🌺Rehtse🌺

✨PROFESSIONAL DAYDREAMER✨

[buckysteam]

Can he not can he stop being so damn perfect please it’s not funny anymore

[underratedqueenorie]

Amor mío

[bucksangel]

neighborly behavior

pairing: lumberjack!alpha!stucky x omega!reader (poly)

word count: 8.6k

summary: Needing a change, you take a risk by moving out of California to a cottage in upstate New York that your great-grandfather built for your great-grandmother when they first got married. What you didn’t know was that the house was going to need more work than you originally thought, more than what you could handle. Luckily, your very attractive and handy neighbors offer their help – free of charge, of course. The only problem is that they’re mated to each other. So, why does it feel like they’re flirting with you?

warnings: modern!au, omegaverse, this is just full of absolute fluff, miscommunication/obliviousness, teasing and flirting, also Steve is a little bit of a slut (it’s already canon), reader is a little clumsy, stucky are extremely smitten, public displays of affection, poly relationship, stucky are tall and beefy, pet names (bambi), true mates, love at first sight, stigma around two Alpha’s dating, alternating pov’s 

a/n: thank you so much to @toocrazyunsexycool for this idea (from forever ago)!

masterlist | tip jar | ao3

It’s quite a beautiful day for it being well into fall. It’s not freezing cold thanks to the sun shining high in the sky, but the light breeze keeps it pleasantly cool. The leaves are orange and falling, crunching underneath your boots as you make your way up the cobblestone path to your new house. Stopping just in front of the porch, you look up at it – a beautiful one-story cottage with a broken board on the porch and a busted window. It’s a light-yellow color with trees surrounding the backyard and a decent space in the front for a vegetable garden.

It was hand-built by your great-grandfather in the mid-thirties for his wife after they first got married, and it’s been passed down in your family with each new generation. And despite the house’s dilapidated state, you can tell there’s a lot of love that went into the foundation. You’ve heard stories of your great-grandparents' love and happiness, and the fact that your great-grandfather built his wife a house with his own hands is just proof of their everlasting bond.

It’s a bond you want for yourself.

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you carefully step up the porch and push through the front door – making a mental note to pick something up from the store to fix the creaky hinges. Immediately upon entering, the kitchen is placed to the right, with the dining room directly across, off to the left, and the living room straight ahead. The bedroom and bathroom are down a hallway near the back of the house, and the open plan allows you to see almost the entire living area, making the environment inviting and comforting.

Setting down the box you were holding by the dining table, you take a quick glance over all the other boxes scattered around, and already anxiety is forming, wondering how you’re going to unpack all of your things by yourself. But you decide to tackle that later and go back out to your truck for the last of your things.

You stop as soon as you get back to the porch, finding two men standing at the end of the driveway, motioning to the moving truck and talking to themselves. You’re not sure where they came from, but their athletic clothes let you know they were probably exercising before they stopped here.

“Um… Hello?” You wrap your arms around yourself to shield yourself from the wind picking up, and walk carefully down the porch. “Can I help you guys?”

“Oh!” The men turn to you; the blonde’s eyes are wide as though he wasn’t expecting you. The brunette man smiles at you and waves, looking sheepish.

“Hey,” He says, nudging his elbow into his friend’s side and walking towards you. “Sorry, we were on a run and saw you driving by, so we wanted to come and say hello to our new neighbor. No one’s lived here since we moved in a couple of years ago.”

His explanation puts you at ease, and when the men stop in front of you, your knees almost buckle. The wind carries their scent directly into you, their Alpha scent. Potent due to their run, but not unpleasant, not at all. And the men must take note of your scent because their nostrils flare and their eyes darken a little bit before the brunette man shakes himself out of his trance.

“I’m Bucky, and this is Steve.” You give them your name before you can forget to think, and you have to shake yourself out of your own reverie.

“My great-grandfather built this house in the thirties, and it’s been in my family ever since. I lived in California for a bit but wanted a change, so my mom gave me the keys,” You say as you motion to the house behind you. You take a quick glance at its deteriorated state and cringe a little. “I obviously didn’t know it would be in this condition, but now that I’ve seen it, I want to fix it up again. I don’t want my great-grandfather’s effort to go to waste, you know?”

You’re not sure why you’re telling them this, but their smiles are understanding, and they quickly glance at each other before Steve speaks up.

“Well, we’re lumberjacks, so we’re pretty handy. We’d be happy to help you with some of the dirty work.” Steve sounds hopeful, and Bucky nods in agreement, his eyes shining with nervousness, and it tugs at your heart. You’ve heard of true mates. It’s not super common, but it does exist, and you can’t help but feel like this might be that.

Stop it. You just met them. You’re getting ahead of yourself.

“Oh, oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. It’s a lot of work, and I don’t want to put you guys through that. Plus, I–I really can’t afford to hire people to help right now.” You smile awkwardly, and while you would love the help, it’s true that you’re limited on funds. You’d spent a lot of money moving all of your things across the country, and you’re seriously rethinking taking time off work to adjust to the move.

“Oh, no,” Bucky says, turning your attention to him, and he’s shaking his head. “You’re our neighbor; we’re not going to charge you a thing.” Maybe he can sense your hesitation because he holds up a placating hand. “Plus, like you said, it’s a lot of work. We’re not trying to undermine you, we swear, but we’d feel bad if you had to do all of this yourself.”

Biting your lip, you weigh the pros and cons. On the one hand, you just met them; they could have an ulterior motive just to try and get into your pants. Or steal your things. On the other hand, you really do need help. When you first saw the cabin, you figured that you would start small and slowly fix things over time, but it would be very nice to get everything done faster. Plus, even though you’re an Omega, you’re strong-willed; you know how to set boundaries and are firm in them.

“Okay, but I’ll still feel really bad if I can’t pay you. Um… I could buy you guys food whenever you come over? After all, I wouldn’t be a good host if I made you work without eating.”

Steve and Bucky glance at each other with smiles, seemingly having a silent conversation before they nod and look back at you.

“I’m sure you’d be a great host even if you didn’t feed us, but we’ll take the compromise.” Steve smiles at you, and you momentarily get lost in his ocean-blue eyes. They pull you in, but Bucky’s soft laugh pulls your focus to him. And, you want to be ashamed of yourself for so clearly ogling him, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems rather amused, especially when you shuffle awkwardly and fiddle with your fingers.

Plus, you’re pretty sure Bucky’s laugh is the best sound you’ve ever heard; it’s deep and filled with a sort of mischief that doesn’t put you off. Instead, it flusters you, and you can even tell your scent is sweetening at all the attention and kindness. It’s not that you don’t receive positive attention from Alphas, it’s just never been these Alphas. And, well, it’s fucking with your brain because you don’t know how to process these feelings.

Your great-grandparents were true mates, so you do you believe in them, you’re just positive you’re not supposed to feel like that for two people. To your knowledge, it’s never been documented as a possibility, so your conflicted emotions send you spiraling a little.

“Okay,” You say, somehow able to speak while also having an internal crisis. “Um… when would you be able to start? I still have a few boxes to bring in, but other than unpacking, I have a lot of free time, so you’re welcome to come over whenever.”

“How about now?” Bucky asks, maybe a little too quickly. But you don’t mind; it just makes you smile at his eagerness to help. “We can take a look at the house now, and then we’ll be able to see what we need to focus on first.”

You can hear your mother’s voice in your head chastising you for letting strangers into your home, but you’re going to ignore that. Because there’s a feeling deep in your bones that lets you know that this is a good idea.

“Okay.”

With your permission, Bucky and Steve make their way inside, and Bucky pulls out his phone so he can start taking notes. Within the first thirty seconds, he’s already got a few problems jotted down. The broken board on the porch, creaky door hinge, broken windows, the dining table looks like it’ll collapse if anything is placed on it, and a few of the cabinets in the kitchen are completely gone.

Bucky wants to get to work immediately, and with the way Steve is fidgeting as they walk further into the house, he wants to as well.

“Babe,” Steve says quietly after he notices the long list on Bucky’s phone. And they haven’t even made it past the living room. “We need to get her new furniture too; the springs are busting out of the couch.”

“I know,” Bucky says, eyebrows furrowing in concern, not necessarily for the house, but for you. The work needed will take at least a month, and both he and Steve can already tell the heater is busted. They haven’t seen your room, but if the couch is anything to go by, both Alphas just know it’s old as well. But he also knows that they’ll do whatever they need to do to help you.

“Let's focus on the big things right now, like the windows and the porch.”

At the mention, they hear a thud and your shout of pain behind them, and they whip around and see that you’ve tripped over the broken board. They rush over to you, Steve moving the box you were holding while Bucky helps you sit so he can crouch down and inspect the damage. There’s a pretty nasty cut on your shin, and you whimper when he touches your ankle.

“How bad does it hurt?”

“Um – ah!” You shout again when he gently moves your ankle to test the pain, and he immediately lets it go in favor of worming his arm under your bent knees, and his other arm wraps itself around your back. He hears you whimper, and he has the suddenly irrational feeling of wanting to absorb your pain, getting agitated that you’re hurting, and knowing he can’t really stop it.

Steve has already taken to laying a blanket on the old couch and placed a pillow on the arm of it. While Bucky gently sets you down so you’re propped up against the pillow and your leg is out straight, Steve rushes to the kitchen, then comes back with a frozen bag of vegetables that were put in the freezer thanks to your foresight of grocery shopping before you started unpacking the moving truck. He also has a towel, which he places over your hurt ankle before resting the make-shift ice pack on it.

“Where’s your first-aid stuff?” Bucky asks in a calming tone despite feeling nearly frantic with the overwhelming need to help, to show you that he can be useful.

“I – I don’t have one,” You say sheepishly, and Bucky wants to sigh and lightly scold you, but knows it’s not his place to.

“Steve –”

“I’ll go get our kit!” Steve interrupts as he jogs out of the door and back to their house. When Bucky sees your eyes widen slightly, he knows you’re about to protest.

“The cut might get infected if we don’t clean it up soon, plus, I’m pretty sure we have a wrap we can use for your ankle. You shouldn’t walk on it for a little anyway, so Steve and I can finish bringing in your boxes. And –” Bucky’s rambling is cut off when you place your hand atop his that’s now on your knee.

“Thank you, Bucky,” You say softly, and Bucky just melts. It’s a little unnerving, these feelings swirling in his chest. He knows them well; he’s grown accustomed to them ever since he can remember, because this is almost exactly how he feels about Steve. He grew up with Steve, has known Steve was his mate since they were young, even when they both presented as Alphas. It’s a little different because he knows Steve intimately in ways no one else does, and he doesn’t know much about you other than the red string of fate telling him that you’re theirs. But, it’s strong enough that he genuinely believes he could love you just as much.

He knows it’s not common for two Alphas to be mated to each other; the dirty and confused looks, coupled with the fact that they were practically shunned out of their neighborhood when they decided to come out, were the main reasons why they moved up here. They wanted to get away from prying eyes and hateful comments, and they’d managed to find friends up here, ones that accepted and supported them.

Bucky briefly wonders how they’d react if they found out about you.

“O-Of course,” Bucky clears his throat, squeezing your knee affectionately. His heart rate is increasing slightly, and he hates feeling off kilter, but your grateful smile settles his worries. “Besides, Stevie and I would never let a pretty Omega be in pain by herself.” He doesn’t know where he got the gall, but it’s worth it when you awkwardly giggle and look away, clearly flustered.

Bucky wants to rumble pleasantly when your scent sweetens, and he can’t deny that his ego gets a little boost when he realizes that he is the reason for it. For a moment, he stares at you while you mindlessly fiddle with the threaded edges of the blanket you’re sitting on. When you look back up at him, you open your mouth to speak, but then immediately shut it when Steve comes rushing back through the door.

“Alright! I got the kit,” Steve says as he kneels down beside Bucky. They work in sync, cleaning your wound and rubbing antibiotic ointment before carefully bandaging it, and are gentle when they have to adjust your foot so they can wrap your ankle.

It doesn’t take long, but Steve talks and asks you questions to distract you from the pain. Apparently, your favorite color is yellow, you have a cat that’s currently at your mother’s house, you’re planning on getting her back after you’ve finished moving and unpacked at least half of the boxes, and you work as a freelance copywriter for various art-centric blogs and articles.

That last fact had Steve perking up, and Bucky wants to playfully roll his eyes because his Stevie will take any chance he gets to discuss art history and different painting techniques for hours. Bucky wants to, but he won’t, because you get excited too when Steve reveals his passion for art, and he would never discourage that.

Eventually, Steve and Bucky go back to searching for more problems with the house, though they check on you every few minutes. Time flies by, and Bucky’s phone is filled with issue after issue, things that need to be fixed, and things that need to be replaced altogether. But, they’re both worried about leaving you so soon after your fall, so they take it upon themselves to order pizza – your insistence on paying for it falling on deaf ears.

And they spend most of the day with you, talking and laughing as though you’ve known each other for decades. It’s surprising, while at the same time not, that all of you just instantly click. You have a lot of the same hobbies they do – reading, hiking, and the occasional baking if you’ve found a particular recipe on pinterest that you think you can make without fucking it up too bad given that you’re actually quite horrible at baking in general.

It’s not until Steve glances at his phone later in the day that he groans.

“What is it, Steve?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

“It’s almost six-thirty, we need to feed Alpine,” Steve says remorsefully, glancing at Bucky, who hums in agreement.

“Alpine?”

“Our cat,” Bucky explains, smiling when you perk up. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finally holds it up so you can see the white fur ball curled up on what looks like a sweatshirt. “She loves stealing Stevie’s sweaters.”

“And our blankets, sweatpants, and basically anything that has our scent on it.” Steve looks down at Bucky’s phone lovingly; they both love Alpine, doting on her like she were their child.

Bucky smiles widely when you laugh, nodding along and saying, “I wish my cat did that; Maggie prefers my socks.”

Both Alphas laugh, and Bucky can’t help but want Alpine to meet Maggie and see how they’d react to each other. Alpine is very particular about humans, but relatively friendly with other animals as long as they’re not loud and rambunctious; she likes peace and quiet.

“Well, I guess we have to go,” Bucky says sadly, slowly standing because he really, really doesn’t want to leave, but also knows that their cat is probably missing them and their attention. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” You assure him with a smile, gently lifting your leg and rolling your ankle in a small circle to test the pain. “It still hurts a little, but not as bad; I’ll be able to walk.” Suddenly, Steve takes both of your hands in his and helps you stand, not letting go until you rest more of your weight on your injured ankle and nod.

“Go get some rest, we’ll be back tomorrow morning with some tools and get to work,” Bucky says, smiling, admittedly a little dazedly, when you look up at him with a smile of your own.

“Okay, I’ll have food ready when you get here.” Steve opens his mouth to protest before you start speaking again. “I promised you food, and I’m not taking it back just because I hurt my ankle by being clumsy.”

Bucky and Steve look at each other hesitantly, but eventually agree when they realize you won't back down.

“Alright, but please don’t overwork yourself,” Steve says, taking your hand again so he can squeeze it.

“I promise,” You say with a chuckle, squeezing back. “Now, go give some love to Alpine for me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, laughing along with Steve. As they walk to the door, Bucky can’t help but look back at you, smiling when he finds you looking back at them with what Bucky thinks (hopes) is fondness. With a final wave, they leave and make the short trek back home.

It’s nine in the morning when you hear a few knocks on your front door, and you have to remind yourself not to hurt your ankle further by rushing to answer. When you do, you see both Alphas holding bags presumably filled with tools to fix up your rundown cottage. Bucky sets his down on the porch next to the broken board while Steve brings his inside, and you step aside to let them in.

“Good morning, guys! I didn’t know what you liked to eat, so I just made pancakes and bacon; I hope that’s alright.” Suddenly, you’re hit with a mild wave of regret for not asking them yesterday what they preferred, but Steve’s stomach growls almost as soon as you finish talking, causing all of you to laugh.

“Sounds perfect to me,” Steve says with a wide smile, and it fills your stomach with butterflies, even more so when Bucky nods in agreement.

“We’ll eat anything you make us, Bambi. I’m sure it’s going to be delicious.”

“Bambi?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing a little. When Bucky nods to your hurt ankle, you huff out a laugh and roll your eyes. “Oh, because I’m clumsy?”

“You said it,” Bucky says and shrugs, his eyes twinkling with amusement when you playfully glare at him.

“Well, I guess I can’t argue against it. But just for that comment, I’m making you clean up the dishes.” You meant it playfully; you’re not actually going to make them clean, so you’re surprised when Bucky nods easily and shrugs.

“I’m fine with that.”

“Oh, no, I was just -”

“Alright!” Bucky interrupts you, giving you a wink. “Let’s get eating, Stevie, and then we’ll get to work.”

They scarf down the food quickly, but not before making sure you’ve already eaten because they’d feel bad about not leaving any for you. And when they finish, Bucky shoos you out of the kitchen so he can work on the dishes while Steve sets up in the front yard.

“Is, um. Is it okay if I stay out here with you guys? I won’t get in your way; I’ll just sit on the swing over there and read.” Fiddling with the book in your hands, you chew on your lip nervously. You’d hate to disrupt them in any way, but your concerningly overwhelming need to be around them outweighs any of that trepidation.

“It’s your house, Bambi,” Steve says, now kneeling and emptying his tool bag. “You can sit wherever you’d like. Plus, Buck’s always happy to show off.”

“Shut up, punk,” Bucky grumbles, giving an admonishing tap on the back of Steve’s head. “Besides, you know your shirt size yet still refuse to wear the correct one.”

“It’s all for you, babe,” Steve laughs, jabbing Bucky in the side when he kneels as well.

“Babe?” You don’t mean to question it aloud, but you’re a little confused. Sure, they smell like each other, but you figured that it’s because they live together. You didn’t question why they do, based on yesterday, you assume it’s because they’re such close friends. And, you’re pretty sure Bucky was flirting with you yesterday with that ‘pretty Omega’ comment. They couldn’t possibly be -

“We’re mates,” Bucky explains, but he seems a little hesitant to do so. They give each other a brief and nervous look before turning back to you. “We know it’s not… common for Alphas to be mated together, and if you’re not comfortable with us being here -”

“Oh, no!” You say quickly, now worried about upsetting them. You don’t want to upset them, but you can't deny that now you’re a little sad knowing that they’re taken. But then you have to remind yourself that just because you might think you’ve found your true mates, they’re probably too enamored with each other to even consider you. “I’m not uncomfortable with it, I promise! Like you said, it’s not common for Alphas to be mated to each other, so I just didn’t assume. But I don’t care what other people do as long as they’re not hurting anyone.”

“Well, we’ll treat you right, we promise.” Steve’s words and smile do little to ease the ache in your heart, but you plaster on a smile and nod.

With that, you make your way to the porch swing and open your book. And you really do try to read it, but the Alphas’ grunts as they work to fix the wood, coupled with their scent growing more and more potent the longer they’re out in the sun, makes your head spin.

It also confuses you because they keep sending glances your way – which you’re aware of, considering you keep glancing at them. You’re not sure what it means, but you try to focus on your book and put it out of your mind. That is, until an unknown amount of time later, Steve comes up to you holding a glass of lemonade.

“I hope you don’t mind,” He says, smiling awkwardly down at you as he offers you the drink. “Buck and I were thirsty and raided your fridge.”

You’re momentarily frozen because Steve apparently took off his shirt at some point, leaving him in only a white tank top. His muscles glisten with a thin layer of sweat, his pecs are bulging through the fabric, and you’re definitely not proud of the way your mouth waters at the sight. And if he notices how flushed you are, you hope he assumes it’s because of the abnormally warm Fall day and not the fact that he looks and smells like sin.

“Oh, no it - it’s okay! Help yourself to whatever.” Your voice cracks a little in the middle of the sentence, causing you to cringe slightly. “Thank you for bringing me some.”

“Of course,” Steve says easily, looking relieved that you’re not mad. “We’re almost done out here, then we’re going to move inside.”

Nodding, you set your book aside and stand, but you soon regret it because you’re now almost pressed to Steve’s chest because he didn’t move back. You have to crane your neck a little to look up at him, and his large stature makes you feel safe and protected. It also makes your hindbrain go a little insane – an innate feeling that he can provide for you, that he – and Bucky – can be the perfect Alphas for you.

It’s not until Bucky calls for Steve that you break out of your trance.

“I’ll, uh, go make us some food.” You give him a smile and one to Bucky as you pass him on your way into the house.

Cooking gives you a little break from your inner turmoil, having something to hone in on that’s not the confusing swirling of emotions in your heart. It feels like they’re flirting with you, but that can’t be true because they’re mated together for fucks sake.

And these feelings continue throughout the day, sitting on your sofa and constantly stealing glances at them, and feeling their eyes on you whenever they pass through the living room. They have the heater fixed within two hours, and you’re grateful for that because it was freezing last night, and you’d hate to have to deal with that for another night.

It’s just the beginning of sunset when they decide to leave for the day, promising to return tomorrow around the same time to look at the few broken windows. You wave them goodbye with a smile and a promise of your own to get breakfast ready.

It’s when you’re finally lying in your uncomfortable bed that you internally curse whatever higher power there is for teasing you like this, dangling the two most perfect men right in front of your face, only to pull them away within the blink of an eye.

The next three weeks practically fly by. Steve and Bucky go to your house three days a week to help with renovations in between doing their actual jobs. They’re efficient in fixing up your house, but both of them will admit that even though it’s taking less time than they originally thought, they’re taking a little longer than necessary because, despite Steve and Bucky’s hints, you don’t seem to catch on to their flirting.

Which is why Steve decided that today would be a good idea to take you to the market in town to do some decor shopping, figuring that maybe taking you out would give you a better taste of what it would be like to be with them.

And it’s quite a beautiful day; the sun is out and shining bright, the birds are chirping happily, and the leaves are more colorful than ever, giving that true autumn effect. It’s made even better when you step out of your house and make your way down the walkway to Steve and Bucky’s truck. You’re wearing a simple long-sleeved sweater and jeans, but Steve thinks you’re the most beautiful Omega ever. And Steve doesn’t even have to be mated to Bucky to know that he feels the same, because he immediately starts trying to adjust his own sweater despite the seat belt being in the way, always wanting to look his best for you.

“Hey, Bambi,” Steve says as he steps out of the car when you’re closer, giving you a wide smile that matches your own and opening his arms for a hug.

“Hi Stevie,” You say, and Steve rumbles a little when he hears your tiny squeak whenever he squeezes you to his chest.

“Get her in here, punk!” Bucky calls, and Steve lets you go so he can help you into the middle seat of the truck.

“Aw, are you feeling left out, Buck?” You tease, and Steve settles in beside you once you’re buckled. You lean into Bucky’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his neck and giving him a side hug.

“Of course not, I know I’m your favorite.” Bucky winks at you, and both Alphas can smell when your scent sweetens at the action.

Bucky loves flustering you.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Steve says, knocking his arm against yours. “I’m her favorite. She said so just last week.”

“That’s just because you gave her your vintage art magazine she’s been searching for, but I am going to be her favorite today because I’m getting her the good hot chocolate from Clint’s shop.” Bucky sticks his tongue out at Steve, causing you both to laugh.

“Well, I will –”

“Who said either of you guys are my favorite?” You ask in a teasing voice. “If Clint’s hot chocolate is as good as you’ve been saying, then maybe he’ll be my favorite. Now, let’s go. I want to look for new blankets.”

Bucky grumbles playfully about how he’s not getting you the drink now as he backs out of the driveway, and Steve smiles to himself when you laugh. And Steve really can’t be blamed for getting hit with a wave of fondness at the sound. He and Bucky just want you so badly; they want to make you laugh every day, they want to provide for you, and love you like they’re sure no one else can. They want to make you happy and support you in everything you do.

It’s a fairly small town, so it doesn’t take long to get to the outside market, and your eyes widen when you step out and get a good look at a few of the stalls. There’s food, wall art, pottery, and the Alphas know that there are a few book stands towards the back that you’ll probably be most excited about.

“Ready?” Steve asks with a laugh, already knowing the answer because you’re practically vibrating in place.

Instead of answering him, you hook your arm through his and do the same to Bucky when he rounds the corner holding a basket. You practically drag them to the entrance, and your excitement is contagious because neither Alpha can keep the smiles off their faces when they see the wonder in your eyes.

They know you haven’t experienced a true Fall season in a while due to you living in southern California for a few years, and they’re already a bit happy with themselves for this date idea, even though it’s not technically a date. To you, anyway.

The three of you spend hours walking around and visiting all the shops, picking up knick-knacks and spices that they refuse to let you pay for. They also encouraged you to pick out vegetable seeds since you’ve mentioned wanting to start gardening. And the entire time, you’ve only let go of their arms to pick items up and inspect them, but as soon as they’re put back or paid for, you wrap your arms around theirs again, and Steve feels like he’s walking on clouds the entire time. And, based on the fond smile that hasn’t left Bucky’s face since they first picked you up, he feels it too.

It’s when you finally make your rounds to Clint’s setup that your eyes really light up.

“Hey guys!” Clint calls when he sees you all, one arm high in the air and waving to gain your attention.

“Hey Clint!” Bucky says when you get closer, and you’re able to see all that he’s selling: hot chocolate, coffee, and various pastries that Steve already knows you’re going to want.

“And hello to you, pretty lady.” Clint’s comment makes you smile, and you greet him with a small wave. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, we promised Bambi here that we’d get her some of your famous hot cocoa, so we came by to see if you had any left.” Steve smiles down at you and fights the urge to puff out his chest when you lean your head on his arm affectionately.

“Of course I do,” Clint says easily, pulling out three cups to get started. “And I stole one of Nat’s peppermint chocolate bars earlier that your Bambi can have.”

Now, you get flustered easily. Or, at least you do around Steve and Bucky, so it doesn’t surprise them when you start shuffling nervously and awkwardly chuckling. And Steve would be worried about the ‘your’ part of Clint’s comment upsetting you if not for your scent getting noticeably sweeter. Steve looks at Bucky over your head, and he can see the light flush on his mate’s face as well as the fact that he’s clearly trying not to smile.

“O-Oh, um, thank you,” You say, extracting your arms from the Alphas’ so you can grab your cup and hold it close to your chest, letting the steam waft up into your face and warming you up. As soon as you take a sip, Steve has to stop himself from shivering at your pleased hum, and he aches to taste the chocolate straight from your lips.

He doesn't kiss you, though. No matter how badly he wants to. What he does is wrap an arm around your shoulder, smiling down at you when you look up at him, your eyes wide and sparkling.

"You like it?"

"It's delicious," You respond, leaning into his side. But, unable to leave Bucky out, you once again loop your arm through his.

"I'm glad," Clint says, breaking you both out of your moment. When Steve looks at him, Clint has a mischievous glint in his eyes, a smirk forming on his face. Immediately, he knows his friend is going to say something to embarrass him and Bucky, probably to point out how stupid they look whenever they're so much as near you.

"Why don't we look for those blankets you've been wanting?" Steve asks, interrupting whatever Clint is about to say.

"Okay!" You perk up almost immediately, smiling widely at him and Bucky, then turning to Clint. "Thanks for the hot chocolate. How much do I owe you?"

"Not a single penny, sweetheart," Clint responds, shaking his head. "It's on the house. After all, I’ve never seen these two idiots more in lo–”

“Alright!” Bucky exclaims nervously, glaring at Clint when he’s sure you’re not looking at him. “I think there are more stalls this way.”

Before you even have a chance to question anything, both Alphas are ushering you along the walkway to a booth further away, not caring what they’re selling as long as they get you away from Clint. When Steve looks back at his friend, he sees the cheeky smirk plastered on his face, and Steve knows he should probably be upset about his friend almost spilling their secret, but he and Bucky have been trying to tell you for so long that he’s anxious for you to know, no matter how you find out.

Still, Steve reasons that you probably shouldn’t find out in public when they are your transportation, and they’d hate for the drive home to be awkward in case you don’t feel the same way they do. So, they spend the rest of the day showing you around, buying whatever you look at for more than five seconds, and relishing in the feeling of having you so close to them.

When they finally take you back home, they insist on bringing in your things, never wanting not to be useful to your needs and wants. And, if they linger in the doorway a little longer, if they hug you a little tighter, if they take a few inhales of your scent before pulling away, well, who can blame them? When it comes to you, they’ll take whatever they can get.

It’s almost four in the afternoon, and your entire body is thrumming with nerves. Steve and Bucky came by around nine this morning, only to kick you out of your own house under the guise of Natasha, another one of their friends and Clint’s fiancée, wanting to hang out with you. You don’t doubt that she genuinely did want to go shopping together, after all, you’ve become pretty good friends ever since you met her shortly after the farmer’s market. But the looks on everyone’s faces when you hesitantly said yes to the girl’s date had your mind racing.

What could they possibly be planning?

Steve only texted you once since you left: a blurry picture of Bucky falling down your porch steps. It had you cackling and texting back that maybe Bucky’s nickname should be ‘Bambi’, but there wasn’t a response, so you were left to rack your brain over what the hell is going on at your house for the rest of the day.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha says as you both get back in her car, your bags in the trunk and your stomachs filled with delicious food from the bakery not too far from your cottage. “I promise that they’re not breaking your house.”

“Wait.” You turn in your seat, giving her a quizzical look. “Do you know what they’re doing?” She smirks, and confusion settles in your chest, now even more desperate to know what they’re up to now that you know she definitely knows.

“Not everything,” She says easily, shrugging one of her shoulders, and you’re momentarily jealous of how soft her hair looks as it bounces with the movement. “I can just tell you’re a little worried. And they may be idiots sometimes, but they’d never do anything to mess this up.”

That causes you to pause. Mess what up? It may seem a little silly, but you’ve come to trust them over the last few months you’ve known them. They’ve shown endless amounts of patience, not just with you, but with your house as well. They’ve proved over and over that you can trust them, so you don’t doubt that they’re not fucking up your place again, but you do know that they can cause trouble if they want to.

So, again, what are they planning?

“Natasha,” You sigh, biting your lip nervously. “What is going on?”

“I can’t tell you.” Natasha sighs too, and looks over at you with a soft smile, placing her hand over yours. “I can just see how nervous you are, and I feel the need to tell you that you’re going to love what they’re doing. They care about you, Bambi.”

For a moment, you almost tell her that you love them, that you trust them more than anyone, but you feel like that would give away too much. Besides, just because they care about you doesn’t mean they love you like you love them. With how they are, you know they care about all of their friends, so you try to remind yourself that you’re not their mate.

“I… I care about them too,” You say softly, settling into your seat.

“I know,” She says, a hint of a smile on her lips as she puts the car in drive. You don’t bother asking how she knows, over the time you’ve known her you have come to realize that she knows a lot. And what she doesn’t know, she’ll find out some other way. “Now, let’s get going.”

Even though the drive back to your cottage is not even ten minutes, it still gives you enough time to think over the million possibilities of what could be happening, what they could have waiting for you. The anxiety in your chest is growing slowly, but you try to remind yourself that the Alphas would never do anything to harm you, even if they are goofballs with tendencies to play pranks.

As you get closer to your cottage, driving out of the town and passing Steve and Bucky’s own house, you notice something weird. In the driveway are more cars, but they block your view of the entrance of your house, and Natasha parks far enough away that you can’t make out who is on the porch. You’re only more confused when you see Sam, another friend of Steve and Bucky, jog down the path to Natasha’s car with a wide smile and a piece of cloth.

“Hello, Bambi!” Sam says excitedly, opening the door for you and helping you out.

“Hey, Sam - oh!” You’re cut off by Sam turning you around and placing the cloth over your eyes and tying it around your head, using it as a blindfold. “What the hell is up with everyone today?”

“You’ll see!” Sam exclaims, and even though you’re even more curious now, Sam’s excitement is contagious, and you can feel your heart beating a little quicker in anticipation. “And you’ll love it.”

Sighing, though playfully, you let Sam turn you around to presumably face your cottage, and you feel one of his hands on your back while his other takes hold of you arm as he urges you forward, occasionally guiding you left or right to avoid any obstacles in your path. And, despite feeling overwhelmingly perplexed, you can’t deny that you know you’ll love whatever the Alphas have planned for you.

After a minute of walking, slowly since you’re basically blind right now, you feel Sam step behind you and start untying the blindfold.

“Okay, Bambi. Are you ready to see what your Alphas did?”

Your face immediately goes hot, because, while they’re not technically your Alphas, no matter how much you want them to be, it does feel nice to hear it, especially from one of Steve and Bucky’s closest friends.

“God, yes,” You say exasperatedly, laughing a little to show him that you’re not actually upset over the fact that you’ve only been given cryptic clues throughout the day, left to wait to see what they could have done to warrant this type of energy from their friends.

“Okay then. Three, two, one!” The cloth falls away from your face, and you have to blink and squint your eyes for a moment to adjust to the light.

Once you’re able to focus your eyes on what is in front of you, your mouth drops open, your heart nearly stopping. Because in front of you stand Steve, Bucky, and Clint, all with wide smiles on their faces. Natasha moves to stand beside you, shopping bags in hand, and you can see her smiling out of the corner of your eyes.

It takes you a moment to gather your bearings, but finally you notice something that wasn’t there this morning: fairy lights dangling from the roof of the porch, a new porch swing with what looks like the softest pillows perched on it, and potted plants on either side of the front door. In the simplest of terms, it’s beautiful. Ethereal, even. It’s almost like Steve and Bucky dove into your brain to figure out how you want to decorate your place.

“Wha - How did you…” You’re unable to finish your sentence because you’re just at a loss for words. Obviously, it wouldn’t have taken all day just to decorate the porch, so you have a sneaking suspicion that they must have also added some finishing touches on the inside as well.

“Your mother helped a lot,” Steve says, a soft and endearing smile on his face.

“My mother?”

At the mention, the front door opens and your mom steps out, also smiling, with her arms open for a hug. You haven’t had the chance to see her since the first day you moved out here, so you can’t really be blamed for rushing up the steps and practically throwing yourself at her, a laugh bubbling up in your chest as she squeezes you to her chest.

“I may or may not have found your Pinterest account and sent them the link,” She explains, and you pull away to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. These handsome Alphas wanted to help you get officially settled in, and you deserve to have people in your life that want you to be happy.” She then leans in closer to whisper in your ear, but just loud enough that you know she wants the others to hear, “And even though I just met them, I know they make you happier than you’ve ever been.”

Your face flushes even more at her comment, and tears want to spring to your eyes. Even though you lived in California for years, and you had several friends that you were reluctant to say goodbye to, you never really realized how much you needed people like Steve and Bucky in your corner, not to mention their friends that have welcomed you into their little circle. It sends a surge of love all throughout your body, and when you finally step back from the hug, you turn to see both Alphas looking at you nervously, both fiddling with their clothes as though they’re stopping themselves from hugging you as well.

“Thank you guys, I – I mean it. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.” Your voice is small, and you take a risk by slowly walking towards them, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “But I’m so grateful that you did.”

Before you can stop to think, you surge forward, wrapping one arm around Steve’s waist, and the other around Bucky’s, pulling them close to hug both of them. You can feel them sigh in what sounds like relief, both of them encasing you in their arms as well. For a moment, you forget that there are people watching you, you just hug the Alphas as tight as you can to show your gratitude. And it seems to last forever, neither of you wanting the hug to end. That is, until you hear someone clear their throat, and that’s when you remember that you’re not alone.

You pull away from them, turning your head and looking at the group with an almost embarrassed smile.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Sam says with a smirk, looping his arms around Clint and Natasha’s shoulders. “Why don’t we give these three a little privacy.”

“Come inside everyone, I’ll make us some tea,” Your mother says, and when you look at her, you see a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Not you,” She says while pointing at you, “You guys take all the time you need out here.”

With that, the gang follows your mom inside the house, leaving you to stand in front of Steve and Bucky, shuffling nervously. Finally, when you’re alone, you look up at the Alphas, both of them glancing at each other before turning their gaze back to you.

“We, um…” Bucky trails off, breathing deeply. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

Immediately, your heart starts beating faster, and you have the smallest suspicion of what they’re going to tell you. You know it’s probably wishful thinking, but you can’t help but hope and pray it’s what you’re wanting to hear.

“About what?” For a moment, everything is quiet except for the pounding of your heart in your ears, but then, both Alphas reach forward to take your hands in each of their own.

“Bambi,” Steve sighs, looking over at Bucky anxiously. When his mate nods, they both once again turn back to you. “We care about you. A lot. And – And it’s more than just how we care about our friends. We…” When Steve stops, Bucky picks up for him.

“We love you, Bambi,” Bucky says, and you can smell how anxious they are, it’s potent. “We’re pretty sure you’re our mate.”

“And we know it’s rarely heard of for people to have two mates,” Steve continues, squeezing your hand. “But from the moment we met you, we knew you were different than any other Omega we’ve ever met. We’ve been trying to drop hints here and there, but you’ve never responded to them. And we didn’t know whether it’s because you truly didn’t know or you’re just too kind to say anything about it, but now that the house is finished, we couldn’t wait any longer.”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way.” Bucky chews on his bottom lip for a moment, and you want to stop them, you want to scream from the rooftop that you love them too, you want to kiss the worry off their faces. But, you don’t, because he keeps talking. “And if you don’t, then that’s perfectly fine. We don’t expect you to love us back just because we helped you with the cottage, and we’re still not going to charge you for any of the work. And we’d love to still be friends, but it’s totally understandable if you’d be too uncomfortable with that. We just…”

“We just needed you to know how we feel,” Steve says softly, smiling at you, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “But –”

“Guys,” You say quickly, squeezing both of their hands and stopping them in their tracks. “I… To be honest, I did kind of suspect that you were flirting with me. I just didn’t know if it was wishful thinking, though, because you’re mated to each other. But…” Taking a deep and steadying breath, you glance between them, happy tears in your eyes.

“But, I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. I just never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I couldn’t handle not having you both in my life, so I was content with what we had. However, if you’re serious, then I’d love to be with both of you. Like, mates.”

“Thank god,” Both Alphas say, laughing from the sheer joy of finally having what you’ve all apparently wanted for months. The three of you fall into a bout of silence, relishing in your newfound relationship, Bucky’s free hand coming up to wipe away a stray tear with his thumb.

“Oh come on!” Someone exclaims, and all of your heads snap up to see the whole gang staring at you through the slightly opened window.

“Kiss already!” Your mom says happily, and you would be scandalized at her watching, but you know she just wants the best for you, so you’re not that upset that they’ve been snooping.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve says, smirking down at you, leaning in close and pressing a lingering kiss on your lips. It’s not an intense kiss, but the emotions you feel certainly are. It’s almost like the world has tilted, righting itself, and leaving you breathless when he pulls away.

Bucky follows soon after, pulling you in by the hold he has on your hand so he can kiss you too. It’s a little hard to kiss when you’re both smiling, but it’s just as perfect as your kiss with Steve.

Now that you think about it, you never thought you’d ever have a true mate, let alone two, and it may be a little cliche, but right now you feel as though you’ve been missing something for your entire life, and you’ve finally found it in the form of two perfect Alphas.

tags: @buckysprettybaby | @lilyalone | @goldylions | @yeehawbrothers | @buckyssweetheart | @ozwriterchick | @pxgeturner | @gentlelimerence | @justsebstan | @toocrazyunsexycool | @calzone-d

[societyfolklore]

It’s What I’m Here For

Title: It’s What I’m Here For Pairing: Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Female Reader

Summary:  Deep in the throes of your heat, your body finally gives out- boneless and pliant in your Alpha’s arms. But even in sleep, you still crave him.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Somnophilia, Omegaverse lore, Knotting, breeding kink, Heat, Praise kink, Alpha possessive behaviour, SMUT, Unprotected sex and Fluff.

A/N: my entry for  @avengers-assemble-bingo  for April Kinky Bingo. In same ‘verse as Mine. Always (Set earlier in their relationship before the bond) Square: C1 – Somnophilia Card Number: KB003

You had finally gone quiet.

After days wrapped in heat, soaked in scent and pleasure, your body had given out-limp and warm against his chest, thighs still slick, your cunt fluttering weakly in your sleep. You were wrapped around him like you couldn’t bear to let go. The nest was a mess-blankets tangled, pillows kicked down near the floor, everything steeped in your shared scent. The air was thick with it now, heavy and cloying and perfect. It smelled like the two of you: slick and sweat, Alpha and Omega, satisfaction and hunger all at once.

He should have rested. Should have closed his eyes and followed you down into that deep, hazy oblivion. Maybe even gotten up. The snacks you’d hoarded-protein bars and fruit, energy chews and juice pouches-were all the way across the room, tucked in that little basket by the dresser. He’d meant to grab one earlier, maybe coax something into you between rounds. But right now? Sleep mattered more. You were safe and warm.

Later, he told himself. He’d make you eat something later.

But then your hips twitched.

You’d started to squirm a little, even in your sleep-your skin growing hotter again, that flush creeping back into your cheeks and chest. He could feel the heat beginning to rise again, your cycle not quite done with you. And your body knew where the relief was. The way your hips rocked against him, slick already gathering again, it told him everything. Bucky’s nostrils flared, the scent of your arousal dominating once more. It made his head spin-rich and dizzying-and his cock throbbed, swelling hard again with the need to fill you.

Bucky exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the shine between your thighs. You made a soft sound-a whimper, barely audible, then murmured something the pathetic little mumbled word falling from lips. 

“...’lpha...”

He tilted his head, trying to see if you were awake. Your eyes were still shut. A lazy smirk spread across his lips-you were just too damn cute like this.

“Even in your dreams, huh?” he whispered, the edge of a growl in his voice. “Still need me. Even now.”

Carefully, reverently, he wrapped his arms around you, shifting just enough to ease you from your position on top of him. You whined softly in protest, a sleepy little fuss as he moved you. But you didn’t wake, not fully-just squirmed and sighed, clinging loosely as he guided you onto your side. He curled around you from behind, his larger frame fitting perfectly against your back,  His flesh arm  tucked under your neck, while his metal one wrapped tightly across your waist, the cooler surface brushing over your skin. 

Once settled, he let his hand drift down, gently spreading your thighs just enough to slot himself between them. Your scent hit him full-force, cloying and sweet and so fucking good. Slick coated your skin, helping him slide between the plush heat until he was nestled right up against you, the sponge tip of him nudging against your clit.. little moans coming out with your breath. 

“Shhh,” he breathed into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just me, sweetheart. Just your Alpha.”

Bucky pulled his hips back and adjusted his angle before he slid into you slowly, carefully. There was no resistance-your body welcomed him like it always did, clenching down even in sleep. If Bucky had thought your skin had felt warm, your cunt was a fire-wet, molten heat that wrapped around him and dragged him deeper. It was heaven. It was home. You gasped in your dreams, hips rolling in response, like your body was guiding him exactly where it needed him most.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl. You always take me so good. Can’t even stop, can you?”

You let out another soft sound-his name again, maybe, or just a broken sigh. His heart pounded. His grip tightened.

“Just still so fuckin’ sweet for me. So damn needy like this." 

He kept his pace unhurried, languid, like the motion alone was worship. Instead of resting his forehead to your shoulder, he turned slightly, letting his lips trace the curve of your neck-warm, damp breaths skating over your skin as he breathed you in. Each stroke was measured, careful, meant to soothe more than stir.

But you stirred anyway.

A faint gasp. A shift in your breathing. Your hand twitched over the one he had now pressed to your lower belly. He could feel himself inside you; deep and full, every slow drag pressing your walls apart until you were fluttering again around him.

He groaned, soft and low.

“You’re dreaming of me, huh, baby?” He pressed his mouth to the shell of your ear. “Can feel me in your sleep. So wet, so open. You know who you belong to, don’t you? Fuck, m'always so hard for you, omega-can't help it when you're like this.”

You whimpered. The barest whisper of sound-but it shot straight through him.

“...alph-ah...”

Bucky pressed deeper. Stayed buried. Held you like you were something breakable and sacred all at once.

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

You gave a soft, whining little noise-barely there but unmistakably needy. Your body bent ever so slightly, hips canting, and Bucky felt the faintest cramp ripple through your muscles, that telltale little clutch of need. Even in your sleep, you were still aching for more. His hand shifted up, palm flat over your heart now, feeling its soft thud under your skin as your breathing quickened again.

“Shhh, let me take care of it,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ve got you. Just feel it, baby.”

He kept fucking you slowly, steady and deep. One hand slid up to pull you tighter against him while the other tilted your chin just enough for his nose to brush over the space where your mating mark would go-right where it should be. He nuzzled there, breathing you in, his lips ghosting across the sensitive spot as he dragged his tongue across it, tasting the salt and warmth of your skin. You whimpered again, hips instinctively pressing back into his, like you were begging for that claim even in sleep.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice rough and full of restraint. “But soon. Soon, baby.”

You let out the sweetest sound-half moan, half breathy sigh-as his pushed deeper inside you. He groaned, gripping tighter as your body pulsed around him, clenching like you had been waiting for this even in your dreams.

But then… your lashes fluttered. Your breath stuttered. A little frown twitched between your brows.

“Shhh,” he murmured instantly, lips brushing your temple. “It’s okay, ‘mega… I got you.”

Your fingers twitched gripping one of the blankets under you. Your hips tried to shift, confused. Too tired to fight the sensation, too fucked out to process it-but your body still knew, wanted to be on all fours.. 

“Shh, no, no. You don’t gotta wake up, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice so soft it was almost reverent. “You’re tired, I know. Let me do it for you.”

His hand stroked over your belly, warm and heavy. The other cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your lips as he nuzzled in closer.

“I’ll fix the ache. I’ll take care of you. Just let go…”

You whimpered softly, head turning toward his voice-but your eyes stayed closed. Your body eased again, instinctively trusting him. Submitting in sleep, in breath, in bond.

Bucky exhaled, sinking fully into the moment as he held you close. He slowed his hips, adjusting the angle until he was fully buried in you, the tip of his cock pressing right up against your cervix with each lazy rock of his hips. Every movement was deep, indulgent, meant to soothe and satisfy rather than provoke.

“God, Doll,” he murmured, “so warm inside... feels like you’re trying to pull me in even deeper.”

One arm held you tighter while the other grazed up your side again. He leaned in, dragging his lips in a slow, heated trail from your shoulder up to your ear before nuzzling behind it. His nose brushed lower, breathing you in greedily before his tongue followed, lapping at your scent-marked skin like he was trying to taste the bond into existence. He moaned at your taste, at the way your body fluttered around him from just that small stimulation.

“Such a good girl, good ‘mega” he whispered against your neck. “That’s it. Just rest. You’re mine. I got you.”

And as your breathing slowed once more, heart steady under his palm, Bucky kept slowly fucking you, hips rocking in deep, steady motions. He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Not when you were so soft and pliant in his arms, not when you leant bonelessly back into him with every push. Your body clenched around him suddenly, tight and fluttering, and his breath hitched-he felt his knot begin to swell, responding instinctively to your need.

“Oh that’s right, ‘mega,” he groaned, mouth brushing over your jaw. “Let’s get you there... feel that ache, huh? Let me help you. Let me make it better.”

“Gonna cum for me?” he whispered, voice thick with heat. “Even like this, boneless and sweet in my arms… you still want it, don’t you?”

You were his world, the other part of him-and when he got like this, when your scent was thick and your heat was high, you were his obsession. There were times Bucky swore he got drunk on your heat, on the way your body begged for him even when you were barely conscious of it. It made him ravenous. Mindless. Utterly devoted.

“T'take my knot even in your sleep? Gonna squeeze me while I breed you? Make a mess on my cock like you always do, yeah?”

The words seemed to stir something deeper in you. More little sighing moans slipped from your lips, hips moving with his in lazy, desperate rhythm. His needy mate-even too tired to do anything but let him do exactly what you needed.

“‘S what I’m here for, omega,” he murmured, kissing along your neck. “I’ll always take care of you.”

And then you tightened around him again-more insistent, more urgent. Bucky gritted his teeth as your body clenched down hard, and he pushed his hips forward, grinding in deep until the thick swell of his knot forced its way inside.

He buried himself to the hilt, tip kissing your cervix, and his mouth latched onto your shoulder as his knot locked in place. The sharp, possessive growl that rumbled out of him was muffled against your skin as he came-hot, endless spurts of seed flooding into you, spilling deep and thick.

You twitched in your sleep, your body reacting instinctively, a faint cry escaping your lips as your cunt fluttered and pulled around him, milking him even as you slept.

He held you tight, one hand flat over your belly, the other curled around your chest as he breathed through it, both of you pulsing, twitching, bound.

“There we go,” he whispered, voice softening as he began to soothe you. “All better now...”

His hands stroked gently over your sides, slow and comforting, as your body settled around him. The aftershocks faded into a quiet hum, your breath evening out. He felt the tension ease from your limbs, the twitching subsiding as you melted back into the safety of his arms.

This time, he let himself go with you. Wrapped up in the warmth of your nest, knotted deep, your scent still clinging to his skin-he finally closed his eyes.

And slept.

[metal-armed-muse]

snowbound

dbf!alpha!bucky x omega!reader (werewolf au) summary. you don't understand why your body is reacting this way to being under the same roof with your dad's best friend. one thing you do know is that this isn't normal.

word count. 10.8k warnings. age gap (everyone is of legal age), lowkey love at first sight, smut, MDNI, virginity loss, corruption (?), oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, marking, knotting, creampie, belly bulge, size kink, knot deflation, breeding kink, usage of petnames (baby, sweetheart, omega, kid for reader. alpha for buck), no use of y/n. notes. bucky is mentioned to have a metal arm, but there is no backstory on the ‘how’. i imagine he'd lost it in war. i read up on abo a few weeks ago and was inspired to write this. and i'm pretty sure there are some stuff i made up. this is my first abo fic, please be kind, or else i'll cry. this was also written by someone who's never even seen fake snow Imao. baby's first long fic! reader. reader has hair that gets stuck to forehead due to sweating. it's mentioned that reader's mother died when she was six. reader is kinda portrayed as innocent and clueless about the whole wolf stuff despite being a wolf, bc she didn't have anyone to teach her about it. bucky calls the reader kid a couple of times, but she's of age. dt. @phoenix-in-writing who came up with this amazing title, @sheriff-bodecker who helped me with this abo scent list, and my twin, my sugar, @barnes-babydoll who’s the no.1 dbf enthusiast. i love you guys🫶🏻

READ ON AO3

long as your eyes could see, it's snow. you don't remember the last time it snowed like this. like it could trap you inside if you're not careful. thankfully you reached home before it got worse.

the front door sticks like it always does in winter, the wood swollen from the cold, and you have to shoulder it open with your hip while juggling two grocery bags and the mail that was frozen to the box.

snow tumbles off your boots in heavy clumps, melting instantly on the heated tile your dad finally splurged on last year.

the house smells like a candle he probably lit for you and like the chili he’s had simmering since noon, thick with cumin and too much garlic, the way he’s made it since you were little, the way it feels like home.

you’re kicking the door shut behind you when you hear your dad’s laugh boom from the living room, the one that means he’s genuinely happy.

there’s another voice under it. even though you haven't heard it before, you know that voice from a hundred stories.

bucky barnes. the guy who pulled your dad out of a burning hut in kandahar, the guy who sends you birthday cards with twenty dollars tucked inside even though you’re in your twenties now, the guy whose face you’ve only seen in grainy photos because he’s always “on the road” or “out west” or whatever vague thing your dad says when you ask why his best friend never visits.

you round the corner expecting the same old soldier you’ve built in your head: buzz-cut, sunburned, maybe missing a finger from some explosion.

instead there’s a man sprawled in your dad’s favorite recliner like he owns it, one boot propped on the coffee table, and flannel sleeves shoved to the elbows.

he’s bigger than the pictures, shoulders filling the chair, and when he turns his head the light catches on the sharp line of his jaw and the faint white scar that cuts through his left eyebrow.

your stomach just flips. hard. like it had never before.

“there she is,” your dad grins, arms open like you’re still eight. “thought the blizzard ate you.”

“almost did,” you manage, voice cracking on the last word because suddenly your tongue feels too thick. you dump the bags on the floor. the mail scatters. “roads are shit. i slid twice just getting out of the driveway.”

bucky’s eyes—god, they’re blue enough to hurt—track the movement of your hands, then lift to your face.

he doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something kind of shifts in his expression. there's a tightening around his mouth, nostrils flaring like he’s scenting the air.

you don’t understand why that makes heat rush straight between your legs.

you’ve never felt anything like this. it’s not just warmth; it’s an insistent throb, and you’re abruptly, achingly wet.

slick. the word pops into your head from some barely remembered dream, but that can’t be right. right?

you shift your weight, making your thighs brush, and the friction makes you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from whimpering.

your dad is still talking, oblivious to whatever's happening inside of you. “bucky’s house got buried under six feet of snow and a pine tree. power’s out for the county, roads closed till god knows when. told him he’s staying here till it thaws.”

“hey, kid,” bucky's voice sound mesmerising even closer. he doesn’t stand up— probably can’t without looking awkward in the low-ceilinged room —but he leans forward to put his elbows on his knees. “heard a lot about you.”

you try to laugh but it just comes out shaky. “yeah, well, dad exaggerates.”

“doesn’t feel like exaggeration,” he murmurs, so low you’re not sure your dad hears it over the crackle of the fire.

your skin is on fire. you shrug out of your coat too fast, and when you bend to pick up the groceries your sweater rides up in the back.

cool air hits the strip of skin above your jeans and you swear bucky’s inhale is audible. when you straighten he’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched so tight you can count the muscles there.

“you okay, honey?” your dad asks, atill not understanding what's happening. who can blame him? even you don't understand.

“fine,” you lie. but your voice cracks again. “just—just hot. house is warm.”

bucky finally stands slowly like every inch costs him. he’s taller than you expected, broad enough that the room feels smaller now.

taking two steps towards you, he stops an arms length away. his hands are loose at his sides but you can clearly see his fingers flexing and unflexing.

“you burning up, sweetheart?” he asks quietly. “hurts anywhere?”

the question is gentle, but there’s something under it that makes your knees wobble.

you stare at him like you're confused, your brows drawn together. because you sure are confused.

because how could he possibly know your whole body feels like one raw nerve? your nipples are tight against your bra, your clit pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and you’re terrified if you move wrong everyone will smell how soaked you are.

“i—” you start, then stop, because your dad is right there.

bucky’s eyes flick to your dad and back to you, a silent conversation you don’t yet understand. “we’ll talk later,” he says, soft enough it’s almost just breath. “after your old man’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead. yeah?”

you nod before you can think about it. your throat is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.

“good girl,” he says, and the praise hits you like a punch to the sternum. your thighs clench involuntarily.

your dad claps bucky on the shoulder, breaking the moment. “come on, i’ll show you the guest room before the game starts. you still drink that piss-water beer?”

“only when i’m desperate,” bucky lets himself be steered away, but you can feel the way his gaze pierce you one last time before he disappears around the corner.

you stand there in the hallway long after their footsteps fade upstairs, heart beating so hard you can feel it basically everywhere.

your panties are absolutely ruined. you can feel the wet sliding down the inside of your thigh when you finally force yourself to move, and you have to bite your lip until it bleeds to keep from moaning out loud.

upstairs a door thuds shut. you can hear water running, and your dad's infectious laugh.

you press your back to the wall and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, knees to your chest, trying to breathe through the ache that has your name written all over it. and you don’t even know what it means.

snow keeps falling outside silently, erasing the world one inch at a time. inside, the house creaks around you like it knows something you don’t.

you stay there until your legs go numb, wondering why the air still smells like wood and forest and something darker, something that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and into someone else’s.

bucky’s that someone else.

he’s sleeping ten feet down the hall tonight. with snow covering every inch around the house. with no where left to run even if you try.

you’re fucked. so fucked.

you wait until the house goes quiet. the way it only does after midnight, when even the the wind outside has worn itself out against the windows.

your dad’s snores rumble through the walls like distant thunder, the same rhythm since you were a kid hiding under blankets during storms.

you count to two hundred after the last creak on the stairs, then slip out of your room in socked feet, hoodie pulled up over your head, and heart punching against your ribs so hard you’re almost convinced it’s loud enough to wake him.

the guest room door is cracked open, a thin blade of lamplight cutting across the hardwood.

fingers curled against the frame, you hesitate. because you're not sure what is going to happen when you walk in. but your body is begging you to push open the door and jump in the bed with a man you barely even know.

because knocking feels too formal and you’re terrified of making any real noise, you push open the door slightly.

bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but sweatpants, staring at the floor like it owes him money.

the lamp paints gold across the ridges of his back, the metal arm catching the light in a way that makes your stomach flip all over again.

he doesn’t look surprised when you appear. if anything, the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. is he… relieved?

“couldn’t sleep either, huh?” his voice is rough from disuse, gentle in a way that makes you feel small and safe and completely out of your depth all at once.

shaking your head, you step inside, and pull the door almost shut behind you. “i kept… feeling weird. like my skin doesn’t fit right. and everything smells like you and it’s making me—” you stop, because your cheeks are burning and you don't know how to finish that sentence without making a fool of yourself. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“nothing’s wrong with you, sweetheart.” he pats the mattress beside him, in a way that's offering but not demanding. “c’mere. sit before you fall over.”

your legs carry you across the room like they’ve decided for you. the bed dips under your weight and you end up closer than you planned, knee brushing his thigh. the contact sends sparks skittering up your spine and you jerk away immediately, then hate yourself for it.

bucky huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “yeah, that’s gonna keep happening. sorry.”

“why?” the word comes out tiny.

he rubs a hand over his face, just to have something to do with his hands. “your mom ever talk to you about… wolf stuff? beyond the shifting when you were a kid?”

you pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “she died when i was six. dad doesn’t— he thinks the full-moon thing is just stories. i only shift when i’m really upset or whatever. i thought that was it. the whole package.”

bucky’s quiet for a long beat. “christ. okay.”

he shifts to face you more fully, one leg goes under him now as if he's careful not to crowd you. “there’s more. a lot more. and what you’re feeling right now? that’s your body waking up to something it’s been waiting for its whole life.”

your throat feels dry as you try to push your next words out. “waiting for what?”

“an alpha,” his voice is so soft, exactly the opposite of what it seems to carry. “me, apparently.”

the word doesn’t mean anything to you and everything at the same time. you stare at him, with your mouth open a little.

he winces like it hurt him. “shit, that sounded creepy. i’m not—i didn’t plan this. i came here because my cabin’s under six feet of snow and your dad’s the only person i trust not to ask questions when i start growling at the walls in a couple days. i had no idea you're the same, let alone that you’d be—” he gestures vaguely at all of you, flustered in a way that’s almost cute on a man built like a brick wall.

“be what?” you whisper.

“unclaimed omega,” he says, like the words taste both sweet and dangerous. “and in your first real heat cycle, from the smell of it. which is… fuck, it’s like walking into a room full of birthday cakes when you’ve been starving for years.”

your face goes nuclear. “i don’t—i’m not—i’ve never even—” you can’t finish any of those sentences.

“i know,” he says gently. “i can smell that too.”

your hands move upwards on their own accord as if to hide your face from the impending humiliation. “oh my god.”

“hey, no.” his flesh hand settles on your wrist, thumb stroking the inside where your pulse is rabbiting. “this isn’t your fault. none of this is, baby. your mom should’ve been here. or someone. anybody to explain that when an omega hits maturity and meets a compatible alpha, biology loses its goddamn mind.”

you let him lower your hand. “so what is a heat, exactly? like… being horny? because i feel like i’m dying.”

he exhales through his nose, and there's a sound you're not sure is a laugh. “it’s being horny on a cellular level, yeah. but worse. your body’s screaming for— for relief. for a knot. for—” he stops himself before going too far. “sorry. trying not to be crude.”

“i don’t even know what a knot is,” you mumble.

bucky makes a wounded noise. “jesus, kid.”

“i’m not a kid,” you protest automatically, then immediately want the floor to swallow you because you sound twelve.

“you’re twenty-somethin’ and you’ve never had anybody explain this to you. that’s criminal.” he drags a hand through his hair. “okay. short version, no diagrams. alphas go into rut. omegas go into heat. when they’re near each other and the timing’s right, it’s like throwing gasoline on a bonfire. the alpha’s body produces a—structure—at the base of his—” he gestures downward, face red now. “it locks inside the omega so nothing leaks out. nature’s way of making sure pups happen. it feels… good. really good. but it’s intense and it lasts a while and if you’re not ready it can hurt.”

you stare at your knees. “so you’re saying in a couple days you’re gonna… lose control?”

“i’m saying i’m already fighting tooth and nail not to crawl into your bed right now and do things your dad would shoot me for,” his voice is strained. “and you’re leaking slick like because your body recognizes me as—as safe. as yours. which is fucking with my head almost as bad as yours.”

the room spins a little. “mine?”

he looks at you then, and his eyes are soft and wrecked at the same time. “yeah. mine too, if we let it be. but that’s—we don’t have to. i can tough it out. i can leave at first light, find a motel with industrial suppressants, ride it out alone. i’ve done it before. it sucks but it’s doable.”

panic flares sharp in your chest. “no.”

he blinks, like he's trying to process if that's what he had really heard.

“i mean—” you twist your fingers together until the knuckles are strained. “i don’t want you to go. i don’t understand any of this but when you say you’re leaving, it feels like someone’s ripping something out of me. and i’m scared and everything hurts and you’re the only person who even knows why.”

bucky’s throat bobs. “sweetheart—”

“and you call me sweetheart and it makes my whole body feel like warm honey,” you blurt out, then slap a hand over your mouth.

a helpless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “yeah, that’s the bond talking. little bit of it already. fuck, you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

you groan into your palm.

“look,” he says, scooting closer until your knees touch again. this time you don’t move away. “i’m not going anywhere tonight. tomorrow we’ll figure out suppressants, or—or something. but right now you’re shaking and you smell like a distressed omega and it’s making me want to punch through the walls.”

“i’m not shaking,” you lie, and then your teeth chatter loud enough to prove you wrong.

he rolls his eyes, but it's fond. “c’mere.”

before you can decide if that’s a good idea, he’s tugging you into his side, arm looping around your shoulders.

you go stiff for half a second and then melt, face pressed to the warm skin of his neck, breathing him in like oxygen. he smells good, so good, like he was just made for you.

“better?” he murmurs into your hair.

“mhmm.” it comes out a little muffled and a lot pathetic.

he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “thought so. scent bonding. works both ways.”

his hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades while the house settles around you. eventually he shifts, pulling the quilt from the foot of the bed and draping it over both of you.

“you ever been with anybody?” he asks quietly. “kissed, touched, anything?”

heat floods your face again. “no. there was this guy in college who tried but i got all panicky and bit him. like actually bit him. on the lip. i think he needed stitches.”

bucky snorts. “good instincts.”

“i thought i was just broken,” you admit. “everyone else was hooking up and i felt… nothing. until tonight. until you looked at me and it was like someone flipped a switch.”

“not broken, baby,” he says firmly. “waiting. your body knew what it wanted even if your head didn’t have the manual.”

you tilt your head back to see his face. “so what happens now?”

“now you let me hold you until you stop shaking. tomorrow your heat’s gonna get worse—cramps, fever, more slick than you know what to do with. i’ll be here. we’ll take it slow. i’ll talk you through every step. and if at any point you want me to stop, or leave, or call someone else— i will. no questions.”

you study him, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his metal fingers twitch like he’s fighting not to pull you closer. “you promise?”

“cross my heart, kid.” he draws an x over his chest with the flesh hand, like he's solemn.

you nod against his collarbone. “okay.”

“okay,” he echoes, there's a relief in his voice.

“bucky?”

“yeah?”

“is it always gonna feel this big? like the world got too small for my skin?”

he presses his lips to your temple in a lingering but featherlight kiss. “only when it’s right.”

you close your eyes and let the steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek lull you toward something that feels dangerously like peace.

but in this room, wrapped in quilt and an alpha and the first real answers you’ve ever had, you finally stop shaking.

you wake up slowly, like swimming up through an ocean, and the first thing you notice is the heat.

not just the quilt tucked around you both, but bucky himself, a living furnace pressed along your back, his metal arm draped heavy over your waist, flesh hand splayed low on your stomach like he fell asleep holding you together.

your cheek is smushed against his collarbone, one of your legs thrown over his thigh because sometime in the night you apparently decided personal space was for suckers.

it’s too hot. you’re sweating where your skin touches his, hoodie twisted up under your arms, and between your legs you’re so wet it’s embarrassing, like you’ve been dreaming things you don’t even have names for.

the sheets under your hips feel damp and you pray to every god you’ve ever heard of that it hasn’t soaked through to his side.

you're not sure if he's awake yet. but you don't want to move and give yourself away. the thought is barely formed when his chest vibrates under your ear.

“morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. “been awake a while. you kick in your sleep, did you know that?”

your whole body goes rigid. oh god, he heard that thought. or guessed. does that mean he’s thinking about the other thing too?

“and yeah,” he adds quieter, thumb stroking across the strip of bare skin where your hoodie’s ridden up, “i can still smell how wet you are. been able to since about four a.m. when you started grinding on my leg like a daydream.

mortification floods you so hard you make a strangled noise and shove your face into the crook of his neck, trying to disappear into him.

his scent is stronger here, more concentrated, and it makes your mouth water and your thighs clench involuntarily.

“hey, none of that,” he laughs against your hair. “told you last night, it’s biology, baby. not your fault. i’m the one who should be apologizing for sporting wood like a teenager since the second you crawled in here.”

you risk a peek. his eyes are half-lidded, and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones that might be from the heat or might be something else.

“i thought maybe i peed the bed,” you mumble into his skin.

he actually laughs then, like the sound was startled out of him. “christ, you’re gonna kill me. no, baby, that’s slick. it's perfectly normal. it just means your body’s getting ready.”

“ready for what?” you ask, because even though you know, you still don’t totally get it, why this much is needed.

“ready for whatever we decide,” he says carefully. “or ready to make me take a very cold shower. jury’s out.”

down the hall comes the unmistakable thud of your dad’s bedroom door, then the groan of floorboards, and then the cough that always starts his day.

bucky goes still, arm tightening around you for a second before he eases away slowly, like he’s forcing himself.

“time to play innocent,” he whispers, pressing one quick kiss to your forehead that feels anything but innocent. “go. i’ll follow in a minute.”

you scramble out of the bed so fast you nearly face-plant, yanking your hoodie down and praying your legs work.

the cool air in the hallway hits your damp thighs and you whimper before you can stop yourself.

bucky’s already swinging his legs off the bed, sweatpants doing nothing to hide the situation in his lap. “go,” he repeats, voice strained. “before i do something stupid.”

you bolt. because you’re not thinking much, just acting on instinct.

in your room you change three times because nothing feels right against your skin, everything too scratchy or too hot, and end up in the softest leggings you own and one of your dad’s old army tees that hangs to mid-thigh.

when you creep downstairs, bucky’s already at the kitchen counter pouring coffee like he belongs there, hair damp from the fastest shower in history, wearing a different flannel that makes him look unfairly good.

your dad’s shoveling cereal into his mouth standing up, keys in one hand. “morning, trouble,” he says around a mouthful. “roads are clear enough for the plows. i gotta go in, inventory won’t count itself. you two behave.”

“yes, sir,” bucky says, mock-salute with his coffee mug.

your dad points a spoon at him. “and you, don’t let her con you into watching those vampire shows all day. she’ll rope you in, they’re addictive.”

“i make no promises,” bucky says solemnly.

your dad kisses the top of your head on his way out, same as always, and then the front door slams and the truck rumbles to life and pulls away, tires crunching over packed snow.

the house goes suddenly, echoingly quiet.

you stand there in the middle of the kitchen feeling like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

bucky sets his mug down, leans back against the counter, with his arms crossed. it makes his biceps look good enough to chew through. “so. questions?”

a million of them crash together in your head. “is it always going to feel like this? like— this intense?”

“first heat’s the worst,” he says. “like the volume gets turned to eleven on everything. smells, touch, emotions. all of it.”

you chew your lip. “and the… wet thing. is that forever now?”

he huffs a soft laugh. “only when you’re around an alpha you like. or ovulating. or happy. or sad. basically whenever your body feels like being dramatic.”

“great,” you mutter. “i’m a leaky faucet.”

“adorable leaky faucet,” he corrects, grinning when you flip him off without thinking.

by ten you’re convinced you’re fine.

you make pancakes. well, bucky makes pancakes while you sit on the counter kicking your feet and stealing chocolate chips.

the cramps are mild, just a low tug deep in your belly, and the wetness has eased to a manageable dampness.

you even laugh when he flips a pancake and it lands half on the stove.

“see?” your is mouth full, but that doesn't stop you from talking. “totally normal. maybe it was just a twenty-four-hour thing.”

bucky eyes you over the rim of his coffee, expression unreadable. “sure, kid. whatever you say.”

by noon the cramps are back with friends.

you’re curled on the couch under three blankets watching some documentary about penguins because everything else felt too loud, and every time you shift the pressure between your legs makes you whimper.

bucky sits on the coffee table facing you. “scale of one to ten?”

“six?” you lie.

“try again.”

“eight,” you admit. sweat beads at your hairline even though it’s cold enough to freeze your feet. “it feels like someone parked a truck on my uterus.”

he winces in sympathy. “yeah, that’s the heat talking. your body’s cranking the dial, trying to get my attention.”

“it has your attention,” you snap, then immediately feel bad. “sorry. i’m sorry. i’m just—everything hurts and i’m scared and i still don’t really get why.”

“i know.” he reaches out, brushes damp hair off your forehead. “want me to run you a bath? heat helps sometimes. or i can make a heat pack. or—”

“can you just—” you gesture vaguely. “sit with me? like last night? your smell makes it quieter in my head.”

he hesitates for half a second, then crawls onto the couch behind you, pulling you back against his chest.

you go boneless instantly, like a switch was flipped, head lolling on his shoulder.

“better?” he asks, mouth against your temple.

“mhmm.” you’re already drifting, the pain dulling to a background throb. “don’t leave.”

“not going anywhere,” he promises.

the afternoon bleeds away in waves. one minute you’re dozing, the next you’re arching with a cramp so sharp tears leak out the corners of your eyes.

bucky holds you through all of it, rubbing slow circles on your belly, murmuring nonsense about how strong you are, how good you’re doing, how fucking brave.

by four you’re openly crying, not even trying to hide it, face buried in his shirt. “it hurts so much,” you sob. “i changed my mind, i want it to stop.”

“i know, baby.” his voice is wrecked. “i’m right here. you’re doing so good.”

you can feel him shaking too, just a faint tremor in the arm locked around you.

his scent has gone darker, sharper, and when you turn your face into his neck you realize he’s sweating through his shirt.

“bucky?” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“are you okay?” the irony is delicious, you asking him if he were okay, while you were nearly knocking on death’s door.

he laughs, but it’s thin. “no. your heat’s kicking my rut into gear about a week early. trying real hard to be a gentleman here.”

you whine. “i don’t want a gentleman. i want it to stop hurting.”

he goes very still. “sweetheart, we talked about this—”

“i know what i said,” you cut in. “but i changed my mind. please. i’ll beg if you want. just make it stop.”

he cups your wet cheek, thumb wiping away your tears. “you don’t have to beg, baby. ever. but we’re gonna do this right, okay? we are gonna go slow. with lots of talking. the second you say stop, we stop.”

you nod so hard your teeth click.

“words, omega,” he says gently.

“yes. please. yes.”

he exhales shakily, then scoops you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the hallway.

“guest room’s got the bigger bed,” he mutters, half to himself. “and farther from your dad’s room for when he gets home.”

you cling to his neck, breathing him in, the pain already easing just from the promise in his arms.

he carries you up the stairs like you’re made of glass and dynamite at the same time, one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back.

your face is tucked into his neck because it’s the only place that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire, and every step jostles you against his chest.

only then you feel it. the thick, rigid line of him pressed against your hip, unmistakable even through two layers of clothes.

you pull back just enough to stare, wide-eyed even though you try hard not to be startled. “bucky… is that—”

“yeah,” he mutters, cheeks going red. “ignore it. or don’t. christ, i’m trying to be decent here.”

“it feels huge,” you whisper like you're both awed and terrified, and then immediately want to die because who the fuck says that out loud?

he trips on the top step, catches himself with a grunt. “you’re gonna be the end of me, kid. swear to god.”

the guest room door is already ajar; he shoulders it open and lowers you onto the bed like you’re something precious.

the mattress is cool under your back and for one glorious minute the cramps ease, the fever drops, and you think maybe the worst is over.

you prop yourself on your elbows, hair still sticking to your damp forehead. “i feel… okay right now. like it backed off.”

bucky stands at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, breathing slowly through his nose. “that’s the calm before the next wave, sweetheart. happens sometimes. gives you just enough hope to make the crash worse.”

you bite your lip, debating whether to ask or not. but then tour body thrums like it needs him inside you, and you make up your mind. “so… knotting. you said last night it locks you inside. how does that even work? like… is it painful? or does it just… pop out like a balloon animal?”

he chokes on air, rubs the back of his neck until the skin goes pink. “jesus. uh. no balloon animals. it’s—there’s a ring of muscle at the base. when i’m… close, it swells, and… and gets thick. the idea is it plugs everything so nothing leaks, keeps the—keeps you full.” his ears are scarlet now. “biology’s real romantic.”

you sit up fully, knees drawn to your chest, genuinely curious. “but does it hurt you? or me? and how long does it stay big?”

“hurts if you fight it,” he says carefully. “if you relax and let it happen, it’s… intense. but good intense. lasts twenty minutes, half hour sometimes. you feel full, safe, floaty. like the best hug you’ve ever had, only inside.”

your eyes go round. “inside.”

he groans and drops his chin, as to avoid eye-contact for a bit. you've never seen him this embarrassed. “yeah. inside.”

you pick at the hem of your borrowed army tee. “we’re probably gonna have sex anyway,” you say softly, matter-of-fact. “you can just say cock. i’m not gonna faint.”

bucky lifts his head, stares at you for a long second, and then laughs. “god, baby. you’re something else, you know that?”

“i’m serious,” you insist even if your cheeks are hot. you are determined. “i want to know what’s coming. i hate not knowing.”

he exhales once and crawls onto the bed beside you, sitting cross-legged like you’re having a sleepover instead of the single most loaded conversation of your life.

“alright. honest, then. i’m big. bigger than average even for an alpha. first time’s gonna burn a little no matter what, but if i open you up slowly —tongue, fingers, lots of slick—you’ll take me. the knot’ll stretch you wide and then lock, and yeah, it’ll feel like you can’t possibly get any fuller, and then you will. and it’ll be good. i’ll make sure it’s good.”

“promise?” your voice is barely a breath.

“promise,” his is rough. “now c’mere before the next wave hits and you start crying again.”

you go willingly, letting him tug the oversized tee over your head.

cool air kisses your skin and your nipples tighten instantly, aching little points that beg for attention before he’s even touched them.

bucky’s gaze drops to your chest and something feral flickers across his face before he reins it in with visible effort.

“fuck,” he breathes. “look at you.”

you cross your arms self-consciously.

you cross your arms self-consciously, trying to hide, but he catches your wrists gently in one big hand and pins them above your head without even thinking about it, metal fingers cool against your pulse points.

“they’re just boobs.” you can feel your cheeks heating up.

they’re perfect,” he counters, and leans in, mouth closing over one stiff peak without asking permission because you’re already arching toward him like your body wrote the invitation years ago.

the first pull of his lips is gentle, almost curious, like he’s tasting something sacred. then he groans and sucks harder, tongue flicking in quick, ruthless circles while his beard scrapes the soft underside of your breast.

his flesh hand cups the weight, feeding you deeper into his mouth like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’ll ever fill him.

there’s no milk, you know that, but he’s sucking like there is, like he could live off it, like if he tries hard enough he’ll coax it out of you just to taste how sweet on his tongue.

“bucky—” your fingers tangle in his hair, not sure if you’re pulling him closer or holding on for dear life. probably both.

he switches sides, laving the abandoned nipple with the flat of his tongue before drawing it in, humming around it.

the vibration shoots straight between your legs and you realize you’re grinding against nothing, hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles.

he pulls off with a wet pop, eyes blown black. “need to taste you properly,” he rasps. “gonna make you come on my tongue twice before we can even think about my cock. okay?”

you nod so fast your head spins.

he eases you onto your back, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your leggings and panties together, peeling them down in one motion. the fabric sticks where you’re soaked through and he has to work them over your hips, cursing under his breath when the cool air hits your bare, dripping skin.

the scent of you slams into him like a punch. his eyes flutter shut for a second, throat working as he swallows hard.

“christ, look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs, pushing them wide with careful hands. his thumbs stroke the crease where thigh meets groin, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “all wet and dripping for me. fucking glistening.”

you whimper and try to close your legs out of sheer embarrassment, but he holds you open easily, metal arm braced across one thigh, flesh hand splayed over the other, keeping you spread like a feast.

“uh-uh. let me see.” he blows a cool stream of air directly over your clit and you jolt, a high-pitched sound escaping that you don’t even recognize as yours. “sensitive little thing. look at her twitch for me.”

before you realise what’s happening, his mouth is on you.

the first lick is broad and slow, from your entrance to your clit, gathering slick like he’s starving for it, tongue curling to scoop every drop.

he groans against you the sound vibrating through your entire body, and does it again, and again, until your thighs are shaking in his grip and your back is bowed off the bed.

your brain short-circuits so hard you actually forget your own name for three full seconds.

all that now exists is the wet heat of his mouth and the mortifying little squeak you make that sounds absolutely nothing like you.

“taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, words slurred like he’s drunk on you. “sweetest thing i’ve ever had. could live down here, baby. could die happy with my face buried in this cunt.”

he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, like he's just teasing, then seals his lips around it and sucks. it's soft at first, then harder when you cry out.

your back bows off the bed, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his hair.

“bucky—oh god—”

he slides one thick finger inside you without warning and you clench around it, shocked at how easily it goes, how much more you suddenly need.

it doesn’t hurt like you always scared you it would. it feels like coming home to a house you didn’t know you owned. you have to bite your lip to keep from saying something mortifying like 'thank you'.

“relax, baby,” he soothes, pulling off your clit just long enough to watch his finger disappear into you, eyes dark with wonder. “gotta open you up. look how greedy you are — fuck—sucking me right in like you were made for this.”

he crooks his finger, finds that spot inside that makes your vision white out, and you come with a startled wail, thighs clamping around his head, slick gushing over his hand.

he just keeps stroking that spot slowly while his mouth returns to your clit with soft and lazy licks, drawing the orgasm out until you’re shaking and oversensitive and trying to squirm away from his grasp.

“one more, baby,” he says against your folds, voice muffled again. “need you soft and open for me.”

you want to be cool and say something sexy but what comes out is, “i don’t have any more in me."

he just laughs into your thigh like you just told the best joke in the world. the laugh vibrates and suddenly you do have one more.

a sob leaves you now, as you say “can’t,” but your hips are already chasing his tongue. he laughs again like he's received the memo.

“you can and you will. come on, omega, give it to me. give it to your alpha.”

he adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, scissoring gently while his tongue flicks faster.

the burn is there, like a sweet ache, but it’s drowned out by the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until you snap again, harder this time, a rush of wet heat spilling over his chin.

he works you through it, licking softly until you go limp, with tears drying on your temples.

only then does he crawl up your body, pressing kisses to your belly, your ribs, the space between your breasts. it's like he needs to map every single part of you, make you his in every way that will ever count.

his beard is soaked, lips swollen and shiny, and he looks wrecked in the best way.

“good girl,” he whispers, nuzzling your throat, scenting you openly now. “so fucking good for me.”

you reach for him with shaky hands, tugging at his shirt. you know one thing and one thing only. that you want him. “off. want skin.”

realisation hits you that you're talking in half sentences now, but you have bigger things to look forward to.

he yanks it over his head in one quick motion, then pauses, looking down at where you’re still spread open and trembling beneath him.

you just stare at him and his abs because it's goddamn unfair how hot he is. the flannel shirt has been hiding the most beautiful thing in the world ever.

there’s a faint sheen of sweat across his collarbones from holding himself back all day, and the scent rolling off his bare skin hits you like a drug, wet earth and gun-oil and something feral that makes your mouth water and your thighs try to close on instinct.

“still with me?” his voice is both rough and gentle at the same time, thumb stroking your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real.

you nod and pull him down until his weight settles over you, the most perfect thing ever.

his chest hair rasps against your nipples, the metal arm cool against your ribs, flesh hand burning hot on your hip, and you feel tiny under him, safe and pinned and exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“don’t stop,” you breathe against his mouth. “please don’t stop.”

"not gonna," he kisses you like he’s drowning, swallowing every little sound you make.

his tongue strokes yours, making you taste yourself on him, and you whine into his mouth.

your hands slide over the ridges of his back, nails digging in when another cramp twists low in your belly.

it is sharp enough to make your hips jerk, grinding your soaked pussy against the hard line of his cock still trapped in his sweatpants

“alpha,” you gasp against his lips, the word slipping out of you in the most needy way, surprising you both.

bucky groans, his forehead dropping to yours. “fuck, omega. say it again.”

“alpha, please.” tears spill down your temples. “it hurts. need you inside, please.”

he rears back just enough to shove his sweatpants down, kicking them off, and then he’s bare above you, cock heavy and flushed against his stomach. there's a bead of precum pearling at the tip.

you stare at him, because holy shit he wasn’t exaggerating about how big he is.

it’s ridiculous. beautiful and ridiculous and you have a fleeting, hysterical thought that you’re about to get ruined by a guy who still sends you birthday cards.

the thought makes you giggle and then choke because he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“eyes on me,” he says softly, settling between your thighs again, nudging them wider with his knees. “gonna go slow, sweetheart. tell me if it’s too much.”

you nod, almost biting your lip bloody, and he lines up, dragging the blunt head through your folds, coating himself in slick, spreading your wetness up over your clit until you’re shaking and trying to chase the pressure.

the first press is gentle, just the tip breaching you, and you both suck in a breath.

“oh god,” you whimper. it burns sharply, but underneath it is relief so profound you start crying harder, tears sliding hot into your hair.

“breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice shaking with restraint. “breathe out a little. there you go—fuck, that’s it.”

inch by agonizing inch he sinks in, pausing every time you tense, kissing away your tears, whispering praise against your throat, “so tight. taking me so well. my perfect girl,” the words rumbling against your skin, beard scraping deliciously.

when he’s halfway you feel impossibly full already, and you claw at his shoulders. “too much—”

“almost,” he soothes, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest, rolling down between your breasts. “just a little more. you’re doing so good, omega. look how pretty you open for me.”

he pulls back just enough that you both watch his cock disappear into you, the sight so filthy your walls flutter around him and he curses under his breath.

the stretch is so sudden and complete that for one stupid second you’re scared you’re going to split open.

but then the fear flips into wonder because he’s home, he’s actually home inside you and your body is singing in a language you never even learned, every ridge and vein dragging against places inside you that light up like fireworks.

another slow push and he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and you both moan, broken sounds that tangle in the air.

he stills as he's buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, with his forehead pressed to yours.

“move,” you beg, because you feel full and empty at the same time somehow. “please move, alpha.”

he draws back slow, almost all the way out, then slides home again, and the drag lights every nerve on fire.

when he slides back in it’s like the first sip of water after you didn’t even know you were dying of thirst. your hips tilt greedily without permission, chasing that feeling again, and you hate how obvious it is but you can’t stop.

a sob leaves you as your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him inside you deeper.

“like that?” he rasps, setting a careful rhythm, long strokes that have you seeing stars. “feel good?”

“yes—yes—harder alpha—” you don’t even und why you’re screaming for him to go harder, but everything in your body is asking for more.

he obliges, hips snapping a little sharper, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room.

your slick is everywhere, soaking the sheets, dripping down his balls, easing the way until he’s fucking into you relentlessly.

you turn your head without thinking, mouth finding the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and bite dow. blood floods your tongue, and you taste iron.

it’s not romantic, it’s animal and desperate and the most honest thing you’ve ever done with your mouth—claiming him before your brain can talk you out of it.

you don't know what made you feral enough to do it, but the wolf in you seems happy.

“fuck—did you just—” he pulls back to stare at you, a perfect ring of your teeth blooming red on his skin.

“i’m sorry!” you whisper, a little horrified now that he's noticed. “i didn’t mean—i just needed—”

“no, baby, no.” his laugh is breathless, and leans in to capture your lips, kissing you fiercely, tasting his own blood on your tongue and groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. “you marked me. you've claimed me. means i’m yours now, my little wolf.”

your heart flips. “really?”

“really.” he nuzzles your throat, scent glands pulsing, licking over your pulse point like he’s already planning where to bite. “want me to mark you back? make it even?”

“yes,” you breathe. “make me yours. please, alpha.”

a possessive growl rips off him, and he strikes. his teeth sink into the soft spot where neck meets shoulder.

pain flares, but then melts into pure bliss, a rush of warmth flooding every vein, your pussy clamping down so hard he curses into your skin.

his bite lands and the pain is bright but then it is gone, replaced by a rush that pours straight down your spine and pools between your legs.

suddenly, you understand why people write songs about this exact second. you also understand you’re never going to be just “you” again.

you come with a scream, walls clamping down on him, milking his cock as pleasure crashes over you in waves.

bucky's pace falters, like your orgasm triggered his too. “shit—gonna knot you—can’t hold—”

the base of his cock starts to swell, catching on every thrust, and stretching you wider.

you feel it grow and thicken, a delicious pressure that has you keening.

you gasp even though you know what exactly is happening. the feeling is nothing and everything like he'd described.

“knot, omega,” he grits out,like he's confirming in case you were still confused. “gonna lock us together. fill you up, baby.”

it pops fully, sealing you tight, and you hiss at the sensation. you're stuffed so full you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

the knot throbs inside you, stretching your walls until you feel every pulse of his heartbeat.

his rhythm turns shallow, and then he’s coming, hot pulses deep inside, so much it floods you instantly.

spurt after thick spurt paints your insides, your belly rounding with it.

“take it,” his voice breaks. “take every drop—fuck, look at you.”

dazed at the sensation, you stare down between you, hand pressing over the little bulge.

when you press, you feel him pulse, another hot spurt, and the skin stretches under your hand. the possessive little wolf that lives in you purrs 'mine' so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it.

“that’s me,” he whispers, covering your hand with his. “all in you. keeping you full.”

you come again just from that, weaker but deeper, a rolling climax that leaves you boneless and sobbing his name.

he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re on top, knot tying you together, his arms banded around your back.

he’s still leaking into you, little pulses every time you clench, and you can’t stop touching the swell of your stomach, marveling at how full you feel.

“feels weird,” you mumble into his neck. “good weird. like you’re part of me now.”

“i am,” he says simply, fingers tracing the bite mark on your shoulder. “and you’re part of me. we're mated. for real.”

you lift your head, tears fresh but happy this time. “even though i bit you like a feral raccoon?”

he snorts but kisses the tip of your nose. “that was just you being my my fierce little omega.”

the knot takes its sweet time, like it knows exactly how wrecked you both are and refuses to rush the moment.

you’re draped over bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart, his arms locked around your back so you don’t slide off the swell of your own belly.

every few seconds one of you shifts and the tug where you’re joined makes you both hiss.

“think i look about three months along,” you mumble into his skin, poking the taut curve of your stomach.

bucky huffs a laugh that shakes you both. “try five. you’re carrying the barnes heir already, clearly i’m very efficient.”

“shut up,” you groan, but you’re grinning. “this is so weird. i look like i swallowed a something.”

sliding one big hand down to cradle the underside of the bulge, his thumb strokes soft circles. “never seen anything hotter in my life, swear to god.”

you hide your face in his neck again because the way he’s looking at you—like you hung the damn moon and then painted it gold for good measure—makes your chest ache in a brand new way.

time blurs. snow ticks against the window like it’s trying to get in on the secret.

eventually the pressure eases, the knot shrinking by slow degrees until you feel him slip a fraction inside you.

“here we go,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “gonna be messy, baby. you ready?”

you nod, and then the last of it deflates and he slides free with a wet sound that should be obscene but mostly just makes you whimper at the sudden emptiness.

you feel it leave you and panic for one stupid heartbeat that he’s leaving too, until his arms tighten and you realize the mess is just proof he stayed.

hot and endless cum follows immediately, gushing out of you in a rush that soaks the sheets, his thighs, everything.

mortified, you try to clamp your legs shut, but he’s already laughing softly and holding you open with gentle hands.

“let it happen, sweetheart. look at that—fuck, that’s all me.” he sounds awed, staring between your legs where it keeps coming, pearly ropes painting your thighs, pooling under your ass. “you took so much. proud of you.”

“it’s everywhere,” you whisper as you feel head flood your cheeks. “the bed’s ruined. dad’s gonna kill us.”

“worth it,” he says, still watching like he can’t believe his eyes. “christen the guest room properly. he’ll just think i spilled milk or something.”

you smack his chest weakly. “that is not what this looks like.”

he finally tears his gaze away to grin at you. “no, it looks like i bred my omega six ways to sunday. which is accurate.”

the word bred sends a fresh shiver through you, aftershocks rippling up your spine.

he places a wet kiss to the side of your jaw, and moves away from you, so he can grab the water bottle from the nightstand. but even that half a second absence pulls something deep off your chest.

when he presses the bottle to your moth without any preamble, you guzzle half of it without sitting up. and then hand it back with a sheepish smile.

he drinks the rest, and a drop slides down his chin that you lean over and lick away without thinking.

“thirsty little thing,” he teases, but his voice is so soft.

he disappears to the bathroom, comes back with a warm washcloth and a towel that has definitely seen better days. you try to take the cloth but he bats your hand away, kneeling between your legs again.

“let me,” his voice gentle but firm nonetheless. “part of the deal.”

he cleans you slowly—thighs first, then careful swipes over your swollen folds, murmuring apologies when you flinch at the oversensitivity.

the cloth is warm and smells faintly of your old detergent, and the care in his hands makes your chest ache.

“you don’t have to,” you whisper.

“want to,” he says simply. “always gonna take care of you now.”

when he’s done he tosses everything toward the hamper but misses by a mile, earning a laugh from you.

he sits up and scoops you into his lap, and you curl into him immediately, resting your head on his shoulder.

“bathroom,” he decides. “then food. then more cuddling. in that order.”

you make a pathetic noise. “can’t walk.”

“wasn’t planning on making you.”

he scoops you up before you can protest about the mess, carrying you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing.

the shower’s ancient and takes forever to heat, but he holds you under the spray anyway, washing you slowly and thoroughly. his hands are tender between your legs, cleaning away the evidence with a softness that makes tears prick again.

every gentle pass of his hand feels like apology and worship at the same time.

you’re sore, swollen, raw, and still you find yourself canting your hips into his touch because even wrecked you’re greedy for him.

you lean on him like you're boneless, letting him shampoo your hair, rinse the sweat from your back, kiss the bite mark on your shoulder until it tingles.

you let him do whatever he wants, and what he wants is you.

“still with me?” he asks quietly, thumbing soap from your collarbone.

“barely,” you admit, voice hoarse from all the screaming. “feel like i got hit by a truck.”

he snorts, turning you to rinse your back. “sexy horny truck.”

back in the bedroom he strips the ruined sheets with military efficiency, muttering about evidence disposal, then wrestles a clean set from the linen closet while you sit on the edge of the mattress wrapped in a towel with your legs dangling, watching the muscles in his back flex.

he crawls in beside you once it’s made, pulling you down so you’re both face to face now, noses brushing each other.

“hey,” he whispers.

“hey yourself,” you whisper back.

you study each other in the dim afternoon light filtering through the blinds. his hair’s a mess, lips swollen, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen on anyone.

“i love you,” you say, simple as breathing. because it is. nothing had ever felt this good, this right. he looks exactly like everything you've been searching all your life.

you catalogue the tiny things nobody else ever gets to see: the faint freckle just under his left eye, the way his lashes stick together from the shower, the tiny scar on his lip you suddenly want to kiss every day for the rest of your life.

the list feels endless and you’re stupidly grateful for every single item.

you feel his breath catch. “yeah?”

“yeah. think i started falling the second you looked at me like i was something worth looking at. downstairs, when i walked in and you smelled me and didn’t run. maybe even before that, from all dad’s stories. but definitely then.”

metal fingers trace the curve of your cheek as he finds words. “i love you too. terrified me how fast. thought i was having some kinda stroke when your scent hit me. like the world narrowed to just you and i hadn’t even seen your face yet.”

you laugh. “romantic.”

“i’m a romantic guy,” he deadpans, but his voice is softer when he adds, “you’re it for me, sweetheart. mated or not, marked or not, you’re it.”

you kiss him slowly, tasting the truth of it. when you pull back you rest your forehead against his.

“so what happens now?” you ask.

you’re both sticky and wrecked and you can feel a bruise blooming where he bit you and you’ve never been happier to be in pain.

because it means tomorrow when your dad asks why you’re walking funny you’ll have to lie to the man who taught you 'honesty is the best policy' and honestly the irony is delicious.

his thumb strokes your mating mark. “now my rut kicks in for real. been simmering since your heat hit, but the knot triggered it proper. gonna be… a lot. more intense than this. might get growly and possessive, want to keep you in bed for days. you sore?”

“little,” you admit. “but not bad. i want you, alpha. want all of it. however you need me.”

his eyes darken, when the weight of your sentence reaches him. “careful throwing that word around, baby. might not let you out of this room till spring.”

you nip his bottom lip. “promise?”

rolling you under him again, a delighted growl leaves him, “gonna wreck you all over again.”

hours later, bucky’s face is buried in your neck, beard scratching the bite mark every time he exhales.

you’re tracing lazy circles through the sweat on his back with one finger, counting the little scars you find like constellations, like if you memorize them all you’ll never lose him.

the quiet is perfect until it isn’t.

your dad’s truck is gonna crunch up that driveway in like… two hours max. maybe less if the plows are feeling generous.

the thought lands between you like a live grenade and you feel bucky tense the exact second it detonates in your head too.

“shit,” you whisper into his hair.

“yeah,” he mumbles against your skin, voice a little rough. “shit’s a good word for it.”

your heart starts jackhammering so hard you’re surprised he can’t feel it through your ribs.

telling your dad.

jesus.

the man who still calls you “trouble” and kisses the top of your head like you’re ten. the man who taught you how to throw a punch and how to change a tire and who once cried when you left for college. you’re about to walk downstairs and tell him his best friend just mated his daughter.

you’re going to break his heart or make him break bucky’s face and you’re not sure which is worse.

“we’re gonna have to tell him,” your voice is quieter than you mean to be.

bucky lifts his head just enough to look at you, blue eyes still blown wide and soft around the edges. “you want the fun version or the realistic version?”

“gimme both.”

he flops onto his back, dragging you with him so you’re sprawled across his chest like a blanket. his heartbeat is thundering under your ear and it’s the only thing keeping you from spiraling.

“fun version: we walk downstairs holding hands, i say ‘hey pal, remember that time i pulled you outta that burning hut? cool, i just knocked up your daughter, we’re even.’ then we run.”

you snort so hard it hurts, but it’s almost a sob too. “and the realistic version?”

he sighs. “he shoots me in the face, buries me in the backyard, tells everyone i wandered off drunk into the blizzard.”

you smack his chest weakly. “buck, be serious.”

“i am serious.” his voice drops. “your old man’s got a twelve-gauge and the muscle memory of a guy who once killed a dude in the dark.”

you picture it for one terrifying second—your dad’s face going blank the way it did when he came home from deployment and didn’t talk for three days —and your stomach flips so hard you taste metal.

you prop your chin on his sternum, trying to breathe. “he loves you.”

“he loved me when i was just the guy who sent you disney gift cards and fixed his truck. he’s gonna love me a lot less when he realizes i just spent the last six hours balls-deep in his only kid.”

you groan and hide your face between his pecs. the smell of him—sex and pine and you—makes your eyes sting. “god, don’t say it like that.”

“how do you want me to say it?” he’s smiling, you can hear it, but it’s thin. “should i go with ‘we discovered a profound emotional connection’?”

“shut up.” you bite his collarbone just hard enough to make him hiss, then lick the spot in apology. “i’m freaking out here.”

he softens immediately, hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, thumb rubbing that spot that makes your whole spine melt. “hey. breathe, baby. we’ll figure it out.”

you want to believe him. you do. but the idea of your dad looking at you like you’re suddenly someone else’s daughter makes something inside you crack.

you peek up at him. “together?”

“together,” he says, like it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made. “but i gotta be real with you—i’m not letting him shoot me until after i get more of that chili. i’ve earned it.”

you laugh despite everything, and somehow he always knows exactly how to yank you out of your own head. “he’s gonna smell it on us. both of us. the whole house reeks.”

bucky wrinkles his nose. “yeah. smells like a mated pair just invented sex. real subtle.”

you sit up a little, straddling his hips, sheet pooling around your waist. you feel the evidence of him still leaking out of you and it’s equal parts mortifying and possessive and you want to keep it there forever.

“we could… shower again? open all the windows? say we were burning incense or something?”

he arches a brow. “incense that smells like cum and desperate omega? bold choice.”

you flick his ear. “i’m workshopping.”

he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, eyes serious now. “look. i’ll take the lead, okay? been through worse firefights than one pissed-off dad.”

“you ever had a firefight where the enemy taught you how to ride a bike and made you pancakes when you were hungover?”

“fair point.” he exhales through his teeth. “maybe we ease him into it. i’ll start with ‘hey, remember when you said if anyone ever hurt her you’d skin them alive? funny story—’”

you drop your forehead to his. your voice comes out smaller than you want. “we could just… show him the bites.”

bucky goes very still. “you want me to roll in there shirtless like ‘surprise, i’m your new son-in-law’?”

“it’s honest.”

“it’s suicidal.”

you chew your lip until you taste blood. “i don’t want to lie to him. not about this. not about us.”

his whole face softens so fast it’s unfair. “yeah. me neither.” he brushes your hair back, tucking it behind your ear like you’re something fragile and priceless. “okay. no lying. but maybe… we put clothes on first. and i stand slightly behind you. like a human shield but sexier.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s watery. “why’s the shield standing behind— oh, you coward.”

“smart,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”

you lean down and kiss him slowly, tasting the both of you on his tongue. when you pull back his eyes are dark again.

“stop that,” he mutters. “we’re trying to adult here.”

“can’t help it. you’re all… biteable.”

he groans and flips you suddenly, pinning you under him again. “keep talking like that and your dad’s gonna come home to round two and a locked door.”

you grin up at him, reckless and terrified and stupidly in love. “it’ll be worth it.”

he kisses you once more, hard, then rolls off and sits up. “come on. food first. then we face the firing squad.”

you watch him stand, all long lines and scars and the bite you put on his shoulder still red and perfect. your chest does something complicated—like it’s too small for everything trying to live inside it.

“bucky?”

he glances back. “yeah?”

“whatever he says… i’m not giving you back.”

his smile is small and crooked and yours. “good. ‘cause i’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. never.”

outside, the snow keeps piling up. inside, you know you're bound to each other in ways no one had ever been to anyone else.

my masterlist .ᐟ

extras. guess who deleted the whole draft this afternoon and crashed the fuck out? anyways, it all worked out, i think. i am quite proud of how this turned out, especially the moodboard bc seb looks absolutely delicious there! taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment + to get added to the taglist .ᐟ

[buckyytorres]

🎥 matthieujehanno on ig

[underratedqueenorie]

So handsome 🤩

[sebastiansource]

SEBASTIAN STAN Photographed by Andrew Zaeh For Deadline

[funkybarnes]

[wildflowersandvibranium-deactiv]

The Oddity Of Falling [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: FireFighter!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Series Summary: A firefighter and his wife , once high school sweethearts , face the end of their marriage—until something unexpected brings them back under the same roof.

Content/Warnings: Second Chance Romance , Ex's To Lovers , Marital Conflict & Separation , Infidelity (during separation) , Alcohol use , Injury scenes (non-graphic) Themes of Pregnancy / Childbirth & Infertility , Mature themes

Series Playlist

<<<I no longer have a series taglist so follow @notifs-wildflowersandvibranium and turn notifications on for chapter / series updates!>>>

---

Part One - Then and Now

Part Two - Two Ghosts

Part Three - You’re Losing Me

Part Four - Dog Fight

Part Five - Tongue Twister [in progress]

[wildflowersandvibranium-deactiv]

The Oddity Of Falling

Part Three: You're Losing Me

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Series Summary: A firefighter and his wife , once high school sweethearts , face the end of their marriage—until something unexpected brings them back under the same roof.

Content/Warnings: Second Chance Romance , Ex's To Lovers , Marital Conflict & Separation , Infidelity (during separation) , Alcohol use , Injury scenes (non-graphic) Themes of Pregnancy / Childbirth & Infertility , Mature themes

Word Count: 3.6+

Series Masterlist ★ Bucky Taglist

authors note: hi guys! just wanted to say thank you to everyone for your support on this story! i know its been a minute haha... sorry about that but heres the next part and im working on being consistant with my series again! spacial tags to those who mentioned interest in the story! @sheriff-bodecker @mrsnikstan @enitnelavvalentine @arcadiajope @sugamilkey @boomyoulookingforthis @sinistersnakey @barnes-babydoll @mrgrungusthefrog

<- previous part - next part ->

The faint scent of lavender and something vaguely floral – Natasha’s cleaner , surely– clung to the sage green guest room sheets. It was a gentle perfume, meant to soothe, but for you, it only amplified the empty and off feeling stirring within . 

Every morning since that awful night two weeks ago, you wake to the unfamiliar softness of a bed that isn't yours, the subtle weight of blankets you hadn’t chosen. Nothing in this room, nothing in this house, felt like it belonged to you.

Your days had become a series of borrowed moments. Natasha’s ivory chipped mugs were now your usual. Her worn leather armchair by the window, bathed in the weak morning sun, was where you scroll through your phone, a futile attempt to fill the deafening silence. Even the way you walk through her apartment felt different, tip-toeing, hesitant—like a trespasser.

The grief was a constant companion nowadays. In the quiet hours of waking, your arm would instinctively reach for the empty space on the bed, a gesture forged by the years. 

Then, as you’d pull on your work clothes, your eyes would scan the hallway for his familiar, worn jacket, the one that always seemed to smell of cheap motor oil and something uniquely him. But there was only the same empty air, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the morning chill.

The phone in your pocket, a constant, humming reminder of your life unspooling, buzzes loudly. 

Bucky. 

Updates from new lawyers he had hired. The initial polite-but-firm detached language of legal proceedings. Each notification was a tiny prick, a reminder of what was breaking between you.

Today though, the same ugly buzz was followed by a distant wail, a rising siren that cut through the morning quiet. Your stomach, as it always did when hearing those sounds, tightened into a knot of pure, unadulterated dread. 

Sirens. 

They were Bucky’s soundtrack. The constant, low-grade hum of his dangerous life, a life you lived with him for so long, the sound and colors of its lights felt imprinted on your heart.

Your first instinct, a reflex as old as your shared history, was to reach for him. To call, to ask if he was okay, to just hear his voice. But the words caught in your throat, the action stopped before it could start. 

Choked by the invisible barrier the lawyers were slowly constructing around you too. Were you allowed to worry about him? Did you still have that right?

Instead, your thumb hovered over and pressed on Nat’s contact. 

“Hey,” her voice came through immediately, a little groggy from it still being early. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” You lied, voice a little too sharp. “Just… heard sirens.” You sighed between words.

A beat of silence. You knew, even without seeing her, that her brow had furrowed. She knew the implication, the history. She’d seen and lived the intensity of your connection, the way his dangers had always cast a shadow over your life together.

“Are you alright?” she questioned, her voice softer now, laced with a familiar concern that was both a comfort and a painful reminder.

“Yeah, fine,” You repeated, trying to add a casualness you didn't feel. “Just… a reflex, I guess.”

“You miss him,” she stated, not a question.

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. The truth hung heavy in the air between.  You looked around Natasha’s immaculately organized living room, the abstract red and black streaked art on the walls, the neatly stacked fashion and travel magazines. It was a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of your former life with Bucky, the constant undercurrent of his work and yours. Here, everything was calm, predictable. 

But it wasn’t your calm. It wasn’t your predictability.

Every creak of the floorboards in Natasha’s apartment felt amplified, every rustle of leaves outside the window louder than needed. The sirens, now fading into the distance, leaving an echo in your ears. Low-level anxiety that was as much a part of you now as your own heartbeat.

You leaned forward, picking up a book from the coffee table, the cover glossy and  vibrant. You tried to read, to lose yourself in the printed words, and photos inside of hills and valleys–but your mind kept drifting back. 

Back to the way Bucky’s hand would rest on the small of your back, a silent reassurance when sprawled across the sofa. Back to the late-night conversations, the shared silences that spoke louder than any words. Back to the undeniable pull, the magnetic force that had drawn you together in the first place, and that now, felt like a gaping wound.

Natasha’s gentle voice pulled you back to the present. “He’s okay, you know,” she said softly, as if reading your mind. “He’s always okay , he’s Bucky Barnes.”

You finally looked up from the pages, adjusting the phone. “I hope so…I really hope so.”

The silence in the house was a physical, pressed weight as Bucky woke with a jolt, the phantom warmth of your body laying beside him, a cruel trick of the rising morning light. 

His hand instinctively reached across the mattress, seeking the familiar curve of your hip, the soft whisper of your breath. Instead, his fingers met the rough, warm fur of Roscoe, who blinked up at him with sympathetic chocolate eyes.

Roscoe, your white coat—black spotted, dog yawned big at his dad emerging from sleep. 

Bucky sat up, the sheets tangling around his bare legs. The room, bathed in the pale dawn, felt cavernous. He swung over the side of the bed, the floorboards creaking and cool beneath his feet. His gaze swept across the familiar landscape of your shared bedroom. It was littered with the ghosts of you.

There, by the door, the small pile where your running shoes usually sat. Now, only one pair remained, his own worn muddied sneakers. On the slightly leaning dresser, a scattering of your soft black hair ties, a few stray bobby pins, a shimmer of glitter from that one cocktail dress– all gone now, packed away, leaving behind empty, dusty spaces that echoed with your absence.

He sluggishly padded into the living room, the morning sun blinding through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It was the house you’d bought together, a project of hope and shared dreams. He remembered the day you had gotten the shiny new keys, your giddy laughter echoing through the empty rooms. 

The key ring felt heavy in his palm, a symbol of the future awaiting for you both. He unlocked the front door with a dramatic click and swing, stepping into your new life. 

Your hair lazily tied up in a messy bun with a rogue strand or two falling across your cheekbone, had practically skipped past him, voice ringing with excitement with each bounce.

“Oh, Buck, it’s perfect!”

You immediately kicked off your shoes, leaving them somewhere haphazardly by the empty brick fireplace. 

He ran up behind you laughing, scooping you up bridal style, twirling you around.

The raw, unadulterated joy of that moment imprinted on his mind like a hot iron brand.

“We’re going to make this…our life together… into something amazing, you know that?” he murmured into your hair, the scent of your shampoo, a blend of something floral and sour citrus, filling his senses as he grinned. 

“I know…” You beamed, kissing his stubbled chin. “Now come on! I wanna show you the gold knobs I put in for our bathroom cabinets!” You dropped from his hold and skimpered off. Bucky hot on your heels making you squeal loudly.

You spent the rest of that day as a blur of unpacking about a hundred flimsy cardboard boxes, assembling wobbly thrifted furniture, and, of course, spontaneous bursts of affection. Because moving into a new home…newly married…with the love of your life… WHO WAS SMOKING HOT?? How could you not constantly jump on him??

He saw it all again behind his eyes, so clear, as if it were just yesterday. 

You, struggling with a particularly hard shelf you insisted you get for the guest room, arms outstretched, a smudge of sawdust on your nose, your laughter bubbling as he’d teased you with each grunt and whine you made, twisting the wrench and lifting a heavy piece. 

The way you’d attacked him with a playful kiss in passing, both of you ending up sprawled on the floor amidst scattered packing peanuts and your clothes.

And then, the kitchen table. Your last piece of furniture that was added in the home. A simple, solid reddish oak piece. He remembered the first night you had eaten greasy takeout on it, perched on opposite sides. And later, after the paper dishes and napkins were cleared, he had pulled you onto his lap, your legs tangling, kissing him deeply, a slow, languid exploration that had promised so much. 

The memory of your hands tracing the lines of his face, your soft sighs into his mouth, the feel of your skin against his – it was all still so, so vivid.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories, to push them back into the shadows where they belonged, and failed. 

The silence pressed in again. He needed to move. He needed to do something.

The firehouse was still his sanctuary, his escape. He practically lived there these days, taking on every extra unwanted shift and overtime. 

The sirens and their screams—a welcome distraction from the quiet of his own thoughts. He’d even started sleeping on the worn couch in the break room, the familiar scent of  burnt coffee and ash a comforting, yet also unsavory, balm.

Steve, with his perpetually rumpled uniform and kind blue eyes, had noticed when clocking in that late morning, found his best friend laid out on the sofa. Roscoe napping nearby barking when seeing Steve. 

“You okay, Buck?” he asked handing him a lukewarm mug of fresher coffee then whatever was currently swirling in his current cup. “You’ve been putting in some serious overtime, pal.”

Sam, ever the bear poker, had simply quirked an eyebrow and smirked walking in. “Trying to outrun somethin’, man?”

Bucky just grunted, sitting up, focusing on the flickering flames of the gas stove as he began to heat up a frozen meal. He couldn’t articulate the chasm that had opened up inside him, the raw wound of you. 

His temper, once as steady as a well-oiled engine, had become sharper, more volatile. He snapped at young trainees and dispatchers, his patience worn thin by the relentless gnawing of loneliness and guilt. 

He stirred the pathetic steamed vegetables in the stations beat up skillet, remembering the first time he’d accidentally set an extra plate at home. 

He was making dinner, the ritual of chopping fruit still a comforting, repetitive motion. His hands, moving on autopilot, had reached for the second ceramic plate, the one with the delicate floral rim, the one you always used. And then, the stark, brutal realization.

He’d stood there, the plate in hand, the silence amplifying the sound of his own ragged breathing. The table, meant for two, now felt like a monument to their shared life, a cruel joke.

He’d looked at Roscoe, who was watching him with an expectant tilt of his head, his tail giving a tentative thump against the floor. 

Bucky just sighed, placing his own plate down and then, with deliberate slowness, setting the second plate in front of Roscoe. “Guess you’re eating with me tonight, boy,” he murmured.

 Roscoe, oblivious to the weight of his human’s despair and the action, had wagged his tail more enthusiastically, nudging the plate with his nose as he chows down.

Later, after he’d forced down a few dry and bitter bites, the food tasting like ash, he’d managed to send you a picture. Just a simple photo of Roscoe and Alpine. The dog’s head bowed, enthusiastically demolishing the food from the extra plate. He’d typed out with it: “Someone’s enjoying dinner.” He stared at the message, thumb hovering over the bright green send button, a thousand unspoken words screaming in his mind. 

He sent it. And then plopped on the sofa, the agonizing wait for a reply that may never come passing by for hours. Leaving him alone, again.

The days were empty. Wake up. Go to the firehouse. Work. Come home to the empty house. Feed Ros and Alp. Sleep. Repeat. 

He found himself lingering in places that held crumbs of you. The small, sun-drenched nook by the window where you used to read with your feet tucked beneath you. The worn spot on the love seat where you’d curl up with a blanket and a cheesy rom com. Even the refrigerator, where your favorite brand of farmers market bread and jam still sat, untouched, molding.

Sometimes, he’d catch himself speaking to you, a quiet “Hey,” or a whispered “You wouldn’t believe what happened today.” The words would hang in the air, lost in the vast emptiness, and a fresh wave of grief would wash over him. 

You weren't dead. He knew that. His brain knew but his heart… Not so much.

He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the kitchen table the next morning. He remembered your laughter, the way it used to fill this very space, chasing away any lingering shadows that haunted his mind and sleep. He remembered the way you’d lean across it, your eyes sparkling, to steal a sticky syrup filled kiss.

He missed the chaos. He missed the noise. He missed you.

He picked up Roscoe’s empty plate, rinsing it out, the running water a brief, welcome sound. He looked out the window, the sky a canvas of bruised purples and burning oranges as the sun began its descent.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know what the next day, or the day after that, would hold. All he knew was the relentless march of time, the empty spaces, and the silent ache of a love that was, for now, suspended in the quiet. He was living in the aftermath, a man adrift, waiting for a signal, a sign, anything to break through the profound and suffocating silence he caused.

Natasha, flopped down perched on a stool at the island, wincing with a scrunched nose, shaking her head. “Okay, maybe we order pizza tonight,” she suggested, her voice laced with sympathy.

You fanned the air with a tea towel, trying to dispel the offending smell and whips of smoke of your now burnt toast. “Probably for the best. My culinary skills seem to have taken a hiatus along with… well, everything else in my life.” You managed a weak smile, gaze flicking to the window as a distant police car wailed. 

You didn’t flinch, not anymore at least.

Just then, your phone buzzed on the counter, your heart giving a foolish, hopeful leap before settling back into its usual realization.

It was just a few notifications from apps you noticed. Your gardening app, reminding you to repot your ferns. Your menstrual cycle tracker and Amazon saying a package should come today. And you almost… almost, typed out a message to Bucky. 

“Help me not forget to repot our ferns ;)” 

The words died quicker than the thought on your fingertips, deleting the message just as fast as you had typed it out.

Across town, Bucky’s own phone lay face down on the coffee table. He knew, with an almost obsessive certainty, the exact placement of his phone and the fact it was within arm’s reach.

He glances at it when he makes another pot of coffee, when he pauses his work out at the station, even when he was momentarily alone in the silence of the evening. 

Each time, his thumb hovered, ready to unlock the screen, his pulse quickening at the mere possibility of your name appearing. But the screen remained dark and lack of your presence. 

He ran a harsh hand through his hair, the gesture self-reassuring and utterly useless. He’d just about text you earlier. He had even had the words typed out and everything.The little send arrow beckoning. But he’d deleted it, the fear of intrusion—of being too needy, winning over him. 

You were separated, not divorced. There was a fine, blurry but fine line, and he was terrified of crossing it, of pushing you further away than he meant to in the first place , with a clumsy attempt at what…reconnection? He scoffed at himself. Pathetic.

Natasha cleared her throat, gently pulling you back from your thoughts. “So,” she chirped, voice a little too bright, “I was thinking, we could do a proper girls’ wine night tonight. I’ve got that new Chilean Sauvignon Blanc you like. We can talk… about anything. Or nothing. Whatever you need.”

You forced another smile nodding. “That sounds lovely, Nat. Really.” You appreciated Natasha’s support, the way your friend tried to fill the hollow spaces with laughter and distraction. Natasha was also, you knew, the voice that reminded you of the messy realities of you and Bucky’s situation. 

She’d been through her own separation then divorce, a brutal, affair that had left her scarred but also wiser.

“And we can talk about how… difficult these things can be,” Natasha continued, her attempt steady. “How people change. How sometimes, the people who knew you best, who loved you when you were just… figuring yourself out, are the ones who can hurt you the most deeply.”

You nodded, but your attention had already been snagged by the wail of another siren, closer this time. And ambulance. 

She watched as you looked towards the red and blue, painting streaks across your quivering lips. Another knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. 

“Hey,” Nat said softly. “Are you okay?”

You blinked, focused reluctantly, returning to the present. “Yeah,” you lied through misted eyes, voice thin. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired.”

“Well while you were sittin’ there I called and pizza’s on its way…and then, maybe we just embrace the chaos. Sink into the couch, get properly drunk, and forget all about burnt toast and… you know…everything else.”

You managed a more genuine smile this time. “Sounds like a plan.” 

The pizza arrived, a welcomed yummy distraction. You ate, trying to focus on the taste, on the conversation with Natasha.

You found yourself picking at the crust, appetite suddenly vanishing as Natsaha began speaking—

"You know, sometimes, the hardest part of letting go isn't the big, dramatic moments. It's the small, quiet ones. At least thats how it was when me and you know who decided to split. The ones you used to share without even thinking. Like… like knowing exactly how the other person likes their coffee, and then realizing you'll never make it for them again."

A lump forming in your throat. “I almost called him today,” You confessed, voice barely a whisper as you flicked the edge of your paper plate. “When I burned the toast. I had the words right there in my mouth. ‘You’ll never believe it…’” Natasha put a hand on your arm. “It’s gonna be okay,” she said gently. “It’s hard, so impossibly hard, but…” She cupped your cheek, swiping a tear you hadn't realized fell. “...you will be okay.”

“Thanks Natty” She set down her plate and brought you in her arms as you cried. 

God- you just wanted to see him so bad. Be in his arms. You didn't even need to speak, you didn't want a fight or bicker. You were too tired for that. But just to see him.

That next morning after a quick cold shower and breakfast hastily made and ate. Bucky was staring blankly at a chipped–framed photograph on the mantel. He had a few minutes to spare and decided to turn on the local news to check the traffic but your smile in the photo made him throw the remote, skidding down the hall. He rubbed his face looking through fingers and staring back at him–was your high school prom pic, a blurry, joyous snapshot of two–in love teenagers, impossibly young,  grins bigger than Jupiter.

He remembered that night, the awkward dancing with your clammy hands ,his shaking fingers, the whispered promises of late night donuts at the twenty four hour place after and endless giggles between sways and dips, the overwhelming certainty that you were meant to be together at that very moment. 

He picked up the frame and threw it down on the floor with a clatter, whispering a curse as his eyes filled with tears. 

He grabbed his phone again, this was it. The familiar itch almost unbearable. He thought of you so vividly in this moment, of your warm laugh, of the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy. The way they were when you weren't with him–

he thought.

He opened your contact for the sixth time that day. If he could just say something. Anything. A simple “Thinking of you,” or a silly pic of Roscoe and Alpine–but the anxiety, the fear of you misinterpreting his words, or him misunderstanding your response or…worse–receiving no response at all. It all held him captive. 

He closed the texts, standing to walk to the window, looking out at the city lights as they twinkled on. Roscoe padded over and scratched at Bucky’s leg, making him peer down at the dalmatian. 

“What?....you need to potty boy?” But instead of a tail wag or bark saying “yes” the spotted dog just whined and trotted over to where your shoes lay on the floor, nuzzling them with a fierce certainty. 

“Oh Ros…”

KNOCK. KNOCK.  KNOCK.

next part in progress ->

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[inactive-widowwhisper]

where'd all the time go?

[beyondthefold]

DOES SEBASTIAN STAN KNOW LINES FROM HIS MOST FAMOUS MOVIES&TV SHOWS?

[navybrat817]

Turned Sour

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky gets you the food you want... or does he?

Word Count: 300

Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, hormones, sudden food aversion, domestic life, fluff, baby nickname (Sprout), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Day 19 of the January Jumble Scribbles Challenge. Prompt: Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood. ❤️ Part of our Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky knew something was off the second you bit into your food. The initial excitement on your face turned sour. You had been looking forward to eating the meal all day, and now you looked like you wanted to flip the table.

That wasn’t good.

You stopped chewing and, as gracefully as you could, spit it into your napkin. “Nope.” You shoved the plate away with enough force that it almost tipped over. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but nope. I can’t.”

Bucky frowned when you took a couple of deep breaths and stared at the ceiling. He had to tread carefully. “Did I get the wrong brand?”

“No. This is exactly what I wanted, but now the taste and the smell are making me feel sick.” Your face scrunched up and his heart dropped. You were two seconds from bursting into tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sweetheart, you have nothing to apologize for.” Bucky immediately went around the table so he could be beside you. “Hormones?” he asked gently. 

“Hormones,” you confirmed. “And I’d love it if they stopped grabbing me by my non-existant balls.”

“Well, I do know a thing or two about balls since I have them, but I’m sorry to say that I don’t fully understand hormones,” he teased to make you smile. He would forever be in awe of you for carrying his child. “But I have a leg up on Steve because he doesn’t understand women.”

“One could argue that women are meant to be loved, not to be understood,” you teased back.

“I do love you,” he whispered, wishing he could do more.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back. “Think we can order a pizza?”

He kissed your temple. “Whatever will keep you and Sprout happy.”

Bucky’s company and the pizza did just that.

I have been exhausted, and husband!Bucky would be so wonderful. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

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[navybrat817]

Hidden Cameras

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You look at some paperwork with Bucky.

Word Count: 300

Warnings: Cockwarming, dirty talk, power imbalance of sorts, hidden cameras, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Day 20 of the January Jumble Scribbles Challenge. Prompt: “If anyone walks in, that’s on you.” ❤️ More of our congressman. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You looked at the clock on the wall, watching the seconds tick by. You should’ve been home over an hour ago, but Bucky convinced you to stay longer. He was persuasive that way. 

Very persuasive. 

“You’ve been reading that page for the last five minutes.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. You weren’t exactly concentrating on the words in front of you, and he knew exactly why. The bastard. 

Gorgeous. Cocky. Bastard.

 “It hasn’t been five minutes,” you muttered, the words starting to blur together. 

“Hmm. You’re right.” Bucky’s lips brushed your neck, your pulse picking up. “I think it’s been six minutes.”

Your head fell back against his shoulder. “You should be reading this,” you reminded him.

“Paperwork is boring,” he whispered, reaching under your skit to tease your clit. “This is much more fun.”

You bit back a moan when he thrust his hips up, making you pulse more around his cock. You had no clue why either of you were pretending to work at this point. To be fair, you did get a lot done earlier in the day before he told you to take a seat. 

You were lucky the Congressman didn’t have you sitting on his cock all day, but would that really be so bad if he suggested it?

“Better not moan too loud,” he teased, his teeth scraping your skin. “Someone might walk in.”

The coil inside you tightened with every touch. “If anyone walks in, that’s on you.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t want anyone to see how well you take my cock? How pretty you look when I make you lose it?” You whimpered when he rocked his hips again. “Well, even if no one walks in, we can still watch it later.”

Bucky and all his hidden cameras.

Gorgeous. Cocky. Bastard.

I have no problems with this. 😌 Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

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[imnotjustreadingg-volume-two]

I can handle you (no I can't)

pairing: beefy!bucky x avenger!fem!reader word count: 1225 warning: smut | porn with plot | teasing | rough sex | consensual | aftercare summary: you think you can handle the big and beefy super soldier. Bucky thinks she's saying a lot of lies. a/n: so that was my first fic ever reaching 2k+ notes and it was even one of my first attempt of doing smutty fics. hope you all like it like you loved it the first time.

She leaned against the doorway of the training room, arms crossed, lips curved into a playful smirk. Her suit clung to her frame, dusted in sweat from the session she’d just finished. Bucky stood inside, shirtless, chest heaving as he caught his breath. His muscles glistened, veins prominent on his arms as he flexed his fingers around the heavy punching bag.

“You know,” she said, sauntering in. “My ex-boyfriend was strong too.” Bucky turned to her, head tilted, an eyebrow raised. “I can perfectly handle you, Barnes.” She added with a sweet fake sense of safety in her tone like she didn’t just challenge a super soldier.

He didn’t smile. Not really. Just gave her that look low-lidded, predatory. The kind that made heat pulse between her legs. “Maybe,” he said, stepping toward her, “but he wasn’t a super soldier.”

She barely had time to breathe before his metal hand curled around her waist, pulling her flush against his bare chest. The chill of vibranium made her gasp, but the warmth of his body sent a shiver right back through her.

“Let’s see, doll,” he murmured, voice dark, thick with promise.

He pressed her against the wall, lips crashing onto hers with bruising force. She moaned into his mouth, fingers tugging at his hair as he slid his knee between her thighs, forcing them apart. The tension that always simmered between them boiled over, snapping like an electric wire.

Bucky lifted her effortlessly, one arm wrapped under her ass, the other still gripping her jaw as he kissed her deeper, rougher. Her legs wrapped around his waist out of instinct, heat pooling where their bodies met.

“Still think you can handle me?” He growled against her neck, biting down just hard enough to make her squirm.

She gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Try me.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He tossed her onto the training mat like she weighed nothing. She bounced once, heart racing and adrenaline mixing with arousal. Bucky was on her in seconds pressing her down, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, while the other slid beneath the waistband of her suit. “You're soaked,” he muttered, groaning low in his throat. “You want this?”

She arched up, breathless. “Bucky-”

“No,” he smirked, sliding two thick fingers between her folds, teasing her entrance. “Say it.”

“I want you,” she whimpered. “I need you. Fuck, please-”

He pushed in without warning, fingers stretching her wide as she cried out, back bowing from the mat.

He curled them just right, watching her eyes roll back with a satisfied grin. “You’re takin’ me so well already,” he said, voice husky. “Gonna ruin you, sweetheart... gonna make you forget every damn man that came before me.”

And when he finally replaced his fingers with the hard, heavy weight of his cock, she knew he meant it.

Every thrust was punishing, precise. He fucked her like a man who had something to prove. Like he knew he was the strongest man she’d ever had and wanted to make damn sure she remembered it.

By the time he was done with her, she was shaking, panting, nails dug into his back, lips swollen from his kisses. He pulled back just enough to meet her dazed eyes, brushing sweaty hair from her face. “Still think you can handle me?” He asked again, breathless but cocky. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He grinned. “Didn’t think so.”

Her body was still humming thoroughly used, completely wrecked, and utterly boneless when Bucky finally laid her gently onto his bed. The sheets were cool against her skin, contrasting the heat still pulsing between her legs.

He disappeared for only a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. His hair was a mess, chest still rising and falling, but his touch was soft now, reverent almost, as he cleaned her up. She winced slightly as he ran the cloth between her thighs.

“Too much?” he asked, voice low but laced with concern.

She shook her head slowly. “No. Just... sensitive.”

He gave a low chuckle, clearly proud of himself. “That’s ‘cause you took me so good, sweetheart.”

He tossed the cloth aside and laid down next to her, gently pulling her into his arms. She curled into him instinctively, cheek resting against the expanse of his chest, fingers tracing a scar along his ribs. For a few quiet moments, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then Bucky broke the silence, voice tinged with mischief. “So, tell me again,” he said, brushing his fingers down her spine, “your ex-boyfriend was what? Strong?”

She groaned into his chest. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” he grinned, lips brushing the crown of her head. “Because if that was your definition of strong doll, I’m a damn earthquake.” She let out a breathless laugh, swatting at his chest, but he caught her hand easily and kissed her knuckles. “Seriously,” he added, voice turning teasingly smug. “What was he benching? Two plates and a bruised ego?”

“Bucky.”

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, dragging his lips along her temple, “if he ever hears you moan like that for someone else, it might break him.”

She looked up at him with a smirk, eyes half-lidded. “You're evil.”

“And you love it,” he whispered, kissing her slow, deep, and lazy.

The kind of kiss that soothed the ache he’d left behind and promised even more. When he pulled back, his blue eyes were softer, more serious. “You okay, baby?” He asked, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

She nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by how gentle he was now how carefully he held her after tearing her apart. “More than okay.”

He smiled, brushing his nose against hers. “Good. ‘Cause next time, I’m not going easy on you just ‘cause your ex set the bar in hell.”

She laughed again, curling tighter into his chest. “Next time I’m gagging you.”

“Promises, promises.” And with that, he held her close, the teasing quieting into a steady rhythm of touch and comfort. Bucky Barnes might’ve been a super soldier, but in her arms, he was just the man who wrecked her body, teased her heart, and held every broken piece with care.

The next morning, the compound halls were too bright, too loud, and far too long. She took one cautious step out of Bucky’s room, fully dressed, hair brushed, lips set in a determined line. She was fine. Perfectly fine. Then her legs wobbled. She hissed under her breath, gripping the nearest wall like it was a lifeline. “Son of a-”

“Need help, doll?” came his voice, far too smug for this early in the morning.

She turned her head slowly and found Bucky leaning casually against the doorway, coffee mug in hand, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from the shower. Smug bastard. “I’m walking just fine,” she said through clenched teeth.

He sipped his coffee, eyes gleaming. “That’s what that is? Looks more like a baby deer learning to stand.”

She flipped him off.

He chuckled and pushed off the doorframe, walking toward her with that confident, post-sex glow that made her want to kiss him and kill him. “You could’ve just said your ex never made you limp like this,” he murmured, brushing past her with a wink.

She scowled. She also blushed. And maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t wait to let him do it all over again.

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[heldbybarnes]

mob!bucky with wife!reader who’s the only person allowed to call him ‘James’. Would love to see what happens if someone else tried to call him by his government name hehe. feel free to let it get smutty!

You’re on Bucky’s arm all night—sparkling dress, manicured fingers hooked around the crook of his elbow, smile sweet and practiced. Every few minutes he dips his head to murmur something low against your ear, just because he likes the way you shiver.

It’s a charity gala on paper. In practice, it’s half a dozen crime families pretending they’re respectable. You’re here because Bucky needs to be seen. He brought you because he doesn’t go anywhere without you.

He’s been soft all night—soft in his way. Hand heavy at your lower back. Thumb rubbing lazy circles on your hip. Jaw ticking every time a man looks too long at your legs. He’s a loaded weapon pretending to be civil.

Then someone detonates a tripwire.

A man you don’t know—sleek suit, slick hair, smarmy grin—steps up with a glass of scotch and a too-long stare.

“You must be Barnes,” he says, extending a hand Bucky doesn’t bother to take. “Heard a lot about you.”

Bucky just hums, noncommittal, squeezing your hip once. I see him. Stay close.

The man’s smile widens. “James Barnes,” he repeats, like he’s testing the shape of the words. “Pleasure.”

The music keeps playing. The lights keep glowing. The whole room keeps chatting and laughing and drinking—

—but your husband goes still.

Utterly, terrifyingly still.

You feel it before you see it. The shift. The ice. The steel.

No one in this world calls him James.

No one except you.

Slowly, Bucky lifts his gaze, blue eyes glacial, expression flat as a scalpel’s edge.

“What’d you just call me?” he asks, voice soft enough to make your heart plummet.

The man—poor, stupid man—laughs like it’s a joke. “Your name, isn’t it? James—”

“That’s not what you call me.” Bucky’s tone doesn’t change, but the air around him does. It thickens. Darkens. You feel him coil under your palm like a predator winding up.

“I— I don’t see the issue—”

“She,” Bucky says, tipping his chin toward you with lethal calm, “calls me James.”

His hand slides from your hip to your waist, resting there with unmistakable possession. You can feel his wedding band press hot against your skin.

“No one else does.”

The man’s throat bobs. “Barnes, I meant no disrespect—”

“You did.” Bucky steps in close enough that the man stumbles back. “Now apologize to my wife for disrespecting her husband.”

The man’s face drains. “Ma’am, I— I apologize.”

You blink, caught between shock and the molten warmth beginning to pool low in your belly. Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off his prey—not even to look at you.

“Good,” Bucky murmurs. Then, still mild as honey, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

The man scurries away. Disappears into the crowd.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding—and then Bucky turns to you.

His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tense. There’s a low hunger simmering beneath the ice.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, but his voice is thick, dark with something else.

“I’m fine,” you whisper back. “Are you?”

His hand slides lower on your waist. “Depends.”

“On?”

His mouth twitches—half-smirk, half-threat. “On whether you know what you do to me when you call me that.”

Your face heats. “James?”

He exhales sharply through his nose and grabs your wrist. “We’re leaving.”

“But the gala—”

“Ends the second someone thinks they can use my name like they have a right to it.” His grip is gentle but firm as he leads you out of the ballroom. “That name belongs to you. Only you.”

The minute the elevator doors close, he cages you against the mirrored wall, metal hand braced beside your head, flesh hand gripping your thigh.

“You hear me?” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your jaw. “You’re the only one who gets to say my name like a prayer.”

Your breath stutters. “James…”

He groans—an honest, helpless sound—and lifts you, your thighs wrapping around his waist as he grinds up against the heat between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours. “Say it again.”

“James.”

His hips jerk. His composure cracks. “My girl’s playing with fire tonight.”

“You started it,” you whisper, nipping his lower lip.

“And I’m finishing it,” he growls.

By the time the door to your penthouse closes behind you, he’s on you—mouth hot, hands firm, wedding ring dragging down your thigh as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.

“Turn around,” he orders, voice low, dangerous.

You do, heart hammering as he gathers your dress in his hands, pushing it up until it’s bunched at your waist.

He sinks to his knees.

“James—”

He bites your hip. Not gently.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Keep saying it.”

A moment later, his tongue is on you—slow, greedy strokes that make your knees shake. His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs spreading you for him while he devours you like he’s starved.

You’re already trembling when he pulls back just enough to speak against your skin.

“That man thought he had the right to say my name.” His finger slides into you—slow, deep. “But he doesn’t get to know me like this.” Another finger joins, curling just right. “Doesn’t get to hear you moan it.”

You gasp, arching. “James—oh—”

“Yeah,” he praises, voice wrecked with want. “Just like that. Only my wife gets to say it when she falls apart on my fingers.”

Your orgasm hits fast. Hard. You clench around him with a cry, and he groans against you like he can feel it everywhere.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s standing again—unbuckling his belt, dragging down his slacks, grabbing your hips.

“Hands on the wall,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck. “Gonna remind you why that name only belongs in your mouth.”

You obey, chest rising and falling as he slides into you from behind in one slow, devastating thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he groans into your shoulder. “So fucking perfect.”

He sets a pace that’s deep, deliberate—each thrust claiming something that was already his.

His hand curves around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you steady.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

“James,” you breathe.

His rhythm falters—just a stutter, just a moment—and then he’s burying himself deeper, panting into your ear.

“You’re my wife,” he growls, voice shaking. “My woman. My everything. Only you get to have all of me. Even my fucking name.”

You shatter again, and he follows—gripping you tight, groaning your name against your skin as he spills into you.

When your breathing finally slows, he turns you around, kissing you softer than the way he handled you minutes ago.

“You really okay?” he asks, brushing your hair back.

You smile. “I’m more than okay.”

He smirks and kisses your forehead.

“Good. Because if anyone else ever calls me James again…” His eyes narrow playfully. “I’ll end the whole damn gala.”

You laugh lightly. “You already almost did.”

“And I’d do it again,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his lips. “For you? Always.”

And when he kisses you again—slow, deep, reverent—

you whisper it in his ear just to feel him shiver.

“James.”

[fckmebarnes]

fuck me. fuck me. fuck.

[heldbybarnes]

mistletoe rules apply

pairing: dilf!bucky barnes x reader | 7.1k words

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), size kink, dom!Bucky, oral sex (f & m receiving), teabagging, breeding kink, creampie, overstimulation, praise kink, jealousy of a plastic plant, mutual pining, kitchen sex, doorway sex, neighborly temptation, holiday filth under the mistletoe, and one very chaotic child who unknowingly sets the plot on fire

summary: You didn’t expect anything from tonight—not beyond cookies, cocoa, and maybe a warm smile from your impossibly handsome neighbor. But the moment Bucky sees you under the mistletoe, something changes, and you’re swept into a Christmas moment that starts with a kiss and ends with far less innocence.

authors note: this fic is dedicated to my very good friend @superbassbuck. paul, i have looked up to you and your writing long before we knew one another. everyday it is a fever dream to me that i actually am privileged enough to talk to you. your creativity and passion inspire me every single day and i hope this fic brings you even an ounce of the amount of joy your writing brings others! merry christmas my love, i wish you the nastiest dilf!bucky to come upon you and deliver the best teabagging of your life this holiday season 🤍🤍

----------

The first snow of December was really leaning into the drama.

Big, lazy flakes drifted under the streetlamps, swirling past the glowing wire reindeer on Mrs. Hargrove’s lawn and the slightly crooked candy cane lights lining Bucky Barnes’ driveway. The whole cul-de-sac looked like it had been dusted in powdered sugar and wrapped in warm white LEDs.

You stood on his porch clutching a tin of still-warm Christmas cookies and your own nerves.

This was for Violet, you told yourself. Totally, completely, one hundred percent for Violet.

The same Violet who’d stood at the mailbox last week and announced to the entire street that “Daddy burns the bottoms of all the Christmas cookies. It’s tragic.”

You’d laughed, made some sympathetic noise, and then gone home and immediately pulled out flour and sugar like your life depended on it.

And okay, maybe you were also weak for the very large, very handsome man who’d moved in with her in September.

Bucky Barnes. Late thirties. Single dad. Wore flannels that strained over his chest and gray sweatpants that should count as a public menace. The HOA pretended to be concerned he’d put up “noncompliant” decorations; really, they just wanted excuses to loiter by his driveway when he carried heavy things.

You’d tried very hard not to stare when he’d hauled a Christmas tree off the roof of his truck like it weighed nothing, biceps flexing, cheeks pink from the cold.

You inhaled, balanced the cookie tin on one hip, and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Bucky filled the doorway like he owned it—broad shoulders, scruffy jaw, hair pushed back with his fingers and already falling forward again. He was wearing a dark green henley and worn jeans, one socked foot and one bare, as if you’d interrupted him mid-puttering.

“Hey, neighbor.” His smile was slow and easy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You out here spreading Christmas cheer?”

Your breath puffed white between you. “Something like that,” you said. “Violet mentioned your tragic cookie situation.”

He groaned. “Did she?”

You held up the tin. “I come bearing reinforcements.”

His face softened. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, stepping back and swinging the door wide. “But I am absolutely not turning down free cookies. C’mon in before you freeze.”

Warmth wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, the house smelling like pine and cinnamon and the faint spice of his cologne. The living room glowed with Christmas: too-big tree in the front window, multicolored lights, paper snowflakes under Scotch tape, a lopsided angel on top. Animated snowmen sang on the TV.

“COOKIE FAIRY?” Violet barreled in from the couch, socks sliding on the hardwood. She slammed into your middle, tiny arms wrapping around your waist. “You did it!”

“Hi, bug,” you laughed, juggling the tin to hug her one-armed. “I brought some. Think you can help me eat them?”

“Yes.” She grabbed the tin with both hands like it was a sacred relic. “Dad, look! They’re in a real tin and everything.”

“Nothing but the best for my favorite elf,” you said.

“I thought I was your favorite elf,” Bucky muttered.

Violet gave him a look. “You’re Santa. Obviously.”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “Upgraded. I’ll take it.”

He glanced back at you, eyes warm. “Kitchen?”

“Lead the way.” You bent down to pull off your boots.

He stepped behind you without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you around the edge of the rug. It was nothing, really. He touched you like that a lot—steadying you on icy sidewalks, nudging you through thresholds, fingers warm and broad and safe.

Your body, naturally, made a massive deal out of it.

You followed him toward the kitchen archway. Violet scampered ahead, already wrestling with the lid of the tin.

You were just lifting your foot to step through when she shrieked.

“WAIT!”

You froze. Bucky’s hand tightened slightly on your back. “Vi?”

“You can’t go under yet!” she yelped, scrambling off the step stool. She skidded across the floor to the pantry and dove into a pile of boxes and craft supplies. Glitter snowflakes. A garland that had lost half its fake berries. Plastic holly.

And a cluster of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon.

Oh.

She clutched it triumphantly. “Gotta put this up.” She ran back, standing on tiptoe in the middle of the doorway. She stretched. The nail above the frame was just out of reach.

Bucky sighed, but his mouth was tipped up at the corners. “C’mere, trouble.”

He scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She looped the mistletoe over the nail with grave concentration, tongue stuck out in focus, then patted it.

“Now you can’t go under without kissing,” she declared when he set her down. “It’s the rules.”

Heat shot straight to your face. You suddenly became incredibly aware of exactly where you were standing.

Right under it.

Bucky’s gaze went up to the mistletoe, then down to you, then away so fast you almost heard his vertebrae crack.

“Vi, we talked about weaponized mistletoe,” he said weakly. “You can’t just… ambush people.”

“It’s Christmas.” She shrugged, unbothered. “Anyway, you never kiss anyone, Daddy. It was getting bored.” She hugged the cookie tin and trotted into the kitchen, humming under her breath.

You wished you could join her in obliviousness instead of wanting the floorboards to open up beneath you.

Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pinker than the cold warranted. “Uh. Sorry. She’s been on a holiday rom-com binge.”

“It’s okay.” You forced a laugh, looking up at the plastic berries. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah, that’s what my blood pressure says.”

He stepped carefully through the doorway, avoiding brushing the mistletoe with his shoulder like it was booby-trapped. You followed—definitely not staring at how his shirt stretched across his back—ducking just slightly.

The kitchen was warm and bright, counter already scattered with Violet's craft debris. She’d opened the tin and arranged a dozen cookies on the Santa plate, humming to herself.

“Those snowmen have seen some things,” Bucky remarked, leaning against the counter.

“Don’t be mean, they’re sensitive,” you said. “Besides, you try piping frosting with cold fingers.”

“I never said I could do better.” He reached for one, broke it in half, steam curling from the center. “Oh, that’s…doll. You’re going to ruin store-bought for her.”

“Good,” Violet said through a mouthful. “They taste like sadness.”

You laughed, the tension easing. The next half hour blurred into something easy and golden—coffee brewing, cocoa for Violet, stories about disastrous childhood Christmases. Bucky talked with his hands, wrists rolling, veins shifting under skin every time he reached for the sugar. Violet tried—and failed—to get more sprinkles than cookie onto her reindeer brownie.

Eventually she yawned mid-ramble, blinking slow.

“There it is,” Bucky said softly. “The crash.”

“No,” she argued reflexively, rubbing at her eyes. “I wanna watch the Grinch.”

“You can watch the Grinch tomorrow. Right now, it’s bedtime for elves.” He wiped frosting off her chin with his thumb, kissed her forehead. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll be up in five.”

She slid off the chair, clutching another cookie. “Can I say goodnight to the cookie fairy first?”

“Of course,” you said, heart squeezing as she hugged you again. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

She shuffled off down the hall. Bucky watched her go, something soft and fierce all at once in his face.

He looked back at you, shoulders loosening. “I’m gonna go do battle with the bedtime routine,” he said. “If you wanna crash on the couch, I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”

“I can walk myself,” you said automatically, warmth flooding you anyway. “But I’ll stick around. You know. In case you need backup against the Grinch.”

He smirked. “Pretty sure you’re the reason she’s asking for a puppy and a pony now, but okay, you can be backup.”

He hesitated, then brushed his fingers over your elbow, just once. “Hey,” he added, voice quieter. “Thank you. For this. She’s gonna be talking about ‘cookie fairy night’ until June.”

Your chest ached. “You’re welcome.”

He went upstairs, his tread heavy and familiar. The house settled around you. Cartoon snowmen grinned silently from the TV in the next room.

You cleaned up without really thinking—stacked plates, ran water in the sink, wiped stray smears of frosting off the table. It all felt domestic in a way that made your heart ache. Easy. Natural. Like you’d always been here.

When you finished, you wandered back toward the living room, tying your hair up off your neck.

And paused under the arch.

The mistletoe dangled above, casting a small, smug shadow on the floor.

You tipped your head back, looking up at it. Stupid plastic thing. Stupid rom-com rules. Stupid way your body buzzed just thinking about Bucky’s mouth on you for more than the brief brush of his knuckles guiding you around furniture.

You were still glaring at it when the floor creaked behind you.

“Victory,” Bucky murmured. “The elf has fallen.”

You turned. He was at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, henley rumpled, hair even messier than before.

“How many stories?” you asked.

“Three. And a song. And a solemn vow to make gingerbread houses tomorrow that could withstand a hurricane.” He padded down the stairs, eyes on you. “You still—”

He stopped halfway through the sentence when he realized where you were standing.

His gaze flicked up. Caught on the mistletoe. Came back down to you.

You felt his whole body go tight.

“Look at that,” you said lightly, your heart hammering loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Ambushed again.”

He blew out a breath, something like a laugh, something like a curse. “Yeah. Seems to be a recurring theme tonight.”

He started to skirt wide, like he had before.

Recklessness surged up under your ribs.

“Aww,” you said, letting your mouth curl into a slow smile. “Is the big brave single dad scared of a little Christmas tradition?”

He stilled.

Slowly, very slowly, his head turned back toward you.

“Careful,” he said, voice deeper now, the word more warning than joke. He closed the distance in a handful of measured strides, stopping just inside the doorway, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You keep tempting an old man like that…”

Your back bumped the opposite side of the frame as you instinctively leaned away and he followed, one large hand coming up to brace on the wood beside your head. He wasn’t blocking your path so much as caging you there, his chest nearly brushing yours, his scent all around you.

“…he’s gonna forget he’s supposed to be the responsible one,” he finished, eyes gone dark.

Your pulse fluttered against your throat. “Since when do old men look like you?” you managed.

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so strained. “You think I don’t notice you?” he asked, low. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me? The way you always just happen to have leftovers, or spare coffee, or—” his mouth twitched “—emergency cookies?”

Heat crawled up your neck. “Maybe I’m just a nice neighbor.”

“You’re a lot of things,” he said. “Nice. Smart. Way too good to be stuck in my kitchen letting my kid con you into crafts. And you’re driving me insane.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I’ve been trying real hard to leave this alone,” he went on, like a confession he couldn’t stop now. “You’re younger. You got your whole life ahead of you. You didn’t sign up for a package deal with a cranky old man and a seven-year-old who thinks glitter is a personality trait.”

“First of all,” you said, voice stronger than you felt, “you’re not old. You’re just…well-marinated.”

His brow shot up.

“Second,” you went on, heart pounding, “you and Violet are kind of my favorite people on this street. And I don’t bring homemade cookies to people I don’t want to impress, you know.”

There. Out in the air, trembling but solid.

Something helpless and hungry flashed across his face.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You’re my favorite,” you whispered. “Both of you. I like being here. I like being with you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Then he was kissing you.

It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t tentative. It was months of glances and almost-touches and late-night fantasies crashing together. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and demanding, his other hand sliding to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

You made a surprised noise that melted into a needy one, your hands fisting in the front of his henley. He tasted like coffee and sugar and warmth. The slight scrape of his stubble against your skin grounded you even as your knees threatened to give out.

He pressed in, body pinning yours gently but firmly to the doorframe, thigh wedging between your legs like it had always belonged there.

“Bucky,” you gasped into his mouth when he finally broke for air.

“Been wanting to do that since you brought us that lasagna in October,” he said against your lips, words roughened. “You know that? Walked back into the kitchen, saw the note you left for Vi, and thought, ‘Well. I’m fucked.’”

You laughed, dazed. “It was just lasagna.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t see the handwriting.” He kissed you again, softer this time, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “If you want me to, you say it once and we forget this ever happened. I’ll go back to being your neighbor with the tragic cookies.”

You looked up at him, at the worry buried under the heat in his eyes, and any nerves you’d had burned away.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you said. “I want you.”

Everything in him seemed to exhale at once.

“Good,” he breathed. “That’s real good, doll.”

He kissed you again, then again, then along your jaw, down the column of your throat. His hand slid down your side, rough palm cupping your hip. You arched into him, a whimper slipping free when his thigh pressed higher between your legs.

“Look at you,” he murmured, mouth against your pulse. “Already rubbing all over me. So needy.”

“That’s your fault,” you shot back, breathless. “You and your stupid henley.”

He chuckled, teeth scraping lightly against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Stupid, huh?”

“Deeply offensive,” you confirmed, rolling your hips down against his thigh, chasing friction.

He groaned, low and rough, hand flexing on your hip. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna end up fucking you right here in the doorway like a teenager.”

Your brain shorted out on the word fucking.

“Wh-what if I want that?” you managed.

That pulled his head up, his eyes snapping to yours.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said, voice gone dangerous-soft.

“I really, really do,” you insisted, fingers curling in his shirt. “I’ve had…a lot of time to think about it.”

He swore under his breath in a language you didn’t know, something that sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Kitchen,” he decided, like the word hurt. “First. If I take you against this frame I’m gonna put your head through the drywall, and then I’ll have to explain that to my landlord.”

You almost suggested the drywall might be worth it, but he was already guiding you backward with surprising gentleness, his mouth never straying far from yours. You stumbled into the kitchen, bumping the counter with your hip, the faint glow from the living room tree turning everything gold.

He lifted you onto the cool countertop like you weighed nothing, stepping between your knees, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

“Last chance to back out,” he said, searching your face.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and tugged him in. “You’re wasting valuable mistletoe time, Barnes.”

His answering grin was quick and wicked. “God, you’re gonna be trouble.”

His hands slid under the hem of your sweater, calloused fingers skimming your skin. Goosebumps rose in their wake. He pushed the fabric up, mouth following, teeth scraping lightly along your ribs, making you gasp.

“Too many clothes,” he muttered, already tugging at the waistband of your leggings.

You lifted your hips to help, letting him peel them down, your panties going with them. The cool air made you shiver; the heat of his gaze made you burn.

“Fuck,” he breathed, taking you in, pupils blown. “You’re so pretty.”

You shifted, suddenly self-conscious and aroused in equal measure, feeling the slick heat between your thighs.

“You gonna just stare at me?” you tried to tease, voice wobbling, “or—”

He gripped your hips and dragged you to the edge of the counter, dropping to his knees in front of you.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before his mouth was on you.

Your head thumped back against the cabinet with a dull thud. His tongue stroked through your folds like he’d been memorizing you in dreams, slow and deliberate. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, fingers flying to his hair. “Bucky—”

“Taste so good, doll,” he murmured between licks. “Been wondering…fuck…been wondering about this for months.”

Any coherent response dissolved into a strangled noise when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. His hands kept you open, thumbs pressing gently into the creases of your thighs, anchoring you there while he took his time.

He was unfairly good at this—unhurried, entirely focused, like the only thing on earth that mattered was the way you moved under his mouth. He listened, adjusting pressure and pace with every whimper, chasing every gasp like it was a star on some private map of yours.

“Please,” you whined, not sure what you were begging for. More. Less. Everything.

“I’ve got you,” he soothed, one hand sliding up to your stomach, keeping you pinned. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

You did.

A white-hot wave crashed through you, your thighs snapping around his head, heels digging into his back. You bit down on your fist to keep from shouting, a high, broken sound still escaping your throat. He groaned into you, tongue and lips never letting up, riding you through the aftershocks until you were shaking.

When you finally slumped against the cabinet, boneless and breathless, he eased back, licking his lips like he was memorizing the taste.

“Good?” he asked, voice rough, a little smug.

You laughed weakly. “Kind of wanna start a religion.”

“Blasphemy,” he said, grinning as he rose. “We’re strictly a Christmas operation here.”

He kissed you, and you tasted yourself on his mouth, something heady and intimate in the slick slide of tongues. You felt him, hard and thick, pressing against your inner thigh through his jeans.

You reached between your bodies, fingers tracing the outline, and he groaned, hips rocking into your hand.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You fumbled with his belt, heart pounding. He helped, fingers surer than yours, buckling and unzipping in quick jerks. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, and your brain flatlined for a second.

“You’ve been walking around the neighborhood like that?” you blurted.

His mouth kicked up at one corner. “Had to keep up with the festive décor somehow.”

He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking once, slow. Even in his palm he looked big—thick and long, veins standing out along the shaft, the head already damp.

Your mouth watered.

“Jesus,” you whispered. “That’s…that’s not standard issue.”

He laughed, breathless. “I’ll put that on my next dating profile. ‘Not standard issue.’”

“You better not have a dating profile,” you muttered, fingers circling his wrist, urging him closer.

“You’re bossy when you’re turned on,” he noted, stepping back into the space between your thighs. “Gonna remember that.”

The head of his cock nudged your entrance and everything in you went tight.

“Wait,” you managed, one hand on his chest. “Condom—”

His eyes flicked to yours, serious cutting through the haze.

“I’m clean,” you said quickly. “I get tested regularly. And I’m on the pill. I just…you said…”

That you wanted to breed me. That you wanted to fill me and watch it take.

The words stuck in your throat, your face flaming.

Bucky swore softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “I meant it,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m not making that call for you. You sure, doll? You wanna feel me?”

You nodded, heart in your mouth. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “Inside.”

His jaw tightened, something like awe flickering across his face.

“Fuck.”

He adjusted his grip, the blunt head pressing more firmly. “Deep breath,” he murmured.

You sucked in air, fingers digging into his shoulders.

The first push burned.

Not in a bad way, just—stretching. Your body resisting and then yielding, the thick slide of him slow, deliberate. Your walls fluttered around him instinctively, trying to make room for the intrusion.

“Christ,” he gritted. “So tight. You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how good you’re gripping me?”

You whimpered, biting your lip. “You’re…you’re big.”

“We can stop,” he said immediately, every muscle taut with control. “Say the word, doll. I pull out, we go back to cookies and Christmas movies like this never—”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped, then winced when it came out too loud.

His eyes blazed.

“Thought so,” he said, voice dropping.

He kissed you as he pushed in further, swallowing your gasp. Inch by inch, he buried more of himself inside you until finally his hips met the curve of your ass, his pelvis flush against your thighs.

You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Stuffed.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “You’re…you’re in my lungs.”

“Not quite the anatomy lesson I’d give,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours as he fought for control, “but I appreciate the imagery.”

You flexed experimentally around him and he groaned, head dipping to your shoulder.

“Don’t do that,” he warned. “Or this is gonna be a very short show.”

You smiled, dizzy. “Kinda nice knowing I have that power.”

He lifted his head, eyes hot. “You have no idea how much power you’ve got over me, doll.”

He drew back an inch, then slid in again, testing.

The friction made you see stars.

He started slow, letting you adjust, each thrust shallow but sure, his hands gripping your hips firmly enough you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. The counter creaked faintly under you.

“You okay?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“So good,” you managed. “You feel…huge.”

Pride flared bright in his eyes. “That right?” He shifted, angle changing, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made a strangled sound tear from your chest. “There it is.”

Every drag of his cock now rubbed against that spot, the sensation toe-curling, your whole body clenching around him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching your face. “Taking all of me. Such a good girl.”

Heat rolled through you at the words. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted that praise until he gave it to you.

“Like that, huh?” he said, reading you easily. “My good girl. Sitting on my cock in my kitchen like you were made for it.”

Your fingers curled tight in his shirt. “I—Bucky—”

He caught your mouth with his, swallowing whatever sound you made next. His thrusts picked up, faster now, deeper, the wet slide of him inside you obscene.

“You feel this?” he murmured against your lips, hips snapping. “Feel how deep I am? I’m right up against your cervix, sweetheart. Right where I need to be to fill you up.”

Your eyes rolled, the words slicing straight through what was left of your restraint. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Buck—”

“Yeah?” His hand slid from your hip to your lower belly, pressing lightly. You could feel the drag of him from the outside, the firm bulge of his cock pounding into you. “You feel that, doll? That’s me, right here. Stuffing this tight little pussy full.”

It was filthy and insane and you loved every second.

“Gonna come inside you,” he gritted. “Gonna pump you full of me until it leaks out around my cock. You walk home tonight, your panties are gonna be soaked with my cum. You’re gonna lie in bed and feel me still there.”

You made a broken noise, orgasm barreling toward you.

He was relentless now, hips driving into you, the hand on your belly keeping you right where he wanted you while the other cupped the back of your neck, holding your gaze.

“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, voice harsh. “Say it, doll. Say you want me to breed this pretty little cunt.”

Shame and arousal and something like longing tangled deliciously in your chest.

“I want it,” you choked out. “I want you to…to breed me. Want you to fill me up. Please, Bucky.”

His entire body jolted like you’d shocked him.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He dropped his hand back between your legs, thumb circling your clit in snug, ruthless circles. The extra stimulation sent you careening over the edge.

You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, your muscles clamping down around him, milking his cock. You bit his shoulder to muffle your cry, nails digging into his back, whole body shaking.

He cursed violently, thrusts going erratic.

“Jesus—shit—keep squeezing me like that, doll—”

He buried himself deep with a final, brutal snap of his hips, grinding against you as he spilled inside. You felt it—hot pulses of cum flooding you, filling you so full you swore you could feel each warm wave.

“Fuck,” he gasped into your neck, shuddering hard. “Oh, fuck.”

You clung to him, riding out the aftershocks together, the world narrowing to shared panting and the wild thud of your hearts.

He didn’t pull out right away, just stayed pressed to you, chest rising and falling, cock softening gradually inside you. The intimacy of it made your throat tight.

“Still okay?” he murmured after a minute, lips brushing your cheek.

You turned your head, catching his mouth in a soft, lazy kiss. “Yeah,” you breathed. “More than okay.”

He smiled into it.

When he finally eased back, slipping out of you, you made a small, involuntary sound at the loss. Warmth immediately seeped down, slick and obscene.

Bucky’s eyes dropped, watching his cum trickle out of you. His jaw flexed.

“That’s…” His throat worked. “That’s all mine.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “I mean, biologically…”

“Don’t ruin my moment,” he said weakly, still staring. His fingers brushed along your inner thigh, catching some of the mess, smearing it higher, back toward your entrance like he could push it back in. “Jesus.”

“You’re making it worse,” you pointed out shakily.

“That’s the idea,” he muttered, clearly not talking about your comfort.

Your pulse kicked when you saw the way he was looking at you—like he’d never seen anything hotter.

“You, uh…you have that look again,” you ventured.

He dragged his gaze up. “What look is that?”

“Like you wanna do something stupid.”

He huffed a laugh, stepping back so you could breathe. “I already did something stupid.”

“Pretty sure we both did something very smart,” you countered.

His mouth curved. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m gonna forget I’m supposed to let you walk home tonight.”

Your stomach flipped.

He grabbed a dish towel, dampened a corner with warm water, then stepped between your legs again, slower now. “Can I…?”

You nodded, suddenly shy.

He was gentle, cleaning you up with soft strokes, kissing your knee when you flinched at a residual jolt of oversensitivity. He helped you slide your panties and leggings back up, fingers lingering at your waist.

By the time you were more or less presentable, your legs were wobbly again—for entirely different reasons.

You slid off the counter, immediately sinking into his chest when your knees tried to buckle. He caught you, an arm around your waist.

“Easy,” he teased. “You sure you don’t want me to just carry you home? Less risk of you face-planting in the snow.”

“That’d be hard to explain to Mrs. Hargrove,” you said, words muffled in his shirt. “No, I’m fine. Just…gonna feel that tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, entirely too satisfied.

You pulled back to sock him lightly in the chest. “You’re so smug.”

“Can you blame me?” His grin was crooked and boyish. “I just had the prettiest girl on the block come undone on my cock in my kitchen. Under mistletoe. I’m basically a Christmas legend now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart did an embarrassing little swoop at “my.”

You were about to say something equally obnoxious when your gaze flicked past his shoulder.

You could see the living room doorway from here. The mistletoe still hung there, framed by the glow of the tree.

A wicked idea slid into your brain.

“You know,” you said, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt, “we technically only fulfilled half the mistletoe obligation.”

His brows pulled together. “Pretty sure we overshot the obligation, doll.”

“Mm-mm.” You shook your head, lips tipping up. “Everybody does the classic ‘kiss under the mistletoe.’ But I was thinking…”

You trailed off, deliberately letting your eyes drop to the obvious bulge reappearing in his jeans.

His breath hitched.

“There’s another way to…uh…honor the tradition,” you said sweetly.

His eyes darkened, the air between you thickening all over again. “You are going to be the end of me.”

“You already said that.” You slid your hand down his chest, fingers grazing lower, testing. He was getting hard again faster than you’d expected. That did wicked, thirsty things to you. “Consider this my Christmas contribution to the cause.”

He stared at you for a long second, something like worship and pure filth battling in his expression.

“Kitchen,” he rasped. “Door. Now.”

Your pulse spiked. “Yes, sir.”

His nostrils flared.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

He laced your fingers together and led you back toward the archway. The mistletoe swung gently above, almost innocent.

“On your knees,” he said quietly, stopping just under it, voice like velvet over gravel. “Right here.”

A thrill bolted through you. You sank down, the hardwood cool under your knees, the heel of his puppy socks just in your peripheral vision. This close, he seemed even bigger, his thighs thick, his torso a solid wall.

He cupped your chin, tilting your face up. “You good?” he asked, some of the gravel smoothing into concern. “We can stop. I don’t need—”

“I want to,” you said, cutting him off. “I want to taste you too.”

Something hot flared in his eyes.

“Open,” he ordered softly.

You parted your lips. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and pushed them down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, half-hard and already swelling.

Even after feeling him inside you, seeing him this close made your stomach drop and your mouth water.

He stroked himself slowly, lazily, watching your face. In a handful of pulls he was fully hard again, thick and heavy, the head flushed a deeper shade.

“Look at that,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Can’t even get through cleanup without wanting you again.”

“Not complaining,” you said, a little breathless.

He smiled, dark and fond. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart.”

He stepped closer, thighs bracketing your shoulders, until his cock hovered just a few inches from your mouth.

“Hands behind your back,” he said.

Heat punched through you. You laced your fingers together at the base of your spine, shoulders tightening with the position, chest pushing forward slightly.

“Pretty,” he murmured, thumb stroking your jaw. “You look so pretty like that. All submissive. All mine.”

He brought his cock closer, the head brushing your lips, smearing pre-cum. “Taste,” he said.

You darted your tongue out, licking a stripe along the underside. He hissed through his teeth, hand flying to your hair.

“Fuck.”

You took him into your mouth, as much as you could, jaw stretching. He was a lot—thick and heavy, crowding your tongue. You relaxed your throat, breathing through your nose, letting him slide deeper.

“Jesus,” he groaned, grip tightening in your hair. “That’s it. Take it, doll. Take it for me.”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking, tongue swirling, experimenting, listening for every sound he made. You couldn’t get all of him inside, not even close, but the way his cock throbbed against your tongue told you he didn’t mind.

After a dozen strokes, he gently pulled back, easing himself from your mouth. You tried to chase him, but he held you back with a hand on your crown.

“Gotta pace myself,” he managed, breathing ragged. “Want to enjoy this.”

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you said when he let you breathe, voice rough.

His eyes flashed. “Careful, doll.”

He shifted his stance slightly, widening his feet for balance, then slid his cock along your face, smearing slick along your cheek, your lips. You sighed, eyes fluttering.

Then he took himself in hand and guided the heavy weight of his balls to your mouth.

“Tongue out,” he said softly. “Lemme rest you properly under this mistletoe.”

Heat rush-flooded you.

You stuck your tongue out, flattening it. He lowered himself, his balls settling warm and heavy on your tongue, the soft skin contrasting with the weight behind it. The intimacy of it made your head spin.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. Hold still.”

You did, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded as he rolled his hips just a little, letting the weight shift, his cock bumping your forehead. You flicked your tongue up, tracing the seam, tasting salt and skin and him.

A low, broken sound tore out of his chest. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You sucked gently, dragging one into your mouth, tongue swirling. He groaned, his thighs tensing beside your head, fingers flexing in your hair.

“You like that?” you asked when he let you breathe again, voice wrecked, eyes shining.

He stared down at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend you, like you’d just done some impossible magic trick.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I like that.”

He nudged forward again and you took him, alternating between sucking his balls into your mouth and licking them, running your tongue along the tender skin, savoring every ragged noise you pulled from him. His cock bobbed against your cheek, leaving streaks of slick you could feel cooling on your skin.

He was talking again now, the words slurred by arousal. “Look at you. Kneeling under my doorway, under my mistletoe, with my balls on your tongue. My sweet little neighbor, such a good girl, letting me use her mouth like this.”

You moaned around him, the praise turning liquid in your veins.

“You’re driving me out of my fucking mind,” he rasped. “You know that? Gonna have to repaint this frame because every time I walk through it I’m gonna remember you right here on your knees, looking up at me.”

You glanced up through your lashes, cheeks flushed, drool starting to slick your chin. The way he looked down at you—wild, tender, possessive—made your stomach flip.

He let his balls rest against your tongue again, heavy and full. “Hold them for me,” he murmured. “Yeah, just like that.”

He slid forward, his cock pressing past your lips once more, filling your mouth. You relaxed, letting him guide the pace, the stretch of your jaw borderline overwhelming and exactly what you wanted. With his balls resting on your tongue and his cock sliding in and out, you felt completely used in the filthiest, most delicious way.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned. “I could come just looking at you like this.”

Your hands twitched behind your back. You wanted to touch him, to trace every muscle, to feel the way he shook. But the restraint—knowing he had you like this, knowing you were letting him—made everything hum.

He pulled out again, letting his balls roll off your tongue. You sucked in air, drool shining on your lips.

“Hands,” he said abruptly. “Gimme one.”

You freed a hand from behind your back. He wrapped it around the base of his cock, his larger palm covering yours, guiding you in a slow stroke.

“Squeeze,” he instructed. You did. He hissed. “Good. Look at that. You’re a natural.”

You leaned in, tongue laving over his balls as your hand worked his shaft, the double stimulation making him curse.

“So fucking good to me,” he panted. “On your knees, under my roof, under my mistletoe, letting me put my cock and balls wherever I want. You know how dangerous that is, sweetheart? You’re never getting rid of me now.”

Good, you thought, dizzy and turned on beyond reason. That’s the point.

His breathing stuttered, hips twitching.

“Open,” he said suddenly, pulling your hand away. “Mouth wide.”

You obeyed automatically, lips parting, tongue out.

He cupped your head with both hands, cock aimed at your mouth, balls hanging heavy just above your chin.

“Such. A good. Girl,” he gritted, voice broken, as he slid back into your mouth.

He didn’t fuck your throat, not really—just shallow thrusts, the head bumping the back of your tongue, letting you control the depth. Your jaw ached, your eyes watered, and you never wanted it to end.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Gonna come, doll. You gonna take it for me? You gonna swallow like a good girl?”

You hummed, the vibration making him curse.

He pulled out just enough that the head rested on your tongue, his balls once again dropping onto it, the weight and heat pressing down.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Say ‘ah’ for me.”

You did.

He came with a strangled sound, thick ropes of hot cum spilling onto your tongue, some splashing against your palate, some streaking your lips. You kept your tongue out, his balls still resting there, letting him paint your mouth exactly how he wanted.

He watched, chest heaving, as you closed your mouth and swallowed.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Do it again. Let me see your tongue.”

You opened, tilting your head back just a little. Your tongue was mostly clean, a few pearly streaks glistening that you chased with the tip.

His knees actually buckled.

“Fuck,” he said helplessly. “Marry me.”

You laughed, the sound ragged and delighted, then coughed when a bit of cum went down wrong. He hauled you gently to your feet, big hands steady, thumb swiping at the mess on your chin.

“Easy,” he soothed. “Jesus. C’mere.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning into your mouth like the whole thing was rewiring his brain.

When he finally pulled back, you were pressed against the wall, his hands on your hips, both of you panting.

“You okay?” he asked for what felt like the tenth time that night, eyes scanning your face.

You nodded, dazed and happy. “I’m—yeah. I’m really okay.”

He laughed softly, forehead dropping to yours. “Good. Because I’m gonna be thinking about that every time I walk under this doorway for the rest of my life.”

You glanced up at the mistletoe. “Guess Violet did us a favor.”

His expression shifted, some of the heat melting into fondness. “She’s never hearing about this particular tradition,” he said firmly.

“Absolutely not.” You snorted. “This is strictly adults-only mistletoe usage.”

He gave you one more lingering kiss, then smoothed your sweater where it had ridden up. “All right,” he sighed. “Before I do something even dumber, I should probably get you home.”

“Dumber than this?” you teased.

He flashed you that crooked grin. “You have no idea what’s on my list, doll.”

He made good on his earlier promise and walked you the thirty feet to your front door, his hand dwarfing yours, the snow squeaking faintly under your boots. The air was sharp and cold, your cheeks still hot from everything.

On your porch, he hesitated, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he said. “So I know you didn’t slip and crack your head on the tub or something.”

“I’m very coordinated, thank you,” you lied. “But…yeah. I will.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering along your jaw. “You good? Really?”

You nodded, throat tight in the best way. “Really.”

He brushed his lips over yours, gentle and sweet and so at odds with the filthy things he’d just done to you that your heart squeezed.

“Goodnight, cookie fairy,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Santa.”

You slipped inside, leaning back against the door as it shut, your pulse thudding in your ears. You could still feel everything—his weight on your tongue, his cum warm in your belly, the deep, ache-sweet fullness low in your body where he’d spilled inside you earlier.

You washed your face, changed into pajamas with slightly shaking hands, then slid under your covers, phone clutched in your palm.

It buzzed a minute later.

Bucky: elf’s out cold. house is quiet. i miss you already.

You bit your lip, typing back.

You: my knees might never recover from your hardwood floor. but it was worth it

There was a beat.

Bucky: the doorway AND the kitchen counter? i’m gonna have to avoid those at family gatherings now You: we can christen the rest of the house later, it’s fine.

Another pause, longer this time.

Bucky: i meant what i said earlier. pancakes tomorrow. and a date. like…on purpose, not just you rescuing my cooking.

Warmth flooded your chest.

You: i’ll bring syrup. and maybe more cookies. strictly for violet ofc. Bucky: careful, doll. you keep tempting an old man like that and you’re gonna end up with my last name.

Your breath caught.

You stared at the message, fingers hovering.

You: sounds like a pretty good christmas tradition to me.

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and steady, wrapping the world in white.

Inside, you fell asleep with the phantom weight of him still between your thighs, the taste of him lingering on your tongue, and the image of mistletoe hanging over a kitchen doorway that felt more and more like home.

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