I spent too much time worrying about saying and using all the right words, now I resign to at least saying something, so I won't die with a throat full of lost syllables.
As a Prince, Zuko held on to a lot. Most of all, he kept locked inside of him a secret for most of his life.
Ascending to the thrown, this secret started eating at the edges of his life, throwing shadows and thorns that made cuts in his every day. Then, a almost one year ago, it became shared with one person, and instead of losing everything as he expected, his burden was halfed and he gained something. He could say he got almost everything he could even hope for.
But things change in one single day. One meeting.
When one of his Ambassadors corners him into signing a decree, Zuko's days are numbered. He's now keeping two secrets — one from his entire Nation, and another from the person he grew to love the most. Even if they aren't his to love.
WC: Update as it goes.
Tags / Warning(s): Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Fire Lord Zuko, Inventor Sokka, Cultural Differences, Cultural bonding, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Polyamorous Character, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Explicit Scenes.
Chapters:
Prologue / One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six / Seven / Eight / Nine / Ten / Eleven / Twelve / Thirteen / Fourteen / Fifteen / Sixteen / Seveneteen / Eighteen / Nineteen / Twenty / Epilogue
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Summary: His problem was this—that stupidly impossible and funny mouth of his. Peter Parker and his witty responses. Peter Parker and his clever quips. Peter and that mouth you'd love to shut so much. So you do.
OR; At a bar, you finally snap and give Peter Parker something better to do with those gorgeous lips than running it.
WC: 5,7k
A/n: I missed writing about my boyfriend, so here I am. Spidey enthusiasts, gather around, please! I love this Peter Parker playlist to set the mood. / read on ao3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Oh my goddess in fucking heaven, do you ever shut your goddamn mouth, Parker?!"
The whole bar goes quiet, and as soon as his name is out of your lips, it's a heartbeat too late.
The drink in your hand feels like a bomb as Peter turns around, a stupid smile already plastered on his stupidly gorgeous face.
Everything about him is so—so stupid. He said so himself in class once. "I'm the world's stupidest genius, professor," with a laugh, that smile, that easy shrugging shoulder.
His eyes are fixed on you, as chocolate as ever, as bright and sparkling as they were when you first met him, but with a glint of something unrecognizable. When he opens his mouth, your chest tightens and your breath stills, waiting for it, knowing something clever and smart will come out of it, dreading whatever it is.
"You said you want to shut my mouth, did I hear that correctly?"
There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."
"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."
"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."
The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.
They echo.
You wanna shut my mouth.
How would you go about that?
You shiver.
He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.
"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.
You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.
The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.
His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.
"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"
This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.
Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.
How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.
"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"
"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.
Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."
"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."
"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."
I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.
Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."
"Admission to what?"
"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.
This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."
From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.
Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."
"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.
The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."
And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.
Just fuck already.
It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.
"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.
Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.
"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.
In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"
He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.
The air does you good, though.
It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.
None of the people smoking bother you.
Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.
You wanna shut my mouth.
Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.
It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.
In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.
Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—
The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.
Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.
He approaches anyway.
"Permission to come closer?" He asks.
What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.
It's easier said than done.
Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.
It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.
Alcohol makes people's filters go down.
Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.
His body responds to her.
Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.
When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.
His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...
Maybe it's not 'easy', then.
Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.
Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.
He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.
The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.
Fuck it.
He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.
(Who is he still trying to fool?)
"Permission to approach?"
Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.
"Hi, Parker."
"Hello, milady."
"What can I do for you?"
Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."
"No, you're not."
He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."
Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."
"Why is that?"
"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."
Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.
Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.
"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."
At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."
"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"
"It hasn't been?"
She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."
He smiles. "So are you."
"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."
"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.
God, what are you doing to him?
"I'm sorry," you say.
Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"
"You heard me, don't make me say it again."
"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."
Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.
There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.
"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."
His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."
"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"
"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.
"Who said it was only men who called me that?"
He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"
"Yup. We bicker in them every time."
"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."
The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."
"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.
"Parker."
"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"
You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.
"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.
There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."
"Which is part of your name."
"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."
"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."
His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."
You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.
Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.
"You're actually ridiculous."
"But not a raging bitch?"
You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."
"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"
Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.
This might be flirting.
A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.
The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.
You test the waters.
"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.
He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."
"So you're back to insulting me now?"
His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."
The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.
You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.
You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.
"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"
He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."
It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.
Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.
So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.
He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.
"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."
And there it is.
You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.
Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.
I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.
"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."
This time, it's you who steps closer.
There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.
Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.
"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."
The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.
Then, his lips are on yours.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your skin is feverish under his touch.
Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.
One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.
He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.
There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.
"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.
"Did what?"
"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."
"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.
The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.
Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.
Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"
He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.
His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."
"Oh! Your aunt."
"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."
"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"
Peter nods, then drags you away.
In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.
As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.
"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.
Peter sort of wants to make you scream.
There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.
Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.
This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.
First, he starts by undressing you.
Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.
A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.
He's burning.
Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.
He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.
Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.
You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."
"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.
His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."
Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."
You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"
"No."
"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."
"Oh, fuck."
"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"
"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.
"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."
Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.
"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.
Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.
"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."
"Yes, please."
"Patience."
"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."
"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."
Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.
"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"
"Please sit on me," he begs.
The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.
The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.
Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.
The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.
You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.
That only makes him moan louder.
Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.
"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.
He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.
Slides inside you again with so much ease.
Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.
You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.
Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.
It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.
Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.
You just do it so well.
"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."
It gets to his head.
Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.
All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.
Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.
Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."
He's almost sure he actually cries at that.
And then he does as he's told.
He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.
Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.
He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.
Peter's fucked.
Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.
He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.
SUMMARY: When your best friend Sarah recommends a mechanic of her brother’s trust, all you can think about and pray is that he doesn’t rip you off. Your car is your prized possession, and amidst all the worry and concern of your medical studies, drowning in even more debt sounds as suffocating as it would be.
Of course, you never thought of the possibility of the mechanic being the problem. A hot, polite, gentle, and silent type of problem.
Drowning in debt would be easier to navigate than the blue of Bucky Barnes’s eyes.
WORD COUNT: 70k; Completed.
A/N & WARNINGS: As I write the sequel to one of my favorite stories, I'm editing and sharing again the first part here. This is an Alternate Universe. Earth -1999. Mature content ahead, so minors DNI.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMASTERLISTㅤㅤ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤCHAPTERS
. ONE ;
. TWO ;
. THREE ;
. FOUR ;
. FIVE ;
. SIX ;
. SEVEN ;
. EIGHT
. NINE.
SUMMARY: When your best friend Sarah recommends a mechanic of her brother’s trust, all you can think about and pray is that he doesn’t rip you off. Your car is your prized possession, and amidst all the worry and concern of your medical studies, drowning in even more debt sounds as suffocating as it would be.
Of course, you never thought of the possibility of the mechanic being the problem. A hot, polite, gentle, and silent type of problem.
Drowning in debt would be easier to navigate than the blue of Bucky Barnes’s eyes.
WORD COUNT: 70k; Completed.
A/N & WARNINGS: As I write the sequel to one of my favorite stories, I'm editing and sharing again the first part here. This is an Alternate Universe. Earth -1999. Mature content ahead, so minors DNI.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMASTERLISTㅤㅤ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤCHAPTERS
. ONE ;
. TWO ;
. THREE ;
. FOUR ;
. FIVE ;
. SIX ;
. SEVEN ;
. EIGHT
. NINE.
Fucking hell. I have no words. Masterful. Absorbing. World building. Aaaaaahhhhh I wish I could experience reading this for the first time again. I am completely bewitched
Summary: His problem was this—that stupidly impossible and funny mouth of his. Peter Parker and his witty responses. Peter Parker and his clever quips. Peter and that mouth you'd love to shut so much. So you do.
OR; At a bar, you finally snap and give Peter Parker something better to do with those gorgeous lips than running it.
WC: 5,7k
A/n: I missed writing about my boyfriend, so here I am. Spidey enthusiasts, gather around, please! I love this Peter Parker playlist to set the mood. / read on ao3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Oh my goddess in fucking heaven, do you ever shut your goddamn mouth, Parker?!"
The whole bar goes quiet, and as soon as his name is out of your lips, it's a heartbeat too late.
The drink in your hand feels like a bomb as Peter turns around, a stupid smile already plastered on his stupidly gorgeous face.
Everything about him is so—so stupid. He said so himself in class once. "I'm the world's stupidest genius, professor," with a laugh, that smile, that easy shrugging shoulder.
His eyes are fixed on you, as chocolate as ever, as bright and sparkling as they were when you first met him, but with a glint of something unrecognizable. When he opens his mouth, your chest tightens and your breath stills, waiting for it, knowing something clever and smart will come out of it, dreading whatever it is.
"You said you want to shut my mouth, did I hear that correctly?"
There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."
"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."
"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."
The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.
They echo.
You wanna shut my mouth.
How would you go about that?
You shiver.
He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.
"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.
You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.
The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.
His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.
"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"
This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.
Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.
How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.
"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"
"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.
Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."
"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."
"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."
I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.
Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."
"Admission to what?"
"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.
This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."
From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.
Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."
"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.
The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."
And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.
Just fuck already.
It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.
"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.
Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.
"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.
In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"
He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.
The air does you good, though.
It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.
None of the people smoking bother you.
Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.
You wanna shut my mouth.
Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.
It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.
In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.
Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—
The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.
Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.
He approaches anyway.
"Permission to come closer?" He asks.
What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.
It's easier said than done.
Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.
It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.
Alcohol makes people's filters go down.
Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.
His body responds to her.
Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.
When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.
His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...
Maybe it's not 'easy', then.
Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.
Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.
He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.
The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.
Fuck it.
He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.
(Who is he still trying to fool?)
"Permission to approach?"
Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.
"Hi, Parker."
"Hello, milady."
"What can I do for you?"
Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."
"No, you're not."
He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."
Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."
"Why is that?"
"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."
Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.
Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.
"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."
At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."
"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"
"It hasn't been?"
She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."
He smiles. "So are you."
"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."
"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.
God, what are you doing to him?
"I'm sorry," you say.
Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"
"You heard me, don't make me say it again."
"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."
Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.
There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.
"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."
His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."
"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"
"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.
"Who said it was only men who called me that?"
He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"
"Yup. We bicker in them every time."
"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."
The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."
"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.
"Parker."
"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"
You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.
"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.
There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."
"Which is part of your name."
"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."
"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."
His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."
You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.
Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.
"You're actually ridiculous."
"But not a raging bitch?"
You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."
"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"
Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.
This might be flirting.
A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.
The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.
You test the waters.
"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.
He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."
"So you're back to insulting me now?"
His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."
The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.
You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.
You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.
"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"
He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."
It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.
Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.
So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.
He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.
"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."
And there it is.
You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.
Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.
I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.
"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."
This time, it's you who steps closer.
There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.
Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.
"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."
The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.
Then, his lips are on yours.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your skin is feverish under his touch.
Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.
One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.
He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.
There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.
"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.
"Did what?"
"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."
"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.
The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.
Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.
Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"
He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.
His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."
"Oh! Your aunt."
"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."
"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"
Peter nods, then drags you away.
In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.
As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.
"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.
Peter sort of wants to make you scream.
There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.
Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.
This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.
First, he starts by undressing you.
Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.
A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.
He's burning.
Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.
He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.
Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.
You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."
"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.
His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."
Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."
You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"
"No."
"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."
"Oh, fuck."
"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"
"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.
"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."
Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.
"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.
Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.
"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."
"Yes, please."
"Patience."
"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."
"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."
Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.
"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"
"Please sit on me," he begs.
The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.
The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.
Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.
The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.
You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.
That only makes him moan louder.
Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.
"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.
He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.
Slides inside you again with so much ease.
Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.
You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.
Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.
It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.
Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.
You just do it so well.
"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."
It gets to his head.
Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.
All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.
Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.
Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."
He's almost sure he actually cries at that.
And then he does as he's told.
He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.
Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.
He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.
Peter's fucked.
Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.
He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.
Literally me finishing the last chapter of 'Atlas In His Sleep' today and only because I find it my writer duty to gift that work to @theokatz . Only. ST broke my heart so much I fucking hated the whole universe for longer than a year...
Summary: You put out the smoke, glanced at your clock, and thanked the summer heat for making nights just as perfect as days as you walked to the willow tree at the back of the lake.
Sitting under it in his baggy, black shorts and one of your favorite t-shirts of his, smoking a cigarette with a phone in his hand and a blanket underneath him, is Bucky.
When he sees you, Bucky smiles at the side, then pats the place on the blanket next to him.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏ ♫ Playlist
There’s a certain peace and power in being surrounded by all of your favorite people.
It’s the kind of peace that before certain people arrived in your life, you had only felt in garages on Sundays, drinking Cola and listening to the radio while engines ran.
Now, the smell of food being cooked inside the house and trailing to the outside where you and most of the others sit by the lake, plus the noise of conversation and Peter’s distinct loud laughter in the back—that’s peace.
It’s a movie scene. One of those rare moments when it feels good to be alive.
Across the lake, Bucky’s sitting on one side of his bike while Natasha’s on the other following his instructions—feeling your eyes on him, Bucky looks up from the timing belt and catches your eyes.
He tilts his head a little, and you keep watching, a smile opening on your face.
Bucky realizes you’re not going to look away and finds amusement in that—he laughs to himself, looking away from you with a shake of his head.
He then frowns at something Natasha is doing, and reprehends her with a roll of his eyes. She looks up at him with the utmost annoyance in her brows, and they go right back to arguing.
“Is it always gonna be like this?” You ask, finally looking away.
At your side, Steve looks up from his book to see what you mean and when his eyes catch what is happening on the other side of the lake, he snickers. “Oh, yeah.”
Down by the right side of your chair, Gabe hums on top of his Mojito cup. “Hmhm. Yup. A couple of months ago I saw Sam and Bucky just… flipping each other off.” He looks up at you, twisting his mustache. “Continuously. Back and forth. Just—” Gabe starts mimicking one finger being given after the other, and Morita starts laughing.
After the fifth or sixth middle finger, Morita reaches to grab Gabe’s excited hands. “I think they got it,” Morita nods.
Behind you, MJ stops the braid she’s doing to lean over and observe the scene in front of her.
On the other side, Bucky is laughing delightedly, and you can hear him saying ’yeah, you see the difference?’ and your heart flutters a little.
MJ pins you with a look and a smirk. “She’s going easy on him.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Why?”
You inch your sunglasses lower a little, observing Nat nodding along to whatever complicated bike engineering he’s teaching her about.
The past few days, Natasha had kept Bucky walking on his toes around her—never offered him a bone, always crispy-polite when he spoke to her; you knew her game well. She was intimidating him by doing nothing at all, and you knew what MJ meant with ‘taking it easy’.
Natasha took it easy with people whose opinion she knew mattered to you and would matter in the future, meaning she saw in Bucky someone who would be around for a while.
You look at MJ. “She knows he doesn’t know everything that went through between us yet.”
At the same time Steve hums in sympathy in front of you, MJ goes: “Ah.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle.
Steve rests his head against the chair and looks up at you. “Don’t worry. If he’s teaching her somethin’, that’s Buck language for a hug and a kiss on the forehead.”
Your eyes and attention shifted between the group surrounding you by the lake and the chaotic group of idiots you adored on the other side of the lake.
You nodded in agreement. Bucky took a while to warm up to people—when Nat had mentioned her new bike and how much she thought his own was beautiful, how much she’d love to know some things about them so she wouldn’t have to go to a mechanic over there too often and Bucky’s response was, “Want me to teach you some stuff?” your heart had done some acrobatics inside your chest.
“Nat letting someone help is Nat language for ‘you’re cool and we can be friends’,” you tell everyone.
Gabe points to where Yelena is sitting, watching Nat and Bucky on top of the rock. “That one is easy to make friends with, huh?”
Yelena, almost as if sensing you’re all talking about her, looks over to you guys and waves excitedly. “Nah.” Everyone turns around to you with a look that questions whether you’ve lost your mind or not, but you shrug at all of them. “It’s true. You know how Nat and Bucky give off those vibes to everyone but us?” They all nod. “Yelena gives off that vibe to everyone too… unless she’s around Nat. Or me.” They all hum in surprise, and you close your eyes when the feeling of MJ’s fingers goes back to working on your hair. “I’m happy you guys like them.”
Steve pats your calf. “We know they’re part of the package and we’re keeping you. Thank god we like them,” he sasses.
You laugh at him, and MJ snickers behind you to stand still.
Inside of the house, you can hear Sarah’s boys playing video games and now, the smell of whatever it is the Wilsons are cooking is truly starting to take over the air.
Steve seems to pick up on that at the same time as you, ‘cause he sniffs the air around him and starts craning his neck to get a look at the kitchen. “What on earth are they cooking in there?”
Morita hums at the back of his throat. “You’re a lucky man, Cap.” He huffs. “That’s a damn good family to marry into.”
To innocent ears, the compliment might’ve sounded very nice, but you feel MJ snickering behind you just as you try to hide your own laughter.
Steve, always so smart, knows better too and sees right through the bullshit. “Aht—knock it off.” He slaps Morita on the arm, and the man laughs at him, unashamed of his boldness. “You guys and your stupid fucking poll.” Steve throws his arms up. “We’re not getting married! Not now, at least!”
MJ lets go of any pretense of hiding her laughter when Steve slaps his friend, but she recovers quickly to tell him. “Oh, c’mon Steve. Don’t pretend you haven’t bought that man a ring already.”
Steve gasps in shock, and it’s such a genuine and loud gasp that it catches everyone by surprise. He points an accusatory finger at MJ and then looks over to the other side of the lake, where Peter’s laughter can be heard on top of Natasha’s voice. “That TRAITOR!”
At the word, Peter’s head snaps to where everyone is on the lake.
Everyone, including you, gasps at the realization of what Steve falsely assumed… and ended up revealing in the meantime.
“YOU DID?!” MJ yells the question.
Watching the realization hit Steve’s face is almost as priceless as knowing that Steve Grant Rogers bought Sam Wilson a ring.
You watch as his eyes go from accusatory to wide in horror, and then his eyebrows crease in pain. Morita and Gabe start causing absolute havoc, and you’re too shocked and happy to do anything but stand there with your mouth wide open and a smile splitting your face in half.
Steve, beet red and also beating himself over his misinterpretation, gets up from the chaos that has installed between a yelling Gabe, Morita, MJ and fastly approaching Peter (“What’s up what’s up what’s up why did he yell at me—”) and starts walking in direction of the house.
Big mistake.
MJ gets up from the chair behind you and starts singing the wedding waltz, and that’s finally what snaps you out of your shock.
Immediately, you pull her down by the waist and start shushing her. “Shushhhh, oh my god, Gabe, shut up! Are you guys kidding me?!” you scream whisper. “Make it more obvious, would ya?! Let the man keep his secret at least from the person who’s meant to be surprised, huh?!” You point vigorously at the house, looking at them like one looks at children who forgot that this is supposed to be a surprise party.
The three of them clasp their hands over their mouth, and you sigh dramatically. “If he finds out because of y’all, I’m killing you. I swear I am.”
Peter, between ragged breaths, looks between you all with wide eyes. “Who told you?” He whines.
For the second time, you feel MJ hiding behind you, and when Peter cries out a betrayed, “Babe?”, you can’t help but laugh.
Your eyes find a pair of blue ones on the other side of the lake, and sharing your moment of happiness with him makes it even better somehow.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ◦➳◦
Meet me at the Willow at 2.
The words had been whispered to you while dinner was served and everyone navigated each other in the kitchen; Bucky had slid behind you at the plate line, whispered that at the shell of your ear, and fucked right off the kitchen, leaving you standing there confused for a moment.
Confused and giddy, for that was the right word—giddy; as if you were a teenager; as if this was all a joyous new thing to experience.
Bucky said the words and created a monarch dynasty in your belly, butterflies fluttering with his wink as he left, with your eagerness to wait for the clock to strike midnight so everyone would retire to their beds and you could watch the minutes pass by.
It was stupid and foolish, but it felt good.
At one-thirty, you kiss Nat’s sleeping forehead, remove her cell phone from her hand before it falls on the wooden floor, slip it under her pillow, and leave for a smoke at the back porch.
There was no privacy at the lake house.
Surely, among a group of adults, no one lived under the impression to share a roof with prudes; on the contrary: having a group of intimate friends, you were learning, meant sharing the good, the bad, the weird, and the extremely personal.
Still. Common courtesy indicated no loud, delicious sex when you shared literally the same room with somebody else.
A thin wall? Acceptable. One can shove their heads under a pillow and go back to bed, ignoring the grunting and moaning on the other side, but when it’s sleeping right next to you?
A little rude.
Not that you and Bucky were meeting to fuck behind a tree, like an actual couple of teenagers—no. You had better self-control than that (you hoped), and taking things at their own time was not a problem for either one of you.
But god, you missed making out with him.
Kissing, tasting him, teasing him for more than an hour, feeling the way he likes to map your body with his hands—fuck, his hands.
You put out the smoke, glanced at your clock, and thanked the summer heat for making nights just as perfect as days as you walk to the willow tree at the back of the lake.
Sitting under it in his baggy, black shorts and one of your favorite t-shirts of his, smoking a cigarette with a phone in his hand and a blanket underneath him, is Bucky.
When he sees you, Bucky smiles at the side, then pats the place on the blanket next to him.
You walk to him, and instead of sitting where he suggested, stop in front of his crossed legs, looking down at him with no reservation to your thoughts.
He’s always been good at reading them. Bucky’s incredible at reading you, and if someone said you were once a book on his shelf in this or any other life, you’d believe them.
His legs all but melt in front of him, uncrossing in a clear invitation. To make matters better, Bucky opens his arms wide, leaving his cigarette dangling from his mouth—waiting. Open.
You sit down on his lap and his arms close around your waist.
“I’m glad you found the location easy, ma’am,” he teases, making you laugh.
The theatrical side of him is something few people know, and you, personally, adore. His voice gets carried easily in the dark and the silence of the night; you take the cigarette from his lips and lead it to yours, take a puff and then put it out in the trunk behind his head.
Bucky pouts at you. “I wasn’t done with that,” he whines a little.
You shake your head at him, rolling your eyes. “Don’t care.” You’d missed him. Missed being close to his body so much, so the first thing you do is get closer—wrap your arms around his neck and interlace your fingers in his soft, growing hair.
His hair’s getting longer again.
The days here at the lake house did him good; Bucky looks healthy, tanned; there’s a glow on his skin that’s almost unfair and his hair feels made of silk.
“You look so pretty, Buck,” you whisper to him.
Bucky’s eyes are on your mouth, and even in the dark, you can see the color rising on his cheeks. “What’s with you and callin’ me pretty lately?” He asks with a shy chuckle.
You shrug your shoulders. “Dunno. Just thought you should know,” you voice softly.
He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, but seems to miss the words to answer you.
To give him a way out, you lean closer and place a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I like how long your hair’s getting. You plan on cutting it?”
The question is asked while you measure the length of his locks with your fingers, in the same way that a barber does before taking the tips out with a scissor.
Bucky remains quiet for a couple more seconds under you, but when he finally answers, your movements halt on his head. “Dunno yet. Hey, Y/N. You really think I’m pretty?”
The measuring stops. Your heart falters, skips, trips. It falls, and the floor of your chest echoes with the shatter.
Your body inches back slowly, to avoid spreading the pieces under places you’ll never find again.
Bucky’s looking straight ahead—eyes fixed on the necklace around your neck, both of his hands tight on your waist. With care, you cup his face into your hands and lift it until his eyes meet yours. “Bucky.” The moonlight does wonders with his eyes, and you’re growing to love the privilege of seeing him under a light that only you get the opportunity. “You. Are the prettiest person. I have ever seen.”
He blinks through watery eyes at how much emotion slips out of your mouth alongside your words, and both of you have to swallow down the knots of tears that belong to another moment.
You kiss his pink cheeks, one by one. “So pretty, Sergeant.” A kiss between his eyes. Catching a sniff of his citrus-smelling hair, you add “and you smell so nice.” Bucky chuckles under you, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist. “Except after your runs.”
Now, he laughs harder. He kisses your sternum, and you sigh. “Thanks, doll.” He looks up at you, his face still safe and happily tucked in your hands. “I ask ‘cause… you’re the most beautiful ever. So. You deserve to be with someone you think’s pretty.”
God, this man’s beauty will be your ruin.
His outer beauty, his inner one, too. Your smile widens, and you suddenly hate every breath you take without having kissed him at least once. “Trust me. I’m right where I should be.” Wiggling on top of him, you adjust your legs around his waist and tuck your feet under his thigh, just a little. “Kiss, please?”
Bucky’s eyes lose some of the blue with the question, and he obliges with that smile that always steals some of your breath and melts your insides a bit.
He closes the distance slowly, and his lips are soft and wet when they suck on yours.
Kissing Bucky is the smoothest bike ride you’ve ever been on.
If you unlearned everything overnight because of a mysterious reason or a curse, maybe a true kiss would be real, then. You’re certain that having his mouth on yours would come back to you, sure as the Sun does every day.
Whether it’s the same rhythm as you, or the way Bucky enjoys kissing, just like you—his lips on yours are a sweet taste you can’t get enough of. Never could, never will.
Bucky sucks on your tongue and kisses you until you’re both breathless. He lets you get some air, gasping through ragged breaths, as he sucks on your neck and licks on your neck with abandon.
He licks a stripe from the middle of your clavicle all the way up, finishing right under your chin. It’s ticklish, and your giggles get eaten by his hungry lips once again.
You suck on his moans and swallow down the grunting noises he offers you; kissing Bucky always makes your body come alive, your head spinning with the lack of oxygen and your lower body melting with the heated need that overtakes everything.
He kisses you with his right hand fisting your hair at the nape, his left hand gripping your waist, your ass, pulling you closer and further at the same time—Bucky wants you closer, but the more you sit and sigh in his arms, the more you rub yourself against his cock, which is rapidly answering to your hips and filling up inside his sweater-shorts.
When his left hand grips your waist tight enough to leave bruises and pull a whine out of your mouth, you both go still at the same time.
You take a deep breath together, inhaling the same air, right against each other’s mouths.
Bucky smiles, and you try your damn best to not move. His iron-grip on your waist is what’s guiding you now, and you did say to yourself you had better self-control than this. “Fuck, baby,” Bucky’s voice is wrecked.
It twists the knife on your stomach—the one made of butter, cutting through you like you’re made of honey.
He might be wearing boxers. Whether he is or not, you can feel the outline of his dick nestled between the lips of your pussy, even through the layers of your panties and your sleeping shorts.
You hum, and press a tentative, innocent kiss on his lips. “Sorry.” When he smiles, his grip on your waist loosens, but you remain still. “I thought you had come here to read for me… or something,” you joke.
It works—Bucky’s laughter is suppressed on your sternum, and you try not to think about how close his lips are to your nipples. He’s trying to keep it quiet; the laughter can be carried through the wind and end up waking someone up in a fright inside the house.
Fuck. You’d wake up everybody and kick them all out if it meant he just went back to kissing you right now.
“I was reading Ham on Rye before you came,” he whispers to you.
For a moment, your mind finds a safe boat. “Ah! Your first read or re-read?”
Bucky kisses your exposed shoulder, and the imaginary safe boat floats away like a popped balloon. “Re-read, but—the first time I read it I was pretty young, so it’s kinda like a first read?”
He hums thoughtfully, and you know he isn’t done yet.
Another kiss is placed, higher up on your shoulder this time, and you wonder if you’re safe to relax the bottom half of your body without going back to circling his hips like a bitch in heat. Maybe, maybe not. It depends on how much he behaves, too.
“I like it,” Bucky adds, kissing the column of your throat. So much for behaving. “But that’s not much of a surprise. I like the dirty old man.”
The silly nickname and jab at one of the author’s titles make you giggle. “He really was one, wasn’t he?”
Bucky laughs, but it’s with his stubble scratching your throat. Your own laughter dies in a little whine. “Guess we share a trait, then.”
“You’re not a…” your words trail off, ending in a soft gasp. Bucky sucks on your earlobe, and his hips buck up a fraction, and you never had a chance; not when he feels so desperate underneath you. “Dirty old man,” you whisper.
There’s a low hum as Bucky kisses more of your throat. “Dunno if I always was one, or if you just—you got this power to awaken somethin’ in me.” Bucky takes both of his hands from your body and places them on your cheeks, turning your focus entirely on him. “I used to be a real smooth fucker before, you know?” He whispers, stealing every ounce of your attention.
It’s unnecessary detailing before ‘what’; whenever Bucky mentions ‘before’, he’s referring to the army and, more specifically, his injury. Your body is frozen on top of his, listening attentively and feeling his fingers caressing your cheeks.
“I was always a decent-looking fella,” he says in mock-humbleness, and you roll your eyes at him. He chuckles, but continues in a more somber tone. “But after things like that, it’s. Fuck. You lose touch with yourself and—things that felt normal before. They’re harder. New, all over again.” Bucky leans up and kisses you, and you melt around him in an embrace. “I’m sorry I got so overwhelmed that morning… I never. Before you—the women I’d been with; they hadn’t noticed the thing I do. I don’t think I had either? It had—it’d been a while since I looked at someone I was being intimate with. And… I think knowing you really think all the things you say about me helped me… see myself. A new light, a bit better, all that yadda.”
The way he finishes does little to mask how real and open all the other things he’s said were.
Bucky’s fiddling with your necklace by the end of his speech, and you’re trying your best to finish picking up the pieces of a heart that broke for him because this… it needs to fall again.
How could people just skim past someone else’s obvious body language that way?
Well—thinking back on how all of this started, it had all come from the fact that most men before Bucky had never paid attention to yours, to begin with.
Not until this ‘dirty old man’ came and showed you what could truly be.
You close the distance between your lips in a soft kiss. “I’m glad I can make you feel that way, Buck,” you whisper. “I know we joke about your old age and whatnot, but honestly—you’re one of the most handsome men I’ve met. You’ve got years of being a menace to my heart and health ahead of you yet.”
Missing his 40th birthday had been the only truly sad day of this vacation for you. You knew from Steve Bucky had an amazing time with his younger sisters — Becca hadn’t gone because of an important work thing, it turns out — and you were happy for them.
But you also knew Bucky and how much the date must’ve made a mess in his thoughts about a lot of things.
“You see me being a menace to your heart and health for a long time?” He asks.
He makes himself comfortable against the tree, adjusting the pillow on his lower back and pulling you close with him. “Sure. Do you?”
Bucky smiles up at you. “For as long as you’ll have me.”
It goes to your head. Of course it does—Bucky’s offering himself to you on a silver platter, and saying it’s yours to have and hold.
“One more kiss, please?” You ask nicely.
Bucky chuckles at you, pulling you by the nape. “Have as many as you want,” he whispers before closing his lips on yours on short, sweet pecs. “Just… control these damn Succubus hips of yours, please?” He pleads, sucking on your bottom lip. “It’s hard already having you sitting on me—if you—ah, don’t do that, Y/n—if you give me blue balls in here I swear I’ll make you cum at the cinema theater as a punishment or somethin’. I know I probably deserve them, but you smell so good, doll, it’s torture already, c’mon.”
The problem with Bucky’s soft pleading is that it turns you on even more.
You have to physically stop your hips from circling his again, and he kisses you so sweetly that for a moment, you think of nodding along, saying ‘yeah, Bucky, sure, baby’.
That plan goes downhill when his hands go down on you.
For someone trying to keep himself away from blue balls, Bucky is sure not doing his best at keeping his own excitement at bay.
When the sweet, languid kisses start heating up once more, it’s him who starts pressing your waist down and guiding it with his big hands to rock back and forth against him. Bucky’s hands are big, they hold firmly on your pelvis and when you see, he’s moaning in your mouth because of the movements he’s inflicting on himself.
But god, does it feel good.
He kisses you like he starved for it for a month, and he did.
When you think about the last time you had Bucky inside of you, so long ago, your resolve cracks, and you’re whining on his mouth.
That, he notices, and it snaps Bucky out of his drunken lust. He pulls back with a gasp, and if he was half-hard before, there’s no doubt he finished getting himself worked up now.
You know intimately and closely the weight and the girth of that fully hard cock, and you whine again, rocking your hips against it. Bucky’s hips buck up to meet yours, and he groans against your neck. “Okay that might’ve been on me this time,” he gasps, licking and kissing on your neck. “Doll,” he rasps out, and woah, he even sounds drunk. “You’re gonna have to be stronger than me. I can’t get my hands off you right now,” he moans, leaving his trail of kisses on your beard-burned throat.
“Don’t wanna.”
Unlike you, he finds amusement in this frustration, because he chuckles. “Y/n, we’re both just gonna get more worked up and even more frustrated, baby.” He takes a deep breath and tries inching his waist back a little. “I didn’t bring anything with me,” he whispers to you, smiling through what are supposed to be comforting kisses. “Plus—I got a date to take you in first, don’t I?”
The logic is sound.
“Fine.” You pout. “You didn’t bring anything—no rubbing on each other. Just—kiss me?”
Buck obliges, kissing you with fervor.
If the plan and the reasoning were good, you two only missed one factor in this equation—the kissing, which you are both very good at, is effective with or without you two letting the lust and the heat take over your heads.
You and Bucky kiss to taste the missing days on each other’s tongue, to find in his soft sighs the words you missed from poems he read away from you, to nibble on the lonely days at his house and the moments you could’ve had together at his birthday.
Under minutes, your foreheads are glistening with sweat and your hands have found home under each other’s sleeping shirts.
Bucky’s burning under you, and he’s so hot and ready that his body starts doing something that breaks every last bit of resolve and rationalization you had stored in your brain.
For a second, you’re embarrassed to feel how wet your panties are. It’s ludicrous to be ashamed of it—Bucky loves how wet you get, but under the given circumstances you think it’s wise to have him at least lying on top of you instead of under before you start rutting against his clothed dick like one does to the corner of a couch.
It’s with a slip of the hand that you notice you’re not alone.
Adjusting yourself, you move back a little and start saying, “D’you wanna get on…” but when your hand misses his thigh — a genuine mistake in the dark — and finds his crotch instead, your words die on your tongue.
Bucky’s wet too. “Oh, fuck,” you mutter, pressing your hand harder on the patch now. “Bucky.”
“Y/n,” he groans.
He’s dripping pre-come in his boxers, and the wet spot on his shorts says as much as your panties do at this moment.
You don’t care whether he’s brought a condom or not anymore. “Bucky… d’you… have you been with anyone?” You ask him in a shaky whisper. Under you, Bucky stops groaning. And moving. “I swear I ain’t asking to be a dick—I’m asking, well—I’m asking ‘cause I trust you enough to know you’re one of the good guys and you don’t lie about this shit like some do just for pussy. And right now—I need to know. Not if you’ve been with others—that’s not—I care if you’re clean, ‘cause I am, and I’m on the pill, and if you tell me you are too, just this once we could…”
Bucky grips you by the jaw, stopping your rambles, making you look at him. “You really think I could touch anyone else when I’ve had you?” He asks, seriously.
You close your eyes, sighing in relief over a worry you had no right to have. “Buck…”
He kisses you eagerly, and you correspond in the same way, almost forgetting all about your question until he answers you. “I haven’t, no,” he says calmly—too calmly for a man undoing your insides like you’re a wool sweater and he’s unmaking you by the thread. “And I’m clean.” He pulls you closer again, since you had slid lower on his lap. “Are you sure, though?”
You nod, eagerly. “So, so sure.”
His groan is guttural. The grip on your waist and neck are primal, too—Bucky’s having a hard time hiding from you just how much you and your body are affecting him, or perhaps he doesn’t want to.
He never hid from you, but it’s with him writhing and moaning against your skin, unabashed and so soft at the same time, that you notice—he never hid, but he downplayed.
The Bucky who’d laid with you for months had been a giver, and a taker, and a very good partner.
This Bucky is everything.
He’s shameless—the way he looks up at you from under his eyelashes, so little of his eyes left blue and his cheeks pinker than the sky at twilight, it screams give it to me.
How could you not? If he’s shameless, then so are you.
Bucky’s wide open in his desire, rotating his hips to meet yours as he kisses you with the hunger to end a feast. When the heat starts becoming too much inside of you, the need to externalize it before you explode is what makes you take off his t-shirt, then yours, leaving his torso naked for the mosquitos (and you) to have a go at it, and your upper body in nothing but the black bralette your put on for bed.
It’s his little whines of your name that while he takes himself from his boxers that make you want to scream—you’re thankful for the loose booty shorts when you notice how practical it is for him to slip your panties to the side and move the head against your wet and waiting core.
Muffling the sounds that leave your mouths can only be done if you’re kissing at that point.
Bucky slides inside of you with ease, burying all of him to the hilt in only a few thrusts.
His metal hand holds your panties away, and his right hand grips the other side of your waist, and when he moves, the filthy sounds of your bodies connecting and your breathy moans start becoming a symphony.
It would be a lie to say it felt the same as other times.
It’s not. “Bucky,” you grind down on his lap, feeling full to the brim with him seated inside of you. “Oh god. Missed feeling you. Missed being so full.”
Bucky’s face feels stapled to your neck—the deep, almost wounded sounds he’s letting out would definitely be more than enough to wake everyone up, but they’re buried with the stubble burns on the side of your neck. “You missed it, baby?” He asks, biting on your skin. He’s picked that from you—Bucky was never a biter. “I missed ya too. Fuck—your pussy’s so good—oh god, so tight, Y/n, like it was made for me , huh?”
If you were a stronger person, you’d swallow the scream that climbs up your throat, but Bucky’s words, his strong arms, and the way he moves his hips like they’re made for sinning—it’s too much.
Feels too good. Drives your mind up the walls on every corner; it reminds you that he’s in you, and how there’s nothing between him and you—and oh fuck, fuck. “Bucky. Buck—are you gonna cum in me?” Your hands fly to get a grip on his hair before your back gives up and you fall backward, nothing but a puddle of pleasure in his hands.
His hips falter and become still inside of you, making you whine loud. “Y/n.” On one hand, it’s only your name—on the other, his dick twitches inside of you, pulling a broken moan out of your lips. Bucky moves back, just enough to get a look on your face, and he looks just as drunk and fucked out as you imagine you are. “Look at you.” Bucky’s right hand goes up to your face, getting the hair that’s plastered on your face away from it, then leaves kisses all over it. You’d try moving your hip, but the iron-grip of his metal hand makes it impossible. “You tryna kill me, doll? Hm?” With that question, Bucky starts to piston his hips up in slow, deliberate moves. “You tryna gimme a heart attack?”
The movements are slow, but you feel when he secures his feet against the ground and then, the next thrust is sharper. Thankfully, Bucky puts his mouth on yours before you scream one more time.
“You tryna wake everybody up so they know who’s making you feel so good, huh, pretty baby?” Bucky’s words are slurred out together, and he highlights some words by just pushing in harder, then pulling out slowly. “You call me pretty then… then get cock drunk on top of me like this—fuck, it ain’t fair.”
The second his hand goes from your waist to your neck, your hips gain free range to circle him and meet his thrusts; Bucky’s pace hits all the right places inside of you and the patience he has to make sure he’s angled just right every time is exactly why you know he’s right.
Bucky’s fucked you speechless before, he’s fucked you into a blubbering mess, he’s fucked you until all you could say was his name, but today, you’re taking him with you.
Gripping your pussy tighter around his cock in his next thrust, you feel his broken moan against your lips. “I am,” you breathe out, laughing breathlessly and mouthing on his jawline. “You feel how good you make me feel, Buck?” your voice is small, drunk, just as slurred as he is, but he hears it. Leading your lips to the shell of his ear, you grip him tighter on purpose again, going down a little faster. “You look so pretty under me—fuck, right there—so, so pretty, Sergeant. I wanna feel it. Can I?”
If he planned on pulling out before your whiny pleading, the resolve gets lost when you hold his face between your hands and kisses him filthily, just to match the sounds of your hips meeting each other.
“I’m—you sure? Fuck, are you sure?” Bucky moans brokenly.
All your agreement is muffled in the next kisses, but Bucky reads and understands the permission.
When he gets both arms around the middle of your waist again, you know what’s coming—the strain of his muscles every time he takes your full weight to himself and starts thrusting up faster and harder gets you without fail, burning you up even hotter.
You hold on to his biceps, feeling him kiss on your cheeks and your damn forehead like he does in front of everybody—and that’s what it does you in.
He kisses your forehead while fucking straight into your g spot, his grunts and moans all absorbed by your skin and trailing to the lake behind you two, and you’re done, you’re pulsating and cumming all around his cock, his name falling from your lips in a desperate prayer or a plea—you can’t know, you don’t care.
Bucky feels your pussy squeezing him and the only warning you get is the way he buries his face between your boobs and lets out a grunt before you feel him shooting inside of you.
Neither of you moves or says another word for what it feels like the longest minutes ever—this is going to become a problem.
You don’t want him to pull out—hell, you never want him somewhere that’s not inside of you, filling you up, ever again.
“Are you trying to kill me?” Bucky whines underneath you.
Oh. You said that out loud. “I’m… never.” You laugh brightly. “Sorry.”
“Do not apologize,” he laughs back.
“It just… it feels good.”
Bucky groans, and when he tries to pull out just a little, your whine stops him. He takes a deep breath and rests his head back against the tree trunk, and you get to appreciate his sweaty, fucked-out look.
The smile is your favorite part. “I don’t see how this is a problem,” he whispers to you, moving his hips a little again for another reaction—you both hiss at the sensitivity, but you hum pleased right after. “Nope. Nevermind. This is a problem—you know, I had a dream on New Year’s day when you slept over that I woke up and I was already inside of you for some reason?” Bucky’s voice is still deep and raspy, and you missed how he sounds after all those grunts and growls. “That’s why I went on a run.”
“That’s a nice idea,” you whisper.
“Are you trying to kill me?” He begs again, louder this time.
Laughing, you realize that Bucky is only starting to get an idea of how much you truly want to “kill him”.
This should be fun.
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“That sounds cutthroat.”
The comment is offered so honestly that you can’t help but tease a little. “Yeah.” You sip on your Coke, then add in a tone as serious as you can muster. “Few places in this world are as cutthroat as a Ballet school.”
Bucky stops with the straw halfway to his mouth and, sensing how much of an absolute little shit you’re being, only shakes his head, amusement written all over his face. “I can imagine.”
You smile behind your cup, biting on your lip. It’s a little hard to concentrate on staying on topic when he looks so good. “Anyway. I think it’s good for them to get a little competition going on.” Natasha and Yelena were always good at bringing the best out on each other. “I can’t wait for the casting paper picture. They send me a pic of the paper the professors pin on the board with all the names of who’s dancing and as what—very pretty handwriting, dramatic old school style.”
Bucky smiles at that. “My bet’s on Yelena.”
“What!? Why?” You lean in, curious.
“Nat’s more experienced, but from what you’ve told me, she’s also… distracted,” he wiggles his eyebrows.
Oh. He had a point.
Wanda. “You really think so?”
“Sure. She’s got other priorities right now,” Bucky nods.
“Hmm, that is true.” You’re munching on your straw at the answer, thinking about the goodbyes at the airport, when the food arrives.
Given it was the last week of summer, everyone had (reluctantly) left Steve’s small piece of heaven and headed back to where they came from.
Your girls, after their extended vacation, flew back to Russia with the biggest smile on their faces and a little bit of a tan to boot.
When you were saying goodbye, Natasha had whispered. “I like him, lyubov. He’s still… pending. But I like him.”
Behind her, Yelena rolled her eyes and made a small heart with her fingers—she knew her sister, probably knew exactly what she was saying, but getting the stamp of approval from both your girls meant the world.
In front of you, Bucky thanks the waitress — a girl named Monica, who he introduced you to as soon as you arrived at Nakajima — and gives you a raise of his eyebrows at how delicious the food looks.
You prefer spending time observing how appetizing he looks.
The black trousers, brand new black shirt and plaid overcoat made his long hair and clean stubble give him almost a model look. That, or perhaps you were biased with how handsome he was.
Riding with him on his bike was maybe one of your favorite things now.
“How’s the pretty rescue?” You ask, digging in the food.
“Pretty rescue,” he chuckles under his breath. “I should’ve never shown you pics of him, ‘till last week I was ‘pretty boy’ and now all I hear from ya is ‘where’s my pretty boy, let me see that ball of fur, Bucky’ and no love for me.”
Most people would think Bucky’s doing all that theater just to get the laughter out of you — which he does, always — but you know him better; Bucky loves hiding his true adorable persona behind sarcastic jokes that have a little bit of truth.
That’s why you squeeze him by his cute chin, call him pretty when he wakes up, and wolf-whistle when he passes by in all his shirtless glory.
The comfort and ease that he carries himself around you now could never go unnoticed by you.
(You, and others.
Is that Bucky SHIRTLESS behind you? Damn, Y/n, that’s Buck language for serious businessssssss 😛 Steve had texted.)
Chuckling, you grab him by the chin. “Sorry, baby,” you press a kiss on his pink, sake lips. “He’s just too fucking cute. I’ll call him—hm. That long silky fur reminds me of those prince lap kittens who always look super mean, but Alpine isn’t mean, he’s just prince.”
“Alright, I’ll take it.” Bucky gives a small little bite on your chin, and you smile to yourself. Definitely picking up on your habits. He goes back to his food with a smile and answers, “He’s fine. I thought he’d have left ‘till I was back, but Luke said he gave no trouble and always ate the food he left for him. He even sent me a couple of pictures of them playing a couple of times when he came by and Alpine was sleeping on the couch or just around. Did I show you?” You nod, listening with a smile. “Right. He’s just been getting all my clothes properly branded now—everything has his fur, Y/n, I swear to god.”
Bucky feeds you the broccoli he isn’t going to eat. “That’s gonna be the default now,” you tell him.
“I know.” Bucky sighs. “I told myself ‘he’s not gonna sleep on the bed, you bought him a bed, Bucky’ but—he is. Yeah.” You laugh in sympathy, nodding along to Bucky’s conformism. “You’ll see when you go.” He shakes his head. “He annoyed me all day, every day, for a week when summer started and when I gave him shelter during that first storm I said—just tonight. He’s cryin’ outside, you’re not heartless, Bucky.” He turns to you and pauses dramatically. “He was eatin’ from my plate yesterday, Y/n. I have lost control of my own home.”
That does it in—you burst out laughing, your upper body falling forward, leaning against him.
“Stop laughing at me! This is serious!” He says, laughing too.
Not laughing with him is almost an impossible task.
That’s why you’re not scared, says a voice in your head. Whenever the things you feel for Bucky grow and bloom inside of you, growing branches to new places and solidifying how much he means to you and in your life, the breeze of fear is nothing but a passenger cold in your stomach.
It goes away quickly. Bucky warms you up with laughter every time he speaks to you.
That’s how you know he’ll be in your life for as long as he wants to—even when things were bad, or difficult, Bucky managed to make you smile through the sadness or the hurt.
He makes you happy.
“Does it taste good?” Bucky confirms at one point, when conversation dulled in favor of you both devouring the delicious dinner Yori prepared just for you two.
You nod with a mouth full, chipmunk cheeks ending up poked by one of Bucky’s metal fingers.
“Cutie,” he chuckles, pressing a tasty kiss on your cheek.
Dinner is almost as good as the date itself.
After picking you up on his special bike — a black, sleek and traditional Harley — and taking you for a ride around town, Bucky took you to a spoken poetry event he’d gotten the tickets for before you two had even “broken up”.
He held your hand the entire evening, asking or whispering things to you about the books surrounding you and the people he saw.
People-watching with Bucky was much more fun than with most people; his observational skills were incredible and after the spoken-poetry session ended, you two roamed the fair in which it had happened and left there with two bags of books, your mouths sweetened of cotton candy, cheeks pink and aching from smiling so hard.
Then, he asked you, “Ready to eat?” And you knew where you two were going.
This time, Bucky had introduced you to Yori.
The Japanese man owned the restaurant, and it took you two minutes laughing at their sharp banter to see how much Yori meant to him.
Yori had told you about what inspired him to do a place where Asian cuisine is so mixed, and he’d given you a tour of both floors while talking animatedly about how much he loves regulars who dress so nicely as you.
He also ignored Bucky’s attempt to be part of the conversation, because, according to him, “Don’t mind him, Y/n, he wants my attention ‘cause he’s used to it. Lemme talk to the girl, James. Go get us some more sake.”
It was nice to see someone else with the upper hand around Bucky who wasn’t Steve.
You two finish a whole bottle of sake before dinner is over — mostly you, considering he’s driving — and by the time your stomachs are full and conversation has finished making a hundred different stops, your bodies are leaning against the glass window behind you, your hands intertwined under the table.
Bucky smiles when he feels you leaning your cheek on his hand. He pinches it softly, then kisses it. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom and drink some water.” He kisses your eyelids, which are feeling heavier already. “I’ll get the bill before I come back. I’ll bring you a bottle, kay?”
That’s Bucky language for ’you’re tipsy and I’m gonna hydrate you’, and you appreciate it. Silently tilting your chin up, Bucky gives you the kiss your gesture asks for. “Meet me outside? I’m gonna smoke.”
He snickers, giving you a cheeky smile. “Tsk tsk, bad habit, miss.”
“I’ll quit it when you do.”
“I know. I’ll make us quit, you see,” he laughs.
It’s something you two have been teasing each other about, ever since Bucky heard you yelling at Natasha over the phone to wait until you’ve found your lighter, and she replied with “agh! that nasty fucking habit” and received a “which I got from WHO?” that silenced her really quick.
He claimed he was gonna help you get rid of this nasty habit before you were a hypocrite in a white coat and he had no lungs to eat you out for hours or have you sit on his face.
“Loving the priorities, Buck.”
Clutching your jacket closer around your body, you laugh at the memory.
If Bucky and Natasha’s competitive streak ends in you becoming healthier, then so be it.
“Ah! You’re here.” Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice and finds Yori getting down the steps from the side door, joining you in the alley outside. “I have Monica stalling James at the cashier with a pep talk of her little girl, that should buy me some time,” he says, making you laugh.
“Are you here to gimme more dirty secrets on him? ‘Cause I’m all ears,” you joke, angling your body so it faces the wind direction and none of the smoke hits Yori’s face.
He notices it, and eyes your cigarette with the same distaste your mother does. “I’m not, actually.”
The seriousness in his tone makes you hesitate a little, sobering up, too. “Is something wrong?”
Yori waves his hands in front of him in a dismissive way. “No, no. Nothing’s wrong.” He points at the smoke on your hand. “Except for that. I heard James saying you two are going to quit.” Yori pins you with a look. “Next time you two come over, I better not see smoke breaks,” he waits for you to nod in agreement before continuing. “Good. I’ve been trying to get him to quit for years, but if it takes a pretty girl and being in love for him to do it, at least it gets done.”
“We’ll quit it, Mr. Nakajima.”
He looks away with a shake of his head. “Ah! I told you before—Yori.” To your surprise, Yori puts out his hand in a request for the cigarette and you hand it to him, trying to contain your smile. “It’s a nasty habit.” He takes a slow drag and says through the exhaled smoke. “Feels good, though.”
“That it does,” you chuckle.
Yori looks at you calculative, taking another drag. “I came to thank you,” he passes it back to you.
“For what?”
“You know what.” Yori points to the inside of the restaurant, where if you follow his finger, Bucky can be found smiling at a picture that’s being shown to him on the girl you recognize as Monica’s phone. “He hasn’t smiled like that in years.” When you look back at Yori, the man has a smile on his face you haven’t seen before. “My son used to make him smile like that all the time, so I think there’s definitely a type there to where his taste lies, but—” he looks away from Bucky to you, his smile growing. “Kim could never get through his thick skull. You do. And he’s finally opening up to being happy again…” Yori’s hands join together and, like a flower, open in a blooming gesture. “Under your light.”
The words get caught on your throat, and you put out the cigarette even though it was only half-finished.
“Kim was your kid?” You ask, feeling suddenly very hot under the streetlight. My son used to make him smile like that all the time.
The picture in Steve’s corridor flashes behind your eyes; the bright smile of a younger Bucky, unmistakably happy and delighted.
Fuck. My sweet Bucky.
“Yeah,” Yori confirms. “I adopted him when he was just a kid.” His smile has sad and sharp edges. “I had a kid before him, but he… life can be tragic, sometimes.” Yori catches your hand between his, and his smile eases. “But not always.” Shaking your head and stealing a glance to the inside, he whispers. “You two make the loveliest couple. I can see in his face how much he cares about you. Which is hard. Men like James can hide a lot from their face, but he can’t hide it with you—oh, no,” he shakes his head, chuckling amused. “I’m happy.”
So were you. “So am I, Yori.” You squeeze his hand back. “I’m happy too.”
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Being Bucky’s girlfriend is, just as you expected, even better than being his friend.
He’s a great partner, he discovers. You knew that already—he had taken care of you in more ways than one when first approaching you.
The soft-spoken compliments might not have been there, or the subtle touches he seems to love so much when he’s in public with you now, but the laser-focus attention and the sweet way of caring have always been.
Being Bucky’s means grease stains on your cheeks too because he’s incapable of seeing you at his shop and not kissing you. It means late-night dinner at Nakajima’s, the place with the best food in this area of Brooklyn.
There’s also the mindblowing sex, but that was your entry card.
With the days passing, you discover more of him can blow your mind.
His ability to compromise is incredible.
Bucky’s patient with your schedule—when summer ends and the rush of school starts once again, your first fear is that your studying and how busy you are will mess up the good flow you two have going on.
What happens is: Bucky brings back the habit of texting between you two and when he catches you biting your lip raw in worry, he hugs you for a long time and kisses your worries away with a simple “I met a busy woman, I asked a busy woman to be mine—I’ll deal with the consequences, kay?”. Just like that.
His openness about his past takes a little of your breath away.
Through text messages or in person, Bucky starts offering to you cuts and pieces of life before you met him.
You learn more about his family — he and the girls are getting much closer and Bucky mentions a couple of times about the possibility of you meeting them — and in return, he listens to your tragic tales about yours, told through sarcastic jokes and glasses of brandy.
He never shies away from your touch or hides in the shadows anymore. Yori’s analogy of a flower gets imprinted on your head and, in only a few days, that’s all you can see in his selfies or cute little snaps.
Bucky looks amazing. Happy, and less broody.
He looks seen.
And from how he talks, he feels that way too. “Hey—can I pick you up at your University?” He asks on a Friday over the phone.
“Hello to you too, Sarge.”
“Hi, pretty.” He chuckles. “Can I pick you up? Morita just sent me a page about somethin’ on the other side of town you’re gonna like and I wanna take you. I even changed clothes—I won’t look like a hobo coming to kidnap you, I promise.”
The joke makes you laugh, but it also raises the need to do something in your brain.
As soon as Bucky arrives at the parking lot of your university and parks his bike, you throw Sarah a cheeky wink and go to walk in his direction.
Bucky hugs you close and kisses you hello, and then you put your plan to action. “Sergeant.”
“Hm?” He asks, taking your backpack from you.
You circle your arms around his neck, bringing his attention fully to you. Sweet like honey and low enough for only his ear, you ask. “You see all these people… looking at you over my back. Drooling a little. Eyeing you up and down?” Bucky’s eyes go over your shoulder, looking around in the parking lot, and you get to witness his eyes widening a little, his cheeks tainting. “Yup. All of ‘em.” You kiss his jawline. “They’d all love for you to show up here dirty with grease and make their wildest dreams come true just by… getting a look at you.” You cup his surprised face in your hands. “You forget sometimes, don’t ya?” With a kiss to his smiling lips, you add. “Pretty boy.” Another kiss, and Bucky’s smiling too. “They all wish they were me right now, Sarge.”
That makes him laugh loudly, and the way he eyes you up and down, eating you with a glance; your skin burns hotter from it. “Oh, baby. They wish,” he states boldly, kissing you again.
Bucky’s spontaneous rides around town are the best surprise of them all, though.
He takes you to see a poetry reading, a book opening for a poet you’ve never heard of before and in return, you take him to the car exposition you always went to when you were younger with your dad, but stopped frequenting once he left.
You take Bucky to Flora and Rosa’s back-to-school play because if there’s one person who deserves to see your special little bundles of joy dressed as aliens, it’s him.
Bucky officially asked you to be ‘his girl’ on the night of your first date, and only a month after that, you noticed that you were his girl since he first leaned down on Bullet’s window and asked about your car’s name.
His eyes hooked you in, and his voice sank you down below, but it was his personality that froze the lake and kept you under until now.
Bucky stops reading to you when he notices you aren’t paying attention.
“Have I lost you?” He asks with a smile.
He’s lying on your bed with What We Buried in his hands, reading the poems out loud to you, he has your legs thrown over his lap and your back nestled against the headboard of the bed.
The thermal bag over your stomach eases the cramps you’re feeling, but Bucky’s the real medicine here. “A little bit, but in a good way,” you answer.
Your voice’s groggy from the pain meds, and Bucky leans down to kiss your exposed thigh, and you feel his warm breath on your sensitive skin. “Do I keep reading?” He asks.
“Yes, please.”
“Just don’t fall asleep like that, baby. You’ll crane your neck.”
“I won’t.”
“Yori said he’ll bring dinner for us later ‘cause none of us are gonna cook tonight, okay?”
“He just wants an excuse to see Alpine,” you giggle.
“Alpine and you.” Bucky huffs, and opens the book again. “I said he could ‘cause I can’t say no to his food, but don’t abandon me when he gets here. You two always lose me on your Chinese literature rants.” He throws you what’s supposed to be a menacing look. “No man left behind, doll.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” you smile.
“Good girl.” He kisses your leg again, and clears his throat. “Now—where was I?”
“Bucky?”
He looks away from the book with a patient smile. “Hm?”
“I love you, pretty.”
He smiles with the same happiness from the first time he heard it, and leans in his whole upper body to place the next kiss on your waiting lips. “I love you more, baby.” He pulls back smiling. “Now hush. I’m reading the pain away from my girl—where was I?”
“In This Story, you have claws…”
He nods happily. “In this story, you have claws. In this story, happily ever after has bite marks in it. In this story, you are free and terrifying. In this story, you get away. In this story, you bleed. In this story, you survive.”
We do, you think.
In this story, you bleed, and the love leaves bite marks, and even though you’re terrifying, both of you are free—he, a survivor, you, a fighter.
You two get away, and most importantly, get together.
In this story, Bucky smiles at you under the sun and the Moonlight, and he’s just as perfect as he was when you met him, perhaps only a bit brighter.
I'm writing a one-shot for TASM!Peter (for the first time in so long, good gods) and after that Zuko imagine I know it'll end up as another 10k porn with plot, so I wanted to know if anyone's interested in being tagged :)
Summary: You four sip on cocktails and cover from Bullet's past, to Freud and the latest sexy TV show that hasn't left your mind since you've seen it.
With the help of Yelena, you and Sarah get a little bit about Wanda of Nat. Knowing your girl, this is definitely the first time someone's sparked Nat's interest—Wanda's younger, has a twin who's her pair in classes, but from the way Nat speaks, it's clear she'll end up dancing in your best friend's arms sometime soon.
Nat's interest is simmering and shy, like a flower with the potential to bloom.
Summer starts off great.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏ ♫ Playlist
Vulnerability’s always been stored in close hugs and the dark corners of a house.
According to therapy sessions, you spent a good amount of money on, rationalizing this part of yourself came from childhood moments when feeling your emotions was not an option, or if it was, knowing you’d be judged for it.
Thanks to those insights, even if it killed you a little bit, you allowed yourself to feel it.
It’s impossible not to.
Bucky’s words might as well have been printed on your brain, and if they weren’t, his belongings lingering in different rooms of your apartment demand his presence and, now, his absence to be felt.
First, you’re numb to it.
Thoughts like ’what if you two aren’t fucking anymore? it doesn’t matter' is your go-to response, but they last only minutes when you’re left alone with your thoughts. No ego is louder than a mind coming to realizations.
Then, the pain comes in waves.
It comes when you find his t-shirt in the middle of your clothes before your shower, and you have to physically force yourself to put it down.
Smelling his clothes would definitely bring bitterness to your lips now.
The thought makes you realize how much Bucky’s perfume and natural scent have been marked as comfort in your brain. It makes your skin itch thinking of how now, it’ll only be the smell connected to memories.
That’s what the good sex will be now. Make your peace with it.
It’s a good way of looking at it.
You two had embarked on this idea together.
Bucky was no womanizer or fuckboy with a twisted sense of right or wrong who put you in this position and now exited through the fire escape—you had been there when the decisions were made.
You knew what he had to offer and what he didn’t.
The reflection on your bathroom’s foggy mirror says you’re too sad to cry now. Your own face looks back at you with dark circles under your eyes, which has gained a new type of emptiness.
He was right to call it off.
That’s what you think inside your bathtub, absently flipping through the pages of Elizabeth’s miserable and condemned life. Diving into Brontë’s sad and heart-wrenching romance seemed only fitting as an escape from your failure.
Or, at least, what felt like a failure.
You drop the book by the side of the tub, eventually, and submerge inside the water, trying to see if having a flood surrounding you will lessen the growing tide inside your chest.
Bucky’s words had hit the nail on the head.
You cared for him in more than a friendly way, no matter how well you were doing at separating the sex from the rest. In front of your friends, the flirting never stopped, but there were no lingering touches.
He had found his way into your life through the seams, but Bucky was now everywhere.
He was in your circle of friends, between the cracks of your ribs, on the lines of books you’d never read before, on your car’s sound system and its new playlists, in the places of your brain you’d forgotten about long ago.
You fall asleep with Natasha on the phone, still reading Bronte to you.
She heard about the conversation with thin, unhappy lips, but swiftly morphed her face into something softer to take care of you.
“He might’ve been rationalizing it right, but it doesn’t mean he’s right, lyubov. Anyway. That doesn’t matter—if you say it’s better now than later, I believe you. He seemed to be a good friend, at least. Now—d’you want me to read to you?”
When times are hard, and she can see the sadness pouring out of you, Natasha always uses her best weapon to soothe your worries: her voice.
She reads until you’re asleep, and when you wake, there are several messages on your phone from her and Yelena talking about their plans and thoughts for the first week of vacation, when they’ll be here, and things will be good.
It’s almost enough to finally bring the tears clogging the knot in your throat. Almost.
They're attentive and thoughtful friends, but they’re also far away.
You might’ve learned how to feel your feelings, but letting go and letting it out still requires a safe space.
That, naturally, arrives on Monday morning, in the form of Sarah’s sniper eyes focused on you.
It’s after a morning of lectures that it all truly settles for you.
As you retell Sarah what happened, her arms wrap around your body and you find solace in her embrace. Sarah offers no words of fake encouragement—she whispers in your ear that it’s okay, to let the tears out, that she’s sad it ended like this and not how she had envisioned.
Time slips through your fingers as the tears silently fall from your eyes and you let yourself be truly sad about it, too.
It hurts.
More than anything, it hurts because he was right.
Bucky had said he had nothing to offer and if his detachment and cold, logical thinking of a couple of days ago was anything to go by, he’d been right about his words on New Year.
At least he was honest about it.
You give yourself time to be sad, then time to be mad, then time to will yourself away from giving a single fuck.
There are exams right across the corner, you had a little more than three months of phenomenal sex with a man who, in the end, respects and adores you too much to not be your friend and truly, who can be mad about that for too long?
Certainly not you.
Someone else might hold grudges, but you’re too busy for that.
It takes you almost a week, but finally, you’re out of tears and out of fucks.
Bucky Barnes wants you as a friend? Then he’ll have it.
If there had been paths that could’ve led to you falling for him, you manage to lock those away and store them under seven keys. You can be a friend.
Hell—you’re an amazing friend.
Saying goodbye to the amazing chemistry that seemed to let out sparks anytime you two were in the same vicinity, you finally text him when you’re done grinding all your thoughts over this into dust.
i have a very important question to ask you
The message is sent while you cook dinner and not three seconds later, your phone pings with his reply.
i’m suddenly very happy to be caffeinated
hit me, lady b
You’re thankful for the old nickname and not ‘pretty’, or ‘doll’.
Those no longer belong to you and if Bucky was a dick, he’d use them. You don’t want to hear them. You want to see him the next time and not stare at his lips.
bronte or austen?
Being friends with him will be enough.
It might take you some time to internalize and believe in that horseshit, but you can do it.
oh shit
i’m not caffeinated enough for THAT
hold on im sending a vn in two minutes
my habds are dirty as fuck
dont go anywhere
Bucky’s worth it.
◦➳◦
For the first week of summer, you, Natasha and Yelena stay in New York City.
Through incessant texting — nagging — Steve had demanded you still spend the summer with the group at his aunt’s house and, by extent, invited Nat and Yelena.
“He’s not even going, Boo. He’s an idiot and a grump, and he’ll spend the whole summer melting away in his damn house. You’re forbidden from missing it, ‘cause you promised MJ, and if you don’t go, she won’t go and it’ll be a whoooole thing. Don’t make me beg. I’ll give you puppy eyes and you’ll feel bad you made me beg, and honestly—”
“Steve.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll go, boo.”
“Oh, thank fuck. Dealing with my idiots is so much better with you around. I can’t wait to meet your childhood besties. We’ll be waiting for you all, kay?”
A tiny part of you felt bad that Bucky’s closest friends demanded your presence so badly, but that part was microscopic.
They were your friends now, too.
It had been one of the reasons, hadn’t it?
“You’re doing the face again,” says Yelena, typing away on her phone and stealing glances at you. “If my sister sees it, she’ll go full mom mode on you again.”
The reminder makes you wince, and you lean closer to Yelena, steering yourself away from the thoughts.
The three of you were spending your last day in the city going to a comedy club and right now, you and Yelena were (not so subtly) giving Natasha and Sarah a few moments alone for them to finally talk to each other in person and sort out their “differences.”
“D’you think we’ve given them enough time?” You ask, taking out your lip gloss and re-applying it. “If I go back and either one of them is dead I’m gonna be very sad all summer.”
Yelena chuckles. “I think that now that Sarah sees my sister loves you as much as a human being can love another one, she’ll back off.” With a pointed look to you, she steals the lip gloss from your hands, smirking. “You did tell Sarah the whole story. What did you expect?”
Sighing, you have to nod in agreement. “Silly me.”
“Silly you,” Yelena echoes, applying the gloss as well.
Sarah’s “dislike” for Natasha came from the same place Natasha’s “dislike” for Bucky did—they were fucking amazing friends and hated knowing someone (especially someone they never met) hurt a person they love.
You recalled the look on Sarah’s face when hearing your complete story with Natasha.
It was a similar one to the face Natasha gave you on the phone while you told her the course of things with Bucky.
Sarah’s opinion of Natasha was, much like Nat’s opinion about everyone in your life she hadn’t met yet, “on hold”.
Your only hope is that by the time you and Yelena make your way back, they’ve grown past it.
Yelena caps the gloss and puts it back in your purse, then links her arm with yours, opening her sweet smile. “Alright, they better have utilized this time properly ‘cause ready or not, here we go.” Her accent had gotten much thicker since moving back to Russia and for some reason, you love it. “I’m starving.”
Mimicking her cool accent very poorly, you agree. “Oh, I’m starving too.”
Yelena laughs at you, nudging her hip on yours. “Shut up.” The giggles only get louder when she hears the way the words come out of her mouth, and she points a finger on your face. “I’ll tell your mom you’re mocking my linguistic differences if you don’t quit it.”
Groaning, you poke a finger into her arm. “Why’d you always gotta bring our parents into shit, Lena?”
She chuckles proudly at herself, looking forward. “I’ll always use my…” her voice trails off as her jaw hangs open, her eyes stuck on something ahead of you two. What the hell’s gotten her attention?
Your eyes quickly travel from her to the direction which has stolen her attention and your jaw finds the same fate as hers.
Ah. This has gotten her attention.
Sitting on the same table you two had left them in, Natasha and Sarah are leaning towards each other with what looks like conspiracy whispers, and their smiles are bright enough to illuminate every dark corner in your mind.
Your wide, open mouth turns into a smile.
“Awn.” Yelena clutches your arm tighter and leans close to you. “Your besties are becoming besties, babe.”
“I know!”
Yelena starts walking you two again, laughing. “You look so happy.”
“Lena, my three favorite people in the world are finally about to get along like I’ve always wanted.” You look at her with a blinding smile. “I’m as happy as a kid on Christmas day.”
“And we’re about to watch a comedy show!” She offers giddily. “And get drunk!”
Due to the proximity with the table, Sarah and Nat have heard your approach and look up at you two.
“Ah, you’re back,” smiles Nat.
Sarah looks at you, smile just as big as yours. “That was a perfectly timed strategized exit.” She glances at Nat. “She ain’t on hold, anymore.”
Natasha laughs under her breath while you and Yelena take your seats again.
“She just forgave me ‘cause I told her where Bullet’s name comes from,” Nat shrugs in a mock-hurt tone.
Yelena frowns next to her sister, looking between you and Sarah. “She hadn’t told you yet?” She asks Sarah.
Dramatically, Sarah sighs. “No. I guess she never deemed me important enough to tell me,” her voice drips with irony, and while the two sisters share a laugh, you pretend to pout for Sarah’s forgiveness.
“I thought you’d judge me!” You say, equally as theatrical.
“Judge you, girl?” Sarah asks, returning to her normal tone. “When on earth have I ever judged you? And why would I in the first place? I ain’t in a position to be judging people.”
“I don’t think anyone is,” Nat offers, biting on her appetizer and offering you some.
“Hmm. I’m glad to know you like Bullet’s past,” you smirk, leaning in across the table to grab the buttered bread from Nat’s offering fingers.
Sarah laughs beside you. “I can’t believe you used to race in the countryside with a bunch of farmer’s kids and their fancy cars.”
“We used to rip them off so nicely!” Yelena sighs wistfully, ignoring the look her sister sends her.
“Two reckless teenagers.” Natasha’s dislike for the race might be attached to why you started doing it in the first place—lashing out at your ex-girlfriend-who-was-never-really-a-girlfriend by racing and winning with her sister as your loyal sidekick was definitely… dramatic. “That’s where my heart’s weakness comes from, you know? All those times praying for gods I don’t even believe in to keep you two alive.”
“You’re so dramatic,” you roll your eyes fondly.
“Yeah, and it wasn’t even that dangerous,” counters Yelena, pouting. “The roads in our old city were made for that shit. We just ripped those boys off and skrrrrrrrt, left like it was nothing. Nothing!” She lifts her hand for a high-five that you grant with a big smile. “I’ll never forget when Flat Dick Mike wanted to bet a night with me that he’d win from us. I mean—what a fucking loser. He asked that shit only because he knew I was ace, and I am so glad every day that you were on a rage rampage and had no fucks to give ‘cause that punch? Babe. That punch was everything,” she laughs.
The memory awakes in you the sleeping monster of anger that lived and breathed fire all those years ago. “And he ate dust,” you add darkly, chuckling bitterly.
Fuck Flat Dick Mike.
Sarah, who was listening to Yelena’s rant with delight written on her face, exchanges a look of admiration with Natasha. “While the habit was dangerous as fuck and probably gave the blondie here minor heart trauma… Now I need to know more,” Sarah says.
Never one to say no to your girls, you start talking.
Dinner is eaten over conversations about past memories, and your stomach hurts from all the loud laughter you try to contain so as to not bother the other patrons too much.
You four sip on cocktails and cover from Bullet’s past, to Freud and the latest sexy tv show that hasn’t left your mind since you’ve seen it.
With the help of Yelena, you and Sarah get a little bit about Wanda of Nat. Knowing your girl, this is definitely the first time someone’s sparken Nat’s interest—Wanda’s younger, has a twin who’s her pair in classes, but from the way Nat speaks, it’s clear she’ll end up dancing in your best friend’s arms sometime soon.
Nat’s interest is simmering and shy, like a flower with the potential to bloom.
Summer starts off great.
◦➳◦
Steve is a great host.
It’s a testament to how good he is at knowing his angles that even in a small lake house like his aunt’s, he manages to make everyone feel right at home.
You and Nat share a sleeping mattress because if there’s one thing that is true, is that intimacy when it reaches certain levels, it never leaves; Yelena sleeps with Sarah and the boys in one of the rooms that are still available when you guys get there and all the others are spread around the house in similar sleeping arrangements.
To your surprise, Gabe and Morita are there, too.
They’re the quietest ones of the group, but something about Yelena’s contagious giddiness and Natasha’s sharp, funny remarks seems to bring out the easy comfort in them within a week.
“You have a really nice taste in friends, you know that Lady B?” Gabe whispers to you while sunbathing one of the days. He pulls his sunglasses down on his nose a few inches and smiles. “They’re great ladies,” he adds with a better imitation of their Russian accents than you can dream of.
“‘Course she knows that,” Steve huffed, sitting in front of you. “She’s our friend, isn’t she?” He looked up at you and raised his glass. “Mojito?”
Those were the moments you lived for.
Moments where you saw all your friends swimming in a lake, laughing like there were no worries in the world and no reason to be sad.
Around them, that was true.
Things are so good that when Nat asks how your page is going, your first thought is an old one, but you voice it without fear. “Wanna take some pics with me?” You ask, wiggling your eyebrows.
Natasha’s devious smile is enough of an answer.
With the help of Yelena and Sarah, your phone slowly gets filled with shots of you two holding each other in numerous sensual poses, in a few different locations.
Walking in lingerie in the field or taking sex-painted pictures with your bodies wet from the lake while your best friends laugh in the background is, perhaps, one of the best summer memories you’ve ever had.
No one in the house blinks an eye to you four when you come back, giggling, drenched and half-naked.
It’s summer. Everyone’s half-naked and no one knows Lena and Sarah just captured you and Natasha posing as if you were long-lost lovers.
You save the images for when you feel like posting them, and forget about them for a few more days.
It’s only when Bucky texts you about an Impala in his shop that you notice an entire month has passed by, and even without him, you’re as happy as you can be.
Messaging him gets easier, too.
Through texts, there were no hiccups; his eyes were hidden from you like that, and you appreciated the practice for when you had to go back to see him.
You just didn’t expect it to happen when it does.
As usual, you wake up earlier than most people in the house and silently make your way to the kitchen to brew your first cup of coffee. Some days, Steve’s awake too and you both engage in whispered conversations about anything that comes to mind, which often end in you laughing too loud and waking up MJ and Peter who are sleeping in the living room.
Morita and Gabe sleep like the dead, so you’re mostly fine.
Today, Steve’s still asleep, and you get to breathe in the humid, fresh air of the country while coffee brews and the rest of the house is still vibrating in the lowest frequency, everyone lost in their own dreamlands.
Summer rain had poured the whole night yesterday, lasting all the way until early morning. You had all watched the sky finally go pitch black after days of intense heat and almost no rain; you’d seen the clouds accumulating and the storm brewing, using that time to take everything to the inside of the house.
The rain had a certain power over people—it calmed down not only the temperature for a few hours, but also your chaotic and talkative group.
You guys had been drinking every day, played games and sports together, rotated between teams and different groups until everyone had spent some time with each other, but as soon as the rain started, everyone huddled with their closest people.
MJ who was getting along great with all your girls now — “it’s good to have you guys around” — stole Peter first, then Gabe and Morita went to smoke their cigars alone, Sam and Steve had disappeared to their room leaving Sarah, you, Yelena and Natasha to make hot chocolates with scotch and get drunk and silly together.
When you finally laid in bed cuddled with Natasha at the end of the day, water was still ricocheting against the window.
You’d fallen asleep late, too busy talking on your phone with some other photographers who were complimenting and commenting on your latest post—a picture of you and Natasha.
Her blonde hair and fair skin looked spectacular against the dark red linen sheet, and no one would know how much you two had laughed before, during and after taking that picture.
It wasn’t the first time she helped you with the page or showed up on it; there were other pictures of you two from the other times when she’s visited you, but this one might be the best one.
Yelena had also taken some with you, just because she wanted to try it this time. You’re thinking about how much your friends trusted you and how happy that made you when the water is done boiling.
You make yourself a cup of coffee, grab the mug and go sit on the back porch outside to enjoy one of your favorite smells—the one of grass after heavy rain.
It’s that picture that brought all your noisy online friends back in your DMS that you’re looking at when you hear the faint noise of what sounds like a bike.
Brows furrowing, you lean over to the side, trying to get a look at the front of the house. Did someone leave and you hadn’t noticed? Gabe drove a bike. Nat had also rented one back in New York, but that one, just like some of the boys, slept like the dead.
She had also stayed up until pretty late talking to Wanda, showing the girl — who you got a chance to talk through in a voice call last night — the best pictures you guys had taken and some screenshots of the best things people were saying about it.
If Nat had left, you’d know it.
You’re still looking over to see if you catch a glimpse of any more noise when you hear steps on your right, and as soon as you look to the side, your heart stops on your throat.
Bucky’s walking up the steps with his hands inside his pockets, but he stops dead on his tracks when his eyes catch you sitting in there.
It’s him and he’s here and oh god, I can’t do this.
Your first thought is that you can’t do this—you can’t look at Bucky and not want him. Will you ever not want him?
You could try.
Physically shaking yourself out of your stupor, you try opening a smile. “At least you didn’t scare the crap out of me this time,” you joke.
It’s strange how you can feel your insides come alive at the sight of him, but sound so natural when talking. There’s something to be said about your ability to keep it cool nowadays, something past you never thought to be possible.
When Bucky steps closer, what you see makes your smile falter a little.
He looks tired.
Bucky looks… well, not like himself. At least, not the Bucky you saw a little more than a month ago.
Even when he was busy as hell with the shop or problems to solve, you’d never seen him with this look. These sad eyes seemed to carry many sleepless nights.
“At least,” he finally says, clearing his throat and putting on a smile too. He points to the mug of coffee in your hand. “You would’ve dropped that and you’re not that nice without it.”
The joke makes your worry ease a little—he might look tired, but he sounds okay.
He sounds perfect, you think, ‘cause Bucky always did. His sweet voice that you could listen to for hours. “Not in the mornings, I’m not,” you agree.
Bucky looks around the porch, and when the silence around you two settles, you can hear the same peace and quiet that was there before he arrived.
You’d think being around Bucky would be strange now, but his presence remains the same. “No one’s awake yet?” He asks, walking to the other chair and grabbing it.
You shake your head, watching him place the chair in front of yours and sit down. “Nope.” You drink your first sip of coffee, starting to feel like you’ll need it. “We went to bed pretty late.”
Bucky hums, nodding in agreement. “It rained there, too.”
“Did it?”
“Yeah.” He looks at you and the coffee in your hand, and you hate yourself for knowing what he wants. You extend the mug towards him and Bucky lifts one eyebrow at the offer, too surprised at the easy gesture to hide it. He looks from the cup to you, then accepts it with a nod and a smile. “Thanks.”
Sniff, then sip.
Bucky always smells his drinks before he has them.
You scrunch your nose, looking away from him and your stupid pieces of knowledge of his habits. “Sure.” Pulling both of your legs up, you hug them close to your chest, and you look back at him when you talk. “The gang’s gonna be happy you dropped by.” A genuine smile grows on your face at the thought of Steve and the others seeing him here. “I heard from Steve you came here the first week for a couple of days and Morita, like, cried when you left,” you say dramatically.
Bucky laughs behind the cup, then sips it while shaking his head. He returns the mug to you after it and says, “I don’t think that was Morita. Pretty sure it was Peter,” he muses out loud, pretending to think about it.
You accept the mug, hating him a little for how easy it is to fall on these silly banters. “Ah, my bad.” You drink more coffee, and then breathe in deep. “Are you staying? ‘Cause that might get an emotional tear even outta Sam.”
“That man will never cry for me,” Bucky rolls his eyes, smiling sideways. “But I’ve made my peace with it.”
“Are you allergic to answering questions?” You ask, scoffing. Bucky laughs at that. “‘Cause I swear you might be.”
A ghost of something passes on his face, but Bucky’s glee remains the same. “You know what? I think I might be.” He pins his eyes on you. “I’ll get it checked, don’t worry.”
“Cool, cool.” You smile as you sip again, and you wonder if Bucky isn’t staying because of you. “Steve and I can take turns taking you to the treatment, don’t worry. You won’t be alone in this,” you add seriously.
At that, Bucky laughs even more, ducking his head down. When he looks up again, he reaches out his left hand in a silent request for more coffee.
“To answer your question,” he starts in a ’I am truly serious now’ tone. You giggle, then pass him the mug. “I am staying, yeah.” He glances inside the house. “I’ll sleep… on the roof. Well—maybe not today ‘cause it’s still wet. I’ll sleep on the kitchen counter, and tomorrow I’ll hook up the roof for me,” says Bucky.
It’s your turn to laugh now—it’s a joke, but also a serious statement about the lengths a group of people will go to just to sleep under the same roof.
“I’d offer a place under my bed or the other side of my couch, but unfortunately I’m sharing my royal sleeping chambers with a Russian lady who is actually allergic to men, so you’re alone on this one, I’m afraid.”
“Ah! Right. The infamous Natasha is here,” says Bucky, looking at you. His posture changes just a fraction, but you feel the curiosity and something else you can’t put your finger on resting on his shoulders. “And her sister, of course,” he adds in a softer tone.
“Yup.” Your smile softens. “Nat and Sarah are besties now.”
“Are they?” Bucky questions, looking almost as happy as you.
He knows how much them getting along means to you.
“Yeah,” you silently ask for your mug back, and Bucky hands it to you. “They bonded over my tragic past and their love for creepy horror cinema, apparently.”
“I find it hard to imagine them bonding over your tragedies,” Bucky muses.
“It was more like stories of Bullet’s name and embarrassing things I used to do?” You clarify with a sheepish tone. “I’m the one who thinks these are tragic.”
“I never heard the story of Bullet’s name,” says Bucky, tilting his head to the side.
His puppy pose works on you just as well as ever. “You never asked for it,” you say, just to tease.
He nods at you, pointing a finger. “And that’s on me.”
“It’s not even that cool of a story, anyway,” you shrug your shoulders. “I used to race.”
Bucky’s smile freezes, and he looks comic with his deer-caught-under-the-headlights eyes. His jaw falls open a little bit and you’re starting to brace yourself for another lecture — the one from Sarah had been effective enough — on what on earth were you thinking, but as he swallows down and his throat bobs, your brain goes—ah.
That look you’ve seen before.
“You used to race?”
The almost breathless tone in which he asks is sharper than a winter’s breeze.
It seizes up your chest and makes you stand up a little straighter, with some of the lightness gone from your thoughts. That look is not fair.
“Yeah,” you chuckle weakly, looking away from him.
Bucky’s silence lasts so long that even your slow sips of the remains of the coffee leave you two still bathing in the morning chirp of cicadas.
You look back at him, but Bucky’s looking away too, his eyes lost between the trees and his face more somber than before.
“I used to race, too,” he says finally.
Oh. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Bucky remains quiet for another heartbeat, and you feel a weight on your chest from something that wasn’t there before. His agreement seems laced in ghosts, tied to chains of the past that carry a lot of weight. “It was my way of letting out all the stupid and reckless shit inside of me.” With those words, Bucky looks back at you. “The rage.”
Two words and Bucky’s reached inside of you again.
He’s sitting a couple of feet apart, but his hands are inside the cave of your chest and he knows you, he sees you, and it’s infuriating.
He’s looking at you, and his expression is more open than it’s ever been.
He knows he has you at that moment.
Bucky’s aware that his hands know the path inside your ribcages and that he sees you with terrifying ease only one person mastered before.
“That was the reason I began,” you find yourself saying.
Keeping your mouth shut around him was never an option, anyway.
“Yeah?” He asks, prompting you for more.
You nod. “Lashing out at Nat,” you confess, looking between Bucky and the green of the trees to see if you can stay hooked at the moment and not in the deep of his ocean eyes. “When she and I… broke up, I guess.”
You chuckle at yourself, thinking back on how much you felt at that time, and the place you are at right now. Speaking of this so calmly, with your first love sleeping inside a new friend’s house and dreaming of another woman, while you share your past with a man who could break your heart as easily as she did, and you can’t even bring yourself to care.
“She was furious,” you laugh.
“So it worked,” Bucky reasons.
You nod, proudly. “Fuck yes, it did.” You let out a shaky breath. “It was mean of me, I guess, but I really wanted it to hurt for her too.”
“I think you did more than just that,” Bucky says, surprisingly soft.
You look at him, frowning. “I know.” Being reminded of that was not your favorite thing. “But anyway… What about you?” You ask, sounding bolder than you feel. “What were you angry about?”
Bucky’s smile turns sour. Sad.
“Losing a great kid.” He lifts his left arm and wiggles his fingers, then says. “This. Coming back and feeling like the world had fucked me over beyond repair.” Bucky looks away from you, and breathes in deep, too. “Knowing how fucked up humanity can get takes… a while to come back from.” He looks back at you. “Took me a few to realize I didn’t need repairing. Just some therapy.” He makes a funny face. “A lot of therapy.”
The joke makes you both laugh nervously, and you miss the mug you were holding because you suddenly realize that Bucky didn’t come here to spend a nice summer with his friend.
He looks at you, swallowing down his nerves and rubbing his right hand against his jeans and you know.
Bucky came here for you.
“You’re not a car,” you whisper to him, smiling through the sadness. “You definitely don’t need repairing.”
Bucky nods slowly. “Yeah.” He lets out a breath. “And yet, I still need some… face-slapping every now and then. Lots of it, from the looks of it.” Bucky lifts his hands and rubs it over his face. “God, I can’t believe I had to hear advice from Samuel ‘It’s Not Like That’ Wilson.”
The words only confuse you further, and your heart misses the memo that Bucky’s frustration doesn’t equal to yours because it starts speeding up.
“Did you?”
“Yeah.” Bucky pushes his hair back, and scratches his nape. Some things never change. “I did come here to stay, but—I also came here to tell you somethin’. And to ask you a question.” Bucky says that looking you dead in the eye, and there’s no amount of green that could save you from being caught when he looks at you like that.
You’re glad to still have your legs to hug, because that way you can trace patterns into your skin and avoid biting all your fingers out. “I’m all ears,” you say.
“I’m just gonna tell you a story, and feel free to interrupt me at any time, kay? I just wanna tell you all of it so you can… understand.” Bucky waits for you to nod in understanding, then he looks at his hands and starts. “Some years ago, Steve and I were away on one of our first tours in a city I can’t even remember the name of, and it’s crazy ‘cause in there… we had one of the most important conversations of my life.” Bucky looks up at you and he’s smiling, as soft as a cherry blossom. “He was drinking his weight in alcohol, like a big boy, for the first time in fucking—forever, I guess. There was somethin’ eating him up and I knew that, ‘cause I know Stevie, and I was just waitin’ for him to tell me what was up. He and I were basically the only ones in there, Morita and Gabe were asleep faces down on those disgusting tables,” Bucky laughs, and you have a hard time keeping yourself from smiling back at him. “And Steve just blurts out of nowhere—’you know why he pisses me off? you can’t be that nice and that hot. that’s just not how shit works!’ and I knew that motherfucker was in love.”
You burst out laughing.
“I did! I knew it. That’s how he used to complain about me to Jessie and the other girls when he thought I wasn’t listening. Except he complained I was hot and annoying, but that’s just Steve-code for ‘they keep me in line’.”
You can see the scene perfectly. You can see young Steve Rogers rolling his eyes at Bucky while the latter bats his pretty eyelashes and slings an arm over the blonde boy’s shoulder.
Oh, Steve had no chance.
That poor, bisexual baby. No chance.
“At that bar, he swore up and down he wasn’t in love with Sam. Cue four years later, around the same time he said that in that bar, Steve was telling me about how no award would make up for the things he couldn’t have—that no life the military could give him would be the same as what he wanted.” Bucky sighs. “He asked me if I knew what being in love was like, and if I understood him when he said he’d do anything for Sam, whether that meant staying in the military or leaving it. And I… I couldn’t. Y/n, after the things we’d been through in those deserts, I could never imagine myself going back there even if someone asked me. Someone I loved. I know that’s an exaggeration, but the question made me think about what Stevie and I had when we were really young and I noticed—I’d never been in love,” when Bucky finishes, it’s barely a whisper.
He licks his lips, and your eyes track the movement involuntarily.
“Maybe that’s… sad. Or some people might think it is, but. That’s not me saying I had a sad, miserable life. I was never unhappy without romance in my life, because honestly, despite the shit and the pain, I was definitely blessed with love in my life. You know? Family, and friends, and my passions. I’ve never been loveless. But whenever someone caught my attention for a while, it faded quickly when we started spendin’ more time together. People most of the time are just not worth all the trouble,” he shrugs his shoulders.
Bucky pauses for a moment, but your voice is nowhere to be found.
You’re listening patiently and waiting to understand if this is all just a fever dream, or if Bucky’s truly saying what you think you read between the lines.
“You really screwed that up for me, didn’t you, doll?”
The breath you didn’t know you were holding comes out, and you have to look away from him for a second.
You rest your head on your knees, then look up at him.
“I mean—the picture would’ve done it already if Sam’s call hadn’t come through.” Bucky shrugs again, breathing out and relaxing completely like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. His legs slouch a little in front of him, and there’s the hint of a smile on the right corner. “But I’m glad he did.”
Wait—“What picture?“
Bucky lifts one eyebrow again, and takes his phone out of his pocket without a word. He unlocks it and types in it for a moment, then turns the screen at you.
You reach out and take his phone.
Ah.
Your picture with Natasha.
You bite your lip, suddenly feeling caught for a crime you never committed. Feeling… cheeky.
Bucky’s followed your account.
He followed ‘Tess’, and you wondered if he thought the picture was aimed at him.
“Oh.” Grinning, you give the phone back. “She’s helped me on the page before. You know I didn’t do this to poke at you or anythin’, right?”
It was true. You and the girls had been laughing loudly while taking those, Natasha was singing ‘Rick and Morty’ underneath you and making you snort in laughter.
Bucky laughs at that, and it sounds pleased. “Oh, trust me, I know.” It sounded like that made it worse, and his smile indicated he knew you were aware of it, too.
“And Sam called with wisdom of what, exactly?”
Bucky grinned. “He thought you and her had gotten back together, which Steve guaranteed me he’d know if it was the case because you’re—”
“Besties.”
“—besties, yes, I know. And Samuel was apologizing for texting me that ‘misinformation’ and almost causing me to lose a finger inside a BMW. But that’s on me. But the wisdom came after, when he was just about to hang up, and said ‘just don’t actually lose a finger when she does go out with someone and you realize it’s too late to have even tried’.” He pauses, allowing you to take it in. Your eyes widen, and Bucky chuckles, entirely amused. “Oh. I know. The guy was on some yoda frequency last night. Dunno if it was the rain, or what, but that hit like a brick to the face, so I guess I have to thank him later or whatever.”
“Like children,” you mutter, happily.
“I know,” he agrees quietly. Bucky takes a deep breath. “So my question.”
“Yes?”
“Is it too late to ask you on a date?” Bucky’s cheeks gain a slight color at the question, and it says enough about how you feel about this man that him blushing would have almost the same effect on you as him coming undone inside of you. “‘Cause I am willing to do my best damn at giving you anything you want, Y/n. It had been easy as fucking breathin’ before I opened my stupid mouth, but I can learn on how to do not do that.” His smile seems to undo the spell on you. “The way you make me feel might terrify the hell out of me, but I never thought being scared could feel this good, so,” instead of finishing, Bucky shrugs his shoulders again, flushed and shyly smiling at you.
You get up on a shaky leg and gravitate towards his lips.
With one hand cupping his jaw, you press the softest kiss you can manage to those pretty lips, and feel Bucky sighing against you.
When you pull back a few inches, his eyes are closed and his mouth is as pink as his cheeks.
For good measure, you press another kiss, and licks his bottom lip, sucking it between yours deliberately slow. “Does this answer your question?” You whisper.
Bucky pulls you to his lap in a swift move, and you shriek. “Thank fucking god,” he kisses you, shutting down your laughter.
His kisses are soft, and close-lipped, but persistent. It’s hard to kiss in any other way when you’re both smiling.
You pull back and run the tip of your fingers over his face. “I missed your pretty face.” You’re paid in pink cheeks and more laughter, and you hate how he shakes his head, so you add. “I did. I missed your pretty face, Sarge.” With a kiss on each of his cheeks, you get up from his lap before you start making a fool of yourself.
It’s too early in the morning to be drunk on Bucky Barnes.
“You should bring your stuff inside. You’ve got besties to meet,” you smile, loving the hummingbird that lives inside your chest now.
SUMMARY: When your best friend Sarah recommends a mechanic of her brother’s trust, all you can think about and pray is that he doesn’t rip you off. Your car is your prized possession, and amidst all the worry and concern of your medical studies, drowning in even more debt sounds as suffocating as it would be.
Of course, you never thought of the possibility of the mechanic being the problem. A hot, polite, gentle, and silent type of problem.
Drowning in debt would be easier to navigate than the blue of Bucky Barnes’s eyes.
WORD COUNT: 70k; Completed.
A/N & WARNINGS: As I write the sequel to one of my favorite stories, I'm editing and sharing again the first part here. This is an Alternate Universe. Earth -1999. Mature content ahead, so minors DNI.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMASTERLISTㅤㅤ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤCHAPTERS
. ONE ;
. TWO ;
. THREE ;
. FOUR ;
. FIVE ;
. SIX ;
. SEVEN ;
. EIGHT
. NINE.
