hesitated.

Then clinked your glass with his.

“To a fresh start.”

────────────────────────

You’d forgotten what it felt like to laugh at something he said.

Real laughter. Soft and sudden. No tension in your chest, no pretense in your smile. It hit you halfway through a story he was telling—something about HR training and a mandatory PowerPoint that made everyone fall asleep mid-Zoom.

“Nat legit muted herself and took a nap,” he said, hand miming her slumped over a desk. “I was this close to grabbing a screenshot for blackmail.”

You snorted into your glass before you could stop it. Actually snorted.

And he grinned like he’d just won something.

“There it is,” he said. “God, you’re cute when you’re not looking at me like you want me dead.”

Your smile faltered—not because it was creepy, but because it wasn’t.

It sounded genuine.

Before you could say anything, he was already standing, finishing the last sip of his wine.

“Alright, round two. Or three?” he said, glancing at your glass. “Red or white?”

“Red,” you said, automatically.

“Atta girl.”

You blinked at that—the phrase catching on your ribs—but didn’t say anything. He was already halfway to the bar.

You watched him go, jaw loose, mind scattered. There was this lightness in your chest—not comfort, not trust, just confusion. Emotional vertigo. Like you couldn’t tell if you were falling for real or falling for a trick.

When he came back, two fresh glasses in hand, you felt that smile tug at the corner of your lips again. He held your wine out like an offering, then paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You sure you can handle this one?” he teased. “I’m not carryin’ your ass outta here.”

“Only fair,” you said, reaching for the glass. “I carried your team during Q2.”

He barked a laugh, handing it off. “Damn. Okay. I deserved that.”

Then—just as you both raised your glasses again—someone tapped his shoulder.

“Hey, Buck—just a sec,” came Sam Wilson’s voice from behind him, voice warm, already pulling him into conversation.

Bucky turned, responding instantly, hand gesturing mid-sentence.

You looked down at the glass in your hand.

Something twisted in your gut. No reason. No logic. Just a pulse of dread, primal and sharp.

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

You swapped the glasses.

Fast. Quiet.

His for yours. Yours for his.

By the time he turned back, Sam gone, Bucky lifted your original glass with a grin.

“To a truce,” he said.

The clink still rang in your ears when you brought the glass to your lips.

Red. Dry. Smooth. Not bad, actually.

You took a slow sip, letting it sit on your tongue a second longer than needed—partly out of habit, partly out of nerves. Your eyes drifted across the room, feigning nonchalance, while your body stayed coiled under your skin.

And then you felt it.

His eyes.

Not obvious. Not leering. Just a quiet pull—like gravity, like heat.

You glanced back at him over the rim of your glass.

He was drinking too. A casual sip. Perfect posture, relaxed shoulders, eyes half-lidded from the wine or the light or both.

But he was watching.

Not in the way he usually did—not at your legs, or your mouth, or the subtle swell of your chest in the dress you never wanted to wear. No, this time he was watching your mouth on the glass.

The way you drank.

Measured. Intent. Like he was waiting for something.

You smiled. Slow. Controlled.

“Gotta say,” you said, voice light but steady, “I’m glad the office didn’t cheap out on the drinks.”

Bucky’s lips quirked around his glass.

“I’d never let that happen,” he murmured, swirling the wine with his wrist. “Would’ve brought the good stuff myself if they had.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Always the overachiever.”

He chuckled. “Only for the right people.”

Your heart ticked a little faster. Not from the wine.

From the look in his eyes. Warm. Familiar. Like he knew something you didn’t.

You took another sip. Held eye contact this time.

He matched it.

It was all so smooth. So easy. The laughter, the banter, the drinks. Just two coworkers finally getting along.

Except you weren’t relaxed. You weren’t softening. You were watching.

Because somewhere beneath that lazy smile and that loose wrist and that soft tone was a different version of him.

“So,” you said, fingers tracing the base of your wine glass, “what’s your secret?”

Bucky glanced at you, brows lifted in mock confusion. “Secret?”

You nodded toward the rest of the room, toward the crowd that always seemed to laugh harder when he was near. “Everyone in this place practically worships you. Even Nat and Maria smile at your jokes. That’s got to be witchcraft.”

He laughed, easy and rich, tilting his head back slightly as he reached for his drink again.

“What can I say? I’m charming,” he said with a smirk. “Or maybe just persistent.”

You leaned in slightly, like the wine was making you bold. “You ever worry someone’s gonna see through it?”

He blinked—just a half-second pause. Almost nothing.

But you saw it.

“Nah,” he said, still smooth. “You’d be surprised how much you can get away with when people like your smile.”

He took another sip. Slower this time.

You watched his throat move as he swallowed. Then—subtly—he adjusted his seat.

You didn’t move. Just sipped your wine and let the silence stretch a beat too long.

“So what about you?” he asked, voice still casual, but his words came out just a little softer. “What’s your secret? I’ve been tryin’ to crack you since day one.”

You smiled. “Maybe I’m just not that interesting.”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “You’re… not like the rest of them.”

There it was again—something in his eyes. Heavy-lidded. Unfocused for a split second. Like his body lagged behind his words.

He blinked once. Twice. Shook it off with another smile, but his jaw tensed briefly—like he’d forgotten what he was about to say.

You tilted your head.

“Everything alright?”

Bucky leaned his forearm on the bar, a little slower than before. Like his coordination was a hair off.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, nodding. “Just… this wine’s stronger than I thought.”

You clinked your glass gently against his.

“Cheers to that.”

And you smiled. This time, for real.

He blinked again. Longer this time. When his eyes opened, they were just a little glassier. His smile—still sitting on his lips—faltered at the edges, like he couldn’t quite keep the shape of it.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, one hand coming up to rub at his temple. “Feels like I’ve been drinkin’ all night…”

You stared at him.

Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just watched.

Something cold settled in your gut. Heavy. Dense.

Then it flipped—hot, violent—a surge that nearly made you shake.

That son of a bitch.

You didn’t need evidence. Didn’t need a confession. You knew it. He was trying to fucking drug you.

You saw it in the way he kept watching you drink. The timing. The sudden generosity with the wine. The way he carefully nudged your glass toward you like it mattered. Like you mattered—but not in any real way.

You saw it now—clearly—as the man sitting in front of you, still trying to act normal, couldn’t keep his focus for more than a few seconds at a time.

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Ground your heel into the floor to keep yourself tethered. Because what you wanted to do—what every cell in your body was screaming for—was to hit him.

But you didn’t.

You watched.

He chuckled to himself, looking down at his glass like it had betrayed him. “Man, I’m usually better than this,” he said, words just barely slurring at the edges. “Should’ve eaten more…”

You leaned in slightly, slow and composed.

“Long week,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s just hitting you harder than usual.”

He looked up at you—eyes glassy, lids heavy—and smiled.

Like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t just tried to drug you.

And suddenly, you weren’t scared anymore.

You were calm. Cold. Ready.

He leaned in again.

Too close now—his shoulder bumping yours as he tried to prop himself on one elbow, glass clinking faintly on the bar. You caught the tremor in his hand as he set it down. Subtle. Barely there.

But you noticed.

God, you noticed everything.

“You know,” he said, blinking slowly like the air had gotten thick, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were finally warming up to me.”

You turned your head just slightly, face close to his.

“I am,” you said, voice soft.

He smiled—lazy, slow. Eyes hooded.

“See?” he breathed. “Told you all that hardass shit was just a front.”

His hand dropped to your knee.

Fingertips brushing over the fabric of your dress, thumb tracing a soft, circular pattern just above the hem.

It didn’t even feel bold. Not anymore.

It felt clumsy. Desperate.

You let him do it. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. Just kept your eyes on him as he leaned in closer, trying to press the weight of his shoulder into yours like it was natural—like it was wanted.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he slurred, almost under his breath. “Bet you look even better when you’re not pretendin’ you don’t want me.”

You smiled. Quiet. Almost sympathetic.

“You think I’m pretending?”

He nodded, slowly. Like it took effort.

“I know you are,” he mumbled, fingers tightening slightly on your leg. “You don’t fight me like that unless you want it.”

Your stomach curled—not in fear, but fury so controlled it felt cold.

You leaned in until your mouth was just beside his ear, your lips barely grazing the edge of his jaw.

“You’re right,” you whispered. “I do want something.”

He hummed—low and smug, breath thick with wine and ego.

You looked at him. Really looked.

Pupils wide. Skin warm. Blinking harder now. He swayed slightly when he pulled back, shoulder brushing the bar like his balance was slipping.

Still smiling. Still trying.

You reached down, smoothed your hand over his where it rested on your knee—and slowly moved it off.

His brow furrowed faintly. But he didn’t fight it. Didn’t have the strength.

“Bucky,” you said, sweet and patient.

He looked up at you, dazed.

You smiled. “You’re not feeling too good, are you?”

He blinked. Swallowed thickly.

“I—nah, I’m… I’m fine. Just—fuck, I don’t know. Think I just stood up too fast earlier or somethin’…”

You nodded. “Of course. Why don’t I get you out of here?”

His smile returned, slow and sleepy. “You takin’ me home, sweetheart?”

You slipped your hand beneath his arm. Supportive. Steady. “Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

By the time you led him back into the main room, his steps had started to drag. Not badly. Not enough for alarm. Just… sluggish. A little too heavy.

He tried to play it off with a loose arm slung over your shoulders, his laugh too low, too slow.

“Must’ve hit that last glass a little hard,” he muttered against your hair, breath warm and sweet with wine. “Think I’m gonna need you to hold me up, princess.”

You smiled. Soft. Supportive. Of course you would.

The music still pulsed under the low buzz of conversation. Laughter bubbled near the back where people were crowding the snack table, oblivious. The lights felt warmer now—or maybe that was just the way your pulse had settled into something deliberate.

Nat noticed you first.

She stepped toward you both with a confused look, drink in hand. “Everything okay?”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on Bucky’s waist, letting him lean just enough to sell it.

“Think he’s just had a little too much. Long week, not enough to eat, you know how it is.”

Bucky grinned—dazed, eyes barely open—and waved a limp hand. “M’alright. Just need to lie down. She’s takin’ me home.”

Nat raised her eyebrows, clearly trying to suppress a snort. “Damn, lightweight.”

“Shhh,” he muttered, pressing a finger sloppily to his lips. “Don’t out me in front’a the pretty girl.”

You smiled at her. Light, easy. “I’ll make sure he gets in okay.”

Sam caught the tail end of the exchange, stepping over with his glass raised.

“You sure you got him?” he asked, glancing at Bucky, who had now nestled his head against your temple like he belonged there.

“Yeah,” you said. “My place isn’t far from his. Uber’s already on the way.”

He gave you a nod. “You’re a saint.”

Carol, nearby, didn’t even blink. Just waved you off with a faint smirk. “Try not to let him puke in the car.”

You laughed softly. “No promises.”

Everyone went back to their drinks. Their conversations.

Bucky mumbled something that might’ve been a compliment. Or a thank-you. Or another sleazy attempt at charm.

You didn’t listen. You were already steering him toward the elevator.

His steps dragged. One arm hung uselessly at his side. The other clung to you with a growing desperation, like even his body knew it was fading.

The doors slid open.

And as they closed behind you both, you finally let your smile fall.

────────────────────────

The car was warm. Too warm.

Leather seats, low lighting, soft jazz playing from the radio like the driver was trying to impress someone. You slid into the backseat with Bucky barely able to hold himself upright beside you.

He slumped to the left, head knocking against the window before jerking back up, blinking rapidly.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m underwater or somethin’.”

His words were slow. Slurred. Muddled like static.

You turned toward him, one hand resting lightly on his knee—soothing, sweet. The perfect coworker, still playing nursemaid.

“I know,” you said softly.

He looked at you—or tried to. His pupils were blown, eyes unfocused. He blinked once, long and slow, and you watched him try to center your face in his blurred vision.

“You’re just tired,” you murmured. “Probably just drank too fast. Or maybe…”

You leaned in closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear.

“…maybe it’s the roofie.”

He blinked again. “Wha—?”

“You know,” you said sweetly, still stroking his knee, “the one you put in my drink.”

That finally landed.

His head turned, slow and heavy, brows furrowing like his brain was trying to catch up.

“I—I didn’t…” He shook his head, sluggish. “What are you talkin’ about?”

You smiled.

“C’mon, Bucky,” you cooed. “Don’t play dumb. You picked out the drinks. Watched me drink mine. Didn’t touch yours until I did.”

He stared at you.

Silent.

“You know what I did, right?” you whispered. “While you were too busy flirting? I switched them.”

He blinked again. His mouth moved, but nothing came out.

“That’s why you feel like this,” you continued, voice soft, low, deadly calm. “That’s why your muscles are getting heavy. Why your mouth’s not working right. Why your cock’s probably hard and useless.”

You leaned in closer, lips brushing his jaw.

“Because you drugged yourself, you sick fuck.”

“No…” he slurred, barely shaking his head. “That’s not—no, I wouldn’t…”

“You would,” you said, almost sadly. “And you did.”

He tried to sit up straighter. Failed.

The driver didn’t even glance back—probably just thought a couple whispering sweet nothings to each other.

“God, look at you,” you murmured, watching him with slow, satisfied eyes. “Still trying to talk your way out of it. Still trying to be the good guy.”

He turned to you again, mouth slack, confusion blooming behind his eyes—but no protest came. Just that dazed, terrified silence.

And your hand never left his knee.

Getting him through the lobby was easier than it should’ve been.

Security recognized him. Smiled politely. Probably assumed he was just drunk, out celebrating something. They barely looked at you. Why would they? You were helping.

The elevator ride was quiet—aside from the occasional soft grunt from him when he lost balance and leaned too hard against you. His head lolled to the side. His breath was warm against your neck.

By the time you got him to his door, his hands were mostly limp, only twitching slightly when you shifted your grip.

The apartment was exactly what you expected.

High-rise. Open-plan. Posh as hell.

Marble counters, clean lines, oversized art on the walls. Dim lighting that probably cost more than your monthly rent. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive—like cologne left behind on purpose.

You let the door swing shut behind you with a click.

Dragging him down the hall was clumsy. He kept mumbling something under his breath—your name, maybe, or just sounds that used to be words. His feet barely lifted off the ground, shoes scuffing against polished tile. By the time you reached the bedroom, your patience was threadbare.

You let him fall onto the bed.

Not gently.

His body bounced once, limbs landing crooked and graceless across a mattress that looked like it’d been made by a hotel maid. He groaned faintly, eyes struggling to stay open. One hand twitched at his side before going still.

You stood there a moment, catching your breath.

You stared at him for a moment. Watched his chest rise and fall.

No movement. No protest. Just the soft, useless murmur of a man who was completely and utterly fucked.

You turned from him, slowly taking in the room. It was as meticulous as the rest of the apartment—clean lines, no clutter. No mess. No hint of a second toothbrush, no signs of life beyond himself. The kind of space that told you everything was controlled. Curated.

Your eyes passed over the dresser, the desk, the stack of unread mail in a tray by the door.

Then landed on something just slightly out of place.

It was tucked beside the TV console—half-concealed behind a storage bin. An old video camera. Not one of the sleek, modern ones. This was the kind people’s dads used in the '90s. Black. Bulky. Dusty, but not untouched.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then walked over. Picked it up.

It was heavier than you expected.

You thumbed it open. The battery light flickered red for a second before dying, but it wasn’t the power you were looking for.

It was the idea.

The quiet, sick spark that bloomed low in your gut. Hot and nauseating.

Because the thought hit you all at once—fast, brutal, vivid.

If you hadn’t been smart. If you’d just smiled at him tonight. Taken the drink like a good girl. Giggled when he leaned in too close.

You’d be the one on that bed right now. Confused. Weak. Vulnerable.

He wouldn’t be asking questions. He wouldn’t be wondering why you were like this.

Breath caught in your throat, but not from fear. You turned, slowly, facing the bed again.

The camera in your hand felt natural now. Balanced. Your fingers curled around the handle like they belonged there.

And you looked at him—really looked.

At the boss who made you feel insane for weeks. Who smiled through every boundary. Who laughed at your discomfort and called it charm. Who wanted you broken enough to keep a bottle of something hidden just for this.

You didn’t turn the camera on.

You just set it down on the edge of the bed, the cold plastic weight of it still ghosting across your palm as you stepped toward him. Your fingers itched to move, to do something—clench, press, strike—but you didn’t.

You breathed.

Your body moved slowly, as if your brain had distanced itself from your limbs. Detached, careful. Not out of fear.

Out of precision.

Bucky hadn’t moved. His chest rose and fell, slower now, steady in that drugged rhythm. His shirt had ridden up slightly where you’d dropped him, baring a line of toned stomach and the faint edge of his belt.

You stopped at the edge of the bed, staring down at him.

This man—this fucking man—had looked at you every day like you were prey. A challenge. Something to figure out and conquer. And when you didn’t fall into his game?

He made a new one.

You climbed onto the bed slowly. One knee. Then the other. The mattress dipped under your weight, and that was when his body twitched.

A jolt. Barely there. Just enough to register.

His eyes fluttered open. Glazed. Unfocused.

But open.

And when they found you—above him, straddling his waist—they barely widened. He blinked, confused, pupils blown wide and glassy.

You leaned down, your palms bracing on either side of his head. Close enough to kiss, if you wanted to. Close enough to make him think that’s what this was.

His lips parted slightly. A quiet, unsure breath.

You smiled. Soft. Almost tender.

“Shhh,” you cooed, voice like velvet soaked in poison. “Don’t talk. You need to rest, remember?”

He blinked again. Swallowed. His jaw moved like he was trying to form a word.

“You’re not feeling so good, baby,” you whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “I told you… that wine was too strong for you.”

His mouth twitched.

“W-what…?”

Your nails trailed down his cheek. Delicate. Soothing. Like comfort.

“You thought you were being clever, didn’t you?” Your voice was almost sing-song. “Figured I’d take the drink, get all soft and sweet for you. Let you do whatever you wanted.”

You laughed, quiet and breathless, more exhale than sound.

“But look at you now.”

Your fingers drifted down to his chest, dragging over the fabric of his shirt. He flinched at your touch, not from pain—just from confusion. His body couldn’t keep up.

“You were gonna take something from me,” you murmured, tilting your head as your nails grazed over a button. “But now? I get to decide what happens next.”

And he still didn’t move.

He just laid there, eyes fluttering like the room was spinning around him—and you were the only thing in focus.

You sank down into his lap.

The hem of your dress rode up automatically, baring your thighs, pressing soft cotton against tailored fabric. The heat between your legs met the thick strain of him beneath his slacks, and even though he didn’t move—could barely lift his head—you felt it.

He was hard.

Your eyes flicked down, amused.

“Really?” you murmured, tilting your hips slightly, just enough to feel the pressure. “Even like this?”

His head lolled against the pillow, mouth parted, eyes hazy and unfocused—but you caught it. That tiny twitch. That unconscious shift of his hips.

You smiled.

“God, that’s pathetic.”

You rolled your hips, slow and shallow, just once, watching his throat bob with a strangled swallow. His hands stayed limp at his sides, fingers barely curling into the sheets.

Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt.

“You always dress so nice,” you said softly, undoing one with a careful flick. “All those expensive shirts. Rolled-up sleeves. That little watch. Like you’re trying so hard not to look like a fucking perv.”

Another button popped.

You leaned down, letting your lips brush his ear.

“But you are one.”

His chest hitched beneath you. You couldn’t tell if it was arousal or panic. Maybe both. Either way, it didn’t matter.

You kept unbuttoning him.

Slowly. Lovingly. Like this was something tender. Your fingertips brushed his skin, warm and smooth under the cotton, as you pulled his shirt apart inch by inch.

“You know what’s funny?” you whispered, voice airy and soft. “I bet if someone walked in right now, they’d think you were just drunk. Poor Mr. Barnes. Went a little too hard at the office party.”

You sat up again, rolling your hips slightly for emphasis. The hard shape of him pressed up against your core, and you felt the pulse of it.

You laughed. A soft, mocking sound that didn’t match the look in your eyes.

“I’m sitting on your cock and you still haven’t figured out what’s happening.”

You tilted your head. “Want me to spell it out for you?”

His lips moved—barely.

A whisper of sound. A plea. Maybe your name. Maybe just breath.

You leaned in, hands sliding down his now-bare chest, feeling the flutter of his heartbeat. He was still there. Somewhere beneath the haze. Still feeling this. Still aware enough to know that he couldn’t stop you.

You rolled your hips again, slow and unrelenting, your weight pressing down against the thick bulge beneath his pants. The cotton of your panties dragged against the expensive fabric, slick now, the heat between your legs soaking through as you kept your rhythm steady.

Every grind made you feel him harder. Bigger. His body had no shame, even if his mind couldn’t keep up.

You looked down at him, watched the way his chest rose faster now beneath the parted edges of his shirt. Skin flushed. Nipples tight. Muscles twitching, but not from effort—from helpless arousal.

You smiled, then let your fingers slide up the straps of your dress.

Pulled them down.

One. Then the other.

The fabric fell easily, pooling at your waist and baring your tits to the cool air of his room. You didn’t cover them. Didn’t pause. You just kept moving, rolling your hips with a little more purpose now, letting the friction mount. Your nipples grazed the soft fabric of his shirt, barely open, grazing your skin as you leaned over him again.

His eyes fluttered, barely open. Lashes fluttering. Pupils too wide.

But they were on your boobs now.

Of course they were.

You let your hands spread across his torso, fingers splaying wide over his pecs, dragging nails lightly down the curve of muscle. His chest arched faintly under your touch, breath catching in his throat.

“You like this?” you asked, voice quiet, teasing. “Of course you do. That cock’s telling the truth, even if your mouth can’t.”

You ground down again, slower this time—pressing your clit right over the length of him, dragging yourself forward with a long roll of your hips. Your breath hitched, not from pleasure—not yet—but from the control. From the heat. From the mess of it all.

“You were gonna fuck me like this, weren’t you?” you whispered, fingers dragging over his chest. “Lay me out, drugged and confused. My legs open. My eyes half-shut. You’d slide right in and tell yourself it was okay, wouldn’t you?”

You leaned closer, your tits brushing his chest as your lips hovered over his mouth.

“You’d say I wanted it.”

You rolled your hips again—hard, slow—grinding right over the head of his cock through layers of fabric, soaking him with every pass.

“But now you’re the one lying there,” you breathed. “Hard and useless. And I’m gonna take every fucking second from you.”

You rolled your hips slower now, deliberately, keeping the friction centered—grinding your soaked panties right over the thick length of him, the pressure teasing you more than you wanted to admit.

But you didn’t move faster. You didn’t break.

This wasn’t about you cumming. Not yet. This was about watching him fall apart.

You leaned forward, letting your breasts brush against his chest again, soft skin sliding against his warm, useless body. Your fingers threaded into his hair, nails grazing his scalp.

His eyes fluttered again. Still open. Still watching.

You shifted your weight just enough, bringing your chest higher—until one of your tits hovered right over his face. Inches from his mouth.

You watched his lips part without a word.

And you smiled.

“Open up, baby,” you whispered, voice low and syrupy, your fingers holding him steady as you lowered yourself.

The soft, swollen curve of your nipple brushed his lips—just barely—and you felt it. That gentle pull.

His mouth closed around you, weakly at first. Slow. Then—

A suck.

Lazy. Slow. Uncoordinated.

But real.

You looked down at him in stunned amusement as his lips closed around your nipple, tongue pressing softly against the sensitive skin. His mouth worked in slow, uneven motions—too tired to do it right, too drugged to know better.

But he was trying.

Trying to suck your tit like he needed it.

Your hand stayed in his hair, holding him close. You let out a soft, breathy laugh, fingers lightly stroking his temple as he suckled like some fucked-up version of comfort.

“Oh, Bucky,” you cooed. “Look at you.”

He didn’t answer—just kept his mouth on you, slow and lazy.

Like instinct. Like obedience.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” you whispered, lips brushing the top of his head. “Still trying to be a good boy. Trying to make mommy proud.”

You gave a slow roll of your hips, grinding your soaked panties over his cock again, and he let out a muffled sound against your breast—half-moan, half-sigh.

His mouth was still working.

Not well. Not fast. But it was there—warm, soft, pliant—sucking at your nipple like it had been trained. Like he was trying to please you, even through the fog.

You pulled back slowly, letting your breast slide free with a wet pop. His lips stayed parted, a thin trail of spit clinging between them and your skin. He blinked up at you, confused and glassy, his mouth twitching like it missed the contact.

You sat up, straddling his stomach again, your soaked panties clinging between your thighs, the cotton now practically translucent with how wet you were.

You looked down at him. His eyes weren’t focused, but they were open. Watching. And his mouth was still slack, slightly parted, pink and wet from suckling.

That’s when the idea hit you.

Quick, sharp, electric.

You shifted back just enough to slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and peeled them down your thighs, dragging the soaked fabric over your knees, letting them drop to the floor.

His chest rose and fell beneath you—shallow, erratic, every breath drawing in the scent of your arousal. You watched his lips twitch again. A tiny sound escaped him. Like a whine.

Your gaze flicked to the edge of the bed.

To the camera.

Still untouched. Still waiting.

You reached for it with calm, deliberate fingers, lifting it off the sheets. It was heavier now—fuller, somehow, because you knew what it was about to capture.

You flicked the power switch.

The soft mechanical whir kicked to life, red light blinking once… twice… then steady.

Recording.

The weight of that hit you all at once—not guilt, not doubt—but power. A perfect circle. He’d planned to drug you, fuck you, maybe film you.

Now he was the one drugged. Flat on his back. And you were about to record him licking your pussy like a good, helpless toy.

You dragged your wet cunt up his bare chest, letting your slick smear across the line of his sternum, your clit catching every dip and ridge of his abs.

He let out a noise—something low and lost, like a gasp or a sigh—and you looked down just in time to see his glazed eyes flicker toward you.

There was no recognition in them.

Just need.

You positioned the camera in your hand, angling it downward. Framing the shot.

And then, slowly, you slid up his chest.

Your thighs spread wide, knees planted firm on either side of his face, and your wet heat hovered just above his mouth.

His head tilted slightly. Lips parting.

You looked down at him, camera aimed at his face, your other hand resting gently in his hair.

“Look at you,” you purred. “You don’t even know what’s coming.”

You lowered yourself just enough that your pussy lips brushed against his. Warm and slick and swollen. You watched the way his nostrils flared, how his breath caught. He could smell it—taste it—and instinct kicked in.

His tongue flicked out.

Sloppy. Weak. But there.

You smiled, dark and slow.

“Come on,” you whispered, your voice like a lullaby laced in venom. “Use that pretty little mouth. Make it count, Bucky. You’re being filmed.”

And you rocked forward, just slightly, letting your clit drag over his tongue as the red light blinked—capturing everything.

His tongue flicked up again—clumsy but eager—lapping at your folds like he was trying to remember what he was supposed to do with it. You let your weight settle just a little heavier, pressing your pussy down against his mouth, guiding him without words.

The heat of your cunt coated his lips instantly, slick soaking his chin, and when his tongue slipped between your folds again—messy, uncoordinated—you moaned softly. Not from the pleasure, not yet.

From the visual.

His mouth—slack, wet, trying. His eyes—glazed, unfocused, but still looking up at you. The red light—blinking steady on the camera in your hand, catching it all.

You tilted the camera, making sure to get the angle just right—your thighs spread around his face, your pussy riding his mouth, and those pathetic, needy eyes staring up through the haze.

“That’s it,” you cooed, voice syrupy sweet, thumb brushing the corner of his jaw. “That’s a good boy, Bucky. You wanted to take something from me? Now you get to give it back.”

You shifted forward, dragging your clit across his tongue with a slow grind. The friction wasn’t precise—he wasn’t skilled like this—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that his tongue was moving. That his mouth was open. That he let you use him, whether he understood it or not.

You leaned forward slightly, the camera still angled down, one hand in his hair, gripping tight enough to keep him exactly where you wanted him.

“God, you’re so fucking stupid,” you whispered with a little laugh, breath catching as his tongue found your entrance and pushed, barely. “Look at you. Eyes all dazed, mouth sloppy, sucking like you’re gonna make me cum just to prove you’re not useless.”

Another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down harder. His nose brushed your clit this time, and your thighs clenched automatically. You let your head tilt back, a quiet gasp leaving your lips.

His tongue flicked again, still too slow, still soft. But it was there. Warm. Willing.

“You like this, don’t you?” you breathed, dragging the camera up to capture your own face now—flushed, wild-eyed, your tits bouncing with every grind. “Being used like this. You were gonna do it to me, and now I’m sitting on your face like I own it.”

You looked down again, shifting your hips with more pressure, your clit grinding right over the bridge of his nose now, your wetness slick across his cheeks.

His hands twitched against the sheets.

His eyes blinked, slow and half-lost, but still fixed on you.

“Mmm, that’s right,” you purred. “Keep watching me. Watch me take what you were never gonna earn.”

You rode his face harder now, grinding down, using his mouth for real—his tongue barely keeping up, drool mixing with your slick. Your thighs clenched tighter around his head, the pressure building, slow but heavy, like a fuse burning down.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, hips stuttering slightly as a tremble raced up your spine. “Fucking don’t stop. You wanted to play dirty? You wanted to make me weak? Now you get to watch me cum on your fucking face.”

Your thighs were trembling now.

Tight around his face, muscles twitching with every slow, grinding roll of your hips. His tongue was still moving—weak, uneven licks dragged through your wetness—but it was his mouth that pushed you closer. His lips, his breath, the heat of him. The fact of him under you, slack and slow, with your pussy soaking his chin.

The camera trembled in your hand. Your grip unsteady, wrist flexing, but the lens stayed locked on him. That ruined face—lips swollen, cheeks glistening, jaw slick with your cum. His blue eyes, glassy and unfocused, still locked on you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

Your free hand fisted in his hair, grinding his mouth harder against your cunt, and your breath hitched in your throat, the pressure mounting fast—sharp and sudden, like it had been waiting for this exact moment to break loose.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it—don’t fucking stop—”

Your voice cracked as your clit dragged over the bridge of his nose again, the friction just right. You rolled your hips one more time, slow and deep, and the pleasure surged up your spine like fire.

Your thighs clenched around his head as the orgasm hit you—not gentle, not soft—but heavy, brutal, a full-body tremor as your pussy pulsed over his mouth.

You moaned—loud, guttural, obscene—hips jerking as waves of slick spilled onto his tongue, your cunt grinding down with every twitch, every clench. Your grip on the camera shook, the frame wobbling, but it stayed centered.

It caught everything.

The tension in your thighs. The sweat on your chest. The way his tongue stayed out, catching your orgasm, like he wanted it.

Your body slumped forward, breath catching in your throat, heartbeat pounding in your ears as your high slowly tapered off—still grinding lightly, riding out every last ripple.

Your cunt was soaked. His face was a mess.

You slid off his face slowly, lifting your hips with a gentle roll, strings of slick breaking between your pussy and his lips. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just lay there, breath ragged, mouth parted, the lower half of his face drenched.

You settled back onto his chest with a soft sigh, your bare thighs still spread over him, the dress bunched around your waist, tits out, flushed and gleaming under the soft light.

The camera was still rolling.

You angled it down toward his face again, framing the shot tight—his cheeks slick and shining, his lips wet, his stubble dark with your cum and his drool. His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes stuck together with sweat, blinking like he didn’t know where he was.

Perfect.

You brought the camera a little closer.

“Aww,” you cooed, voice low and syrupy. “Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”

He didn’t respond—just breathed, sharp and shallow, his chest rising against your ass.

“You’re soaked,” you whispered, tilting the camera for a better angle, zooming in on the shine of your slick across his lips. “You didn’t even know what you were doing, did you? Just licking and sucking like a good little toy.”

You laughed, soft and mean, dragging your fingers down his chest, tracing circles around his nipple, still holding the camera steady.

“You gonna tell me that was mutual, too?” you murmured. “That you didn’t mean to drug me? That you didn’t mean to get me here, get me pliant, get my legs open for you?”

His eyes twitched. Just slightly. Still unfocused.

You leaned in close, lips near his ear, the camera catching the movement of your body, the way your tits grazed his bare chest.

“If I hadn’t switched those glasses,” you whispered, “this would’ve been me, wouldn’t it?”

You pulled back, camera right in front of his face again.

“But now you’re the one drooling, high as fuck, face covered in my cum.”

You smiled, slow and cruel.

“You make such a pretty toy, Bucky. I might just keep you.”

You shifted your weight back, thighs sliding down his body until you were straddling his thighs—bare cunt leaving a slick, glistening trail across his skin. The camera stayed in your hand, angled perfectly to catch his face first—ruined and wet—then slowly tilting down to follow your descent.

You braced yourself with one hand on his chest, the other dragging the lens down the hard plane of his torso.

Then your fingers went to his belt.

You tugged the leather strap with a slow, deliberate pull—the soft snick of the buckle releasing echoed in the room like a starter’s pistol. His hips twitched faintly, involuntary. Maybe instinct.

You hummed.

“Let’s see what you were planning to use on me,” you whispered, pulling the belt out and letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

Your fingers worked fast now—unbuttoning his jeans, dragging the zipper down over the bulge that strained visibly beneath.

You let the camera catch it. Zoomed in on it.

The thick shape pressing against the front of his boxers. The outline firm, swollen, twitching like it knew what you were about to do.

You slid his jeans down first, shoving them rough past his hips, down his thighs—just enough to expose the mess underneath. Then the waistband of his boxers followed.

You dragged them down slowly, teasingly, until his cock finally sprang free.

And you froze.

Your brow lifted. A slow, amused smile tugged at your lips.

“Well,” you murmured, panning the camera down to focus fully on it. “Now that’s… impressive.”

Even drugged and helpless, his cock was hard—thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach, a drop of precum already beading at the tip. You reached down with your free hand, curling your fingers around the base.

It twitched in your palm.

You looked down at him.

His chest was rising faster now, lips parted again, throat working with another thick swallow. His eyes tried to find yours—still hazy, still out of sync—but you weren’t looking at his face anymore.

You were looking at his cock.

“You were really gonna fuck me with this, weren’t you?” you said softly, your voice honey-slick and edged with venom. “Would’ve stretched me open real good. Would’ve made me scream, maybe.”

You stroked him slowly, base to tip, thumb teasing the precum from the head, spreading it down his shaft as it twitched again in your grip.

“Shame you’re not gonna get to use it the way you planned.”

You tilted the camera, making sure to catch the way his cock jumped with every slow pump of your hand, how your wet fingers slid easily over his skin.

“You know what this is now?” you asked, tone lower, darker. “It’s mine.”

You stayed right where you were, perched on his hips, bare thighs spread wide across his waist as his cock lay hot and hard against his stomach. Your fingers traced up the shaft lazily, curling around it just enough to feel the pulse beneath your grip.

The camera stayed trained on his cock.

You tilted it slightly for the perfect angle—capturing your hand wrapped around him, the gleam of wetness already glistening at the tip, the slight twitch every time you squeezed just a little too tight.

You giggled under your breath, slow and mean.

“Look at this,” you purred. “So pretty. So hard for nothing.”

You stroked him once, long and slow, watching his hips barely lift, just enough to embarrass himself. You let the head of his cock slap softly back down onto his stomach with a wet sound, precum smearing across his skin like a brand.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” you asked, tracing the tip with your thumb. “Your big, bad cock? Was this supposed to scare me?”

Another lazy stroke.

Then another, slower.

He let out a sound—weak and raw, like a moan that couldn’t form all the way.

You looked down at him, eyes narrow with amusement.

“You can’t even move,” you whispered. “And I’m sitting on you, jerking you off like you’re my little toy.”

Your hand left him, just for a moment, as you shifted forward—your soaked pussy hovering over his cock now, your slick already glistening along your inner thighs.

You reached down and pressed his cock flat against his stomach again.

Held it there.

Then rolled your hips forward—slow and heavy—dragging your cunt along the full length of him, grinding his shaft between your folds, your clit catching on the thick head as your wetness smeared across his skin.

“Fuck,” you moaned, breath hitching. “That’s what I needed.”

You did it again.

And again.

Grinding slowly on his cock, your slick leaving wet trails over his abs as you used him like a toy—just friction, heat, pressure, your pussy dripping down his shaft and soaking him completely.

He made another noise—low, shaky.

You smirked.

“Aw, poor baby,” you said softly, brushing his cheek with the back of your fingers. “You’re supposed to be inside me by now, right? That was the plan?”

You rocked your hips harder, letting the ridge of his cock slide against your clit now, slick squelching with every pass.

“But now you’re just a warm surface for me to rub my pussy on.”

You leaned down slightly, camera still rolling, catching every bounce of your tits, every twitch of his cock, the sound of your cunt grinding wet and slow against him.

“Smile for the camera, Bucky.”

You kept grinding.

Slow, filthy strokes. The length of his cock pinned against his stomach, your slick cunt dragging up and down, soaking it more with every pass. The sounds were obscene—wet and lewd, echoing off the bedroom walls like a private show only you could give.

Every time your clit slid over the thick head of his cock, you shuddered—not from pleasure, but from the power of it.

The camera caught it all.

Your thighs flexing. The mess of your pussy glistening over his skin. The twitch of his cock beneath you.

You leaned back slightly, planting one hand behind you for balance, the other still clutching the camera as you tilted your hips just right—letting your folds part and drag along the shaft like silk over steel. Your slick was everywhere now, drenching him, smearing across his abs and matting the hair at the base of his cock.

You let your head roll back with a quiet, breathy moan.

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, voice thick with satisfaction. “Listen to that.”

Another slow grind.

The sound was filthy—all wet friction and heat, your pussy squelching against his cock like you were already fucking him.

But you weren’t.

Not yet.

You were just using him.

You looked down at him again.

His face was flushed. Sweating. His jaw slack. His chest rising too fast for how little he’d moved.

And then you heard it.

A breath—shallow, rasping—and a word that barely made it out.

“…please…”

You froze. Just for a second. Then smiled.

“Aww,” you said sweetly, leaning forward again, tits hanging between you, camera aimed right at his face. “What was that, baby? You begging?”

He blinked slowly, like every second of consciousness cost him something.

You rolled your hips again—once—and his body twitched, cock straining against your heat, the glide wetter now, noisier.

You leaned in closer, lips right by his ear, your voice soft and cruel.

“Please what, Bucky?”

You ground down again, dragging your cunt from base to tip, your clit catching the head perfectly—your breath catching with it.

“Please let you fuck me?”

You moaned, slow and breathy, the camera still rolling steady in your hand.

He tried again.

“Please…”

This time, it came out stronger. Still hoarse, still pathetic—but enough to make you pause.

You stopped grinding.

Lifted your hips just slightly, his cock now glistening with your slick, resting flushed and twitching against his stomach. You could see the desperation in his face. Every inch of it—flushed, damp, barely held together. His eyes met yours, glazed and pleading, even if the words weren’t forming fast enough.

You smiled down at him, slow and indulgent.

“Please what, Bucky?” you asked again, softly stroking his cock with your soaked hand, pumping it just once. “Use your words, baby. You were so fucking chatty in the office.”

His head rolled slightly. Then stopped.

Eyes fixed on yours.

“Please… let me in…”

You tilted your head, feigning thought.

Then reached down with one hand, still holding the camera in the other, and wrapped your fingers around his cock again—warm, flushed, wet with your slick.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

You lifted your hips, lined him up, and slowly dragged the thick head of his cock through your folds again—not teasing now, just guiding. Feeling him press right where you needed him.

And then—slowly—you started to sink.

The thick, swollen mushroom tip caught first—your pussy stretching around it, inch by inch, the pressure spreading you open.

“Fuuuuck,” you moaned under your breath, lips parting as the head popped inside.

It was a squeeze. Deep and full and filthy—your cunt wrapping tight around the ridge of him as it slipped past your entrance, slow and wet and heavy.

You angled the camera down between your thighs, capturing everything—the way your pussy swallowed that first inch, the way his cock twitched inside you, already pulsing against your walls.

You held yourself there for a beat, hips trembling, his cock head throbbing inside you like it wanted more, but you weren’t rushing.

You looked down at him again.

His mouth was slack, eyes wide.

He could feel it now.

The heat. The tightness. The realness of your cunt wrapped around him.

You smiled and leaned in, voice sticky-sweet.

“You feel that?” you whispered, grinding just an inch lower, feeling the first bulge of his veins catch against your walls. “That’s me deciding what you get. How much you get. How deep you get to go.”

He let out a breathless, broken moan.

And you sank a little deeper. You didn’t stop. Not when the head popped in. Not when the thick ridge of his cock stretched your walls wide. Not when the veins along his shaft dragged delicious friction against your slick insides.

You just kept going. Sinking down. Deeper. Lower.

Until you were fully seated—your ass pressed to his hips, his balls resting against you, full and heavy. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing, filling every inch of your cunt so completely it almost hurt.

You moaned—not soft, not delicate—but raw, a sound from your chest, low and ragged.

His pubes tickled your clit as you rocked just once.

You felt everything. Every twitch. Every pulse. Every buried inch.

And then? You moved.

No mercy. No rhythm. Just need.

You started riding him—hard, fast, furious—your hips slamming down with every bounce, your slick making it messy and loud. Skin on skin. Wet friction. The slap of your thighs meeting his.

The camera was still in your hand, pointed straight down between your bodies—capturing the bounce of your tits, the ripple of your ass, the way your pussy took him deep, over and over.

“Fuck—yes—yes,” you gasped, fingers digging into his chest for balance as you slammed yourself down harder, using his cock like a machine, like a tool built to get you off.

He made a noise—weak, cracked—and you laughed.

“Is this what you wanted?” you growled, barely coherent. “Wanted me open, wanted me fucked? Now you’re just lying there and taking it.”

You bounced harder.

Faster.

Your clit rubbed against his pubes, overstimulating, hot and electric. The ridge of his cock hit your walls just right, thick veins dragging across your insides like they were made to wreck you.

You moaned again, louder, not bothering to hide it now.

Because this wasn’t for him.

It was for you.

Your ass clapped against his hips with every thrust, and the room was full of it—your gasps, the wet slap of your pussy, the camera’s soft mechanical whir, catching everything.

You didn’t slow down.

If anything, you rode him harder now—hips slamming down in a rhythm that shook the bed, the slap of wet skin-on-skin echoing like applause. Your thighs burned, slick pouring down his cock with every bounce, making a messy, gorgeous sound each time he bottomed out inside you.

The camera stayed locked in your grip, angled perfectly—capturing the place where his cock disappeared into your dripping pussy, again and again. Your lips stretched around him, raw and swollen and greedy, your slick coating his shaft, his balls, soaking everything in a film of filthy heat.

You moaned—loud and broken—eyes flickering down to watch it happen.

“Fuck,” you gasped, voice ragged. “Look at that. Look at how well you fit.”

Your other hand moved over your body, sliding up to your tits, grabbing one roughly. You squeezed, pinched your nipple, gasping at the sting—and still, you bounced. Still, you rode. Like your body wouldn’t stop until it broke him.

Then your hand slipped lower.

Your fingers found your clit—swollen, sensitive, already pulsing from the constant friction. You circled it fast, hard, desperate now. The pleasure had crested into need, raw and overwhelming, and you chased it like you were starving.

You clenched around him, hard, your pussy fluttering with every rough grind, and his cock twitched inside you—helpless to the tight squeeze of your cunt milking him.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, louder now, hips stuttering as you slammed down again, your fingers working your clit in messy, slippery circles. “I’m so fucking close—fuck, fuck—yes—”

The bed rocked under you.

Your tits bounced with every thrust.

His cock, soaked and pulsing, disappeared over and over into your cunt while your slick gushed around it, dripping down your thighs, smearing your ass.

Your thighs were burning now. Your hand was a blur on your clit. Your pussy was clenching so tight around his cock it made your breath hitch in your chest.

You bounced harder—faster—wet skin slapping together with every thrust, your slick squelching around him with every messy descent. The camera shook in your hand, still pointed down, capturing the moment his cock stretched you open and disappeared deep inside your cunt, over and over.

“F-fuck—” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cum—”

You threw your head back, the pleasure building so fast it hurt, your fingers tight on your clit as your hips moved without thought—just instinct, just need.

And then it hit.

You shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you like fire, raw and explosive, your pussy pulsing violently around his cock as your thighs locked around his waist. You screamed—loud, wrecked, unfiltered—riding it out, fucking yourself on him even as your body convulsed.

“Fuuuck—yes—fuck—yes—oh my god—”

Your cunt clenched and clenched, dragging him deeper, wetter, tighter. You could feel every vein, every ridge, every twitch of his cock inside you.

And he whined.

Low, broken, useless.

You looked down at him through the blur of your high, his mouth slack, eyes barely open, and his hips—twitching, trying to fuck up into you but failing.

He was close. You knew it.

So you didn’t stop.

You rode.

Bouncing through your orgasm, dragging his cock in and out of your spasming cunt, your slick spilling everywhere, your thighs soaked, your clit still pulsing under your fingers.

“Cum,” you growled, teeth bared, breath ragged. “Fucking cum, Bucky.”

He let out a soft, shattered sound—almost like a sob.

And then you felt it.

The twitch. The pulse. The sudden heat that flooded you, thick and hot and helpless.

You moaned again, biting your lip, as you rode through his release—his cock jerking inside you, his cum spilling deep, your cunt milking every drop from him.

He was whining now—weak, soft noises of surrender, of overload—and you slowed just slightly, rolling your hips with satisfaction, feeling every last pulse of him spill into your body.

“Good boy,” you breathed, leaning down, your voice sweet and cruel. “Filling me like you were made for it.”

You let out a long, satisfied sigh.

Your body still tingled, pussy still pulsing faintly around the emptiness he left behind. Sweat dripped down your chest, your inner thighs slick, and the ache between your legs was deep and earned.

You finally climbed off him—slow, unbothered—letting his softening cock slip free with a wet, sticky sound.

The mess was immediate.

His cum started leaking out of you as soon as you shifted, creamy white spilling in a thick string down the inside of your thigh, dripping toward the sheets.

You reached for the camera again.

Still rolling.

You tilted it down, framing the shot right where your swollen, soaked pussy gaped around his release. You spread your legs wider, let your fingers drag up your folds, gathering the leaking cum in slow, lazy swipes.

It was warm.

Heavy.

Yours now.

You moaned softly, low in your throat, dragging your slick fingers back and letting them smear across your clit—not to tease, just to feel it.

Then?

You looked down at him.

He was still lying there—limp, dazed, ruined.

Eyes barely open. Mouth slightly parted. Chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.

You straddled his chest again, leaned down, and tilted the camera to catch his face.

“Open,” you whispered, voice sugar-sweet, your fingers still glistening.

He didn’t obey—not fully. But his lips parted enough.

You reached down, and smeared his own cum across his mouth, slow and deliberate, dragging your fingers over his bottom lip like gloss.

“There,” you whispered, dragging your fingertips down his chin, cum trailing with them. “A little reminder.”

He moaned softly—not from pleasure, just existence—and you smiled.

“You’ll taste that later,” you murmured, “when you watch this back.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. Light. Mocking.

Then leaned back and turned the camera toward yourself, your flushed face framed by your messy hair, your smile feral.

“Say thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

The office looked the same.

The same dull glass walls, the same hum of fluorescent lights, the same low chatter as people settled in with their coffee. Keyboards clicked. Phones rang. Laughter drifted from the hallway—someone retelling a story from the office party.

You stepped off the elevator and into it all, your heart beating too calm in your chest.

This was supposed to be the hard part.

You were supposed to be panicking. Running over every second of that night on loop. Wondering if you'd gone too far, wondering if the police would be waiting by your desk, if HR would come calling with a quiet conversation and handcuffs not far behind.

But you didn’t feel any of that.

You weren’t numb.

You just… weren’t sorry.

You paused by your cubicle, sliding your bag off your shoulder. The seat was exactly how you’d left it. Chair slightly crooked. Pen cap bitten. Coffee mug with your name on it.

Normal.

Except it wasn’t. Because you weren’t.

Your mind should have been reeling. Should have been replaying the sound of his voice breaking, the way he whispered "please" like it was a word he wasn’t used to saying. You should have felt something.

But instead, you just kept thinking the same thing over and over,

If I hadn’t done it to him… he would’ve done it to me.

You could still see it. That glass of wine. The way he watched you drink it. The way he smiled when you swallowed.

The man who was supposed to be your boss, your mentor—your protector, even.

He was going to drug you. Ruin you.

You’d touched yourself to that night.

Not just once—not just idly.

You’d gone to bed Sunday night with your fingers buried between your thighs, cunt throbbing as you remembered how his mouth moved against your pussy. How his cock felt inside you. How warm his cum had been, dripping out of you, smeared across his lips like some kind of sick joke you never wanted to forget.

You moaned his name with your face in the pillow. Came harder than you thought you would.

Not from the memory of sex. But from the power of it. From the fact that it was yours.

So walking into the office Monday, the world quiet and polite, your coworkers buzzing about leftover cake and who got drunk and danced to ‘80s pop hits… it felt like another planet.

Because they didn’t know. No one knew.

And then he walked in.

Bucky Barnes.

Mr. Barnes.

Smiling like a fucking toothpaste commercial, dark hair neatly styled, that familiar rolled-up shirt hugging his forearms, collar open, sleeves cuffed like nothing had changed. Like Saturday night didn’t happen.

He strolled through the rows of desks with a coffee in one hand, nodding at familiar faces, cracking some stupid joke about the party and who should be fired for their dancing. The office laughed.

You just stared.

Because how the fuck could he look so normal?

After what you did to him. After what he tried to do to you.

He passed by your desk with that same effortless swagger and that crooked little grin, and when his eyes met yours—

It was like nothing. Just a nod. A casual, “Morning, sweetheart,” tossed in your direction like usual.

And then he kept walking.

Like he didn’t have your scent still dried on his skin. Like he didn’t remember moaning beneath you. Like he hadn’t filled your cunt with his cum while the camera blinked red.

Your stomach twisted.

Not with fear. With need.

────────────────────────

The note was folded clean, neat, pressed against your keyboard like it had always been there. You spotted it the moment you returned from the break room, coffee still hot in your hand.

Your name wasn’t written on the outside.

But you knew it was for you.

You glanced around—casual, just in case—and unfolded it with a flick of your thumb.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

“Lunch. My office. Door stays locked. You can use me again.”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together.

And that was when you smiled.

Not polite. Not girlish.

A real smile. A sharp, pleased, wicked thing that curled your lips as you sank into your chair and reread the note like it was a gift.

Because it was.

He remembered.

Not just what you did—but how you did it. And he wanted more.

You looked up at the clock.

11:27.

Too early.

You took a slow sip of your coffee. Tried to focus on your screen. Failed. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked back to the clock, watching the minutes tick down like drops of anticipation sliding down your spine.

11:42.

You shifted in your chair, the seat suddenly too warm, your skin too tight. You crossed your legs, uncrossed them, crossed again.

11:58.

You stood.

Heart steady. Mouth dry. Pussy already wet.

You didn’t say anything to your coworkers. Just grabbed a pen you didn’t need, adjusted your skirt like it mattered, and walked—calm, measured steps—straight toward Mr. Barnes’ office.

You didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.

Your hand closed around the door handle. And you smiled again.

Because you knew—just like he did—

This was only the beginning.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[iluvemobitches]

Me waiting on y'all to make them stranger things fics

[httpjrnl]

ao’nung x omatikaya!reader.

bickering , light angst , lowkey romantic shi

“you really suck at this…”

ao’nung was standing in front of you, arms crossed as he watched you fall off your ilu for the fourth time this evening. you had asked him for personal lessons since you made a bet with your brother lo’ak that you’d learn to ride ilu better and faster than him.

you gasped for air and held your chest, shooting the sea man a glare. “you said you’d help me.”

he rolls his eyes and glides further into the water. “i’ve tried. you want to do it the way you think you know how. ilu are gentle creatures,” he monologues. “you mount as if you expect it to betray you.”

that was probably the issue. for so long, you were taught to fight your way onto your ikran back at home. ilu’s are very different creatures. you still didn’t know how to adapt. “i don’t know any other way.” you said, trying not to sound as weak as you did right now. you hated the unfamiliarity of it all.

ao’nung approaches you and your ilu. “you have to trust it.” he says firmly.

you can’t do this. not tonight. all you can think about is home. you miss the forest. you miss being able to run through the trees with your siblings, with spider. all of this water makes you nauseous and you can’t stand it anymore. “i need some air.” you say quietly.

he watches your shoulders tense and you preparing to walk away. ao’nung yips and calls his ilu over, getting on top of it and gliding in front of you before you can step out of the shore. “come with me,” he said, offering a hand.

you blink. “what?”

“i’ll take you,” he clarifies. “to your hut.”

“but it’s just that way—“ you turn to where you were going to start walking and point.

“i know a shortcut.” ao’nung says. his ilu makes a few screechy noises.

you stand there, unsure. ao’nung would never do anything malicious or to harm you, so it’s not that you didn’t trust him. you just weren’t in a good mood. “i don’t know…”

“you trust me, right?” he asks, hand still stretched out to you.

you nod and hesitantly reach for his hand. he grabs your whole arm and helps you get on top of his ilu. the creature clicks its throat a few times. you felt like holding your breath. like if you did, it wouldn’t even notice you were there.

ao’nung reaches forward and caresses the ilu’s neck, speaking soft words into na’vi into its ear. when he was finished, he sat up. “might want to hold on.” he warned.

“i’ll be fine—“

his ilu started moving above the water and you almost flew back. with quick reflexes, you grabbed onto his waist with your arms. his abdomen flinches as your naturally warm hands touch his skin.

ao’nung bites his lip and focuses on trying directing his ilu where he wanted it to go. “not so bad huh?”

“yeah. not so bad.” you sigh, resting your cheek on his back as you watched the water move around you.

it feels like it takes a while to get home, so you try and pick your head up without loosening your grip. the village is fading behind you, and you’re going deeper into the vast blue water. “where…where are we going?” you questioned.

“shortcut, like i said,” what a lousy liar.

“ao’nung bring me back.” you demand seriously, tightening your grip on him.

“relax. i’ll bring you back, don’t worry. i just want to show you something.”

you huff heavily, uncertainty boiling up inside you. you trusted aonung, but this was a little sketchy. last time he took an omatikaya out into the ocean, it didn’t end well for either clan. you said nothing else until you two arrived in front of a massive cave mouth, half-submerged and glowing from inside.

you stop mid-breath and loosen your grip around aonung’s torso. ao’nung doesn’t say a word. he guides his ilu further in with steady confidence and the scenery inside takes you aback.

it’s like the whole world changed. it resembles home. tall, smooth trunks tower over you both. leaves gently snip off their branches and land in the water surrounding the floor. bioluminescent plants hang from the inside walls of the cave.

“wow…” you murmur.

ao’nung glances over his shoulder and opens his mouth to speak, but when he sees your watery, longing eyes embracing what’s around you, he just smiles. he knew you needed this. it can’t be easy being so far from home the way you and your family are.

the ilu leads you two to a small platform made of tree bark. with a swift motion, he hops off, grabbing your arm to bring you with him before his ilu dives down.

“pretty, right?” ao’nung asks you, tilting his head as his eyes trail along your expression.

you nod. “very.”

his hand lifts without much thought, brushing damp strands of hair back from your face. his thumb catches a few beads of water from your cheek and wipes it away, rougher than gentle but careful all the same. when he realizes what he’s doing, he snaps his hand back and clears his throat.

“i figured you’d like it.” he says quietly.

a/n: AHHH AONUNG. you’re NAWT nonchalant pal..

[sweetlyferal]

LO’AK HEAD CANNONS

Lo’ak head cannons for when you and him first met because I love my blue boy sm!! also THIS IS SFW AND NSFW SO MINORS DNI!

Authors note : Sorry for any spelling mistakes on there names if I made some this was not proof read! Alsooo this is my first writing piece that I have posted because I’ve been to scared to post my drafts so here ya go 😘

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SFW

- When you and Lo’ak first met you immediately felt attracted to him

- When he had came to the Metkayina Clan he kept trying to impress you but would fail and just embarrass himself. ( you thought it was cute )

- Neteyam and Kiri would bug him non stop about his little crush on you.

- Lucky for you, you quite liked his siblings so you would find it easy to hangout with them and understand there ways.

- With you learning there ways you also helped them with learning yours. You taught Lo’ak how too talk underwater which was a struggle but it helped you two become close fast.

- Your mother and father disapproved of Lo’ak because they decided they couldn’t trust him with his “Alien” blood in his veins.

- Most importantly they knew Ronal and Tonowari disapproved of them and couldn’t let the clan leaders know their daughter had a thing for the pink skin people.

- You never seemed to care what your parents thought but Lo’ak did.

- You tried telling him that it was okay and your parents would come around eventually but he didn’t think it was possible

- Lo’ak would teach you all the swear words he had learned from Jake and tell you stories to his home.

- “Y/N I promise you the second i get out of here and go home, I’m taking you with me to show you the rainforest, and the people, and the lights. It’s a beautiful place. I know you would love it.”

- You reply those words every night before you fall asleep.

- One day we had a festival and Lo’ak was very scared to go. He felt like he didn’t fit it

- But once he got there he didn’t want to leave

- It was the first time you actully saw him smile and laugh with your people all together.

- He danced, made new friends, even made your parents hate him a bit less.

- At the end of the night he grabbed your hand and took you out by the water

- You both sat on the sand facing eachother with the moonlight and the far away lights being your only sources of light.

- “ Thank you Y/N for getting me to come tonight. I really needed it.”

- Ever since you met Lo’ak you could tell he felt a bit left out and lonely. That was your main reason you wanted him to really connect with your people.

- To show him he didn’t need to be alone.

- “ Of course Lo’ak. I know things have been tough adjusting to this new place, but I’m really happy to see you try.”

- Lo’ak smiled. He felt seen.

- He stood up and put his hand out for you to grab and when you did he pulled you up and hugged you.

- You guys had stayed like that for a while and then when you had finally pulled away he looked at you like you were the most perfect thing he had ever seen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NSFW

- You and Lo’ak were both virgins when you met and had no experience.

- You were embarrassed when you liked him because you thought he had already done stuff with the women from his rainforest. Then one day through a game of truth or dare you asked him if he was a virgin and he said yes.

- After that things started getting more intense.

- He would never initiate any physical touch if he wasn’t 100% you wanted it.

- When you both decided to take your relationship further and have sex he was so gentle.

- Every movement made with precision. He made sure you felt amazing.

- He love love love loves giving you head

- it’s his favourite activity. And boy is he good at it.

- When he’s upset and feels like he’s not enough he comes to you.

- He gives you the best head until you forget how to breath and can’t walk for a week. Anything for your approval.

- One time you both snuck out from your beds to go out to the water.

- What was supposed to be an innocent hangout turned into a night of never ending euphoria.

- He was watching you underwater doing flips when he couldn’t contain himself and brought you up.

- You told him you were gonna get caught but he begged you saying everyone was asleep. But the excitement of being caught was what convinced you.

- Your legs wrapped around his as he slowly rocked his hips into you in the water.

- You guys were close enough his feet could touch but far another no one could see you guys.

- His hand was placed around your mouth stopping you from letting your moans wake eveyone in the village.

- This man is ALWAYS whispering sweet praises in your ear as he demolishes you

- “you feel so good Y/N.“ “I love you so much.” “You’re doing so well.”

- He would never degrade you when in such an intimate act in any way.

- The morning after your “sweet” little swim Kiri came to Lo’ak.

- “I heard you get up last night brother. Where did you go?” Kiri asked with a smug look on her face.

- “I had to go piss. Is that a problem?”

- “Mhm” Kiri circled Lo’ak sniffing him.

- Kiri’s eyes widened “I can smell it on you.”

- “smell what?” Lo’ak asked innocently.

- “ You had sex! “

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note : okay that’s all I hope you guys liked it !

[leonsdearest]

selfshippers

[ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal]

Unless I’m searching it wrong or something but I do not see any Jamie Campbell Bower x reader fics anywhere😭

[nessa007]

JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER "If you can't handle me at my Vecna, you don't deserve me at my One, basically."

[could-it-be-a-dream]

the duffers can suck my fat one