⭐︎ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 6k
⭐︎ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prize—a pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough hands—to a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.
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The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.
There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.
It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.
You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.
“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”
Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.
“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”
“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”
“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”
Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”
In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.
You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.
Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.
Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.
The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.
“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”
Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.
Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”
You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.
Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”
The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.
When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.
Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.
“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”
Bucky does not answer the herald.
You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.
“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”
A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.
“This one.”
You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.
Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.
The herald stands confused beside him.
“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”
The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.
Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.
“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”
Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.
“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”
Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.
“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”
“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”
The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.
“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”
But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.
“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.
You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”
Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.
“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”
Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.
Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.
Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.
You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.
He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.
“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”
Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.
As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.
“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”
Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.
“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”
Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.
“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”
With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.
Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.
Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.
But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.
“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”
This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.
Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.
He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.
He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.
“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.
The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.
He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.
“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.
You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”
Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.
The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.
“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Now, you are just as confused as he is.
You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.
“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”
Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.
You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.
“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”
Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.
That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”
You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.
“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”
You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.
“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”
Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”
“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.
You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.
Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.
“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”
He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.
He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.
He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.
“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.
“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”
Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.
A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.
You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.
He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.
You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.
“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”
At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.
You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.
“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”
You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.
“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”
Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.
“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”
He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.
“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.
Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.
One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.
“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”
The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.
Control.
Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.
“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”
A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.
“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”
He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.
“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.
Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.
“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”
Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.
He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.
“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”
Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.
He pauses at the sound.
“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”
His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.
One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.
You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.
“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”
You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.
“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”
So, you do.
You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.
“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.
Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.
He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.
For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.
“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”
His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.
“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.
“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.
After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”
And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.
With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.
“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”
He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.
“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”
“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.
“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”
Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.
His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.
“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.
Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.
He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.
His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.
Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.
“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”
Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.
You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.
“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.
His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.
Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…
“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”
He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.
The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.
“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”
His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.
“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”
“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”
You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.
The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.
Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.
With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.
Finally, you grant him permission.
Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.
He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”
You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.
His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.
“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”
The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.
“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”
You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.
His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”
The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.
“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”
The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.
“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”
Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.
His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.
He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.
Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.
You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.
“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.
He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.
“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”
You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.
Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?
He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.
“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”
You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.
As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
word count | 12.3k words
summary | you suggest taking a break from your deeply attached boyfriend. he reacts poorly and things somehow get worse from there.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, age gap relationship, clingy!bucky barnes, loser!bucky barnes, crack fic, major co-dependency, dark humour, SATIRE, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of noncon unprotected sex, noncon kiss, they’re both very physical, bucky is very touchy and grabby, lots of toxic behaviour, suicide threats, gun violence, manipulative bucky, toxic bucky, reader lowkey likes it, reader is toxic as well, mj, darcy and yelena cameo
a/n | yall this is a completely satirical and unserious fic, pls do not take anything that happens in here seriously. anyway i want to thank @superbassbuck @iamthatonefangirl @pinksplace and @houseofhyde for all being present and encouraging when i came up and spiraled with the concept of loser bucky threatening to kill himself to keep you. yall real asf for that, and especially paul for harassing me and lowkey motivating me to finish it. finally i am free from the shackles that bind me (this fuckass fic)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.
Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.
James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.
He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.
Because you had.
You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.
Even with his corny ass mustache.
It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.
It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”
Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.
And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.
Even more so, his big dick.
If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.
And, yes, there were red flags.
The texts, for one.
In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.
He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.
It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.
It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.
And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.
You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.
Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.
You really, truly believed that.
And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.
You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.
And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.
You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.
james barnes (bucky)
Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm
You
lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm
james barnes (bucky)
Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm
Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm
Doll? | 10:39pm
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.
You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.
But it didn’t stop.
By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.
You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.
More messages had piled in.
james barnes (bucky)
Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm
Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm
Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm
“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.
You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.
“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”
“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”
You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.
“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”
Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.
MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.
Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.
“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.
You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.
You
just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm
he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm
and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm
james barnes (bucky)
Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm
I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm
You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.
“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.
You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.
“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.
She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.
“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”
“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.
Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”
MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.
You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.
james barnes (bucky)
When are you heading home? | 11:02pm
Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm
It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.
You
im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm
and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm
You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.
You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.
Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.
james barnes (bucky)
I will, sorry. | 11:06pm
Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm
Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm
You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.
The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.
Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”
They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.
“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”
You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.
Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”
You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”
Darcy laughed beside you.
“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”
“—Michelle, please.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”
You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”
“Mm-hm.”
Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.
“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”
You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.
Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”
“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.
“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”
You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.
MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.
Then your shoulders dropped a little.
You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”
“Dump him.”
“Dump his old creepy ass.”
MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.
“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”
Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.
MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”
You turned your head slowly. “A break?”
“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”
You frowned faintly, listening.
“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”
You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”
“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”
Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.
Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.
A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.
“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.
The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.
You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.
It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.
The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.
There he was.
Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.
He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.
He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.
When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.
The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.
“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.
“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”
He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”
A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.
He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.
Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.
“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”
He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.
“Another one?” he murmured.
He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”
“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.
He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”
Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.
He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.
He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.
You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.
“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”
“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”
“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.
He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.
He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.
“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.
“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.
“Bucky, please—”
“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”
As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”
An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.
As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.
Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.
He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.
“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”
“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.
Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.
“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.
Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.
“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.
You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.
Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.
Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”
With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.
“You ready for me?” he murmured.
You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.
Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.
You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.
He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.
“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”
“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.
You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.
“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.
As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.
He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”
He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”
“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.
“I got you, doll,” he whispered.
And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.
You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.
He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.
“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”
He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.
Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.
His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.
Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.
“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”
You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.
“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”
“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.
The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.
He needed more.
Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.
The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.
Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.
For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.
But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.
He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.
He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.
“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.
You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.
“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”
You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.
Then his next sentence caught your attention.
“Think you should move in with me.”
He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.
You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.
He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.
“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”
He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.
“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”
You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”
He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”
The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.
His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.
“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”
You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.
Something important.
It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.
Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.
“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”
He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.
He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.
“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”
It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.
His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.
“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”
Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”
You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.
You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.
He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.
He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”
His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”
The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.
His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.
“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.
It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.
Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.
He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.
“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”
You said nothing.
Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.
You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.
You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.
And so began the silent treatment.
Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.
He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.
You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.
He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.
“You know I love you, yeah?”
You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.
His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?
You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”
He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”
“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.
He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.
At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.
You had no idea where that came from.
His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.
You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.
Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.
But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.
Let him think that.
“A break?”
The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.
Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock.
Perfect timing, doll, I just—
Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.
He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”
You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”
“—so you’re breaking up with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.
“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”
“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.
He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”
“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”
You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.
You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four.
When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.
“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.
“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”
You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.
“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.
He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.
You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.
“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”
You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.
“Bucky, what are—hmph—”
Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.
His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.
What the fuck.
He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.
“Mmph—Bucky—”
“I love you,” he emphasised.
Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.
“And you love me.”
Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.
“I need you, doll.”
And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.
Slap. Slap. SLAP.
Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.
You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.
“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.
It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.
“Don’t.”
The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.
Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”
You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.
“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”
Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.
“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”
His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.
You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.
“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”
You scoffed.
Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.
And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.
You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.
His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”
You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.
“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”
He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”
Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.
“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”
“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”
“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids.
Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”
And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.
Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.
“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”
He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.
“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”
He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”
You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”
He turned around.
And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.
You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.
“What the fuck!”
But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”
He ignored you.
“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.
You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.
“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”
“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.
And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.
He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”
“Oh my God.”
“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”
You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.
But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”
“You counted?”
“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”
You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.
His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”
You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”
“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”
Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”
The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.
“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”
You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.
Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”
“Wait—what?”
You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”
His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.
“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”
“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”
“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”
“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.
Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.
Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.
“For fuck’s sake—”
He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.
You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.
Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.
He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.
You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”
His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—
But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.
In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.
Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.
“He pulled out a gun?”
Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.
The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.
Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”
“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”
Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”
You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”
She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension.
“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”
You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.
“Girl.”
“What?” you said defensively.
“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”
You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”
Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”
“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.
“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”
You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating?
“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”
She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”
“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”
Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.
“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”
“I probably sounds insane.”
“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”
She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”
You stared at her.
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.
Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.
“He must have a big dick, huh?”
The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.
You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”
“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”
“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”
“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.
You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.
She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”
You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.
You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.
“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”
Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”
“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.
Then your phone rang.
You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.
You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.
“Hello?”
Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.
“He what?!”
The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.
“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”
Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.
“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”
You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”
You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.
“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”
Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”
“Tell me about it.”
Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.
You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.
The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.
But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.
The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.
Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.
He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.
His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.
Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.
And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.
There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.
The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.
Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.
The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.
“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”
You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.
He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.
The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.
When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”
His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.
And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.
Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.
You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.
“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.
You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”
“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”
You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”
“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.
You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.
“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”
A beat of silence.
Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”
Warnings: Bucky Barnes (yup!), established relationship, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex (be safe, lovelies!), oral sex, mention: breeding kink, anal, cockwarming and other kinks, neediness, fluff if you squint really hard (hard like Bucky’s cock)
Banner by the talented @cafekitsune
Horny!Bucky who has needs but isn’t interested in random flings. He’s content to use his hand to get off.
Horny!Bucky who wanted you the second he saw you. The beast inside him clawed to get out and take you.
Horny!Bucky who did everything the “right” way. He courted you, treated you well, and waited a reasonable amount of time before he slept with you the first time.
Horny!Bucky who got hard just from kissing you. It was like all the blood in his body went south because of your lips.
Horny!Bucky who spent a generous amount of time worshipping your breasts, alternating between pinching and sucking on your nipples. How could he not when you’re so responsive.
Horny!Bucky who wondered if you’d like him fuck your tits one day. He’s always wanted to try that with the right person.
Horny!Bucky who went down on you because real men appreciate the delicacy of eating pussy. Real men also put their partner’s pleasure above their own.
Horny!Bucky who humped the bed in time with his tongue because you tasted so good. Your sounds made you taste even sweeter.
Horny!Bucky who came in his pants when you came on his tongue, both of you moaning. And he didn’t stop tongue-fucking you until you begged for him to fuck you.
Horny!Bucky who felt a surge of pride when he fisted himself and your eyes went wide. He’d fit, even if he had to make it fit.
Horny!Bucky who was thankful you didn’t want him to use a condom because he didn’t want anything between you two. If by any chance he did knock you up, he’d be happy to have a family with you.
Horny!Bucky didn’t realize he had a breeding kink until that moment. Or maybe it was just you.
Horny!Bucky who had to grit his teeth when he pushed inside you, willing himself not to come from how wet and tight you were. He did anyway.
Horny!Bucky who swore he died when he painted your walls since his soul left his body. He’d happily spend the rest of his life deep inside you if he could manage it.
Horny!Bucky who then felt embarrassed for finishing so quickly until you shushed him with a kiss. Your perfect pussy gripped his throbbing cock like a vice until he thrust again.
Horny!Bucky who held your chin gently so he could see your pretty eyes. He wanted to see how much you loved being fucked by him
Horny!Bucky who thinks you’re perfect, but even more so when you’re taking his cock. Parted mouth and tears in your eyes, you’re ruined and beautiful
Horny!Bucky who suddenly felt possessive and vowed that no one else would ever have you like this again. You were his and only his.
Horny!Bucky who almost blurted out that he loved you when you came with his name tumbling from your lips. He does love you, but the middle of sex may not be the best time to say so.
Horny!Bucky who kissed you when he came again and knew he was addicted. You had a hold on him that would never be released.
Horny!Bucky who wanted to make love to and fuck you. He wanted to watch you shatter so he could put you back together.
Horny!Bucky who fucked you into the early hours of the morning and only stopped because you needed rest. He cleaned you off and praised you.
Horny!Bucky who held you while he slept and couldn’t sleep himself because he wanted you again. But it would be wrong to wake you after he wore you out.
Horny!Bucky who cancelled his plans for the weekend so he could fuck you on every surface of the apartment. He made sure you stayed fed and hydrated.
Horny!Bucky who tries to calculate how long he can be away from you on a mission because he craves you that much. Does absence make the heart grow fonder or will it make him snap?
Horny!Bucky who leaves marks all over you. You joke that he’s marking his territory, and you leave little marks on him in return.
Horny!Bucky who can’t have you in the kitchen without putting you on the counter. You’re basically a pre-meal before the food.
Horny!Bucky who humps you in his sleep and holds your breast like a security blanket. Cockwarming happens often, too, right before you fall asleep.
Horny!Bucky who thinks your mouth is just as perfect as your pussy. He knows your ass will be the same.
Horny!Bucky who has a list of things he wants to try with you. He has the order listed alphabetically.
Horny!Bucky who eventually has photos, videos, and audio so he can jerk off when he’s alone. He doesn’t need to fantasize about anyone else since he has you.
Horny!Bucky who constantly touches or kisses you because he needs the connection. It makes him feel needy, but you don’t seem to mind.
Horny!Bucky who loves when you tease him and grind on his lap or shove your chest in his face. You look so innocent when you do it, but you both know better.
Horny!Bucky who loves when you initiate sex. He’s yours just as much as you’re his.
Horny!Bucky who follows you around like a puppy because he adores you and doesn’t care if the gang teases him. They’d do the same if they had you, which they never will.
Horny!Bucky who isn’t afraid to beg for it. He’ll get on his knees for you any day of the week.
Horny!Bucky who will have you anytime, any place. He doesn’t need a reason.
Horny!Bucky who doesn’t stop even if someone walks in. He’ll shield you for your dignity, but he isn’t stopping unless you say so.
Horny!Bucky who is all about consent. You each have safewords and make sure to communicate.
Horny!Bucky who worries he’s too much and doesn’t want to push you away. But you’re just as crazy for him as he is for you.
Horny!Bucky who loves you and can’t get enough of you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business. ❤️
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, a man who yearns is a man who earns, jealousy, possessive behavior, daddy issues, physical violence and parental abuse, arguments, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, oral f!receiving, fingering, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 16.3k
masterlist || 𝓹𝓽. 1
a/n: due to popular demand + the new bridgerton season inspiring me. fic playlist
synopsis:
After fleeing the palace, you are now the most wanted woman in the kingdom—caught between Prince Jamie, who won't let go, and his father, King Barnes, who refuses to lose.
After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.
But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.
When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.
“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.
“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”
Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.
She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.
“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.
You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.
“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”
Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.
But she didn’t.
Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.
“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.
And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.
“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.
They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.
You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.
You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.
Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.
“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”
“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”
“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”
Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”
You felt your body go rigid.
“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.
“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.
“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”
You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.
They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.
But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.
“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.
Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.
“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.
“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”
“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”
“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”
Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”
Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.
“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”
They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.
You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.
To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.
Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”
You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.
Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.
From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”
You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.
He had called you his girl.
He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.
But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.
“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.
“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”
Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.
You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.
You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.
His girl.
And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.
You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.
Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.
He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.
In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.
Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.
How dare you leave him?
He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.
He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.
Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.
A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.
Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.
“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”
Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”
“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”
Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.
Jamie.
His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.
“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.
“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”
The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.
He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.
But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.
He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.
“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.
“You called for me?”
Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.
Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.
Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.
Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.
“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”
Jamie stayed quiet.
Bucky took a step closer.
“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”
Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.
“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”
Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.
“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.
A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.
“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”
“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”
Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.
“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”
Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.
“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”
Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.
“Son—”
“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.
His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.
“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”
Princess Barnes?
Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.
No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.
Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.
“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”
It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.
He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.
“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.
“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”
“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.
“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.
Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.
“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.
But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.
“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”
And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.
Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.
“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”
Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.
“Son. Enough—”
“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”
Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.
“Jamie. Stop it—”
“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”
Propose?
Give you the world?
He wanted to give you the world?
Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.
Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.
The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.
His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.
Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.
“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.
“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”
“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.
“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.
“Jamie, that isn’t—”
“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”
Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.
He had hit his own son.
In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.
“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”
“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.
His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.
“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”
“Son, I—”
Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.
“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.
He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.
You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.
Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.
At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.
They weren’t just watching; they were searching.
You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.
They were looking for someone with very specific features.
They were looking for you.
You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.
You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.
A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.
“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”
The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.
“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”
“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”
The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”
The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.
“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”
The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.
“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”
The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.
“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”
Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.
He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.
“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.
He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”
The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.
“Thank you, miss—” he began.
As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.
The Barnes eyes.
Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.
The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.
It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.
If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.
You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.
To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.
Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.
“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”
He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.
“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”
“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”
Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.
“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.
You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.
If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.
“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.
You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.
Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.
You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.
You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.
Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.
You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.
“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.
He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.
He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.
“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”
Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.
“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.
A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.
“Hush now,” you murmured.
Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.
Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.
You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.
“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.
You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.
Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.
“Here,” you whispered.
You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.
“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.
Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”
You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”
There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.
Safe simply because of your presence.
“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.
He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.
“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”
You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.
“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.
“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”
You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.
With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.
It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.
“Your Highness—”
“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”
Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.
“What happened, Jamie?”
Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.
“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”
You held your breath, not daring to speak.
“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”
“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.
“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”
Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.
“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”
He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'
“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”
He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.
“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”
“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”
Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.
“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”
You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”
“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”
You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.
To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.
With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.
“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”
You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.
“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.
But Jamie didn’t budge.
“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”
For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.
For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.
With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.
“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.
“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”
You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”
“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.
“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”
Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”
You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”
He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”
“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”
Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.
“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”
“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”
Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.
He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.
“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”
You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”
“Oh, but I am.”
You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.
You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.
If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.
You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.
“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”
Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.
Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”
You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.
“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”
Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.
As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.
“Is that Prince Jamie?”
“Look at the bruises on his face!”
“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”
“Is that why there are so many guards?”
One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.
“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”
Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”
The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”
Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”
But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.
You were nowhere to be seen.
You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.
Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.
“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”
“Yes, ma’am—”
You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.
“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.
It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.
With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.
Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.
He was looking for his son.
Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.
It was selfish.
It was sad.
It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.
As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”
You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?
As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.
Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.
The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.
Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.
King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.
But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.
It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.
Your glove.
“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.
You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.
You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?
He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?
Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?
Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”
As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.
“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.
At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.
“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.
“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”
Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”
“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.
They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.
Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.
“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”
Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.
She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”
Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”
Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”
Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.
His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.
“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”
Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”
Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.
“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”
As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.
“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.
“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.
Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.
In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.
Please, don’t be mad at me.
She’s going to kill me.
Save me, Bucky.
His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.
Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”
But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”
You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.
“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.
“I…”
“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”
Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”
But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.
You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.
Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.
You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.
In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.
“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.
His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.
It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.
“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.
You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.
Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.
He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.
“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”
As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.
You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.
“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.
Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.
He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.
“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”
Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.
To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.
She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.
“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”
“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”
He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.
“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.
“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”
Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”
“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”
He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”
All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.
Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.
Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.
“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”
You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.
Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.
“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”
Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.
“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”
Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.
“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”
The room suddenly went very quiet.
You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.
Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.
“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”
As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.
Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.
Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.
Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”
“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.
“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.
“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”
“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”
“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”
“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”
“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.
After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.
“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.
With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.
As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.
Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.
You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.
“Your Majesty—”
“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”
He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.
“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.
He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.
“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.
“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”
Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.
“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”
You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”
Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.
“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”
Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.
“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”
While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.
“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”
His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.
“I finally get to have you.”
Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.
He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.
A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.
“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.
“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”
“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”
As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.
With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.
Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.
It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.
“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”
He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.
“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”
Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.
“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”
He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.
“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”
A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.
“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”
Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.
“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”
You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.
Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.
A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.
“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.
Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.
His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.
He wanted everything.
When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.
Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.
“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”
He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.
He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”
“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”
Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.
The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.
“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”
He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.
“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”
Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.
“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”
But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.
Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.
“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”
He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.
“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”
His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.
“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”
Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.
You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.
“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”
You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.
“Good.”
He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.
“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.
You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.
He wanted to savor all of this.
He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.
But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.
As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.
“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”
You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”
“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.
He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.
His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.
“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.
“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.
The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.
You wanted more.
He needed more.
“Bucky! Ah—!”
The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.
“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”
He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.
“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”
Wife.
You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.
The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.
Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”
He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.
“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.
“M’gonna—mph—cum…”
Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.
You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.
He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.
“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.
“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”
Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.
He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.
“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”
He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.
“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”
The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.
You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.
“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”
Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.
“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.
His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.
“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”
He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.
For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.
He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.
Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”
When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.
Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.
“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.
Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.
“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.
“You guys look rough.”
thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair. i hope you guys like it!
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summary: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door. he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience, but everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you aren’t really that far behind.
warnings: non-canon; set in summer; second person (she/her pronouns for reader); age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky (I was inspired by logan howlett's personality); loner!bucky; size difference (he's beefy and has a soft tummy); they're both pervert tbh; protective behavior; possessiveness & jealousy; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); soft dom!bucky; masturbation (f & m); sex toys; brief oral (f receiving); brief spanking (blink and you'll miss it); fingering; sexual acts in public; pussy pronouns; a few uses of 'slut' & he calls himself 'old' multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough sex; creampie.
word count: 13.5k
a/n: my second exam has been cancelled a few days ago because the professor is sick, so I got angry and stayed up all night on saturday to finish this wip that has been locked in my docs since this summer! it's really just porn without plot and I think it's definitely the filthiest thing I've ever written. don't like don't read. hope you'll enjoy 🍓
Bucky Barnes has chosen this life.
That is the part people never seem to understand.
The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns; a place where people wave too much and chat way too long. Bucky doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates. That is as far as it goes.
He is in his late forties, and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, strong, built by labor rather than vanity: thick arms, powerful shoulders, hands rough with grease and scars. There is a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort rather than neglect.
And this only makes him more noticeable.
Women are aware of him, of course. He is an attractive, single man. The combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl works in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. The lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper end up in the first trashcan he sees— invitations and phone numbers he never glance at twice.
Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by myself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is something other people project onto him; he simply calls it peace. He has built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers, and he intends to guard it fiercely.
The neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned not to bother him, and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.
And Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.
He calls the cops when the rich couple two doors down throw backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He watches the patrol car’s lights flash briefly against his living room wall, jaw set, arms crossed, and goes back to his book the second the noise dies down. He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to get off his property without even opening the screen door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.” Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street. He has never decorated out of spite after that. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.
His neighbors also learn not to park in front of his driveway, and not to ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They do not to expect pleasantries or smiles anymore. Bucky exists like a closed door— solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.
And it works. Until now.
The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud, too long. He watches from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before he starts complaining about the noise.
Then you step into view.
You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone— a friend, maybe— reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head, stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it belongs there.
Bucky's frowns deepens.
You’re younger than most people who can afford a house on this street, and pretty in a way that feels unfair— soft, bright, effortless. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… Happy, comfortable. Like you fit already.
The neighbors are immediately captivated by your presence.
Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple— fresh off their last noise complaint— wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman shows up with lemonade to cool off, the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling "correctly".
He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.
Your gaze lifts and finds him standing stiff in front of his door, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.
You lift your hand and wave.
“Hi!” You call warmly, voice hopeful.
Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes back inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.
From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself it’s nothing.
You’re just another neighbor, another disruption… Another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.
Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence on this street.
The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him.
“Oh, hi!”
Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder. You’re standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t ignore you completely the first time you tried speaking to him.
He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… Noise.
“I’m your new neighbor.” You say anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name, but he just nods once, eyes already dropping back to the envelopes in his hand.
You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment… Anything.
However, you are brutally plunged in an awkward silence.
“Okay.” You drawl softly, then recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”
You wait another second, yet his gaze doesn’t acknowledge you. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes on his back, curious rather than offended. That somehow makes it worse.
The next few times, he tells himself it’s bad timing.
He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching in your hair. You pause when you see him, smile like it’s reflexive.
“Morning.”
He grunts, adjusts his jacket, and walks past you without breaking stride.
Another time, he’s unloading groceries from his truck when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.
“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement makes your skirt ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching as you balance on the balls of your feet. Bucky looks away too late, heart giving an uncomfortable thud in his chest. Heat creeps up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and he swallows hard, jaw tightening as he forces the fleeting image of your soft skin out of his mind.
Bucky hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one, hands it to you without a word.
“Thank you.” You say breathless, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.
Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else.
You don’t stop greeting him after that.
At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.
On trash day, it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, glancing his way.
“Hey.” You greet him softly one morning, like you’re testing the word.
He doesn’t answer.
“You don’t talk much.” You add, not accusatory.
He stiffens, jaw tightening, and drags his bin to the curb harder than necessary.
“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”
He’s already walking away.
That interaction bothers him more than it should.
The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake enough to tolerate existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours, struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.
He stops without meaning to.
You look up when you hear him, relief lighting your face. “Oh! Hi— sorry, I think this thing hates me.”
You laugh quietly, embarrassed, trying to close it. He watches for a second too long, the way your brow furrows in concentration, and you bite your lip when the bag rips more.
With a sigh, he steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.
Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciate that.”
Bucky shrugs, already turning away.
“Have a nice day!” You call after him.
He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.
By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is said with affection and pride, with that tone people use when they are fond of someone.
Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about how you helped her carry groceries inside. The rich couple brags— loudly— about how you offered to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you baked delicious cookies, and Mrs. Johnson praised you after you volunteered to help clean up at end of the last neighborhood meeting.
And Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard. And he grits his teeth every damn time.
“She’s exactly what this street needed.”
Bucky clenches his jaw.
He doesn’t understand it. How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these people just take, take and take? You are always so open, so willing to be involved, and God– your smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn… Real.
And worst of all, you still treat him the same. Still polite, still warm. You greet him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.
It irritates him in a way he can’t quite name.
Bucky is used to being despised, he knows how to live with it, justify it. But this quiet, persistent kindness… It doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.
And he doesn’t like not knowing what to do with you.
On a late summer afternoon, when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, irritation simmering low and constant.
He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already annoyed.
“Hi.”
He freezes.
You’re standing at the edge of his driveway, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.
Bucky straightens slowly and wipes his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.
“What do you want?” He asks flatly.
You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.
“I just—” you hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”
That gets his attention.
He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is open, genuine, brows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.
“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just… I wanted to know if there was a reason, since... You know, we are neighbors, and I’d like to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”
His jaw tightens.
“You didn’t do anything.” He simply mutters.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”
The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like pressure on his chest.
“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I try to respect that, I really do. I just thought… Maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”
“It was.” He replies roughly, too quickly.
You blink, taken aback, and a hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away.
“Oh,” You nod once. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” You then add quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
That word makes his stomach twist. Bucky watches you walk away, the space you leave behind feeling heavier than the conversation itself.
That night, he lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling longer than usual.
Your words replay in his head whether he wants them to or not. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.
Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his life intact. But for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to.
It’s later than he usually stays up, the house dark except for the low lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy from the day. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze there is.
That’s when a light flicks on across the street.
He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.
At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. And then he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop. Same height, same alignment. A clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.
Straight into your world.
You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the pale light of the screen illuminating your features. The lamp beside you casts a warm, golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in. You’re wearing pajama shorts that ride up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses, because he can clearly see your nipples poke through the fabric.
Something unfamiliar stirs in Bucky’s belly, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth.
He shouldn’t be watching.
The thought lands fully formed, sharp and immediate.
Bucky turns away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.
Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.
When he risks another glance, just to make sure the curtain angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. The sound doesn’t reach him, but he knows it anyway. He’s heard it before, that soft melody that always sounds genuine.
Something tightens in his chest.
He forces himself to step back, to pull his own curtain closed with more force than necessary. The room plunges into shadow, suddenly too small, too warm.
He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead, and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.
The next night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.
He looks anyway.
Your window is lit, you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open again. You’re absorbed, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.
He leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.
It’s almost… Fascinating, being able to see the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.
You look beautiful.
The thought comes uninvited, unwelcome.
He swallows, jaw flexing, eyes narrowing like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. He tells himself that he just happens to be here, that’s all. Still, he doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.
After that, it becomes a problem.
Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. He wonders if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the straps of your tank top slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast on.
When he does catch you, you’re often on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. You also check your phone with a small smile, often.
Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?
Bucky comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small routines without meaning to: you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; you stretch your arms over your head when you stand, slow and unselfconscious, like you’re completely alone in the world.
When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze unfocused. You also have a habit of circling your bed before lying down, straightening the sheets even when they don’t need it. Sometimes you sit on the edge for a moment, shoulders slumping as if the day finally catches up to you. When you laugh, you tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.
You like background noise. A TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You wander barefoot most nights, nudging things back into place with your toes, absently rubbing your foot against your calf when you stop. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself instinctively, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.
It’s summer, and you dress for it, much to his poor heart.
Inside your apartment, you wear clothes that cling dangerously to your luscious body: short shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show your beautiful curves when you move. Sometimes you kick your sandals off the moment you get inside and pad around barefoot, toes curling against the floor. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.
You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, you scroll on your phone, or lie on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air as you watch something on your computer. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand, something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.
Bucky hates how much he notices. These details carve themselves into his mind against his will, and they feel personal, earned, even though they aren’t. You aren’t performing, you’re just living. And it makes observing you so much worse.
Tonight, you are definitely not home.
Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him: you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.
Bucky perks up like a dog at his owner's arrival when he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately appearing as a pair of headlights follows. You’re not alone.
Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. His breath catches once he reaches his bedroom after spending ten minutes behind the curtains in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you and your possible companion from his kitchen. Because there's a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re nearly naked on your sheets, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs are bare and parted, hands curled in the man’s hair and a head working furiously under your eager guide.
Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in pure pleasure.
He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him.
His lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open. The sounds from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes eagerly devour the sight.
An itch burns deep in his chest, something raw and consuming trying to claw its way out.
Your moans and giggles resonate in his mind even after your room has gone dark and the only thing that can be heard outside are the crickets.
The worst part is Bucky doesn’t stop there. He finds himself watching, captive to your parade of lovers, growing jealous of the returning faces.
He tries to tell himself there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing: you leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you let the curtains stay apart. And the build-up eventually makes him cave, palming his cock on a night when you’re climbing on top of your lover of the day, breasts on full display and bouncing with a delicious rhythm. Bucky’s hardly hidden now, resting back in his desk chair with his sweats pushed down just enough to tuck his briefs underneath his balls, drawn tight as he fists his cock.
His hand is rough and calloused, the complete opposite of what he imagines yours might be if you’d ever stoop as low as touching him like this. The thought of something this filthy happening only makes his hips jerk harder into his palm, sweat pouring down his temples and every muscle contracting with the urge to release. Your moans faintly slip through your open window, finding him in the darkness like a beacon.
Bucky pretends you know he’s there, that you want him to hear, to see. He imagines your eyes on his cock as he grinds his palm over the head, his thumb slips over the slit, and suddenly he’s spilling over his hand with a pathetic grunt, breath shaky.
What a miserable, old man. Is this really his routine now?
It’s unavoidable: as soon as he gets home after work, the first thing he checks for is the light in your window.
As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, the fact that you keep going on dates with random men is unbearable.
He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.
That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and seething jealousy pour in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You've been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged any words since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.
They don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, twisting sideways in the chair until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the little things on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.
They don’t know that when you get home from work, you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling for a while. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those ten quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.
Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness.
Two months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently— shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there, of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.
The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He hates how these men get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.
The first time he talks to you it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.
Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending not to watch you wrestle with the machine. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and bare. Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.
“Come on.” You mutter, huffing.
Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and annoyed— at the mower, at himself, at the way he’s been staring too long.
He cuts his own engine and gets closer.
“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.
You startle, turning fast. “Oh!”
You hadn’t seen him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.
“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how abrupt he sounded.
You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked.
“Ah.” You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”
He crouches beside the machine, hands moving automatically. “Most people don’t.”
There’s a pause.
“You don’t have to—” You start.
“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clears his throat. “If you want.”
You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to read something in his face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”
Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.
“It’s fine.” He mutters, not looking at you.
Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely, weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of you, of the way the sun highlights the curve of your shoulder, the way you chew lightly at your bottom lip absently.
When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”
You pull once, and the engine starts immediately.
Your face lights up. “Thank you so much!”
He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close. Or maybe not close enough.
There’s an awkward beat.
“Um,” You say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”
His stomach drops.
“I mean,” You rush on. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”
“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.
You blink. “James.”
He nods, ears burning. “Most people call me Bucky. My friends.”
Your smile softens in a way that feels… Less polite. More personal.
“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”
There’s another pause.
“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds, voice low, almost shy. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Once he feels heat creep up his neck, he looks away first.
“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.
After that, it becomes a pattern.
Your car won’t start one morning, hood popped open, you pacing your driveway while a guy from the night before stands there looking useless. Bucky watches from his window, jaw tightening. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.
Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.
“Move.” He grunts.
The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.
“Bucky, hi. You don’t have to—”
“Already here.” He mutters.
He fixes it fast, and the guy thanks him, claps him on the shoulder like they’re buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down until he leaves soon after, awkwardly kissing your cheek.
You linger.
“I really appreciated it.” You muse. “You keep saving me.”
He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”
Sometimes it’s a loose stair on your porch. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy box you can’t lift on your own. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t watching from his window five minutes earlier.
He never talks much. Just grunts, nods, mumbles an occasional instruction.
But there are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that linger a second too long. When your eyes meet, he looks away, cheeks faintly pink, shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, you don’t push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it.
Bucky has come to memorize a few names, the one that stands out the most is Noah, a confident little shit.
The guy’s been around for days. He recognizes the car the moment it pulls up, parking a little too close to your driveway, staying a little later each time. Bucky has memorized the way he laughs too obnoxiously, the way he leans in like he already belongs at your side.
He’s also one of those that goes away once dawn hits. That’s what finally snaps something in Bucky.
It’s well past midnight when your front door closes behind you And Noah. Your lights go on, then the bedroom light. Bucky sits in the dark of his living room, unmoving, jaw tight, hands clasped together so hard his knuckles ache.
He doesn’t sleep.
He reads with his eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he watches an old re-run of a dumb game show. But most of all, he waits.
Dawn comes slow and gray, bleeding into the street like a held breath finally released. Birds start chirping, and the world gradually wakes up, unaware.
Your front door opens, and predictably, Noah steps out, stretching, running a hand through his hair as if he’s had the best sleep of his life. Asshole.
Bucky is already outside, leaning against his porch railing with an air of insolence, observing like a predator eagerly waiting to bite on his prey’s jugular.
The man notices him halfway down the steps and slows. “Uh… Morning.” He greets, forcing a half-smile that looks more like a grimace.
Bucky doesn’t return it.
“You’ve been here a lot.” He grunts.
The man hesitates. “Yeah, well—”
“You staying?” Bucky asks directly.
There’s nothing casual about it, nothing friendly.
“No,” Noah replies quickly. “Just heading out.”
Bucky pushes off the railing and walks closer, stopping just short of the sidewalk. Close enough that the man has to tilt his head back to look at him.
“You got plans with her later?” Bucky asks, scowling.
The man frowns. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”
Bucky’s eyes harden, gritting his teeth. “It is.”
There’s a pause, too long to not be uncomfortable.
The younger man swallows, awkwardly chuckling. “Look man, she’s great,” he says, like that might help. “I just— I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”
Bucky takes a small step forward, enough to make Noah flinch. “Then don’t come back.”
The man bristles. “You threatening me, old man?”
Bucky leans in slightly, voice dropping. “No. I’m warning you. This old man sees you around here again and he’ll fold you like a lawn chair, got it?”
The silence that follows is thick, charged. Noah looks past Bucky, down the empty street, then back at him.
“Wasn’t worth it anyway.” He sneers.
Bucky has to dig his nails into the skin of his arms to stop himself from beating this brat to a pulp.
Your date leaves in a hurry, car pulling away faster than necessary as the wheels screech on the asphalt.
He stays rooted on the sidewalk until the street settles again. His heart is pounding as if it’s trying to get out of his chest, but his hands have never been this steady.
The next ones are quicker. Less conversation, just a mere look, a question asked with an eerie calm. His presence alone does most of the work. Men who once returned now run away like criminals escaping a sentence.
Bucky watches them go with a sense of grim satisfaction curling in his chest. Because they never waited for you to wake up, and his girl deserves someone who stays. And each time one of them leaves and never comes back, it feels like he’s fixing something broken.
Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist, and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features; even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen again.
He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha, a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of a crowded bar wrapping around them. He listened more than talked, like always; nodded at the right moments; let the conversation wash over him.
Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.
Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm down on Bucky’s thigh, eyebrow lifting in silent question.
He stilled it for exactly ten seconds. Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, sharp-eyed, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”
He grunted. “No.”
It’s a lie, and they all knew it.
The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it— no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.
Because if he stayed out too long, he might have lost his favorite part of the night.
Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark. “You sure you’re okay, man?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk. The drive home was fast, his hands tight on the wheel the whole way.
It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear— that sharp, ugly thing in his chest— hasn’t gone away. It’s just been waiting.
The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.
Empty, except for your car.
Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.
Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car— had the nerve to force you drive him home the morning after, like some kind of favor. The memory made Bucky’s jaw tighten, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know what they’ve got.
He parked, cut the engine, and didn't linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.
Your light is on, and there you are.
No one else is with you. Just you, alone, safe, winding down.
Bucky exhales, the sound leaving him slow and heavy, like he’s been holding it in all evening. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his chest eases just a little. He can tell that you are about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he briefly turns away to look for the sweatpants and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas, but when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air sharply leaving his lungs in an instant.
Your phone lies forgotten on the mattress by your side, while your covers have been thrown back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your sheer tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, shorts nowhere in sight. From where Bucky is standing, he has a clear view of the way your panties stick to your pussy, a wet spot already in the center. Your head is thrown back, lips parted as Bucky strains his ears to catch one of your sweet sounds.
He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself. You pinch and tug your nipples, letting it harden through the fabric and alternating it with your palms squeezing the flesh of your breasts.
His pants grow tighter, breath stuttering as your eyelashes flutter and your brows furrow, chasing the pleasure stirring warm in your belly. Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides.
What prompted this? Were you reading something dirty and got too worked up? Were you watching something on your phone and needed the same release you seem to crave after every date?
Were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?
He watches your chest heave as both of your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing the fabric somewhere on the floor. He wonders what would you do if he were there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work, leaving you whimpering as he plays and sucks on your nipples until you beg him to stop. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket at home, still smelling your slick on the delicate fabric. Bucky would bring them to the garage so he could lock himself in the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock, or better, suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him all day during his shift, keeping his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo.
You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead you slide the straps off your shoulders and tug them down until your beautiful breasts are freed. You’re completely bare for Bucky to admire: nipples turgid, thighs spread, and hands feeling yourself up, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening core.
“Fucking hell.” He mutters, harshly exhaling as he palms his painful erection. He groans at the brief relief, noticing the fabric already damp, precum leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling at the thought of having you on your knees, peering up at him with that same innocent glint you have in your eyes whenever you greet him.
Bucky watches enraptured as your fingers finally reach your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your slick around, making sure to avoid your throbbing clit.
He’s never seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and licked and worshipped the way it deserves. Bucky could give you that: nurse on your clit, tongue at your entrance, encouraging you to grind against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and lose yourself over and over again in your own pleasure, squirting all over his face. He would be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever, wherever and however you want.
Your fingers shine as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Bucky can’t help it anymore as he undoes his belt and unbuttons his jeans to wrap a warm hand around his hard cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He bites his bottom lip until it hurts to muffle a loud groan when he starts to lazily stroke his length.
He has to squeeze the base when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit. When they plunge inside, Bucky swears he can almost hear your gasp. He leans his forehead on the braced forearm against the wall, shoulders bowed. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable; he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his jeans, letting the fabric vulgarly hang around his thighs. He jerks his length as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin as his hands grope your hips.
At some point you pull your finger out, and Bucky has to tighten the grip around the base of his cock, toes curling into the floor and teeth gritting against each other as his dark eyes follow the length of your body. You sit up, only to reach for your nightstand.
His eyes trail on the curve of your ass, until a strangled grunt almost makes him choke when he finally has a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.
His breath hitches, lips parting when you lie back, because in your hand there is a black rabbit vibrator. Bucky is dizzy. It's so pathetic that at his age he's been reduced to a lonely man spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks herself with a dangerously thick dildo.
He watches you drag the head of the toy between your folds, wetting the silicone with your slick. You must be so damn needy, because you immediately press the shaft in. Your muscles contract, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch as you push it all the way in. You toss your head back, your hand smacking against your mouth to probably muffle a deliciously loud moan before slipping down to harshly grab your breast, running your fingers along your hard nipple.
Would you squirm just as much as you are doing right now if Bucky were to fuck you, hips fidgeting from how restless and cock-drunk you are? Would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it?
Bucky’s hand matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically move the toy in and out, precum sticking to his fingers and he uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you are edging yourself repeatedly, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up, on the brink of the release that only a real cock like his could give you.
Your slick wets the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, the sheets... And Bucky licks his lips, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he firmly holds you down by your hips in a mating press, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making. They would burn every time water hits them, reminding him of the tightness of your pussy.
Suddenly, you fumble with the handler, pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back and your back perfectly arches up as you go back to fuck yourself with the lucky toy deeper so the unforgiving vibrations tease your clit. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, at the thought of how good you must feel right now with the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.
Bucky curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your body squirm, mouth forming a perfect circle and brows furrowing. He can tell you are close by the way your back arches, and your hips jerk up to meet the ruthless vibrations. He strokes his hard cock and squeezes on the tip at the same time you grind the toy into yourself, desperately circling your hips.
When you finally come, it’s entirely different from the previous times with your dates. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so gorgeous. Your features scrunch up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening in a silent scream as your entire body desperately shakes in pure bliss. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins stroking his rock-hard cock frantically. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his heavy breathing fill the otherwise silent room; that's when he lets his eyes squeeze shut.
Your pussy would clench around his cock so nicely, and your tits would bounce with each deep thrust as your hazy eyes would look at him pleadingly, so dizzy from his fat cock you'd let the whole neighborhood hear how good Bucky fucks you. He imagines you begging for him to come inside you with that sweet, polite voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy pussy for days.
The pressure finally snaps and Bucky comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking, while hot spurts of cum coat his hand; it's so intense some spurts even end up soiling the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when this is possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had; the full-body shiver when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has him almost fall on his knees.
When he finally opens his eyes as he’s still trying to catch his breath, his sight is a little foggy, yet he can spot the weak smile on your face. Your arm is thrown over your eyes as if relishing in the fuzzy after glow.
Every part of him vehemently yearning for you has been sated for now, but Bucky knows this will never be enough.
You wake up slowly, tangled in sheets that still smell faintly of a citrusy perfume that does not belong to you, and the unmistakable scent of sex. The sun has been up for a while, light spilling warm and bright through the window. For a moment, you just lie there, staring out of the window, replaying the night before in lazy fragments— laughter, too much wine, more laughter, the weight of a body on yours that’s still here.
Ben.
A small smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it, small and giddy and a little disbelieving. You turn your head just enough to see him asleep beside you, hair mussed, mouth slack in a way that’s oddly endearing.
Carefully, you slip out from under his arm, moving slowly to not wanting to wake him. The floor is cool under your feet as you head to the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind you. You take a quick shower, humming under your breath and thinking about making pancakes. When you’re done, you dry off and pull on one of your sundresses, the kind that makes you feel pretty without trying. You smooth it down, glance at yourself in the mirror and put on a little bit of gloss.
You picture him sitting up in bed when you come back. Maybe smiling, teasing you about taking too long. But when you open the bathroom door, the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled where he was, no sign of him anywhere else. No footsteps, no muffled voice, no note. As if he had never been here in the first place.
With a sigh, you pad toward the kitchen barefoot, sunlight warming the floor beneath your feet.
A week of no dates isn’t long, not really. And yet it feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.
You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even showed as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.
You don’t understand it.
You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. And if you’re honest, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing– an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.
Still… It stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, and attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. It left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all.
You’d started to wonder if the problem was you.
And then there’s Ben.
Ben is different. Not perfect, but easy. Familiar in a way that surprised you. He’s your friend’s cousin, in town for a short holiday, and she’d spent an entire week talking your ear off about how handsome he was, how sweet, how she just knew the two of you would get along. She wasn’t wrong, you’d clicked almost instantly. Conversation flowed without effort, and for once, it hadn’t felt like you were trying to be interesting enough to be chosen. That’s why it hurts a little more this time. That’s why today the quiet feels heavier than usual.
Something in your peripheral vision makes you stop. You turn fully toward the window that gives on your front lawn, and freeze.
Right there in your driveway stands Bucky Barnes, rigid, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.
And in front of him— half in, half out of a car— is Ben, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, movements jerky and nervous. He keeps glancing over Bucky’s shoulder like he’s expecting witnesses, fumbling with his keys, nodding too fast at whatever is being said to him.
Your neighbor’s mouth is a hard line, his brows drawn down, eyes dark and locked on the man like he’s pinning him in place with nothing but sheer presence.
You can’t hear the words, but you don’t need it to understand what’s happening.
Ben bursts out in a short, loud laugh, too fake, then slides fully into the driver’s seat like he’s in a hurry. The engine roars to life, and tires peel out of your driveway faster than necessary.
Gone.
You stand there, heart pounding, anger flooding your chest so fast it makes you dizzy.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
You don’t even put on shoes. You grab the front door, yank it open, and step outside barefoot, the morning breeze slightly cool against your skin.
“James.”
He actually flinches. Bucky turns slowly, like he’s already calculating how bad this is going to be. His jaw tightens when he sees your face— bare, furious, eyes blazing.
“What was that?” You demand.
He exhales through his nose, slightly bowing his head in greeting. “Morning.”
“Don’t,” you snap, stalking closer. “Do not do that. What the hell was that?”
He looks away, and that alone makes your blood boil.
“You just scared him off,” you say incredulously. “Didn’t you?”
“I talked to him.”
“If looks could kill he would be in a fucking casket by now.” You retort.
Bucky simply shrugs. “He got the point.”
“What point?” You lash out, taking a deep breath after.
His head snaps back to you, eyes flashing. “Listen, I was just making you a favor.”
You laugh, sharp and loud. “A favor!? Oh please! From where I’m standing, you’re a man who ignored me for months, barely acknowledged I existed, and now you suddenly think you get to interrogate the people I bring home?”
“I wasn’t interrogating.”
“It sure as hell looked like it.”
He steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.
“Do you do this with everyone? Is it some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor? Or are you obsessed with me?”
His jaw tightens, but you press on, words spilling like a waterfall now that you’ve started. “Do you have any idea how confusing you are? One minute you won’t even answer when I say hello, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, fixing my car, carrying groceries like it’s your job—”
“I was helping.”
“—and now this?” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Charged.
He looks at you then. Really looks. Barefoot on the concrete, eyes still rimmed with drowsiness, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.
“I want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.
You scoff. “From what? Dating?”
“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”
You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“They take what you give them and then run,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction. “You’re not.”
You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt protectiveness, yet you refuse to back down. “That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”
“I know,” he says, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time to guys who don’t even have the decency to stay– who don’t see what they’re getting… It drives me fucking insane.”
Your chest tightens, still your brows furrow. “You don’t even know them.”
“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”
Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
“I didn’t ask for... Whatever you are doing.” You mumble.
“I know.”
“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to talk to me!”
Bucky steps closer without meaning to. Too close. You can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, sharp and bright, but there’s something hot and far too dangerous curling underneath it.
His eyes drop to your mouth, then swallows.
“Every time you bring someone home,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”
“And yet.” You mock ironically.
“And yet,” he admits, exhaling harshly. “I lose my fucking mind.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” You swallow, steading yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end. “You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”
His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint not to touch you.
“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”
“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.
“To stay away from you.”
You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to go away, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea— your anger, his lewd actions, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.
But his body doesn’t listen.
All he can think about is how your warmth reaches him effortlessly even through the thin fabric of your dress; the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous.
And now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.
His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last inch between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides to the point his knuckles turn white, like that would be enough to hold himself back. His pulse makes his ears ring, drowning out reason, pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything— or change it beyond repair.
God, he wants you so bad.
Not gently. He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.
He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth.
He reaches for you like it’s instinct, like gravity finally wins. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, thumb brushing your cheek. His forehead dips to yours, breath uneven.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire. You can feel him everywhere without him completely touch you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creep up your neck, and the way his blue eyes keep flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make has your heart wildly pounding in your ribcage. You realize, dimly, that Bucky's been fighting this longer than you have— that every step he’s taken toward you these last days has cost him something.
And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.
Because you need this.
You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.
Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere, and see what happens when he finally lets go.
You stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for. Something akin to hunger quickly flashes in his eyes, before he finally makes you his.
The kiss is exactly what you expected: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t, crashing into yours with teeth and tongue, hands moving fast, sure, one still gripping your jaw and the other fisting in the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed immediately as he deepens it, tilting your head back, looming over you until you’re forced to take a step back or be crushed by him; still, his arm tightens around your torso with a low growl.
Your hands come up without thinking, clutching at his shirt, fingers digging in the fabric. You kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frantic pull of your clothes.
Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, chest heaving and thumb brushing your cheeks like he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Fuck.” He mutters, wrecked. Then he kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling before it disappears, with bruising urgency, hands wandering everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first.
A rough sound tears out of his chest between kisses. He pulls back again enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. “You have any idea how hard it was watching that?”
You blink, breathless.
He laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurts him. His grip tightens, grounding himself. “You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I couldn’t.”
Those words make you still.
You press a hand to his chest, gently but firmly. “Bucky. What do you mean?”
For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours, that pink blush appearing high on his cheeks.
“I watched you.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to at first. It just… Happened. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and honest. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... When you weren’t.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.
He stills. “You— what?”
“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”
Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly but not forceful; it’s got a bruising sort of gentleness that makes you wobble slightly, his arms squeezing your waist until you're pressed firmly against his chest. His body is a wall, hot and solid, and you quickly melt into it.
“All this time I’ve been beating myself up for it.” He pants against your lips, making you gasp as his mouth trails down your neck. “An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving his cock into your sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind.
“But you are just as filthy as me, sweetheart. So fond of keeping your curtains wide open at night for me to see everything.”
Your heart hammers in your chest as his other hand grips your jaw firmly, not enough to hurt, to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”
You’re hooked, unable to challenge him, your fury reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him as his wandering hands end up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little.
“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S–Someone is going to see.” You protest weakly.
He briefly glances around, before leading you behind your parked car in front of your house. “Better stay quiet then.” And he is pressing his hand against your core, his fingers sliding into the front of your panties to allow his middle digit to play with your slick. His large frames crowds you against the vehicle, his other hand palming your ass.
You feel so exposed yet so alive, your core throbbing as your fingers clutch at his shirt, and your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure.
“Yeah? Feels good, doesn't it?”
You tilt your hips into his hand, a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low chuckle, teasing you with expert precision.
“How were they, hm sweetheart?” He mumbles against the skin of your neck, surprisingly put together as he quietly lower your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”
You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. Then, his palm comes down on your ass, heavy and sharp, making you whimper. “Answer me.”
“Not–not like you.” You admit, head falling back with a gasp as his thumb works over your swollen nub, rubbing it to a steady rhythm. “Oh fuck.”
“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That's why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those boys weren't satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol' neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”
Your breath hitches as you feel your climax frantically building, raw and electric.
“Don't be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking.
“Hm I've indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing against your palm. Your eyes go wide; you aren't sure how long he’s been dealing with it, but the hardness of it has you swallowing, slightly intimidated by the large size.
Your fingers twitch where they’re trapped between your bodies, squeezing at his shaft as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you.
“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear, and his fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips.
“Quiet or that asshole Murray will come out.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”
You can’t find the words even if you want to scream that no, you only crave Bucky's attention, though the possibility to be caught with him fingering you against your car only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction on your clit.
“C'mon, baby.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep squeezing his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I'll let you touch it.”
Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I— Fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his shoulder.
“This what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs against the top of your head, cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling. He barely hides his smug smile, leisurely looking around for any nosy pair of eyes, while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn't just make you come in the middle of your driveway.
You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky's breath hitches at the sight of your glistening temples and hazy eyes. “Need more.”
His tongue traces your lower lip and a whimper escapes you, before he makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts it in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. Bucky then pulls back just enough to let you both breathe.
“Lift your dress.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bent over the windowsill in his bedroom.
“You’re making a mess.” He mutters, voice low and rough. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs, testing your resistance as you welcome the gentle press of his fingers inside with a whine of protest. He promised he would let you touch it. “Don't whine. I have to make sure she's ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?”
You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip as the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can't believe you're really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It'd be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what's going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes' house– the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being– and your lips keep parting in shameless moans.
“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you moaning for a grumpy, old man's dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs out as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... Who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Bucky for everyone to hear.” His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the cool air as he takes a tentative lick. “I knew you'd taste fucking delicious.”
“Careful, old man.” You shoot back, breathless but so eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can't go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... Anything can— fuck!”
Two of his fingers penetrate your hole at once, leaving you gasping and trembling. “Ah, look at you going quiet.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”
You nod whimpering, giving over to his dominance. It's incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.
He’s relentless, holding you right there as your hips literally hump his face, writhing against his mouth.
“Tight little pussy.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches intently as your slick wets your inner thigh. Quickly standing up, he fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip dark and swollen; he finds some relief by stroking it, while his other hand smooths down your back. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.
“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.
“Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut at the praise, the fat head of his cock gliding through your swollen folds, up and down, then teasing your entrance. “But you’re gonna let me do it, right baby?”
Your nod is just as eager, quite pathetic you'd add later. You rock back just a fraction, clit brushing the underside of him, and sparks shoot through your body.
His smile is borderline wolfish. “That’s right.” He leans over you, enough to whisper in your ear. “'M gonna ruin you, pretty girl and you're gonna thank me for it. Understood?”
Once the tip breeches your hole, your back goes rigid. “Bucky I—I don’t think it'll fit.” You admit with wide eyes. He simply chortles, cooing as he hears your shaky exhale.
“Don't worry, sweetheart.” His hands soothe you, trailing up and down your sides, eyes locked on your pussy as he pushes through your folds, coating his girth with your slick. “You can— shit— you can take it.”
He eases into you slowly, each inch leaving you panting and clenching until he’s fully inside, until you’re stuffed and squirming under him. His breath hitches, forcing himself to still for a moment, letting you adjust to the burning stretch.
“Look at you.” He grunts, a layer of arrogance in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your sides as he rocks forward. “See? Took it just fine. You were made for me, sweetheart.” Your walls clench around him like it's terrified he might disappear if you don't hold tight enough, and he gradually builds a steady rhythm, using his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill.
The sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to block your scream is a sharp reminder of the unusual silent morning. You feel impossibly full and stretched. Each thrust makes your spine arch; Bucky fills you just perfectly, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur.
“It'd be enough for our neighbors to take a look outside of their window, or open their door, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut you are.”
You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly and not too fast.
“They could be watching right now.” He taunts in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your chest, before lowering the front of your dress as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family.
Your pussy clenches at his teasing, gaining a mocking laugh from him. “Yeah? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”
You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded hands tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from the one you're used to. Bucky's hands are weathered and callused from his job, he's always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while slamming your pussy toward oblivion; it’s intense and raw, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.
“She’s begging for it.” His voice is a low rasp, chest heaving as much as yours, even if he keeps up his cocky facade.
Your entire body locks in, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You're pretty sure the squelching sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonate loud and clear across his front lawn.
“Yes yes yes! Right there fuck, right there!”
He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.
“Gonna come Bucky, oh God, please need it so bad— fill me— shit!”
“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you clench. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I'll make you leak for days—”
“Yes yes yes, please!” You blabber loudly, forgetting completely about the fact that you're basically getting fucked raw on a windowsill in the middle of a random Sunday morning. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips grinding back and your pussy milking him.
“Fuck fuck– that's it, that's it, good girl. Gonna fill you up so good.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.
“Fuck, such a pretty slut.” Bucky grits through clenched teeth, your whimpers alone sending him over the edge. “I’m coming, baby. Fucking–” One thrust. “Take it.” He groans, loud and broken, finally spilling thick and hot inside you, his cock pulsing deep until you're left full and shaking like a leaf.
You are grateful for his possessive and bruising hold on your hips since your legs are so weak you'd be barely able to keep yourself up. Meanwhile, Bucky is trying to catch his breath against your neck after his powerful orgasm, careful to not put all his weigh on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.
Maybe you were right. Maybe he really did get a cramp.
When he finally slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, making him chuckle with mirth as he helps you in an upright position, gently to not hurt you. Who knows how long you've been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge anything else. A sharp sting prickles your lower back, but you couldn't be more satisfied.
“Good girl, you took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own soreness. His lips press a soft kiss on your forehead, then on your lips, before he sighs content, eyes closed and lips brushing your temple. “Finally mine.”
The months of stolen glances and quiet, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it's just you, him, and no barriers between.
Still... Sometimes you meet him at your window, though this time you sit right in front of it, legs spread and eyes fixed on him. And Bucky takes it all in as he fists his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy; occasionally, it's some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.
You moan a little louder than necessary now, just for him. Your eyes lasciviously trace the broadness of his shoulders until they reach his strong arm, flexing as he pumps himself. His free hand always grips the frame so hard he once cracked it to hold himself back from running to you, to keep up this little game you proposed as you started dating.
The anticipation builds slowly and achingly each time. You drag it out for him, rubbing your clit with teasing circles while you call his name so sweetly he has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to calm himself down.
And when you finally come, his pace quickens, the fire in your belly igniting back wild and untamed at the sight of his own climax.
And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants still unbuttoned... Well, it's not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.
if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 19.6k
masterlist
a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!
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pairing: thunderbolts!bucky barnes x gun-for-hire!reader
warnings: fem!reader, 18+ MDNI, smut, violence, hand-to-hand combat, war zone vibes, blood!, brief yearning/angst, slapping away a helping hand (literally and figuratively), mentioned dark pasts, masochism masochism masochism, unprotected and rough p-in-v, dirty talk, cl!t play, yeah ok it’s voyeurism, is that a breeding kink on the horizon too?, pet names (i.e., doll), no use of (y/n), sorry if i missed something
word count: 4.8k
sammy speaks: this was supposed to be a drabble. now half of it’s smut. not fully proofread!
summary: let’s pretend (or confirm) that bucky barnes is a masochist for hot women beating the shit out of him
he fell for your trap, which was very unlike him.
he blamed it on the thunderbolts — wait, fuck — the new avengers — for making him trust in others again, like an atrophied muscle he’d been forced to reuse. that ragtag group of deadly fuck-ups somehow became reliable enough for him to drop his guard in certain situations.
and look where it got him.
bucky had enough brain capacity to work out what happened: john’s excitement for being on a (“lame and boring” - yelena) battlefield again caused him to miss an alley while executing an initial sweep. an alley located right along bucky’s designated route.
when he rounded the corner, he had expected the alley to be cleared, empty, still. and it was, until he reached the fire escape to the building he was supposed to scale. when his hand caught the first wrung, he heard it — a soft scrape against uneven stones — then saw it — a huddled figure wrapped in a heavy shawl pushing itself into the alcove of a locked door.
you.
what little of your face he could see said “i’m terrified and don’t know where to hide.”
and so that begrudging reaction to help kicked in as soon as he saw you. he reached out a gloved hand, smile a little rough around the edges but “good enough” (yelena again) to mean no harm. just as he opened his mouth to let out the practiced, “my name is bucky barnes, i’m with the new avengers, and i’m here to help,” you pounced.
your hand grabbed his and twisted, other hand jabbing at his throat to cut off any sounds. whiplashed and coughing, he dropped to his knees. in a flash, you yanked the comm out of his ear and threw the shawl on top of him, obscuring his already blurry vision as he choked on his breaths. his senses barely helped him dodge your well-aimed kick to his kidneys, a sure showstopper, super soldier or not. the vibranium arm whirred as he windmilled the shawl off his head.
he felt before he saw your next moves. a one-two for his chest, his jaw; he blocked and pivoted, but you were quick. too quick.
you were a blur in front of him, twirling out of his reach then swooping in to kick the back of his knee. he grunted as he went down. and just because he was already having bad luck, he felt his back go out like the old fucking man he is.
he still had yet to even see you.
ignoring every screaming nerve ending, bucky tried getting up. but you didn’t let him. a heavy boot landed between his shoulder blades and he stumbled across the alley, crashing shoulder-first into an unforgiving brick wall.
dazed and confused, he gulped a deep breath of air and twisted as fast as he could to make sure you weren’t coming up from behind him again.
instead, you stood on the other side of the alley, one hand on your hip.
the air left bucky’s lungs, images of your last meeting flashing before his eyes; the blinding light of the moroccan sun, the dusty apartment you’d barricaded yourself into, the look you’d given him when he had his hand on your throat, pinning you to the wall. he also remembered the feeling that had zipped down his spine when you put your hand around his throat. he swallowed thickly. you met his shocked gaze with your satisfied one.
“something real unsettling about the winter soldier offering a helping hand,” you said.
bucky blinked, adjusting his stance subtly against the wall, preparing for another attack.
“what are you doing here?” he muttered, taking in your military-type gear.
“what does it look like? i’m stopping your ass from reaching the lab.”
his jaw clenched, fingers twitching toward the gun at his hip, but he needed to stall. his serum decided to arrive late to the party which meant his back was still killing him. which meant he didn’t stand much of a chance of subduing you if he moved like a grandpa.
“since when do you play with ex-hydra nut jobs?”
you shrugged. “since now. money is money, and there’s not a lot of it going around in our world after you and captain birdman shook up madripoor. so you take what you can get.”
our world. he couldn’t suppress the frown.
“and now you’re a soldier” he commented, nodding at your camouflaged get up. “hope the money’s worth the demotion.”
“not a soldier. they know what i’m capable of,” you said quickly, defensively, shooting him a sharp look before it slowly dissolved into a cheshire smile. “they sent me to stop you, after all. their favorite, long-lost pet.”
his jaw clenched again. audibly. a tooth possibly cracked.
bucky wondered if he could make a run for it — he knew he was faster than you, at least — but he really needed to get to the top of the building he was currently slumped against. the others had to be wondering why he wasn’t at his post yet.
“wonder how much they’d pay me if i brought you in alive,” you continued, your eyes a few shades darker than mischief.
he forced a laugh, short and harsh. “you must really be strapped for cash if you’re willing to risk your life like that.”
your eyes flashed. “you don’t think i could do it.”
it wasn’t a question. bucky could sense your irritation growing. he knew he didn’t have much time left to make his move.
“i think it’d be stupid of you to try. and i know you’re not stupid.”
something crossed your face, an emotion that he couldn’t define. but whatever it was disappeared as quick as it came when you began to stalk toward him.
now or never.
bucky’s hand moved fast, gun pointed at you in the blink of an eye. he fired three shots, none of which hit, but he wasn’t trying to hit you — just slow you. you dodged expertly, breathlessly, unsheathing a knife from your belt to throw, but bucky had already pushed himself off the wall and was hurtling toward you at a frightening speed.
his big arms locked around you as he tackled you to the ground. you braced for impact against the cobblestones, twisting your arm until your knife found a new home in the side of his thigh. he grunted, bouncing off of you to pull it out before you could run it down the rest of his leg; blood began to seep out in a steady leak.
he looked up to where you had scrambled away, crouched low like a wild cat watching their prey. he dropped the knife with a clatter and kicked it down the alley. then, he dropped his gun and did the same, the intention clear. hand-to-hand or walk away. although you were more than likely to have a handful of more weapons tucked into your pockets.
the corner of your mouth tipped up. “been that long since you had a woman’s touch, barnes?”
“thought i’d level the playing field.”
you eyed his arms, his shoulders, muscles tight and visible beneath his avengers jacket. he noticed.
“or you could go,” he said, softer. “trust me, if those psychopaths find a use for you, they won’t just let you leave. get out now while you can.”
you rolled your eyes and stood up straight. “sounds like you’re scared.”
“i am. of them.”
that stopped you. you searched his expression, took note of the hands held out ever so slightly in peace; he knew you were assessing him for a trick. and although his blood was thrumming wildly from the threat you posed, he didn’t have one.
you made a face when you realized this, something close to disappointment.
“well i’m not. and i don’t really have a choice,” you quipped, slowly sliding into a fighting stance.
bucky mirrored you, ignoring the way his heart dropped — just a little.
“i find that hard to believe. i’m sure there are plenty of politicians to blackmail, liabilities to wipe out.”
you bared your teeth at him, like a snarl and a smile wrapped into one terrifying look.
“well, i had it pretty good when i was doing valentina’s dirty work, but then she decided to turn a new leaf and build her special little team.”
bucky froze. you and…valentina? he wracked his brain for anything connecting the two, something mel said, something he discovered in his late night hacking at the tower, but nothing came to mind. somehow, you had slipped through.
you laughed while watching him process the new information.
“oh, she didn’t mention me? figures. i was mostly back burner to her. someone to bring in when yelena,” you hissed the name, “or walker were already deployed. guess she didn’t think i was important enough to send to the warehouse.”
bucky could feel the anger rolling off of you in waves. his sixth sense told him danger was approaching, closer than it had been since you brought him to his knees the first time. the knife wound throbbed as he shifted his feet.
“count yourself lucky,” bucky murmured. “she almost killed them.”
you laughed again.
“but they weren’t killed, were they? and as their reward, they got the clean slates and the hero’s fame and the government funded fortune. they got valentina under their thumbs.” your eyes burned. “they got everything i deserved.”
you were on the verge of exploding and bucky could feel it under his skin.
the smart thing would be to defuse you; paint a picture with his words about the lack of freedom, the constant eyes, the dizzying maze of ulterior motives behind missions, until you realized how awful it could be on valentina’s special little team.
but beneath his adrenaline buzzed a desire to keep the match lit, to keep you simmering and dangerous. maybe it was lost memories of morocco blending with the vision of you in front of him, but the same feeling had once again settled on his skin like a fine mist: he wanted to see what happened when you snapped. he wanted to know what you’d do to him if you lost control.
so, ignoring his basic instincts, his mouth curved into a small smile.
“you’re jealous.”
you made a soft noise in the back of your throat. “no,” you answered, fast and immovable.
“yes,” he countered. “you’re jealous. you want to be an avenger.”
“no i don’t,” you snapped. “i never said that.”
“it’s all over your face, doll. you feel left out.“
“like i’d ever join your circle jerk of freaks,” you spat. your eye twitched with weak restraint. bucky wanted to see it crumble.
“you’re mad you didn’t get picked for the team,” he murmured. “it’s cute.”
“shut up!”
“if you wanna be in the avengers,” he taunted, grinning like a fool, “consider this your interview. show me what you got.”
a split second of shock crossed your face before you took the bait and leaped at him. bucky’s arms came up to shield his face from your punch. you rebounded, trying for his side, but he blocked that too. you spun quickly, swinging your leg up to catch his other side; it barely grazed his vest as he stepped back. you let out a low screech, the frustration evident, before launching yourself at him again.
you threw punch after punch at him. he kept up a steady defense, stopping sneaky fists with his vibranium arm. the speed of your deadly dance increased, shoes kicking up dust around you in the empty alley. he did not attack back.
instead, bucky watched you. your expressions, the wild look in your eyes, the push and pull of your body gaining ground on him. he was far from tired, but the more you went after him, the more he dropped his guard. you were too distracting, too intriguing, too beautiful, your rage palpable in the air. you were solely focused on him, and you were out for blood.
and bucky fucking loved it.
a small part of him knew it was wrong to feel this way. to get a thrill of excitement from your hits that were meant to hurt, meant to kill. he knew that the heat crawling over his body and settling in his gut should be reserved for softer moments with someone who looked at him with love in their eyes — not murder.
but while he knew it was wrong, bucky also knew that he himself was not ‘right’ — hadn’t been for a while. not since hydra.
didn’t mean he couldn’t still feel things.
and this — this he felt. deeply.
suddenly, your fist hit its mark. bucky’s head snapped around, his cheekbone vibrating. he heard you suck in a breath — a hesitation — before surging forward. he barely had time to turn his eyes back on you when you came down hard again: an elbow to the ribs he was too slow to block, a kick to the same ribs for good measure, a swinging arm to his flesh one, right at the juncture of the inside of his elbow. he tried to stop you, truly (mostly), but your anger was a tangible force, making you faster, stronger. within seconds, you had landed a dozen hits to him, including a particularly nasty jab at his face.
he reeled back, stumbling again until one knee hit the ground.
blood ran freely from his nose, down his lips and over his chin. he spat it out of his mouth, chest heaving as he looked up at you.
you didn’t give him a chance. your fist connected with his face again. blood splashed the stones. slowly, bucky eyes found yours.
so you punched him — again.
the cycle repeated four more times before you took a step back, out of breath and knuckles throbbing. bucky coughed, painting the ground a deep maroon. and then he fucking laughed.
your head snapped up. he met your eyes as he rubbed at his jaw, smearing free-flowing blood down his neck; his were a crystalline blue behind the blown pupils. and just like that, you felt the trick — understood that you had given him exactly what he wanted. he was still chuckling. you eyed him like he had just revealed a nest of suicide bombs strapped to his chest.
“what’s your fucking problem, barnes?” you hissed.
that sobered him. but bucky made no move to get up, just kneeled quietly in front of you. his skin was on fire, his heart was working overtime, and his pants were uncomfortably tight around his cock. you were a vision before him, understanding washing over your hardened expression, breathless from the exertion of beating the shit out of him. his face throbbed painfully as a reminder.
with a sneer, you pulled your fist back, preparing to end it right then and there. bucky could see the intention in your eyes. so he smiled, a weak, painful break across his face, and waited for the blow. you’d split, he’d regain consciousness, and it would be over. and that would be okay.
it was worth it all to see you here in front of him.
for a heartbeat, you held his gaze.
then your fist dropped.
and your fingers found his hair.
with a grunt, you pulled him to you, lips meeting his with brutal force. bucky moaned back, ignoring the pain in his broken nose as it brushed against yours. his hands found your waist and dragged you closer, tighter. his mind couldn’t keep up with his body, so he just felt.
he felt the warmth of your skin through the uniform, the vibration of your whimper in your chest, the harsh angles of your hidden weapons digging into his chest.
bucky kissed you through it all, breathing deeply as he devoured your mouth. your tongues battled for dominance, the fight not over yet. he could taste the need in you — he knew he tasted the same.
he felt overwhelmingly smug knowing his feelings in morocco were not just mirages in the desert.
bucky pushed himself up from his knees, breaking free from your lips to suck in air. your wild eyes found his, and that’s when he lost all traces of coherent thoughts. your face was covered in his blood. he thought you looked breathtaking.
he moved you back against the alley wall, hands tight and possessive around your waist, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your jaw and neck.
“barnes,” you moaned, arching into him. his metal hand drifted up to rip away the top clasps of your jacket, leaving more skin for him to taste. he lapped at the salty tang of your sweat and something sweeter, something irrevocably you. your hands gripped his hair tighter, your hips rolling towards his.
just as your centers brushed, bucky hissed, surging forward to press his stiff cock against your heat. the pressure added to the fire building deep within him, sending electric shocks down his veins. you felt like his first breath of air after drowning.
your gasps grew louder as you shamelessly rocked into him, picking up speed. his teeth nipped at your collarbone, your ear; it was far from gentle. bucky’s metal hand held himself steady against the wall beside your head, but the brick crumbled beneath his grip when you dragged your hips along his slowly, torturously.
“fuck,” he breathed, cornering you even more. not an inch of space existed between your bodies.
“mmm,” you replied, biting your lip. your eyes fluttered for a moment before they met his. he searched your face, noticing the flush to your cheeks, the glazed over expression. he could practically smell it on you — you were getting closer to the precipice and enjoying every second of the dangerous road you were traveling to get there.
your hand left his hair and brushed the buckle of his utility pants. bucky stared at you. you worked quickly, undoing the restraints on his cock until it was just his briefs in the way. he exhaled shakily, then returned the favor, fingers flying over the latch and pushing your pants down enough to make room for his hand.
he waisted no time, his mouth watering at the prospect of getting to touch you. the battle off in the distance had stupidly disappeared into white noise behind him. all he could see, all he could feel, was you in front of him, hot, bothered, pliant, and waiting.
he deftly pushed aside your underwear — navy, cotton, practical, and the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen — and slid two fingers up your slit.
you cried out softly. he groaned. no, he whined.
you were a dripping mess on his hand, not a dry spot of skin to be found. he slipped through your folds, rubbing your clit in tight circles until your breaths became shaking, stuttering rattles. your eyes watched where his hand disappeared into your pants, and his watched your face. just the tiny twitches and flicks of emotion alone could get him off.
swallowing through a dry mouth, he pressed a heated kiss to your lips, gobbling up the noises you made.
you danced on his hand, back arching and flexing, hips grinding circles in an effort to get closer. your fingers latched onto his vest, pulling then pushing, depending on the spot he hit.
you were still fighting him, but bucky decided he liked this fighting style of yours best.
ripping yourself away from his mouth, you grabbed his wrist.
“enough,” you commanded, voice low and devastatingly pained. then you palmed his cock through his briefs with a heavy hand. bucky jolted like you just slapped him. you moved your touch up and down his length, back and forth, breathing heavily, and his eyes nearly rolled back.
your other hand shuffled around the waist band of your pants; you shimmied the thick fabric over your hips and down your legs. bucky’s eyes found yours.
wordless communication passed between you two. whatever rationality remained in his brain just vacated. the team could wait.
bucky’s hands took over yours within a heartbeat, eager hands ripping your pants and underwear down to your ankles in his excitement. you huffed in surprise as you stepped out of them hurriedly, the chill air of the mountain village cool against your flushed skin. bucky was there before the goosebumps could get to you, grabbing at your thighs and hoisting you up against him. the breath was knocked from your lungs as your back met the brick wall.
he was all over you again, lips on yours, on your chin, on your jaw, throat, chest. he couldn’t stop touching you, even as one hand parted from your skin to release his cock from his briefs. it bounced against your dripping center, and bucky rocked into you, wetting it on your folds.
you inhaled sharply as he lined himself up with expert precision and sank in the first few inches.
“oh, fuck, barnes,” you moaned. he let out a strangled noise, fingers in a death-grip on your thigh.
“you — you feel…” his voice shook. “goddamn…”
he shifted ever-so-slightly and slid in to the hilt. your head tossed back, bouncing off the bricks, but you didn’t seem to notice, let alone care. bucky buried his face in the crook of your neck to stem the expletives that were slipping from his mouth.
it had been long — way too long — since he had been inside a woman. and when the woman was you, he knew he didn’t stand a chance of lasting very long.
“move,” you rasped against his ear. he obeyed orders.
he started slow, testing your walls, testing himself; the angle of your bodies made for a delicious drag. you gasped and whined as he savored every inch of you from the inside, pulling at his shoulders, his hair, his beard. your blood-stained lips mouthed at his blood-stained cheek. he could have stayed here fucking you nice and slow and sloppy for hours.
but hours were the last thing you had.
with a mild twinge of regret, bucky picked up speed. your voice hitched on a moan as he thrusted into you with more force than before. faster and faster, over and over. he felt the tip of his cock brush something hot and wet and disastrously tight. the end was near for him.
the way you were clenching around him with every punch of his hips told him you were not far behind.
“christ,” he grit out, “too fuckin tight.”
“more. please, just…more,” you answered him.
balancing you between the wall and his metal arm, his flesh hand sought out where the two of you were joined; the rough pad of his thumb found your clit and rolled it back and forth at a blurring speed. you keened, arching away from him and his overwhelming touch.
bucky chased after you, his mouth finding yours to claim all of the noises you gave him. he was about as out of breath as he could be, but he leaned closer to whisper in your ear, “where’s the fight, doll?”
you whimpered, head rolling to the side. as your eyes met, he felt a surge of possession, of aggression, of something that was animalistic and raw and not bucky barnes, but maybe a part of someone else inside of him deep down—
you cried out, panting, your cunt fluttering around his cock as he continued to fuck up into it. his pace was brutal and punishing on your pussy, equal parts pleasurable and painful. and you loved it — he could easily tell. the thought made his head spin.
you held his gaze as one particularly harsh thrust nudged the spot inside of you that exploded the universe before your eyes. you came with a howl, sounding like the cats that called this alley home. bucky felt every pulse of your orgasm around his cock and almost doubled-over. it was choking him, making it impossible to move an inch inside of you. but he had to move, he had to come, he needed to come, just three more thrusts and he’d coat your walls with himself, until it dripped down your legs and pooled in your underwear and stayed there while you reported back to the ex-hydra fucks and looked them dead in the eye while lying that you never came across barnes—
bucky shuddered, finding the strength for just one more pump of his hips before emptying into you. he moaned against your mouth, biting down on your lower lip. your pussy gripped him tight, trapping his load deep within, pulsing with post-orgasm desperation. you let out a soft sob as bucky stood there, holding you tight to him, body shaking from his release, abusing your lip with his teeth.
it felt like a day had passed before he slid out of you and dropped your feet to the ground. you landed on trembling legs, falling back against the wall. bucky moved stiffly, tucking himself back into his pants and pulling the buckle tight. you scrambled to pull your own pants up, eyes on his face.
the blood was everywhere now. his blue eyes stood out from the red, wide open and wild-looking. but he looked back at you with a solemnity that struck something deep inside of your chest, not your core. like he already ached for you before you were even gone.
your mouth dropped open to say something, but you couldn’t think of the right words. so you shut it with a snap and turned your eyes down as you attempted to re-clasp your jacket.
bucky’s thoughts came back to him, loud and obnoxious. he missed the rendezvous by this point. it was a matter of seconds — not minutes — until the team would be skimming the streets for him. and his back was actually really fucking killing him now.
but one thought stood out from the rest.
don’t let you leave.
without considering the repercussions, he grabbed your face as you gave up on the broken jacket, pulling your eyes to his.
“come back with us,” he pleaded. “you don’t need this.”
your searched his expression before offering a smirk; it was shallow and didn’t reach your eyes. “i told you, i’m not interested in being an avenger, barnes.”
he shook his head. “not what i’m asking. you need an exit, we have the means. get out now. come with me.”
“just one fuck and you’re already going soft on me?” you teased.
bucky tried suppressing his frown, but failed.
“that’s not — i’m not…fuck. i’m not talking about us right now — i’m talking about you getting out of here. there’s options for you, you don’t have to see this through. the team and i will take them out and—“
you shook your head from his grip, bloody smile dropping. “don’t,” you muttered. “you don’t get it. i’m here because of your team. why the fuck would i go running to them for help?”
“because you need it, and i’m right here in front of you offering it.”
your eyes blazed. “well, i don’t want it. i can take care of myself.”
bucky flushed. yes — yes you could; it’s what drew him to you in the first place.
but his heart cracked anyway.
he stared at you a beat longer, dissecting your expression, marinating your words. then he stepped out of your way.
you gave him a once over before brushing past him, shoulders bumping. you headed for the mouth of the alley, where the sun shone bright and uninhibited by buildings. bucky watched you pause at the edge of the sunlight, back tense.
“they’ll be here soon,” you called out.
“i know,” bucky answered.
another pause.
finally, you looked over your shoulder. your expression stayed neutral, concealing your true emotions. “see ya next time, barnes.”
you stepped into the light and rounded the corner of the building. you were gone.
bucky had less than fifteen seconds to scrub the dried blood from his face and reconcile the last twenty minutes before the hum of the jet reached his ears. he saw the dust kicked up from the street before he saw the sleek black machine. yelena piloted, ava hung from the open door; bucky saw as she pointed down at him, then the building he was supposed to be at the top of. quietly, bucky turned back to the ladder, back to where it all started.
he began to climb. and as he climbed he thought of you. he felt you on his oversensitive skin, in the heat in his chest, in the dizziness in his head.
you left his life as quickly as you entered it, just like last time. and also like last time, bucky would move on — there were other things, other people, that deserved his dedication more than you.
but there would be no getting over you like last time. you were inside him now, a piece of you forever with him until the next time he came across you.
he couldn’t stop the smile from creeping across his face.
he couldn’t wait until next time.
sammy speaks again: ta da! i’ve been in the lab with this one for a while. maybe some day i’ll be able to cap my drabbles off at sub-1000 words. instead enjoy this smaller fic.
no tag list because i am lazy, i’ll get around to it eventually lol
more coming soon! thanks for all the love in advance whores (my affectionate new nickname for anyone that follows me🤭 or wait what if it was something completely out of pocket like crudites??? do you get it???? also am i so narcissistic that i’ve already started cultifying myself by naming followers??)
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦pairing/tags: Bucky Barnes x female!reader, fluff, romance, smut (praise kink, oral f!receiving, p in sex, panties as a gag, creampie, dirty talk, daddy kink), age gap, dbf!bucky✦
✦Author's Note: Dedicated to my love @fxckingjo Life is crazy, sometimes you make a friend online and suddenly you're writing daddy kink for them. Enjoy!✦
You didn’t know, when you first met him.
You’d been bright eyed and green, just completed your masters and trying to swing bigger than your arms could handle. Fresh in the city, new to the whole scene, learning how to stumble and fall then get up completely on your own.
That first week, you’d gone to a bar.
Seen him, sitting across the room. Longer hair, tired eyes, soft wrinkles that only made him more handsome.
Older.
But you’d learned a while ago that you liked them that way.
He’d looked you up and down, when you walked over.
“Seems past your bedtime, doll.”
You’d smiled sweetly, and placed a hand on his arm. “Maybe. But I’m really good at staying up late. Sometimes,” you’d leaned a little further in. “I can make it all night, if I have someone with more.”
His eyes had flashed, tongue darting over his lips. He’d grunted his name—James, and it rolled off your tongue—and you’d shared yours back.
Hoping himself a better man than he was, he’d resisted. Just enough to give you the out, even if his hand had already found your thigh and he’d already fed you a shot. You hadn’t wavered.
You’d spent the night at his sleek apartment—rent that probably cost more than your salary—and woken up perfectly bruised and spent. Your thighs aching, a few marks on your neck, and sway to your walk that hadn’t been there last night.
It had been meant to be one time. You’d both agreed it was one time, with no one selling any lies about calling later.
But then your boss had sent you to deliver something to Congressman Barnes’ office. And you’d stared at him in the door, knees weak and hands shaking as you held out the packet.
Bucky had taken it slowly. Looked to the fading hickeys, barely hidden under the collar of your shirt.
At your badge, hanging around your neck. The first name you’d told him.
The last name you hadn’t.
And maybe it wasn’t just that. It could’ve been the light, that made you look a little younger and him more familiar. Something about his voice no longer being the seductive drawl of that night, or the nervous shifting on your feet you’ve been doing your whole life. It doesn’t really matter.
It had hit you, that the man in front of you—the one who’d whispered such filth in your ear and fucked you until you’d almost passed out—was Bucky.
Your dad’s friend, Bucky. Sargent Barnes, who’d had the accident and always picked up the dessert for a barbecue.
You’d felt more stupid than anything else. How many other fucking people had metal arms, and how many managed to fuck the guy they’d had a massive, fruitless crush back when you were literally too young and he never gave you more than a kind smile and pat on the head. You’d clung to those smiles like they were sacred. Pretended they were just for you, because you’d been a lovesick child.
And he’d rearranged your guts and made you cum on those metal fingers before he cleaned them off, and you hadn’t even realized it was Bucky.
You’d giggled weakly, mostly out of panic.
Bucky had been horrified.
He wouldn’t look you in the eyes for about a month. If you dropped in to deliver a packet and tried to make small talk, he’d pretend you weren’t there. You’d agreed that night was one time. There was nothing wrong with him pretending not to see you, since it had just been one time.
He’d said that. Reminded you of it, with your back against his door and arms braced on either side of your head. Not a word, of that one time.
But then, he’d stare. You’d felt it, branding over your skin. You’d dreamed about his body, and overanalyzed the clench in his jaw when he saw you and flex of his hands when you walked past.
This time, you hadn’t been wrong.
You run into each other at the bar. Spent the whole night dancing around each other. You’d almost gone home with someone else.
He’d dragged you away. Told you he was driving you home for safety.
You’d teased.
It hadn’t taken much, for one time to turn to two. Then three, in the morning. Four when he pulled you into a closet and you fell to your knees. Five when you showed up at his place with teary eyes after a bad night, having nowhere else to go. Six, when he showed up at yours a little too drunk.
You stopped counting after you gave your number. Stopped pretending just one more meant anything, when he called.
Now, you don’t label it. Neither of you are brave enough.
But you’re pinned to his desk with your skirt hiked up and your legs over his shoulder. He stuffed your ruined panties into your mouth, and his hands have mapped your body until he knows it better than you do yourself.
“Dripping down your thighs, baby.” He mutters, kissing over sensitive skin. “You been walking around like this all day, just waiting for me to take care of it?”
You nod, threading your fingers through his hair. Make a high whining sound, that only makes Bucky smirk.
“Yeah, you’ve been waiting for me.”
He open-mouth kisses your clit, making out with your pussy until your body feels live a live-wire. Desperately, you grind up into his face.
“Ah,” he presses a cool hand down on your lower stomach. “Patience. You know that, doll.” He slaps your pussy, and your hips jerk up.
You whimper his name through your gag, and Bucky hums. Kisses his way slowly up your body, his hand gliding up until it’s wrapped around your throat. He hums in approval, and your ruined appearance. Drags you forward until your bare cunt is pressed against his erection, and pushes his thumb into your mouth.
The panties almost make you gag, but you unhinged your jaw to accommodate him. Breathing through your nose, looking at him under fluttering lashes, slightly pleading.
“There she is,” his eyes shine as he takes you in. “Always such a good listener for daddy, aren’t you.”
You moan, tears pricking at your eyes, and Bucky ruts against you.
“That’s a good girl. You want it bad, don’t you babydoll.”
You nod stupidly, eyes lidded, and gasp when Bucky rips the panties out of your mouth.
“Beg.”
“Please.” You’re almost sobbing, but dignity isn’t worth anything that makes you feel this good. “Please, Bucky, please-“
He leans down and kisses you until your eyes roll back in your head. You arch into his touch, as he wraps an arm around your lower back, and chase his lips when he pulls away.
“Come back-“
“I will, baby, just- Shit-“ He fumbles with his belt, cock straining through his pants. “You got no idea what you do to me, doll, no fuckin’- There-“
He slips free, yanks his pants down, and crashes back over you in a second. You hum happily at the return of his lips—marking over your neck, your jaw, brushing the soft spot under your ear—and spread your thighs in open invitation.
He takes it. He always does.
Bucky’s hand wraps around your throat, leaning back up to watch himself disappear into your cunt. Your mouth falls open, body going limp at he stretches you open. You never get used to it, how well he fills you up, how close to heaven you get when he bottoms out and kisses your face. Your cheeks, your nose, the corner of your mouth. So strangely sweet, for how he’s already rutting into you. For the sinful sound of his skin slapping against yours, the deep growl of his voice as he drawls in your ear.
“Jesus, you were made for this. Made to drive me crazy, lookin’ so damn pretty, shit-“
You flutter around him, and he slams forward. He’s hitting your g-spot, over and over, his metal arm angling your ass into the air to get a better angle. Your whole body shakes, your voice caught between a moan of his name and broken plea, but he’s fucking the air out of you. You can only scratch at his shoulders, and lose yourself in the feeling of his firm, warm body consuming yours.
“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Bucky groans, circling his hips, and another high, needy sound escapes your lips. “My sweet fuckin’ slut, taking daddy’s cock so good-“
You moan, wanting and loud, and Bucky chuckles.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you. Like how I fuck you, how dumb you get on my cock.”
You just make another sound in response, and Bucky squeezes your throat.
“Words, baby-“
“Yes.” Your hands wrap around his wrist, blinking up at him as the tears start to stream down your face.
Bucky’s mouth twitches, his tone near mocking. “Yes, what?”
“Yes- Oh-“ He slams into you, your whole body shaking from the pleasure .
“Words-“
“Yes, daddy.” You cry, and Bucky’s cock drills into you, faster and faster. “Yes, fuck- Yes-“
Bucky makes a feral sound. He dives down, slotting his mouth over yours, and fucks you like he’s been turned into a machine. Fingers flexing on your neck and tipping your head back, his tongue down your throat, the whole world narrowing down to the pleasure his cock is dragging out of you with brutal precision.
“You’re gonna cum.” He grunts against your lips. “Let go, baby, soak Daddy’s cock-“
You cum with a broken gasp, and you might’ve blacked out. You can feel heat flooding your body, your pussy clenching tight around Bucky’s dick, and a warmth down your thighs that’s probably not just him.
Bucky’s thrusts are small and uneven, as he fucks his cum back into your abused, needy pussy. He’s gone back to kissing over your face, and you just wrap your arms around his neck, trying to focus on his heartbeat and ragged breath as you come down.
“My pretty, dirty girl.” He murmurs. “Fuckin’ mine.”
He sucks a small bruise near a pulse point, his hands possessively and lazily wandering your body, and you just hum. You’re supposed to pretend you don’t hear him, but you’re bad at it. It makes your heart soar every time.
And Bucky used to make you leave fast. Tell you that this wouldn’t happen again, like you didn’t both know that was a lie.
Now he stares at you, touching you softly. Reverently. He smears your spit over your cheek, and kisses you like he thinks about doing it all the time. When you smile at him, he smiles back, and it really is just for you.
If you’re at his apartment, he asks you to stay until morning. Here, he helps you up, then kisses the top of your head before you go. A tight movement that he melts into, his metal hand cradling the back of your neck.
He looks at you again, after he pulls away. His voice a sad, pained rasp.
“Call me tonight.” It sounds like an order. You know it’s more of a plea.
“Okay.” You trace your fingers up your tie. “I should get back, Buck, people are going to be looking-“
“I know.” He sighs, but doesn’t let go. “You know if I could, I’d- That you’re- If things weren’t- One day-“
“Yeah.” You smile back. “I do.”
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Summary: You have never see Bucky cum before, and the reason why is more complicated than you initially thought. Not that you mind.
Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, hyperspermia, lotta porn with a little plot, slight breeding kink, p in v, oral (f receiving), misunderstanding, reader thinks Bucky can't cum—turns out he very much can, verbally mentioned Ava x John jumpscare, ik Yelena is ace but let her have some fun
Inspired by THIS POST by superbassbuck, kudos to you!
You'd had a hunch ever since you started going out with Bucky.
The dates were always wonderful, and he was nothing but a gentleman—never failing to hold the door open, always buying dinner full-fold, and incessantly insisting he walk you home after every encounter. He was the pinnacle of the chivalrous male figurehead, but your suspicions didn't stem from his public persona.
It was your interactions in private—specifically in bed.
And it wasn't the sex itself. The sex was great.
"Jesus Christ, Bucky," you breathed, sinking your nails into the fluttering delts of his shoulders as he pounded his hips into yours. Bucky held the headboard hostage under a white knuckled grip, his abuse of the bed evident by the repetitive sound of the wood striking the apartment wall. He hung his head, and his lips were forcefully parted by a shaky groan.
"You feel so good," he whispered, his voice strained as the muscles in his face tightened. "You're so good."
"Bucky, God—" you whimpered. "Please, don't stop—I'm so… close—"
You felt your stomach tighten, and your naked abdomen visibly constricted as your core squeezed his thrusting cock. Bucky’s pace stuttered at the sensation, a choked "Fuck—shit—" falling from his mouth as his eyes shot open. You thought you saw flash of distress cross his features as he slapped one of his large hands down on your stomach to steady his movements. His body seemed to crumple in on itself as he hunched over, heavy, knitted brows stacked on top of squeezed-shut eyes, and he pistoned his hips into your just enough more times to feel the fluttery sensation of your finish before he quickly removed himself.
You laid out on the bed, spread and satisfied as you slowly managed to catch your breath.
"Buck," you whispered, blurry eyes looking down the expanse of your shiny chest to see his back to you at the edge of the bed, still hunched over. You attempted to sit up, but your core wheezed in disapproval, sending you flat-backed back down onto the mess of sheets. "Bucky?" you asked again, exhaling slowly. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, just—" he began, but he seemed to bite his words, "—just give me a second."
"Okay," you murmured, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the dots to clear from your eyes.
A few minutes of only the sound of your own weighted breathing stretched on before the mattress eventually shifted, and you watched Bucky's large frame crawl back to the top of the bed.
"You're sure you're okay?" you asked as he settled beside you. The cool metal of his artificial fingers bit into your side as he pulled you closer to him before he lounged the metallic arm lazily across your stomach.
"I'm fine," he whispered, his voice hoarse. The warmth of his breath engulfed your shoulder as he peppered soft kisses to your flushed skin in an attempt to reassure you. "I promise."
"You'd tell me if there wasn't something wrong, right?"
A mechanism in his arm whirled, and Bucky hesitated.
"Of course," he finally murmured. "What's my secret is your secret, too."
You nodded, momentarily satisfied by his answer.
"Good," you murmured, overlapping his metal forearm where it rested on your belly and sleepily tracing the grooves.
It should have been a red flag, but you decided to put the situation on the backburner. Maybe he was just having a bad day—maybe it was a cramp or even just a sudden sense of discomfort that had put him off.
Or maybe you were just overthinking it.
You hoped that sentiment would help you sleep that night, and it did. That was, until the following evening.
Perched at the end of the bed, work pants down to your ankles, and his face buried between your thighs, you were, once again, overwhelmed by pleasure. Your sheets were held hostage within your own bloodless knuckles as you leaned back on shaking arms, feeling as though you were about to see the light of God with how his tongue was working beneath your panties.
"Oh my God, Buck—" you moaned, a particularly sharp thrust of his tongue sending one of your arms out of commission as it collapsed. The change in stability had you wrapping a leg around his neck to steady yourself, and you felt a deep chuckle vibrate the entirety of your quivering frame. “You smug little—"
Your voice was cut off by a dirty suck, and that was the last of your second arm. You tangled your free hands into his grown out hair as you hips began to match the rhythm of his mouth, rising and falling from the mattress despite how terribly your core ached from the previous night's antics. Your clit nudged the notch of his nose, and the friction was almost enough to send you over the edge as your whole body twitched.
"Bucky, please, wait—I'm going to make a fucking mess—" you begged, raking your nails across his scalp and giving his forehead a push of warning. However, he didn't let up, his grip on your ass unrelenting as he only insisted you tighter against his face. He nuzzled his nose deep within your folds as his tongue worked your button raw. You felt your legs quake around his shoulders as you bit your wrist and came all over his face with a pathetic, stuttering whimper.
Words were difficult as you slowly came down from your high, a wheeze leaving your chest.
"Shit, Barnes," you huffed, your ears ringing as your hips twitched against the slowing movements of his tongue. You slid your fingers through his hair in a more soothing manner as he finally emerged from between your thighs, his idiotic grin glistening in the dim lamp light. "Don't look so proud."
"Why not?" he asked, placing a sticky kiss over the top of your mound before using the edge of the mattress to hoist himself up from his knees. "I can't be proud of pleasing my woman?"
"You can be pleased," you said, core crying out for help as you managed to sit up, eyeing the obvious bulge in his pants, "but I know what would please you more," you murmured, taking him by the belt and tugging him between your legs. You flicked your eyes up to his. "Let me please you, Bucky."
And yet, despite your infamously persuasive doe eyes, he seemed to completely shut down at the request.
"I can do it," he quickly said, taking your wandering hand by the wrist before you could even think about touching the zipper to his trousers. "Don't worry about it."
You narrowed your eyes at his sudden discomfort, cocking your head as you did your best to mask your disappointment.
"Are you sure?" you asked. "I think you might like it if I—"
"I don't want to make you do that," he said, tugging your prying fingers away from his fly. "You don't have to."
"But I want to, Bucky," you said, a confused chuckle leaving your lips before you could stop it. "I promise it doesn't make me uncomfortable."
"I just—I don't want you to think that you need to return the favor," he said as he strategically stepped away. His intentional distancing only caused your confusion to swell.
"I'm offering to help you, Bucky—to make you feel good. I don't—" you said, moving to stand and following him only for your weakened legs to insist you back onto the bed. You swallowed, looking up from your shaking muscles to where he had retreated to the bathroom doorway. "What's going on? I've never heard of a guy giving up the opportunity to get blown."
Bucky took the comment as an accusation, and his response was sharp.
"I just don't want you to, alright?" he snapped, his voice easily filling the room. Caught off guard by his serrated tone, you snapped your jaw shut and quickly looked down at your feet as embarrassment burned your cheeks.
After a moment of silence, he audibly exhaled like he was about to say something, but instead he simply closed the bathroom door. The cruel chorus of the inner fan extinguished any chance you had at potentially hearing what he was hiding.
"Shit," you grumbled into the suddenly cold room. You managed to finally get to your feet in the style of a newborn deer and grasped your ruined panties from around your ankles. You tossed them into the hamper and found a clean pair, muttering to yourself as you began cleaning up for bed.
By the time Bucky came out of the bathroom, you were already in bed, lights out, pretending to be asleep.
Unfortunately, he knew you better than that.
After fumbling around in the dark and attempting to keep his heavy footsteps quiet, the other side of the mattress dipped. You were briefly exposed to the cool air as the sheets lifted before a warm body settled itself behind you, heating the underside of the covers like a built-in sauna.
By his stuttering breath, you could tell Bucky wanted to say something. You could feel him ghost his hand over the curves of your side, but his hesitation was brief as he finally clamped his metal hand over your waist and tugged you back against his chest.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, breath hot on your ear. But you shook your head, repositioning yourself as he hiked one of his big, burly legs over your pair of already overlapping ones.
"Don't be sorry," you said. "I pushed you, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."
"I wasn't—" he began, but sighed. "It isn't you," he mumbled, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "It's nothing you did—nothing you ever do. I don't want you to ever think that," he said. "It's all me."
You let those cryptic words hang in the air and felt the corners of your mouth sink deep into your face when you realized you didn't feel any relief after being declared innocent.
"You..." you began, inhaling sharply as you overlapped his metal hand on your stomach and squeezed. "You would... tell me if there was something wrong, right? If there was something bothering you, or something that made you uncomfortable—"
"Nothing's wrong," he promised, but the hollow words traveled in one of your ears and out the other. Your head lulled, and you hoped he couldn't sense your disbelief in his attempt to reassure you. "Nothing made me uncomfortable, I just..."
The pregnant pause that followed did not aid his credibility.
"I get it, Bucky," you eventually found yourself saying, cutting off his silence. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."
His sigh of relief seemed artificial, as if it's purpose was to soothe you more than himself.
"Thank you," he murmured, offering you a kiss to the junction of your jaw, to your neck, and to your shoulder.
You tried to let it go.
You really did.
But God it bothered you.
And, with a more observative eye in the following countless bedroom encounters, with all your proceeding attempts at a blowjob continuing to be rejected, and with the notable lack of even the sight of his dick, you found yourself realizing you had never witnessed Bucky finishing.
Sure, he claimed to, but you never found evidence of such an act.
And you looked—you looked desperately and disgustingly.
But no, the mess of the deed was entirely your own; Not one speck of semen to be found.
You weren't sure if it was his clear dissatisfaction with you or the presence of an unyielding secret between the two of you that hurt the most.
"Men are disgusting," Yelena grumbled.
Ava hummed in agreement as she took a swig of her drink.
"I do not know how you two do it," she murmured, waving between you and Ava. "How do you live with such a creature? They are more like pet than partner," she said, sipping from her glass of hard liquor. "You clean up after them, you cook for them, you keep them entertained; What do they do for you, eh? Get you off?"
"Not even that sometimes," Ava mumbled into her glass.
"When me and Kate are together," Yelena went on, setting her cup down on the counter of the bar and raising her hands, "we are equal; do you see?" she asked, demonstrating. "I make Mac & Cheese one evening, she makes spaghetti next evening," she said, raising both her hands in a staggered fashion—one after the other. "When she cleans table, I clean dishes. When I get her off, she gets me—"
"We get it, Yelena," you grumbled. "Being gay is more fun."
"What's got your panties in a twist tonight?" Ava asked, noticing your sluggish attitude. "Trouble in paradise with Congressman Barnes?"
Your eyes followed the circular motion of your drink as it swirled in your glass, subtly bobbing your head from side to side as you decided how to answer the question.
"When you have sex with Walker, Ava," you began, meeting her eyes, "he cums, doesn't he?"
Ava coughed in surprise. "Jesus," she muttered, throwing back the rest of her drink and immediately gesturing for another as she glanced down in your direction. "Where did all that filth come from?"
You glared at her. "Just answer the question."
"Well," she said, sitting up a bit straighter. "He does—a lot," she murmured, tapping her fingers repetitively across the bartop. "He's actually very selfish about it now that you mention it."
"And you guys just hook up, right? It's nothing serious?"
She nodded, and her and Yelena's brows cocked simultaneously.
"What's this about? 'Barnes not satisfying you?"
You frowned, laying your head in your folded arms as your frustration began to overcome your confusion.
"No," you murmured. "It's the other way around."
Ava scoffed, and thanked the bartender for the beverage as he passed.
"That is joke, no?" Yelena asked. "What man would not be satisfied by you? You are very beautiful woman," she said, a teasing smile tugging at her painted lips. "I would know this."
"I have literally never seen him cum before," you said, voice breathy with exasperation as you glanced at them. You felt a worry line dig itself between your bunched brows. "I finally noticed it when he wouldn't let me suck him off, and I haven't been able to get—"
"Woah, wait a second," Ava cut in, face contorting in confusion. "Bucky wouldn't let you blow him?" she asked, appalled. "What kind of idiot is he? Did you bite his balls off the last time you gave him one?"
"And that's just the cherry on top," you groaned, slapping a hand to your face as you shook your head. "I haven't even done it to him before—he doesn't even know if I'm good at it!" you grumbled. "That's why I'm so fucking confused. He totally shut down the first time I offered, and I'm pretty sure I haven't seen his dick since."
"When was that?"
You felt your entire body sag as you sighed.
"Over a month ago."
Ava's entire face cringed, and Yelena shuddered.
"As in—no sex... or anything?" Ava asked.
You shook your head.
"Every time I initiate something, he gets me off with his mouth and then disappears into the bathroom where I assume he jacks himself off, but I can't even tell for sure because he turns the goddamn fan on. As far as I know he physically can't ejaculate."
The vulgar term earned you a strange look from the group of men a few seats down the bar.
"Maybe he cannot," Yelena agreed. "Man would be very embarrassed over inability to reproduce, no?"
You watched Ava slowly nod as she considered the idea.
"Yelena's probably right; he might be embarrassed," she said, throwing one leg over the other. "I know John would be. In fact, I'm pretty sure he would avoid sex all together if he couldn't—" She hesitated, "—perform up to normal standards."
You dug your palm into your forehead, closed your eyes as you tried to banish the guilt swelling in the pit of your stomach.
"Fuck," you grumbled, dragging your hand down your face as you shook your head. "How do I tell him he doesn't have to be embarrassed? I don't care if he can't cum, I just..." You felt your voice break. "I just want him," you said, looking away. "I miss him."
Ava and Yelena exchanged a look at your deflated posture, clearly unsure of how to proceed.
A warm hand settled on your shoulder, rubbing reassuring circles into a knot of tense muscles.
"Talk to him,” Yelena decided, leaning over the bar to better meet the low level of your eyes. "Bucky likes information straight; He does not like to dance around problems."
Ava nodded alongside the advice, gently squeezing the nape of your neck before pulling away.
"I have to agree. You're just going to have to face it head on," she said, taking another long swig of her drink.
"And if he doesn't respond well?"
The two women shared a look, but before the more sober of the two could answer, Yelena cut in, alcohol on her breath. "You come to Kate's place, and we celebrate freedom with strap!"
You managed to swallow your drink before you had the chance to choke on it, and Ava erupted into a mess of muffled laughter as the three of you received yet another glare from the men further down the bar.
Deciding to trust your friends and take their advice to heart, the next time you found yourself being undressed by Bucky, you probed the point of sensitivity.
"Bucky," you whispered against his lips, inhaling his exhale. Your lashes fluttered as you failed to capture the attention of his distracted eyes, his mouth continuing its tirade of affection across your jaw.
Hands under your shirt, roaming greedily across the naked skin underneath, Bucky pressed long, impassionating kiss to your neck. His teeth skimmed the junction of your throat, and his lips wandered lower, planting themselves across your chest as his hand tugged at the collar of your shirt.
"Bucky," you murmured as the suction of his lips relented from your sternum, "I wanted to talk to you about something," you tried, watching as he shifted to take the familiar position between your legs. Without thinking, you snapped your knees together, shyly meeting his eyes as he raised a brow.
"You talk, I continue," he said simply, grasping your legs and insisting them back open. He peppered the inside of your knees with sweet kisses, his hands smoothing themselves down your naked thighs as he melted into the sheets of the mattress.
"But this is about us—" you tried to argue only for your breath to hitch as he nipped at your inner thigh, "and I want you to actually listen."
"Do I need to prove to you that I can double task?" Bucky asked, but his threat was lost behind the booming beat of your heart against your eardrums. Your head fell back onto the pillow as you felt his fingers toy with your clothed slit, prodding over your twitching hole. "Because I will," he said, and you didn't miss the smirk on his lips as he pulled your ruined panties aside. And before you knew it, his fingers and tongue had teamed up against you, two digits sinking inside while his tongue prepped your clit.
"Jesus—" you gasped, arching into his tongue as you buried your hand into his hair. "Please, Buck, I need to—"
He only hummed in response, and the feeling caused your entire body to quake.
"I need—" you tried again, but your mouth fell open as he curled his fingers. Your grip tightened in his hair, pressing his face more insistently against your pussy as he forced a third finger inside and picked up his already brutal pace.
"What do you need?" he asked, your legs twitching at the sensation of his hot breath on your exposed slit. "Tell me."
"I need to talk—"
But he licked a long strip from your hole to your clit, shutting down that train of thought real quick. Your hips moved at their own accord, and you began desperately humping his fingers as your peak approached beneath the affectionate abuse of his thumb on your clit and his wet face against the inner fat of your thigh.
"God, fine!" you cried. "I need you, Bucky, please!" you whimpered, pulling at the root of his hair until the pressure elicited a grunt from him, and your entire body finally spasmed around his fingers.
He gently dipped his fingers in and out as you gasped for breath, and he pressed an all too sweet kiss to your twitching clit. You managed to get ahold of your exercised lungs, and you released a long, shaky exhale, the horny fog slowly clearing from your mind as you came down from your high.
Fuck, you needed to get a grip.
"'You alright?" he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to your kneecap as he pulled himself up to lay beside you. With you jaw hanging open, you continued to inhale ragged breaths, and your eyes slowly followed his movements until he settled on his back beside you, metal arm resting behind his head—pinned—and that familiar bulge pressing into the fly of his pants.
"Yeah," you breathed, flicking your gaze up to meet his. You could tell he almost immediately noticed the impish glint in your eyes.
"What are you planning?" he asked, offering you a lopsided smile as he cocked his head.
You moved before you could convince yourself otherwise, and, with your core stronger than ever, you threw your leg over his lap, successfully straddling him. The rough texture of his pants rubbed lusciously into your naked, sensitive clit, and the cool metal of the embedded zipper caused your body to arch into the sensation.
Bucky yelped at the sudden weight on the pressure in his pants, and his hands immediately grasped your waist. He desperately tried to bury his hips further into the bed in a poor attempt to flee.
"Hold on a second—" he grunted, every muscle in his face tensing in confusion. "What are you doing?"
"I told you we needed to talk," you said, "and you weren't listening."
"Well, I'm listening now!" he barked, the muscle in his jaw jumping as his fingers dug into your flesh, metal arm whirling.
You pressed your hips into his, relishing the groan Bucky couldn't manage to swallow as the tendons in his neck popped and his head fell back into the pillows. His cock twitched beneath you, pulsing with every roll of your hips.
"Please," Bucky pleaded, face scrunched and his hands flexing at your sides. "You don't understand—"
He twitched beneath you as you settled a hand on the tight muscles of his abdomen and grasped his shoulder to anchor yourself. You bit your lip and dragged your clit over the metal of his belt.
"Relax, Buck," you murmured into his ear, watching his nostrils flare with a restrained exhale as squeezed his eyes shut and audibly swallowed. "I know what's going on," you murmured, ghosting your lips over his flushed pulse point, "and it's okay, Bucky."
The information seemed to make him sputter.
"You..." he began, but his breath caught as you ground your hips down against him. "You know?"
"Yes," you murmured. "Now relax," you repeated, pulling away and planting a kiss on the center of his forehead, "and let me take care of you."
You maintained eye contact with him as you slipped your hand from his shoulder and followed the grooves of his swathed chest down to the buckle fastening his pants. Your eager fingers easily worked the mechanism open, and you pulled the belt free.
Almost instantaneously, panic flashed over his face at the relief of pressure, and before you knew it his metal hand had encompassed your wrist, stalling your movements. And, as had happened before, disappointment flooded your face, and you were sure Bucky saw it as you looked up from where his hand had clasped yours.
Upon meeting those usually so assured, fearless eyes, your lips pursed tightly to keep yourself from getting visibly upset, you realized the expression on his face was not one of embarrassment; Cheeks that should have been beet red were unusually pale, and the sheene of sensual sweat on his normally heat-flustered body had gone sickly cold.
He was afraid.
"Bucky," you whispered, realizing it had been your actions that had caused him to react in such a distressed way. "I'm sorry—"
"No," he quickly said, once again pausing your squirming as you moved to get off of him. "No—I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be normal for you, I just—"
He looked away, every worry line on his face digging deep enough to do damage. You watched his jaw flex.
"I need to explain to you what you're getting into because I just—" he tried, pivoting his chin back forward but failing to meet your eyes. "I don't want to hurt you."
You nodded out of instinct, but paused, and a significant silence stretched between the two of you.
"Bucky."
"...Yeah?"
"How would your anejaculation cause me bodily harm?"
Another pregnant pause, and you watched his face contort in confusion, eyes finally looking up.
"Anejaculation?" he asked. "What the hell is that?"
"It's when a guy can't ejaculate," you said slowly. "That's... not what you have?"
He blinked, and a sharp, uncontrollable chuckle rumbled through his body before he was entirely taken over by unrestrained laughter. You felt your face flush red at his hysterics, and you had to reach out and grab his jumping delt to stabilize yourself on his lap.
"Ane—" he tried but was immediately cut off by another impromptu chuckle. You hit his chest, and he finally managed to gather himself. "No, sweetheart, that's not what I have," he said, "but you're sweet for thinking it's that simple."
"Don't flatter me," you grunted, crossing your arms. "You haven't shown me your dick in weeks, and you refuse to tell me why. What was I supposed to think?"
He failed to keep that shit eating grin from tugging at his lips.
"Maybe I didn't want to have sex?"
You moved to hit him again, but he caught your hand this time. Bucky pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist before molding your palm around the curve of his cheek, overlapping it with his own.
"Don't be a smartass," you warned him, your face softening as he closed his eyes and leaned into the heat of your hand. "Buck, why won't you tell me what's wrong?"
He was clearly still reluctant to elaborate; that worry line nestled itself back between his brows as he absently swiped his thumb over the skin of your hip.
"I—" he murmured, narrowing his eyes. "I just don't want you to see me differently," he said, briefly meeting your eyes with a vulnerability you're not sure you'd ever seen from him before. "I like how you look at me now."
"Bucky," you whispered, leaning closer to encourage his fleeting eyes to look at you again. "I won't," you said firmly, "I promise, Buck. I won't look at you any differently than how I am now no matter what you tell me, I promise."
His eyes almost crossed as he stared at you, and they fell into a loose triangle pattern before he finally inhaled and slowly nodded.
"When I was with Hydra," he said, lowering his voice as he swallowed, "they injected me with an experimental serum. It was meant to be a replica of the one they gave Steve," he said, gesturing weakly to nothing in particular. "Most of their attempts at remaking it failed, so they made sure that if it did happen to work on a subject that its effects would undoubtedly be passed on to their offspring."
You stroked his cheek, slowly nodding along with the information.
"The serum makes my orgasms really overwhelming," he murmured, cheeks flushing. "It's... a lot, and it's always a mess, and I didn't want to..." He trailed off, and cringed as his eyes flicked up to you, "... fill you up... because... well... it can be uncomfortable."
You were quiet for a moment, and felt his chest rise and fall shakily beneath you.
"So... you don't have a problem ejaculating?" you asked. His chuckle was fragmented by lingering emotion, but he shook his head, squeezing your waist.
"No, I don't have a problem ejaculating," he confirmed. "The opposite really."
"And you kept this from me because you thought I couldn't... what? Handle your load?"
His entire face reddened, and he groaned at your filthy phrasing, shaking his head.
"That's not what I meant," he grumbled. "I was just... afraid you'd think it was gross and weird—think I am weird."
His nostrils flared, and he shifted under your focused attention. You noted his distressed expression as he awaited your reaction.
"Well now you've got me curious," you murmured, biting your teasing smile, and he finally let out a genuine sigh of relief. His demeanor softened as he chuckled again, and his hands squeezed your waist. "And I feel the sudden urge to prove you wrong," you murmured, tracing a finger across the fabric between his pecs.
"Jesus," he breathed as you leaned down and pressed another innocent kiss to his pulse, feeling it flutter beneath your lips. "What did I do to deserve you?" he whispered, every muscle in his body tightening as you resumed the gentle rocking of your hips.
"Not sure," you murmured, playfully biting the lobe of his ear. "You tell me, Barnes."
His hands hadn't eased their grip on your hips, not allowing you much leeway with your movements as you did your best to help him relax into your warm embrace.
"I must've prayed," he murmured, breathless as you slowly undid each button of his dress shirt, steam practically radiating off the revealed skin underneath. With the fabric fully undone, you slid your hands along the gummy sides of his lower torso and pressed your palms into his lower back, insisting his hips closer to yours. He inhaled through gritted teeth as the bulge in his pants slotted itself against your naked core, and you hummed, reaching back around to his front and grasping the waist of his pants in an attempt to lift them again.
"Pardon me for being blunt," you found yourself murmuring as his cock pulsed against you, "but you said the point of your super orgasm was to guarantee a baby, right?" you asked, reassuringly squeezing his side. Bucky's glittering gaze appeared almost far away as he stared up at you, but he managed a frantic nod as his nostrils flared with wilting restraint.
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes."
"Well," you murmured, barely able to contain a pleasurable hum as Bucky's hips inadvertently twitched, "do you think your serum can beat my IUD?"
The question finally seemed to snap the last of his restraint.
Before you knew it, you were being hoisted off of his lap, a squeal of surprise flying from your mouth as your stomach flipped, and your back hit the cushioned landing of the mattress. You blinked and had to scrub the surprise off your face as you looked over your parted knees to see Bucky looming over you, the holy sound of his pants zipper practically making you ascend.
"Only one way to find out," he grunted, and the tent of his pants fell flat as he finally let you lay eyes on his dick after weeks of separation. And oh how you missed the stunning sight; Already spouting with precum, his fully erect organ stared you down like it was making a promise.
Oh fuck.
You closed your legs out of instinct, but Bucky wasn't having your shy behavior. As he pumped himself to full height, he grasped both of your knees with his other big, broad hand and insisted your legs back open, revealing how pathetically wet you had became at just the simple sight of him.
He quirked a brow.
"Excited?"
"Shut your mouth, Barnes."
He grinned and settled himself over you, planting a stabilizing hand in the sheets beside your head as his heat filled the space between your chests. You found yourself panting beneath him, and your entire body flinched as he stroked the tip of his cock just above your twitching hole. You reached up and grabbed him by the shoulders as you mewled, head falling back at the sensation.
"Please, Bucky," you begged. "Please, I need you so bad—It's been so fucking long."
He let out a chuckle of amusement at your desperation, and gently teased his tip into your entrance a few times, the obscene suctioning sounds making you bite your tongue before he finally thrusted into your messy, swollen hole. You dug your fingertips deep into his traps, and your breath hitched as he sunk himself all the way inside, exhaling a hot breath over your chest.
"I forgot how good you feel," he murmured. "Too good."
You simply shook your head and raised your hips until they kissed his. He grunted, quickly pressing a hand to your stomach in an attempt to pin you down and stop your impatient movements before beginning long, slow thrusts into you. The coarse hair around his pelvis nuzzled against your stomach as he locked his hips into yours with every motion. His gentle, methodical pace enabled you to feel every ridge and vein of his cock, and eventually you even began to feel it's eager pulsing, already prepared to empty its seed inside your clamped walls.
As Bucky's pace began to quicken at the approaching ultimatum, you found yourself looking at him through hazy vision, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. That line between his brows was still prominently present, and his eyes were closed as he concentrated on restraining himself, his pace beginning to consciously falter. You watched a bead of sweat roll down his temple and noticed the way his arm was trembling beside your face.
He was still thinking—still worrying.
"I'm not going to last," he grunted, that tension in his face briefly wavering as he couldn't help but grind his hips into yours. You gasped, feeling the throbbing tip of his cock kiss your cervix.
"Good," you whispered. "Good, Bucky, that's good," you tried to reassure him, but he was shaking his head, his thrusts growing more shallow. You whined in complaint, hooking a leg around his hips to prevent his early exit.
"I can't do it—" he whispered.
"Yes, you can," you said. "You can—please! I want it—I need it so bad, Buck, please."
He bumped his hips back into yours, and you quickly trailed yours hands down his back until you could grip his ass, insisting him to pick up his hesitant pace.
"Jesus," he moaned into your ear, heavy headed as he rested his forehead on the bed. His lips ghosted your ear, and he mouthed your name. "It's—I can't—fuck," he groaned. "Where do you want it?"
You moaned at the question.
"Inside," you begged. "I want it inside, Bucky, please—"
An obscene noise left his lips at your request, and he began pounding into you, unraveling before your eyes. The wet slapping of skin filled the room as his hips crashed against yours, every hit of his pace pushing the burning tip of his dick harder against the entrance to your awaiting womb. You arched into his hand as he desperately palmed at your clit, and the simultaneous overstimulating pleasures had a stuttered cry falling from your loose jaw as your climax washed over you.
But Bucky wasn't finished.
"Are you sure?" he managed to ask you as you felt the muscles in his lower back tighten under the grip of your fingertips.
Barely coherent, a single word fell from your parted lips: "Yes."
"I shouldn't—" he tried, but the force of his remaining, stuttering thrusts indicated he was past the point of no return. He squeezed his eyes closed, and every muscle in his body seized as he made one last desperate attempt to pull out. Your second leg not only kept him buried inside you but pushed him deeper as he managed a panicked whine before you felt his hips jerk.
"Fuck," he bit, wrapping his arms around you as his pulsating dick fully emptied its load inside of you. Your eyes rolled back as the warmth spread deep within your stomach, and your walls devotedly clamped around his rocking cock, committed to keeping every speck of his finish within your pussy.
His seed burned your insides, and the victory felt glorious.
His heavy breaths fanned your neck, and the weight of his exhausted, ruined body rested on top of you. You gently gathered his overstimulated frame into your arms as his hips twitched, twining your arms around his neck and tangling your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.
A warm smile slowly pulled at your lips as you pressed a kiss beneath his jaw, and a breathless giggle left your lips as he slowly drew his cock out.
"I think those Hydra people overestimated—"
Every muscle in Bucky’s body convulsed, and he rammed his dick back inside, a choked sound leaving his parted lips as his cock spasmed and dumped another load inside of you. The fluid squelched as he desperately humped at your hole, hips sticking to yours with every push of his inconsistent pattern.
"Jesus," was all you managed to mouth as the warmth inside you mushroomed, spreading through your belly as he worked his seed further inside—making sure it would take.
His hips ground leisurely against yours, brushing your clit as he seemed to relax again only for you to feel his ass clench and his heavy balls contract before he fucked his hips up into yours once more. The breath was knocked from your exhausted lungs, and you could only whimper as he insisted his dick as far inside as it could possibly go, sealing off any chance of escape for his load as he poured into you once more.
Bucky sunk his teeth into your shoulder as his back hunched, a choked groan falling from his fallen, glistening lips. You vaguely felt a shudder overwhelm the entirety of his body.
"Fuck," he whispered into your skin, his eyes fluttering as he finally managed to open them. "Shit," he murmured, struggling to sit up from your ruined body as he cringed and slowly withdrew his wrecking ball of a dick.
You weren't sure you could move—you had never felt so heavy.
Vision still murky, your eyes weakly fell to look down your stammering chest at his blurry figure kneeling limply amidst your parted knees. Bucky's chin had fallen to rest on his collarbone, and his eyes were trained on what you were sure was a mess between your legs.
"Never mind," you found yourself mumbling, "they definitely didn't overestimate."
"Are you okay?" he asked, wincing as you huffed out an exhausted breath.
"Where does all that shit even come from?" you grunted, attempting to sit up only to immediately fall back down, stars clouding your vision. You zeroed in on the head of his dick from your fixed position, and your face contorted in exasperation. "And it's still fucking leaking!"
"Please, stop," Bucky groaned, running a hand down his face as he crawled up beside you. He rested on an elbow and met your drooping gaze. "Are you okay?"
You stared up at the ceiling.
"I feel defeated," you murmured, turning your head to look at him. "I couldn't handle it, which means you were fucking right."
Your playful disappointment had him cracking a smile, and he leaned over, pressing a kiss to your shoulder and your neck.
"'Think your IUD feels the same?"
You rolled your eyes and grinned, reaching up and poking his nose.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" you murmured, enjoying the confirming glint in his eyes. "We'll see; you might have a little super soldier running around in a year."
You followed his eyes to where he stared at your stomach, gently tickling the shiny, exposed skin.
"We'd have to get married then," he mumbled catching your attention. A fluttery sensation erupted in your belly.
"Maybe," you murmured, "on one condition."
He raised a brow.
"And what's that?"
You grinned and were unable to keep your eyes from flicking down to his still drooling dick.
"You have to do that in my mouth."
Bucky groaned, burying his red face into your shoulder.
summary: out of a job and with no place to go, you have no choice but to move back home. the house is the same, the town is the same, your dad is the same — familiarly absent. what has changed is the man who now lives in the guest bedroom. bucky barnes — your dad's best friend — is not familiar, nor is he absent.
warnings: MDNI! no use of y/n, established relationship, age gap (reader is abt mid 20s), HEAVY daddy kink, elements of age play, dom!bucky, sub!reader, masturbation, oral sex, piv, creampie, breeding kink, mentioned lactation kink, hints of daddy issues, bucky is a bit of a perv, one (1) mention of student loans, mentions of a broken home and neglectful father
reader: afab!reader, uses she/her pronouns, mentioned to be smaller than bucky, able bodied.
a/n: yeah idk what this is chat but i'm sure as shit not sorry! thank you @barnes-babydoll for proofreading and @sheriff-bodecker for letting me raid your pinterest board <3
wanna read on ao3? click here!
There was comfort in knowing your dad’s habits hadn’t changed after you left for college.
He still wakes up at the same, mind-numbing hour in the morning — if he comes home from the office at all — still takes his coffee black with one spoonful of Stevia, still insists on spending half the month away on business trips to places you can’t care to remember. It was familiar — the routine easy to slip back into after you moved back home, the loss of your job leaving you unable to afford your fancy apartment in the city.
When you were a kid, your aunt would stay with you. She’d take you to school, go to your recitals and cart you around to friends houses. She’d try to cook you dinner, and she’d even lie and say your dad called to say goodnight after you fell asleep, whenever he was away. Your dad’s absence was almost more familiar than his presence, his time devoted to his work instead of you.
Now, an adult with a retirement plan and student loans and a resume gathering dust, your aunt isn’t there to watch over you. But your room is the same as you left it, and there’s a collection of takeout boxes in the fridge from the nights your dad eats at home, same as always. Your aunt isn’t there to watch over you, though you aren’t alone. Bucky is there, living in the spare room down the hall from yours.
Bucky had never been a fixture in your life, growing up. You knew of him almost exclusively through pictures and the rare stories your dad told of his childhood. Almost. You do have one memory of Bucky — distant and hazy — of him drinking beer and laughing with your dad on a camping trip when you were ten. You remember a large hand ruffling your hair after he helped you spear a marshmallow on your stick. More than that, you remember that final fight your dad had with your mom, the one that cut the trip short, the one that sent her running for the hills without you.
While your dad had stayed in their hometown, Bucky hadn’t. He’d joined the military, where deployments and a subsequent injury that cost him his arm swallowed up the years. It’s not until his wife asks for a divorce that he comes back home.
And why wouldn’t he move back? Bucky had no kids to keep him there, no ties to sunny California. He’d wanted to come home for years, missed the changing colors of the leaves in the fall, missed Sundays spent with your dad eating cheap wings and watching football.
Bucky told you that late one night when sleep escaped you both. He tells you all about growing up with your dad, all the ways your little town has changed and all the ways it’s stubbornly stayed the same. You trade stories, a currency built on shared meals and empty houses. It’s easy to fall into a routine with him. He cooks; you clean the dishes. You buy the groceries; he puts them away. It’s almost domestic, dangerously so. It’s easy in a way you’ve never had. He becomes a constant in your life, so much so that your friends begin to joke that he’s your best friend these days — this man twice your age.
But could you really be blamed for growing closer to him? He was easy to like; you understand why your dad has kept in contact all these years. He’s funny. Kind. Never once has he questioned your decision to move back home. Your dad hadn’t done that. And Bucky cares. You’d never had anyone make dinner for you the way he does before. Your dad lived on takeout, and your aunt did the best with what she had.
Your world tilts when your friend makes a comment one night in the car.
It’s a Friday, and your friends insist on coming into the house when they come to pick you up. You wonder why they snicker to themselves, why they flash you incredulous looks whenever Bucky’s back is turned.
Bucky sends all of you off with a wave, a kind smile and a “be safe, ladies!” that brightens your entire night. It sends your friends into fits of giggles.
The car is silent until you leave the driveway. The moment your house is out of sight, Katie shoves you, a wicked grin painting her face. “You didn’t tell me he looked like that! He’s the hottest fucking man I’ve ever seen! I thought we were friends!” She teases.
“What do you mean?” You hope she doesn’t mean Bucky. Maybe she’s talking about someone else, someone other than the man who has wedged his way into your life.
Delusion fails to save you.
“He’s fucking hot, is what I mean! You said he’s divorced? I’ll ride him so hard his balls deflate. And his metal arm?” She breaks off into a groan, and your jaw clenches.
The rest of your friends laugh at Katie’s crass words; you play at disgust. “He’s my dad’s friend!” You protest.
You wonder why your words fail to convince you, wonder why the defensive strike in your chest tastes like jealousy, rather than fear that your friend will make things awkward between you and Bucky. You try to ignore that your first thought is that Bucky is yours. You refuse to reckon with the fact that the thought of coming downstairs one morning and seeing your friend at the kitchen counter, in one of his shirts, eating breakfast that he made her is enough to ruin your mood for the evening.
It festers, the possessive flare that took root early that night. You’re quick to dismiss Katie’s suggestion that she walks you to the door; the uncharitable thought that she only wants to get her claws into Bucky bounces around your skull. A woman who has only shown you genuine friendship should not incite such feelings in you, you tell yourself. And yet they’re there, as ever-present as Bucky is that night after you go in, handing you a glass of water and a bottle of Advil for the hangover you’re sure to experience in the morning.
It’s hard not to notice him in that way after that. You try not to. You really, really do. But it’s hard when he prances around the kitchen in shower-damp hair, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, the hem of his t-shirt rising with his arms every time he reaches to grab something. It’s rude, really. Offensive, when you couldn’t do anything about it.
It’s worse when you’re seated across from him, talking to him with his attention solely on you. It’s intoxicating — the weight of his eyes on yours as he hangs on your every word, the low rasp of his voice; it’s easy to get lost in him. And when he sends you to bed because “it’s late, and you need rest,” voice firm and unyielding, you can’t help the warm tendrils of arousal that curl through your stomach.
Eventually, you reason that looking won’t hurt. Looking never hurt anyone, nor did late-night fantasies when kept to oneself. It wasn’t wrong as long as you never touched him, as long as he didn’t know.
Looking begins to hurt one day after your shower.
You hadn’t bothered bringing your clothes with you, like you did when Bucky was home, and he wasn’t supposed to be home for a few hours yet. So when you step out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel, hair still wet and stuck to damp skin, Bucky catches you by surprise.
Maybe surprise is putting it lightly. You almost run straight into him, stumbling, floundering to keep from crashing into him without losing hold of your towel, and it’s Bucky who steadies you. Bucky, who grabs your shoulders with hands that engulf them. Bucky, whose hands sear, stuck to your damp skin, metal and flesh alike. All you can do is gape up at him, startled at his presence and off-kilter from your almost fall.
You grip the towel close to your chest, white knuckles preserving your dignity.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Bucky says, voice low. He flicks his gaze down to your chest before darting back up, not quite meeting your eyes, instead focusing on a point just above your head. His hands drop and his cheeks flush — it’d almost be adorable, if he wasn’t so visibly uncomfortable.
“I’ll just-“ Bucky steps back, and you don’t get to apologize before he’s rushing to his room down the hall.
You hurry to yours, kicking yourself the rest of the afternoon. You sulk through dinner too, where Bucky still can’t quite meet your eyes. You’d ruined things, made them uncomfortable, awkward, destroyed what fledgling friendship had been building between you two with one ill-timed shower.
Alone that night, all you can think about is the way his eyes had crept over you, up your legs still dripping with water all the way to your chest, your hands clenching the towel close. You thought about it as you crawled into bed that night and grabbed your vibrator from your nightstand.
You have shame, but apparently not enough to not get off to the memory of his hands on you.
—
Things don’t stay awkward, but they don’t go back to how they were, either. Bucky watches you now, and if the notion weren’t so far-fetched, you’d think he watches you in precisely the same way you watch him.
On the days he goes for a run, you sit on the front porch to read your book. If he just so happens to run shirtless, returning to the house chest heaving, skin shining with sweat, well then that’s your business. No one has to know you commit that image to memory, dredging it up later when you’re alone in bed, twisting it and distorting it until the image becomes him on top of you, chest heaving for an entirely different reason.
You think for a moment that his eyes trace your bare legs stretched in front of you, reclined on the lounger. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?
When he cooks, you park yourself at the counter under the guise of keeping him company. It has nothing to do with the way he effortlessly handles the skillet, metal hand clinking against the metal handle, or the way the veins on his hand twist as he grips the wooden spoon. A wooden spoon that looks minuscule in his hands, mind you. What does it matter if you later imagine those same hands crawling up your legs, prying you open and putting you on display for him?
You question yourself again when he hovers around you when you do the dishes after dinner. He doesn’t have to press so close to you when he deposits more dishes in the sink. He doesn’t have to sweep his hand across your lower back when he shuffles by you, but he does.
The tension boils over on a Saturday.
It’s another girl’s night, and rather than risk your friends piling into your house again to leer at Bucky, you’re ready early, intending to be waiting downstairs and half out the door when they arrive.
You know you made the right decision when you come downstairs and see Bucky lounging on the couch. He’s wearing those sweatpants again — the grey ones — and a t-shirt that stretches tight against his chest. You don’t think you can suffer through what would be downright vulgar comments in the car from your friends. At least, not without letting your jealousy get the better of you.
Bucky looks up when you walk into the living room, eyes darting down to your bare legs before drifting back up to the edge of your little skirt, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. You fidget under his scrutiny, smoothing down your skirt. Suddenly, you wish you’d picked something longer.
“It’s too much, I know,” you say. You never dress like… this. But the goal that night was to find a distraction. Someone to pull you out of the haze that was Bucky Barnes.
Standing in front of him, you don’t know why you ever thought that was possible.
“Not at all. You look good,” he says. The compliment does not help the restless buzz beneath your skin. He pushes up from the couch and in two long strides he’s standing in front of you. He reaches for your necklace, the charm twisted and backward.
It’s hard to keep your breath steady when his hand brushes against the bare skin of your chest. You try. Really, you do. Your breath hitches anyway: the slightest bit, barely — and you wonder if Bucky wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t moved so close to you, so close that you’re forced to tilt your head back to look him in the eye.
It’s hard to ignore the way your heart stutters when he towers over you like this. It’s only happened once before, when he pressed up behind you to grab a glass from the cabinet you couldn’t reach. This is different. You couldn’t move then, couldn’t avoid it. You can now. You could back away, put a respectful distance between you both.
You don’t.
Carefully, Bucky untwists your necklace where it’d wound around itself. He pauses, holding the charm between his fingers and inspecting it. It glints against the dark vibranium of his fingers, clinking faintly.
“Pretty,” he comments. It’s a dainty thing, a little gold star with your birthstone that dangles from a thin gold chain. He weaves it between his fingers, the gem catching the light. For a moment, you think his gaze has dipped, trained instead on your exposed cleavage, but that couldn’t be right.
“Dad got it for me when I graduated college.” A star for his little star, he’d said. He’d given it to you over dinner, at the restaurant in town you’d mentioned only once offhand.
“You mean his assistant picked it out,” Bucky scowls. Your brows flick up. You don’t know when, if ever, you’ve heard him take such a tone when talking about your dad. It’s almost critical, judgment apparent in the downturn of his mouth.
“I don’t- He’s busy. That’s all,” you say. You don’t know why you defend him this time, but you do. Your friends know you’re perhaps your dad’s worst critic. Maybe because the necklace is one of the few gifts he’d ever given you that wasn’t money stuffed in a card, or because the dinner the night he gave it to you was a rare moment where his attention was yours alone.
“Hm. He leaves you alone too much,” Bucky mutters, dismissive of your defense. He drops the charm but doesn’t back away. “Has it always been that way?”
You nod, thinking back to those years in high school, the times you bothered to come home in college. “It’s okay. Used to it,” you shrug. He’s still so close to you. You can see the wrinkles between his brow when he frowns at your answer, feel the deep breath he takes before moving to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, sending your heart fluttering.
“Shouldn’t be. Someone needs to take care of you.” Your face heats inexplicably. Maybe it’s the tone he says it, the low hum of his voice. Or maybe it’s the soft hand he runs down your arm, the ghost of a touch, barely perceptible before it’s gone.
“You take care of me.” The words are out before you can stop them. You don’t mean to say it. It’s stupid — he doesn’t take care of you. He’s just being polite, just being nice to the daughter of the man whose home he’s staying in for free-
“Yeah?” His voice comes out tight, and he leans back. His eyes flit down again to your bare legs, and he swallows hard. “You like when I take care of you?”
“I do,” your voice is thinner than you’d hoped, breathier than you’d wanted. His eyes snap to yours, darting down to your lips for the briefest moment.
“Then let me take care of you tonight. Don’t go out.” Your breath catches at the way his voice dips. It’s the type of thing you’ve heard him say before in your late-night fantasies but never thought to hear aloud. He doesn’t mean it that way. You must be reading it wrong, looking too far into his words.
Don’t go out. Your heart thunders, mouth suddenly dry. “Don’t go out?”
“No. Stay in with me. Don’t want you going out, not in that skirt.” His jaw clenches when he dares another peek down at your skirt, and your heart skips. Rather than meet your eyes, Bucky returns to fidgeting with your necklace, the smooth vibranium of his hand all but resting on your chest.
“Thought you said I looked good,” you say. You want to hear him say it again, need to hear him say it again. He still hasn’t moved, standing far closer than a friend would, let alone a friend of your dad’s. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne, heady and devastating.
“You do. That’s the problem. Don’t want those boys down at that bar sniffin’ around you.” His eyes shift upwards to yours. It’s hard to breathe when he’s affixing you with a stare like that, his jaw working, your necklace still in his hand keeping you firm in your spot. “That’s what you wanted, right? Heard you on the phone with Kathy.”
“Katie,” you correct. “And so what if it was? You’re not my dad,” you quip, because what are you supposed to say to that? You can’t be reading this wrong — the way he’s looking at you, the clench of his jaw when you confirm what he heard.
“Thank God for that.” He lets your necklace drop again and pinches the hem of your skirt between his fingers, and you fight to stay still, to control your breathing. “You don’t want those boys, not when you look at me the way you do.”
You blanch. “I don’t—”
“You do. On the porch when you’re pretending to read, in the kitchen when I’m cooking, you aren’t subtle, sweetheart.” He presses closer, and you step back. The wall meets your back, and still Bucky doesn’t stop. “Wanna know something? I like the way you look at me. Look at you the same way, you know. Really shouldn’t, but I do.”
“Bucky—“
His hands brace against the wall and cage you in. His breath brushes against your lips, and you can smell the mint from when he’d brushed his teeth after dinner. “Tell me I’m not reading this wrong.”
It’s not a question. He knows. You can see it in the way his eyes drop down to your lips, in the way his hand comes to cup your jaw, cool metal sharp against your flushed face. You don’t respond with words. Instead, you lean up into him and rest your palms on his chest, ghosting your lips over his, soft and feathery. His heart thunders under your palms, and just when you start to draw back, sliding your hands down his chest to withdraw them back to your side, Bucky catches your hands in his and kisses you back.
The way he kisses you is almost shy, his lips barely brushing against yours, careful and tentative like he’s expecting you to shove him away. It’s you who deepens it — you who frees your hands from his to grab his shirt and drag him closer. You sigh into him, letting him trace his tongue along your lips. He tastes like mint and something heady, something you can only name as Bucky that you already crave more of. You don’t care if you’re sloppy in the way you let your tongue meet his; you can’t think about anything aside from the slide of his lips against yours, the tangle of his fingers in your hair.
Your dad could walk in the door and you wouldn’t notice. Your world narrows down to the rasp of Bucky’s stubble against your skin, the weight of his metal hand falling to circle around your back. He gathers you closer and your stomach flips, a whimper breaking free that Bucky nips your lip in response to.
Panting, Bucky tears himself away. His tongue darts out to run along his lips, and he shakes his head. “You should tell me to stop.” Bucky lets you drag him back down, and when he kisses you this time, it’s frantic and wanting, his lips chasing after you like you’re seconds away from coming to your senses. His lips trail down your chin, traveling along your jaw to nip at your skin. “Fuck, this is wrong.”
“Don’t care. Don’t want you to stop,” you whine. “Want you.” Your hand slips into his belt to tug him closer, keeping him from moving away again.
Pupils blown wide, Bucky stares down at you like something holy. Something terrifying. You watch indecision dance across his face, the hesitance in his eyes that flees when you reach up to brush a stray piece of his hair out of his face.
“Text your friends. You’re not going anywhere,” Bucky says.
He watches as your hands fumble with your phone, fingers shaking when you lie and say you’re sick, can’t come out. You don’t know if they buy the excuse, if they’re mad at your last-minute cancellation or if they even care at all. Your phone falls by the wayside when Bucky gathers you in his arms and hurries you up the stairs.
When you wake up the next morning, bare beneath his sheets and tangled in his arms, you wonder how you could have called anything other than this love.
—
You feel anything but guilty.
Why would you, when Bucky treats you with more care than anyone has ever treated you? It’s easy to fall in love with him — to fall into a domestic routine that revolves around him. You no longer count the hours until your dad returns. Instead, you count the seconds until he leaves again, when you and Bucky no longer have to play the part of roommates. If it were up to you, you wouldn’t wait until he left again. You’d carry on as you did when he was gone.
It’s Bucky who refrains from touching you when your dad is home, Bucky who resolutely stays in his room — alone — until your dad is gone again. It doesn’t matter how much you beg and tease, he staunchly ignores the foot you run up his leg at dinner or the eyes you make at him over the rim of your wineglass. Bucky is stubborn — set in his ways and intent on shielding you from the consequences that would follow the revelation of your relationship.
Bucky feels the guilt that you don’t. Or, some of it at least. He’s told you he should feel worse for fucking his best friend’s daughter after he let him stay in his home for free out of the kindness of his heart. He’s told you how he feels guilty for not feeling more guilty, for not feeling guilty enough to stop, for not being even the slightest bit sorry.
Maybe it’s that not-enough-guilt that leads Bucky to break his own rule.
It’s late when it happens, past midnight, in the aftermath of a dinner so painful you would almost rather rip the band-aid off then and there, your dad’s feelings be damned. Your dad had come home early, a whole day early, and it was only luck that you and Bucky had just finished when he walked in the door with takeout for all three of you. You didn’t expect the fear of almost being caught to ignite something in Bucky, but it does. You can see it in the way he watches you all dinner, sitting next to your dad, drinking beer with him and reminiscing on their high school days all while Bucky’s cum pools in your panties. Every uncomfortable shift in your seat has Bucky’s grip tightening on his glass because he knows.
Bucky knows he fucked you bare — he has every time since that first night — both of you placing perhaps too much trust in your birth control. And he knows you didn’t have enough time to truly clean up when you were scrambling for your clothes. He knows that each time you squirm in your seat it’s because he’s leaking out of you, reminding you exactly who you belong to.
Halfway through dinner, he has to excuse himself; take a minute in the bathroom to try to will his erection to settle down. It doesn’t work, and he resorts to tucking it into the waistband of his pants — something he hasn’t had to do since fucking high school. He counts his lucky stars that it goes down, that he’s not still hard when your dad insists on sharing one last beer with him on the couch after dinner.
When you go upstairs before him, your dad still rambling on to Bucky, his eyes follow you like a sad dog. Your dad keeps him down there, talking about God knows what, and by the time you hear two sets of heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs you’ve showered and changed into underwear that doesn’t stick uncomfortably every time you shift.
It’s no surprise when thirty seconds after your dad’s door closes, Bucky creeps into your room as silent as a mouse. The door shuts softly behind him, the lock clicking with a dull snap. Bucky leans back against the door and watches you, taking in the way you’re sprawled across your bed in the t-shirt he left in your room that morning with dark eyes.
After a beat, he stalks across the room towards you, silent until he reaches you. He sounds almost disappointed when he lifts the shirt you’re wearing to find you wearing a new pair of underwear. “You changed,” he frowns.
“Was uncomfortable, you say. You sit up to meet him, gathering him closer to you. He leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet, and you almost forget that your dad is just down the hall. It’s just Bucky in your mind. Bucky, who’s standing between your legs, bent over you with your head firmly in his hands. Bucky, who kisses you in a way that belies the filthy way he fucks you. He kisses you like something fragile, like something he can’t fathom the existence of.
“That’s okay,” he whispers against your lips. He steps back and yanks your shirt up and over your head, crowding you backward up the bed, crawling over you until he’s all you can see. “Just have to fill you up again, get this pair all messy too.”
It’s not slow that night. It’s frantic, hurried and desperate in a way that reminds you of that first night. When he shoves in, stuffs you full of his dick that’s been half hard since dinner, you cry out. Sharp, too loud for the circumstances.
“Shh,” Bucky clamps his hand to your mouth, his thumb slipping in and pressing against your tongue. “Can’t be too loud, sweetheart. Your dad is just down the hall. Don’t want him to know I’m in here, do you? Don’t want him to know I’m fucking his little girl full. Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking tight, pretty pussy never wants me to leave, does she?”
He grinds deep, fingers moving from rubbing slow circles around your clit to pinching, working it between calloused fingers. What follows is a sequence of unfortunate errors: your walls convulse tight around him, his hand slides from your mouth as his hips stutter, and you cry out a word that damns you both.
“Daddy!”
You both freeze, his dick half buried in you as that word waltzes around the room. Bucky’s head snaps up to look down at you in wide-eyed disbelief, something wicked crawling along his face as he watches you wither in humiliation. You push at his shoulders, but he refuses to move, despite the oily shame seeping through your veins.
A door opens down the hall. You hear your dad’s shuffling footsteps before a knock echoes and your doorknob jiggles. “Sweetheart?” your dad calls. He knocks again. “You okay?”
Your shoves against his shoulder grow frantic, but Bucky ignores you. He gathers your wrists with ease and pins them above you with one hand, the metal one grasping your jaw. Bucky shallowly thrusts into you and has the audacity to smirk when you struggle to swallow your moan, as if discovery won’t lead to certain doom. “Answer him, sweetheart. Don’t want daddy to worry.”
It takes you a moment to steady your breathing enough to form words. There’s a moan caught in your throat, one that you’d have no explanation for, really. You swallow it down. “Y- yeah, I’m fine,” you manage to rasp out, shaky as Bucky slowly rocks into you again. “Bad- bad dream!”
Your dad mutters something before his steps disappear back down the hall, and Bucky waits until his door thuds closed to start pounding into you. The air disappears from your lungs again, your teeth dig into your bottom lip, trying to stifle moans that instead turn into shattered whimpers.
“Daddy, huh?” He keeps a firm grip on your jaw, frowning in disappointment when you try to wrest yourself free and hide your face. “No no no, baby. Stop that; don’t hide from daddy. Let me see my little girl’s pretty face. There you go.”
That night, when you come, it’s with cries of daddy that Bucky eagerly swallows down.
It all slips from there.
It should scare you, how easily the two of you fall into… whatever this is. It should send you running — the words he uses when you’re in bed, the way he so easily slots into the place of caretaker and lover.
It doesn’t.
If anything, you seek it out, chase after the thrill that has your heart stuttering, your head spinning hearing him call himself that.
“Give daddy a kiss,” when he comes home from running errands.
“Be a good girl for me,” when he asks you to do something as simple as drying the dishes.
“Don’t you wanna make daddy feel good?” when he has pinned against the wall, cock hard and teasing against your stomach.
You don’t think you’ll ever get used to that feeling — the swirling of your stomach, the clench in your womb that comes from hearing those words. It gets to Bucky too; you know. Your reaction, how sweet you sound begging your daddy to touch you, to make it feel better — he’s hard and leaking before the words even fully register.
You like having something that’s just yours, something about your relationship with Bucky that never has to see the light of day. Because you know you’ll have to come clean to your dad someday, tell him that you’re hopelessly in love with his best friend. But this? This you can keep close to your chest.
—
You start to suspect that your dad suspects there’s something going on between you and Bucky when he delays leaving for his next business trip. He’s never been good at picking up parts of your life without you telling him — often more than once before he remembers — but his next business trip was meant to be in his favorite city, a city that he loves almost more than you. He makes a habit of leaving almost a week early when this city is in question. But this time he lingers.
Did he know that the second he’s out those doors his best friend has his daughter bent over the counter and calling him a name once only reserved for him?
You weren’t about to find out if he knew — not when you and Bucky relied on him for housing. You had no plans to tell him until Bucky found an apartment of his own, somewhere you could take shelter from the fallout of what would surely be a nuclear bomb dropped right on the already fragile relationship you had with your dad. So you pulled back, reinstated Bucky’s abandoned rule, let your caution take the wheel no matter how many times Bucky slipped into your room after dark.
You’d hated those two weeks just as much as Bucky had. Your dad had waited to leave until Bucky left to look at apartments, something he’d initially planned for you to help him with. Instead, you’d stayed home to have lunch with your dad, who left an almost pointed thirty minutes after Bucky.
The moment your dad’s car disappears around the corner, you’re texting Bucky, asking when he’ll be home. To your despair, Bucky doesn’t reply.
Two weeks with nothing more than a quick kiss has left you restless and impatient to wait for Bucky’s return, which leaves you in your current predicament: straddled atop a pillow, barely satisfied and driven half mad.
The plush pillow wedged between your legs is a poor replacement for Bucky’s thigh, but it does the trick. You left your shorts and panties on — the friction of the fabric too delicious not to — soft sighs spilling as the fabric rubs your clit. You grind down harder and whine. It’s not enough. You swivel your hips, but nothing touches the ache. You need more.
You slump forward on the bed, shoving a hand beneath the pillow in a desperate bid to have something firmer to grind against. You gasp when it works, your hips canting forward against the pillow, the friction of your panties against your pussy a burn that drowns the desire. The high dances just out of reach and you chase it, humping the pillow greedily, moans spilling wantonly as your release barrels towards you faster and faster, a runaway train careening down a hill as your hips find just the right rhythm. The pressure mounts higher and higher until—
"Oh, baby," Bucky coos. The train screeches to a halt, metal screeching against metal.
You jump up, eyes snapping to him leaning in your doorway. He was supposed to be out. But there he is, standing in the doorway watching you, gaze dark and tracing up your figure from your legs clenched around the pillow to your nipples pebbling beneath your tank top. “You know better than to play without me,” he says.
You're frozen as he stalks towards you. He tugs the pillow from beneath you and sets it aside, guiding you to sit in front of him on the edge of the bed. “I- I’m sorry,” you say.
Bucky hushes you. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart. Tell daddy what happened.”
Your face heats, just like it always does when you hear him call himself that. “It was all tingly. It wouldn’t stop aching,” you say. You know what game he wants to play, and you’re never anything but an eager participant.
Stepping between your legs, Bucky leans over you. With a gentle shove to your shoulder, he leans you back until you’re lying on the bed. He runs his hands up your bare legs. The flesh one calloused, the metal smooth, you shiver as they both stop to toy with the hem of your cotton shorts. “Silly little girl wasn’t thinking right. Needed her daddy to come take care of her.”
You squirm under his attention, his hands fluttering back down to rest on your knees. You try to close your legs and hide the mess you know is there between your legs.
Bucky tuts and shakes his head. "Don't be shy, baby. Let me help you." Gently, he pries your legs back open. "Hm? You gonna let daddy see?"
You bite your lip and nod, shivering when Bucky glides his hands up to your hips and guides your shorts down leaving you in just your panties. Bucky groans, cursing low as he slips a finger under the gusset of your lace panties and tugs them aside. "Look at that, baby. Your princess parts are all wet for me."
The words hit you straight in the core, making your head spin. Hearing Bucky talk like that never fails to drive a deep, wanting burn deep in your core. Bucky knows it too, would tease you for it if it didn’t drive him just as crazy. Firm hands on your hip Bucky maneuvers you up the bed, settling between your legs, breath dusting along your thigh as he inspects you closer. “Just couldn’t wait for me, could you?” he says.
“Bucky, I-“ You can’t close your legs and hide — his shoulders keep them open, on display for hungry eyes that shamelessly take in your damp folds.
“Not my name, sweetheart, not in here." His tongue flicks against your inner thigh, turning his head to hover his mouth just over your center, breath hot against the damp fabric.
“Daddy,” you whine.
“There you go,” he praises. He licks up your slit, tongue rasping against the fabric of your panties. You whimper and Bucky hooks a finger into the waistband, slowly peeling them down and away. “You made a mess, baby,” he mutters. He starts to discard them on the floor when he pauses.
You really had made a mess; you can see your slick gathered and glistening on the fabric. Slowly, Bucky brings them to his face. He licks them, moaning and tracing his tongue along the lace that had only minutes ago been buried between your lower lips, dragging along your clit. Your breath stutters, watching him bury his face in your panties. His hips twitch down into the bed and you squirm.
Finally, Bucky tosses them aside and returns his attention to you. He brushes a finger along your opening, teasing up and down. You wriggle your hips impatiently and Bucky chuckles, swiping a finger through your wetness before moving to rub figure eights along your clit. “Such a good girl, letting daddy touch you here,” Bucky murmured.
You bite your lip and prop yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he toys with your cunt. Bucky grazes a finger along your opening, up and down. You wriggle your hips and he chuckles before finally dipping his finger into you, finger curling upwards before slowly dragging back out, stroking against your walls in a way that leaves you wanting instead of sating anything. The wet noises mingle with your breathy whines, his finger slowly pumping in and out.
“Poor thing,” Bucky pouts. “Needed me so bad. Just listen to that.” He rests his head against your thigh and adds another finger, playing with your wetness before sinking both back in.
“More,” you beg. You try and roll your hips down onto his fingers but he stops you, pinning your hips to the bed with one hand.
“More what, baby? Use your words.” His command is joined by his fingers finally curling against the spongy spot that always makes your vision blur.
You gasp, words lost to you and he knows it, judging by the lazy smirk stretching across his face. “C’mon sweetheart,” he encourages, just as his fingers curl upwards again, smirk widening to a smile when your walls clamp down.
“Your mouth!” You force out. You wind your fingers in his hair, trying to guide his mouth to your pussy but he resists. “Please, daddy!”
“And where do you want daddy’s mouth? Here?” Bucky kisses your inner thigh, his playful smile persistent and infuriating, eyes still trained upwards on you. You shake your head. “Show me.”
This time when you tug his hair, Bucky lets you guide him down to your slick folds. You expect him to tease you — Bucky loves to tease, loves to flick his tongue along your outer lips, tease his fingers up your slit — anything that drives you mad, leaves you whimpering and pleading, Bucky is a fan of.
Today he must be as desperate as you. Instead of teasing, Bucky flattens his tongue against you, taking his time in dragging it up, dipping into your slit and coming up to roll against your clit. It’s sudden, dominating. The aching shock of it should be too much but it’s not. It leaves you craving more. You try to roll your hips up into his mouth, thighs snapping closed around his head to trap him there, but Bucky won’t have that, can’t have that. Not when he’s waited two whole weeks for your dad to finally leave so he can have you how he really wants. His arms slide around your legs, prying them open and pinning them back, leaving you spread wide and at his mercy.
You sob, high and sharp, and you feel Bucky grin against you. He’s sloppy in the way he licks into you, tongue alternating between laving against your clit and dipping back down, curling into your wet heat. He delves his tongue in, massaging against your gummy walls as your moans grow filthy, the high you were chasing before he came home returning with a vengeance.
Your first orgasm ripples through you and you come with a strangled moan, clinging to Bucky’s hair like a lifeline.
Bucky looks up at you, the lower half of his face shiny with your slick. His metal arm retreats from its hold around your leg, which you let fall limp to the bed. Two fingers slip between your thighs, coming to rub gently on either side of your clit. Still reckoning with the aftershocks of your orgasm, you jolt, choking on a heaving inhale. “Daddy!”
“What is it, baby?” he asks, frowning in mock sympathy as his fingers spread wider, leaving your wet cunt, still twitching, on display.
“Need you in me,” you beg. You try to reach forward to drag him upwards, but he bats your hands away. “Need you to make it better.”
Bucky bends down and kisses your clit, his fingers pulling the hood back to expose it to the cool air. You whine, and Bucky coos in mock sympathy. “Mm. Not yet, princess. You got to play by yourself. It’s daddy’s turn,” he refuses.
He chooses then to suck your swollen clit into his mouth, quelling the pleading argument you were about to make. This time he lets your hips roll upwards. You all but ride his face as he moans into you, sucking greedily at your folds, your clit, anywhere that will keep you driving your soaking cunt against his mouth. His tongue buries deep again, nose nudging against your clit with every thrust of your hips.
The build-up is mind-numbingly fast, building on the remnants of the last orgasm with a ferocity that has you gushing against his mouth. Bucky groans filthily against you, hips rutting into the bed as he swallows down all you have to offer.
Bucky pulls back and away while you’re still shaking, limbs too loose to cling onto him. The lower half of his face is damp with your cum that he doesn’t bother to wipe away, hair disheveled from where you clung to him. Bucky leans down to kiss your shoulder and you can smell yourself on him, etched into his skin. Still pliant, you let Bucky slip your tank top up and over your head, finally baring you in entirety. Sitting up to kneel above you, Bucky rids himself of his own shirt.
You watch with panting breaths as reaches down to grip his cock, still trapped behind his jeans. He palms himself, rubbing his erection and letting his hips rock forward. It’s shameless, the way he fucks into his hand and watches you, eyes greedily roaming over your tits. You eye him in turn — the sight of him almost obscene. The broad plains of his chest, the scars that mark his story spanning across, you could spend hours tracing them with your tongue. You have — working him up to a point where he almost came in his boxers.
Reluctantly, Bucky moves his hand, his belt clinking as he removes it with a deft tug. The zipper of his pants whispers as he pulls it down before he finally reaches in and frees himself. Thick and swollen, his dick is flushed an angry red. The thick vein you love tracing with your tongue leads up to the head, dark and weeping at the slit. You sit up and watch as he strokes himself, smearing precum down along his shaft. You lean forward, close enough that the musky smell of him reaches you. It’s mouthwatering and leaves you craving the salty taste of him, yearning for weight of him on your tongue.
“Please, daddy? Wanna taste you,” you beg. Instead of waiting for his answer, you suck the head into your mouth. Eyes closed, Bucky continues to stroke himself as your tongue dips into the slit, circling around the head. He opens his eyes and drops his head forward to watch you as a hand wanders to tug at his balls, swollen and heavy in your palm.
“You look so pretty with daddy’s cock in your mouth,” Bucky says. A gentle hand pets through your hair before gathering a handful, tugging you off his dick. “But I’m not done playing with you. Don’t pout, baby. Next time. Promise.”
Gently, Bucky guides you back down. He sits back between your legs and guides his dick to rest on your folds. Hesitantly, Bucky rolls his hips, groaning as his dick slides along your lips. “Fuck, sweetheart. Your special place is all messy again.”
Bucky takes a hold of himself and drags the head through your slick, watching with a slack jaw as he dips the head just into your entry, playing in your wetness before coming up to circle around your clit. You try to shift your hips when he brings the head back down to poke at your entrance, try to sink down on his cock, but Bucky catches your hips with a heavy hand. Intent on toying with you, Bucky slides his cock against your folds again.
“Please,” you beg. You look up at him and pout. You hitch a leg over his hip, spreading yourself wider. This time when you roll your hips Bucky lets you, his hand sneaking down to press against his cock, grinding it down against your cunt. “Need you so bad, daddy.”
With a groan, Bucky drops his head to your chest before capturing your lips in a kiss. His metal hand rests on your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge as he licks into your mouth, nipping and sucking your bottom lip. He still tastes like you, tangy and potent. His other hand stays busy, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance, prodding in gently. “Yeah? Gonna let daddy fuck you, baby?”
You nod eagerly, hands sliding to rest on his shoulders. Bucky presses in, just enough to bury the tip in your wet heat. You clench around it and Bucky shudders. He tries to go slow, tries to make you feel every aching inch as he stretches you open. He wanted you to do the waiting this time, after you made him wait a whole two weeks to have you again. That plan goes to shit the moment he feels your nails dig into his shoulders, clinging to him with a breathy whine of “daddy” that just about makes him combust.
In one smooth thrust he buries himself deep, your sharp gasp joined by his broken moan as your cunt convulses around him. Even when it hasn’t been two weeks, the stretch burns, scratches an itch that no one else has ever been able to. You let your head loll back, swimming in the overwhelming relief of Bucky finally sliding home, filling you in a way you’ve craved since your dad came home.
Bucky hitches your leg higher around his hip and grinds down, trying to drive himself even deeper. You gasp, fingers sliding against his skin and leaving red welts in their wake. You decide then that you don’t care if your dad is suspicious, if he’s home for another two weeks, a month, it doesn’t matter. Your dad could come home, walk into the room and catch you just like this, and you don’t think you’d care. Bucky is what matters. Bucky, and the feel of his cock spearing you open.
Arms bracketed on either side of your head, Bucky allows himself a moment to catch his breath before he starts to rock into you, looking down to watch how your cunt swallows the thick length of him. Pulling out almost entirely, Bucky fucks back into you, grinning at the choked sound you can’t swallow back. “Look at that, pussy takin’ me so well. Can feel you squeezin’ me. Fuck. Do you like when daddy fucks you? My little girl loves being split open, huh?"
“Yes! Feels so good, needed you so bad,” you cry. Your world narrows to Bucky and the slick drag of his cock in and out, his balls slapping against you each time he drives home, broad chest blocking your view of everything but him. Your fingers curl tighter into his skin, grasping for purchase as you feel yourself falling further into him.
“Shh, daddy’s got you,” Bucky says. He grinds his cock deeper, bullying against the soft spongy spot again and again. His dog tags dangle tauntingly by your face, cold metal bumping your chin until you hook a finger around them, tugging down on them to try to catch his lips with yours. He ducks, instead dipping to leave wet kisses along your jaw, trailing down more to your neck to nip and suck at the sensitive skin. Red marks bloom in his wake, and Bucky runs his thumb over them appreciatively. “My good girl, yeah? Only mine.” Bucky sits back, metal arm slipping down to roll against your clit. You cry out, sharp and helpless, and Bucky curses low as you throb around him. “Only daddy gets to touch you here, right sweetheart? Only daddy gets to hear those pretty noises.”
“Only you, daddy,” you cry. Your hips twitch upwards, chasing the friction against your clit. Bucky presses harder and your stomach clenches, the dual assault on your clit and that aching spot inside you leaves your legs shaking, overwhelmed but still wanting more. “Harder! Need more. Please!”
“Yeah? My little girl wants more?” Bucky slips an arm down to catch one of your legs, stretching it up while his metal hand takes a firm hold of your other thigh, holding you steady as he fucks into you with abandon. The rhythm he strikes is relentless — toe curling, devastating. “This what you wanted?”
You nod, tears pooling and slipping down your cheeks. Each thrust shoves you that much further up the bed, the headboard steadily thumping against the wall. Your hands fall to the sheets, scrambling for purchase that you never find.
“You know what daddy wants?” Bucky rasps. You shake your head, breath catching on a moan. You think this might be your end; the fire burning through you threatens to consume. It’s all you can focus on — the slick glide of him in and out, the obscene squelching as he burrows himself deep again and again, his metal hand digging into your thigh, the ache in your hip from the leg he has draped over his shoulder — it leaves your head empty, your focus only on the fever building. “Wanna fill you up, cum deep inside you again and again until it takes.”
Your vision nearly whites. The electric arousal that sparks through you shouldn’t be such a surprise. He never uses a condom, not since that first night when you begged him not to pull out, to fill you up and leave you leaking. You’d expected tonight to be the same — he’d leave you messy, watch as his cum leaked out of you, trail his fingers through it until he worked himself up enough to fuck it back into you. But the thought of it taking? Your whine is pornographic, walls clenching around him, your hands flying to wind in his hair.
Like everything when it comes to you, Bucky takes note of your reaction to his words. Files it away, runs with it. “You like the sound of that? Dirty little girl. Want daddy to breed you? Pump you full of his cum?”
You can’t find your words, too lost in the way his pace has slowed to a filthy grind, forcing you to feel every inch as he slides out and sinks back into you. You arch up into him as Bucky leans over you, large hands spanning across your jaw, keeping your eyes on him. “Asked you a question, sweet girl.”
“Y-yes,” you choke out. Words freed, you can’t stop the debauched slew that spills forward. “Wanna be full of you, wanna feel it leak out of me. Love when you cum in me. Please, please daddy!” This time it’s Bucky who whines. His pace swiftly climbs back to frantic, the slap of skin obscene as he chases a high you’re both rapidly barreling towards.
"Shit, gonna get you pregnant, baby. Keep you stuffed full until it takes. Let everyone see who you fuckin’ belong to.” His hand slips down to paw at your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. "Watch as your pretty tits get all full and heavy. Gonna let me drink from them? Let daddy nurse from you?”
“Oh god!” Your head swims. You can’t focus on anything other than the building pleasure, the coil winding tighter around your stomach like a vice. “Need to cum, daddy please!”
“Don’t gotta beg me, baby,” Bucky says. He grinds his hips, a foamy ring of white gathering around his base. “Be a good girl, come with daddy.”
You come with a scream, cunt contracting around his cock as the searing wave of ecstasy finally overcomes you. The spasming of your swollen walls around him tears Bucky right over the edge with you. With a punched groan, he collapses, hips rocking softly against you as his cock pulses, spilling thick ropes of cum deep inside you with breathy moans. Cum leaks out around him as his hips maintain a lazy rhythm, the aftershocks of your shared release lingering, refusing to ebb.
When his hips finally still, Bucky rolls over, dragging you with him until you rest on his chest. Bucky doesn’t pull out — he meant what he said about keeping you full. He stays buried deep with a leg hooked over you, keeping you firmly in place on top of him.
It’s Bucky who speaks first, words whispered as he traces lazy shapes on your back. “Sweetheart?”
You hum, still too hazy for real words. The sweat has started to dry, leaving your skin sticky and stuck to his, but you’re too numb to move, limbs still limp and molten.
“I’m not waiting two whole weeks next time.” Bucky pulls out, and you wince as his cum trickles out of you. Predictably, his hand sneaks between your thighs. His fingers swipe up the mess, trailing their way back up to shove back into your swollen pussy.
Breathless, you hide your face in his neck. “Then you’d better find us a place.”
Bucky rolls you back over, cock already hardening again, insistent against your thigh. “One step ahead of you sweetheart.”
Idk if many of you lovely folks are still around but I've got an itch to scratch and I'm determined to make it everyone's problem (it's what I do)
All I've been able to think of recently is delicious, filthy, slow sex with dad's best friend Bucky who's worshipping every inch of you
Messy, breathy kisses from his soft pink lips, trailing from the nape of your neck until he can't reach any further down your spine and then back up again. There's nowhere else in the world he needs to be and absolutely nowhere else he would want to be.
His own quiet, husky sighs almost catch him by surprise. They're totally involuntary but you deserve to hear them. Dear God, you're earning them.
He's not sure he's got a handle on his own desire when you glide yourself down onto his cock again. Your body is slick and warm and delicious, hugging his shaft in a way that's going to coax his release from him. It always does.
This doesn't need to end yet though. In fact, it absolutely shouldn't.
"Look at you." His voice has a surprising authority for someone who doesn't feel awfully in control right now. "Look at yourself."
He's been watching you in the mirror in front of you, far too aware that you're so absorbed in your pleasure that you haven't been drinking in the same sight he has. You're all soft skin, delightful curves and very clearly enjoying this too. If he was ever asked to describe 'desire', it'd be the reflection in front of him.
His hands wander from your breasts, down across your tummy, landing on your hips, holding them as you rise and fall on him. It's an intoxicating thrill, having you sink and engulf him but it's a delight to have you rise up too, knowing that he'll be nestled in your warm heat again momentarily. The sheen of your arousal on his length catches his eye and once it does, it's impossible to look away from where your bodies are meeting.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous. Every inch of you." His light stubble scratches gently at your neck as he kisses you, your back pressed to his chest. There's nowhere more safe than right here.
His eyes meet yours in the mirror while one of his large hands dips between your thighs, playing with you in the most delightful of ways. Your head rolls back onto his shoulder, a high whine ripped from your throat as he rubs you.
You've needed this. So has he. For a brief second you wonder if you'll ever move the mistletoe from it's new spot above the bed.
husband!congressman!bucky barnes x wife!diplomat!reader
summary: you'd both agreed it was for the best. bucky's new role as congressman, yours as US ambassador in london, meant that time zones, distance, and duty had slowly, but inevitably, unravelled what had once been a passionate marriage. but a divorce would be "bad for optics”. so the decision was made - publicly married, privately not. it works. mostly. until bucky shows up unannounced to your embassy christmas party, finding you very cosy with your lawyer. and it turns out bucky barnes doesn't share what's his.
warnings/tags: SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, possessive!jealous!bucky, (slight?) soft dom!bucky, semi-public sex, praise kink, open marriage arrangement (no cheating), overstimulation, marking/biting, come play, dirty talk, angst with a smut chaser (if 4k is considered a chaser), ft. matt murdock, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart, doll, pretty girl, good girl), reader insert no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI!
word count: 12.5k
from maddie: happy christmas eve! thank you so much for the love on my first ever fic. it was truly very appreciated and i am super grateful. (if slightly terrified that nothing i write will every be as good as that again). i totally totally underestimated how much i'd write for this fic (idk how it happens, i swear i never mean to write so much), so consequently i'm only getting 1/2 of my planned christmas-themed fics out before christmas. oops. semi-proofread (there are probably still errors).
the idea for this came from watching the latest season of the diplomat on netflix. i got super inspired by one of the episodes and thus this fic was made! congressman bucky was the perfect fit, and since it's december i made it a lil festive too. will stop yapping now.
p.s. if u r wondering what matt murdock is doing in london, so am i <3333
Masterlist
London’s winter presses like a damp second skin against the embassy windows, the kind of petty drizzle that refuses to become snow no matter how many Christmas cards pretend otherwise.
But no matter, because inside the embassy, it’s practically snowing glitter.
Embassy garlands shimmer red and gold. The ballroom lighting is warm without being indulgent. The guests are arriving in sparkling waves of government-issue Christmas cheer. And the strings quartet has already begun the first set, their notes floating gentle and evergreen through the foyer.
Polished oak floors, imported pine garlands, crystal chandeliers dressed in frostlight. All of it pretty and polished and perfect, sparkling with the kind of manicured holiday charm that makes ministers nod and dignitaries relax.
Just like you.
Tonight’s dress is dark green silk, backless, and perfectly inappropriate for the London chill that never seems to leave your bones anymore, even inside. Your hair is pinned up in an updo so deliberate it’s meant to look effortless, all arranged to bare the elegant slope of your back like a threat.
A few strands have been strategically allowed to fall loose, of course, just so your perfect polish doesn’t come across as unapproachable.
Enough edge to say I’m young enough to still care, and enough statement to say I’m powerful enough that I don’t have to. Or at least that’s what your stylist said.
You’re already on your second glass of champagne before the canapés have come out. Not because you’re having fun. God no, but because it gives your hand something to do, and your mouth something to occupy so it can’t twist into something impolite the next time someone leans in with a concern-lilted inflection (read: thinly veiled curiosity barely dressed as sympathy) and asks, “Will your husband be joining us this evening?”
You’ve fielded three of those in the first hour. Possibly four. At least one from someone who absolutely knew the answer before they asked, which somehow makes it worse.
But you laugh gracefully the way you’re supposed to, like none of this touches you, as you make his excuses, each one rehearsed until the syllables shine. ‘He couldn’t make the trip across the pond this time’, or ‘he’s buried under committee meetings back in D.C.’ or ‘he sends his warmest regards and deepest regrets’. Just the right blend of fond and disappointed, like a woman who’s used to being loved from afar.
Because this is the shape of your life now: standing in a ballroom decked to the halls, mingling with perfect poise whilst you field questions about the ghost of Christmas past you still wear a ring for.
You realise you're rubbing your ring finger. The band still sits there, warm and familiar. You'd tried taking it off once, two weeks ago, just in private. Got as far as twisting it halfway before your chest went tight and you shoved it back on.
Optics, you’d told yourself. Optics.
That’s what it means to be married to a congressman. Or not married. Or somewhere in between, depending on the version of yourself the situation calls for. Tonight, apparently, you’re playing the loyal half of a perfectly functional power couple.
People come to you for proximity to him. Not your work. Not your office. Not your accomplishments, which have included several strategically defused trade disputes, four successful summits, and a quietly brilliant manoeuvre that kept a NATO rift from turning into an international crisis. None of that matters anymore, not since Bucky became congressman.
Now you’re just greeted as the glossy envelope for a message they actually want delivered elsewhere.
Which is almost funny, albeit in that bitterly ironic way, because you, of all people, can’t even get him to pick up the damn phone.
You don’t even remember the last time he told you anything first. Then again, you're not sure you've told him much either. When did you stop calling? When did the texts become logistics instead of love?
More often than not these days, you find out about most things in his life the same way everyone else does - via press release. Which, you suppose, is fitting. After all, isn’t that what your marriage is now, too?
And on the rare occasion that you do get a heads-up, it doesn’t come from him. It comes from his assistant. That bright-eyed, overly efficient, little blonde who answers his phone like she’s guarding national security secrets and always calls you Mrs. Barnes with a certain kind of pointed sweetness that makes it clear it’s a job title she’s planning to be promoted into.
And no, you are not wondering if he’s fucking her. You’re not. You are not.
It’s none of your business anymore. That was the agreement. Publicly together, privately not. It was mutual, rational, and clean. Or at least that’s how you both pitched it: two adults, two careers, two calendars so catastrophically misaligned that staying married started to feel more like a diplomatic effort than a romantic one.
Because divorce was out of the question, of course. His PR team thinks it’s better for his approval ratings if he’s still seen as the devoted husband. And yours thinks the word divorce reads as crack in the polished surface they’ve spent years selling to the world. Apparently, your marriage is the American dream.
Which tracks, really, because no one actually lives it, and it falls apart the second you stop performing.
So you both play the part. Smile for the cameras. Stay in step when the flag is watching. And when it’s not? He can do who he wants. You certainly are.
Which means you’re definitely above petty jealousies and quiet suspicions and the deep, crawling irritation that rises in your throat every time her name appears in your inbox with a subject line like Congressman Barnes regrettably will not be attending…
That was this morning’s smug little gem. She can’t even bring herself to write your husband. Or even Bucky. It’s always Congressman Barnes, like she’s writing to a stranger and he’s just another man in a suit. Like love was never part of it Like you haven’t kissed that mouth goodnight a thousand times. Like you haven’t memorised the weight of his body curled into yours on nights when the Hydra ghosts came knocking and all you could do was hold him until morning forgot them.
You wonder if anyone holds him now. If he even lets them.
But none of that matters right now. Because by every metric, be it press, presence, or political timing, you’re hosting the social event of the season. Months of planning. Countless moving pieces, negotiated to the inch. And it shows. Yes, everything is perfect. It has to be.
So why won’t your pulse stop tripping?
“Your heart is racing. I could hear it from across the room.”
The breath of Matt’s voice at your side is low, warm, and intimate. He doesn’t announce himself. He never does. He just materialises, quiet and effortless, slipping through the cracks in your composure like he was always meant to be there.
It’s a skill he's perfected since he flew in 3 months ago for what should’ve been a routine case: American grad student, wrongful detention, violated rights. Except it wasn't routine. It was a nightmare. And Matt Murdock had walked into your office, brilliant and relentless, and fixed it in seventy-two hours.
The embassy had him on retainer the following week. You had him in your bed a month after that.
Matt is careful at events like this. Always is. He ghosts in from the side, lets his shoulder hover close to yours like he’s just another guest drifting through the conversation, entirely harmless.
You don’t look at him right away. You don’t need to. You know that voice like you know the soft give of his mouth against your neck. You know the heat of him beside you. The weight of him when he presses in. The way his suits are always far too pristine for what he does to you in them.
“Are you spying on me, Counsellor?” you murmur without turning, keeping your eyes trained on the sea of glittering conversation ahead. As though you don’t already feel your pulse changing shape at the scent of his cologne when he leans in just enough to brush your ear with his hushed voice.
“Just keeping an ear out,” he replies, warm and maddeningly innocent. The same kind of innocent as the hand that finds the small of your back mid-sentence, warm, steadying, and just slightly lower than is professionally advisable. “It’s hard to ignore a distress call.”
“I am not distressed,” you counter, not yet glancing his way, though you subtly lean into the pressure of his hand, aching for more.
The game is half in the glances withheld. But when you do turn, it’s with the barest tilt of your head, an upturned corner of mouth. The practiced sort of acknowledgment that reads friendly at a distance and something far more dangerous up close. He’s wearing a black suit with the silk tie you picked last week.
“You are… composed under duress,” he says at last, his smile curving slow, a touch crooked, edged with that particular brand of trouble that always sounds like charm when he wears it. “Which is very sexy, by the way. If deeply inadvisable for long-term blood pressure.”
You purse your lips like you’re holding back a retort, but your mouth betrays you at the corners - traitorous, flickering with the ghost of something softer. His hand is still there. Warm against your bare skin. Just above the low dipped back of your dress, strategically, yet infuriatingly still.
Except for his pinky. That traitorous thing begins to move in a subtle back and forth, just at the hem of propriety, tracing slow, idle lines. Lower than he should. Like he can’t help himself. Like he’s not really thinking about it. Like his body is betraying him in the way yours already has, heat blooming beneath his touch in that unbearable space between too public and far too intimate.
“Mm, thank you, Dr. Murdock,” you hum lightly, taking a sip of champagne, like you’re not acutely aware of every nerve ending along your spine. “Remind me what I’m paying you for again? Because it’s certainly not health advice.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Legal counsel. Keeping Americans out of foreign prisons. The occasional corporate sabotage. Managing your rapidly escalating sexual frustration.”
The last part lands lower, his voice dipping into something rich and dark and pointed. You let your gaze flick to his lips for the briefest second, drawn by memory more than choice. The mark of his lips against your throat last night surfaces uninvited, threading heat through your body in slow, deliberate coils. The kind of heat you have absolutely no business carrying right now.
“Your retainer doesn’t cover the last one,” you flatly retort, trying to hold on to the seams of your composure.
“Oh,” he laughs, entirely too pleased. His smile turns razor sharp, a contrast to the velvet of his voice, which remains smooth as sin and just as indulgent. “I do that part pro bono.”
His hand drifts lower, no longer pretending at subtlety. You inhale, sharp, and involuntary, and your pulse stumbles in your throat, erratic and loud. You know he can hear it. Your whole body prickles with awareness, strung too tight beneath the weight of restraint.
“Matt,” you hiss, quiet, dangerously close to breathless.
“Madam Ambassador,” he returns, mockingly reverent.
“People are going to notice,” you manage, aiming for cool and missing entirely. Instead, it lands somewhere just above a whisper, too thin to carry any weight.
“No, they won’t,” he murmurs, dipping his head just enough to make it feel intimate, almost conspiratorial. “They don’t see you the way I do.
“You look incredible tonight, by the way,” he adds, almost lazy. “It’s extremely distracting.”
You don’t look at him. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, and his voice is a breath too close. “I’m not starting anything.” An intentional pause. “Yet.”
Oh fuck. You know that tone. And you know how easily it undoes you. Your hand grips the stem of your champagne flute with too much pressure.
“That’s for later,” Matt continues, still smiling, still playing innocent, still entirely unbothered about the molten situation he’s creating beneath your thighs. “When we’re locked in your office, and you’re bent over the desk—” It’s humiliating, how quickly he short-circuits you. Especially here. Especially now. Surrounded by diplomats and donors and enough political firepower to start a polite war. “—this dress pushed up to your hips, hands flat, legs shaking. Trying so hard not to make a sound while I—”
“Madam Ambassador!”
You nearly drop your glass.
Your head spins to the source of the sound as your aid appears at your side like she’s been launched from a cannon, all breathless urgency and faintly flushed cheeks, clearly trying not to run while absolutely running. The intimate bubble created between you and Matt bursts in a flash. You blink, once, twice, trying to remember how to put your professional mask back on.
She leans in closer, lowering her voice in the practiced way of someone attempting to make a scene look like not a scene.
“I’ve just got word that your husband is—“
But whatever seconds of warning you were about to get arrive too late. The doors don’t slam open with drama. They part neatly, elegantly, like every other perfectly choreographed detail of the night, just another entrance in a long parade of them.
Except you know better.
So you turn. And there he is. Congressman Barnes. Bucky. Your husband.
Or rather: the six foot tall coal in your diplomatic stocking.
He stands in the open mouth of the ballroom, all broad shoulders and presence, like the media trained version of the man who once touched you like he was afraid you’d disappear. The rain’s left it’s fingerprints across the upturned collar of his coat, which he shrugs off, politely handing it to the doorman waiting. One dark strand of hair falls forward as he does, damp from the chill. He doesn’t bother brushing it back; he’s too busy scanning the room.
Steel blue eyes track the crowd with practiced efficiency. Old habits, older instincts. The assassin’s gaze never really left him, just learned to wear nicer suits.
But he’s not looking at the buzz of people, he’s looking through them, cataloguing, searching, until finally, they find their home. You.
His gaze finds yours like it always does, like there’s some old wire between you still conducting power, even now. And something in his expression goes soft. Fractional. Sharp edges dulled for one split second, like the look he used to give you across your kitchen island before the day’s chaos took him back to D.C. and left you with your coffee going cold. For a moment, the room shrinks to the two of you.
But then, inevitable, his gaze drops, precise and burning. And you remember, in the same second he sees it, that Matt’s hand is still resting against the small of your back.
And for the first time all night, your thoughts empty, like someone yanked the power from the control panel in your brain and left you blinking through static.
Instead, you’re just very suddenly aware: the low scoop of your dress, the heat of Matt’s fingers against your skin, the exact angle of Bucky’s jaw as he processes what he’s seeing, and the absolutely godawful presence of your aide standing next to you, still chattering on, blissfully oblivious to the way you’re internally appealing to every higher power on record, including a man in a red suit with a sleigh, to grant your Christmas wish and make the floor open up.
Bucky doesn’t react - at least not outwardly. His face is still carefully arranged, the press-ready mask still cloaking the real him. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. Oh no, they’re doing something else entirely. Calculating. Reading. Remembering.
Your spine locks. Your lungs forget how to do the one thing they were designed for. And before you can think, before you can help yourself, you step forward. Out of Matt’s touch. Like you’re guilty of something, even though this is exactly what you’d both agreed to.
Matt’s doesn’t protest. But his head tilts slightly, and his mouth flickers with the ghost of something less assured than earlier.
“Were you expecting him?” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath, pitched only for you.
You might answer. No. You think you say it. You’re not sure. Because your pulse is a snare drum in your ears and your dress is suddenly too tight and Matt is still behind you and before you can recalibrate, Bucky’s crossing the room. Big, purposeful strides, no detours, like gravity’s involved. Like the shortest distance between him and you is an inevitability. And maybe you blink. Maybe your fingers twitch. Maybe Matt says your name and you don’t hear it.
And then you feel it. Bucky’s arm curling around your waist, pulling you close and sliding into place like it never left. Like it belongs there. His fingers press into the curve of your hip, twitching slightly, like he’s reacquainting himself with the feeling you.
“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart,” he drawls, pressing a kiss to your cheek that’s more claim than greeting. “Did I miss anything important?”
You smile before you even register the impulse, before your brain catches up with your face. It’s even not performative - it’s worse. It’s reflex, that old, honey-warm reaction buried somewhere in the marrow of you, where all the bad decisions live.
Of course his presence short-circuits your better judgment and rewires your body like a fucking Pavlovian trigger.
"Bucky," you breathe, and it comes out softer than you mean. Laced with something warm and involuntary and utterly stupid. Almost relieved. Which is objectively ridiculous, because he wasn’t supposed to be here, and you certainly weren’t waiting for him. ”You made it."
“Couldn’t let you do this alone,” he murmurs, and he leans in just enough to make it feel tender. And then you catch it, the lingering scent of his cologne - warm, spiced, sinfully familiar. It still curls under your skin, bypasses logic, goes straight to that inconvenient place between your legs like your body hasn’t been thoroughly updated on the terms of your separation.
His mouth brushes the line of your cheek with a deliberate softness. “You look gorgeous tonight, baby.”
Baby.
Oh, fuck you, actually. That word is a landmine, and you step on it hard. It detonates in your chest, all heat and memory and involuntary muscle reaction.
Your breath catches in the space between your collarbone and your pride. You can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything except stand frozen, wondering how the hell you ended up here, in a ballroom full of politic’s most powerful, between your husband and your lover, and a not nearly enough alcohol in your system to deal with whatever chapter of your memoir this will eventually be filed under.
And you’re suddenly violently aware of how absurdly close and entirely too perceptive Matt is. Of how his hand has only just left the bare skin at the base of your spine Of how the air between the three of you has tightened into something sharp and charged and idiotically male.
Bucky smiles at Matt. Or rather, Bucky does the thing he does instead of smiling, that faint curve at the corners, that almost-polite flicker of civility that’s more like a veiled assessment than an actual expression of warmth.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?” He asks, just barbed enough to jolt you straight out of the spiralling mess in your brain.
You open your mouth. Something resembling a noise emerges, high pitched and useless. You opt to close it again. Then you flick a glance toward Matt, who still hasn’t moved, though the slight tension in his jaw says enough. You are, by every measure, out of protocol, out of champagne, and rapidly running out of coherent thoughts.
You laugh. It’s automatic. Bright, brittle, entirely unconvincing. The kind of laugh that would get flagged in a hostage video.
“Yes—of course,” you say, in a voice less convincing than the one you used to convince a room full of foreign dignitaries that a rogue drone strike was merely an ‘unfortunate timing issue’. You turn to Matt, hand gesturing somewhere vaguely between them both. “This is, uhh…”
And that’s when your brain decides to eject itself from the conversation entirely. Instead, the Rolodex of introductions spins uselessly behind your eyes:
This is Matt—no, too casual—This is Mr. Murdock—who is he, your high school principal?—This is the embassy’s legal counsel—sure, fine, if you’ve never met the guy before—This is the man currently fucking your wi—Jesus Christ.
Your mouth opens. Something half-shaped and unapproved begins to form. Abort. Abort. Abor—
“Matt Murdock, legal counsel for the embassy,” Matt introduces smoothly, mercifully stepping in before your mouth does something catastrophic. He extends his hand toward your husband like he wasn’t just whispering filth against your ear five minutes ago, his smile a masterclass in lawyerly charm.
Bucky doesn’t take it right away. Just stares at him. That quiet, unreadable thing he does, the one that always made other politicians uneasy and your staffers nervous, the one that means he’s doing more than thinking. He’s judging, asessing, cataloguing, slotting information into place like a sniper sighting his target, only this time the ammunition is social and the terrain is your fucking embassy Christmas party.
After leaving it almost a second longer than what’s polite, Bucky takes Matt’s hand. Firm, and a fraction too tight. Matt holds his ground, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t drop eye contact. And that, somehow, only makes it worse.
“Bucky Barnes,” he returns at last. “I’ve heard your name come up a few times.”
Matt, ever composed and gracious, nods easily. “All good things, I hope.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches - technically a smile, if you’re being generous. “That remains to be seen.”
You shift just enough to face Bucky, one hand ghosting across his shirt like you’re smoothing out his tie. “James.” You warn under you breath, into his chest, just loud enough for him.
His eyes, those ridiculous, impossible blue eyes, cut down to you. “What?” He replies, pretending innocence.
You give him that polished, razor-thin smile you’ve perfected over a decade of high-stakes diplomacy and rooms where the only language permitted was subtext.
“Don’t,” you hiss through it, lips frozen in place, pressing the words through your clenched jaw like a trick of ventriloquism. “Not here.”
“Don’t what?” he shrugs with maddening innocence, like he’s never once in his life started a conflict he didn’t fully intend to finish. “I’m just talking, doll. Just acquainting myself with the man who, in my absence, has so gallantly been entertaining my wife.”
And there it is. My wife.
It lands like a slap from silk gloves. Yet it was slipped into the sentence like it belongs there, and, you suppose, technically it still does. Especially with how your body reacts.
Because it’s not just a word. Not from him. And you hate that it still works on you. Hate that it makes your throat tighten, makes your skin heat where his arm sits so casually around your waist. Hate the ache that curls low in your belly, sharp as it ever was, your body still tuned to his frequency like no time has passed at all.
You try to breathe. Try to smile. Try not to picture him saying it under different circumstances - rougher, close to your ear, with your name caught between his teeth and your nails dragging lines down his back. Try, desperately, not to picture the version of him that still lives somewhere under your skin.
Instead, you so bravely try and do what any self-respecting woman with two degrees, three diplomatic awards does, and several glasses of champagne in her system does. You try to salvage the conversation with dignity.
Except you don’t get the chance. Because James Buchanan “my wife” Barnes opens his stupid mouth again.
“I’m sure I’m not the only one curious.” He adds, that casual little lilt in his voice. “Not with the way he’s hanging around you like a lost puppy.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Even Matt’s practiced charm falters.
And that’s when your hand lands flat against Bucky’s chest.
Professionally. Firmly. A perfectly innocent motion. If someone took a photo right now, it would look like a poised, affectionate gesture - and not the silent threat it absolutely is - as you steer him away from Matt before the night can get any worse.
“Okay,” you smile so sweetly it could rot teeth quicker than Christmas candy, ‘I think the Congressman and I are just going to take a little moment, have a bit of a, you know, marital catch up,” you keep talking to Matt over your shoulder, flashing him a look that lands somewhere between apologetic and horrified, “I’ll find you later, Matt.”
And then you’re gone, dragging Bucky through the crowd, pulling him by the hand now. Not laced fingers, oh no, just your palm wrapped around his wrist like a diplomatic escort and not, say, a woman seconds from finding the nearest unoccupied corridor and verbally eviscerating her husband behind a ficus.
His gait is maddeningly casual. Because of course it is. Of course he follows half a step behind, letting you lead him through the crowd, letting you fume and fluster and curse, while he’s all composed amusement like he’s exactly where he wants to be. Like he hasn’t just detonated a perfectly groomed social event with one laced remark and a single possessive noun.
“You cannot do that,” you snap, breath sharp through your teeth, as you throw a glare over your shoulder. “You do not get to show up late and piss all over the conversation like a jealous husband.”
And just like that, he stops walking.
Which means, by default, you’re suddenly yanked to a graceless halt mid-stride, your momentum pulling you straight back into him.
The full inertia of your forward momentum meets the immovable object of one emotionally constipated super-soldier, and your composure unravels in the three seconds it takes for your body to register proximity. Your palms slap flat against the wall of his chest to steady yourself.
And Christ, he’s still so solid. Stupidly, impossibly solid. Your treacherous fingers hesitate a beat too long against the fabric of his shirt, caught in the gravity of muscle memory, like they’re trying to map old territory. You tell yourself it’s balance. Not the slow, aching part of you that still wants to hold on.
Eventually, eventually, you peel yourself off him and step forward again, spine straightening with diplomatic precision.
That’s when he crosses his arms. And the way the fabric of his suit strains across the thick lines of his biceps nearly short-circuits whatever righteous indignation you’d been clinging to. Your brain stutters. Your pulse jumps. Because that body - your husband’s body - still knows how to shut your thoughts off like a flipped switch.
You swallow hard. Try to remember what it was you were furious about, and hang onto that like a lifeline.
“Didn’t know I had to RSVP to my own wife’s events,” he quips, voice all smug indifference and no apology. Like the words just slipped out of his mouth by accident, and he’s not choosing this fight on purpose. “Just in case she’s plus-oneing with her boyfriend.”
Truly, a flawless demonstration of how neither of you are good at detachment, despite insisting otherwise when you agreed seeing other people was allowed.
And it hits harder than it should. Unfair and sore. Not just a jab, but a full, winding punch to the ribs. Delivered with that same lazy smirk, that spark behind his eyes that dares you to react, to pull something real from you. Go on, poke back. Let’s see who draws blood first.
You don’t let your face flinch, still holding his steely gaze, but the fury tightens in your throat, and the taste of champagne goes bitter in your mouth, making it hard to swallow past the taste of every unspoken thing between you.
And maybe something in your silence hits him harder than your words ever could. Maybe Bucky realises he’s pushed it too far. Maybe he even starts to feel a little guilty. Because that telltale little crease that starts to pull between his brows - the one that always used to show up when he hurt your feelings without meaning to.
He looks away. Just for a second. Slides his hands into the pockets of that immaculate suit like he needs something to do with them besides reach for you. “I should’ve called,” he admits.
“You should’ve done a lot of things,” you counter, but it comes out quieter than you expect. Not soft, or gentle, just tired. Worn at the edges in the way you only ever are around him.
And maybe, god, maybe this is the moment. The liminal, flickering heartbeat between fury and something messier. Maybe you’re both on the edge of something real. Maybe—
“Oh, there’s my favourite couple!”
God forbid you finish a thought this evening. Never in your life have you wanted a Christmas carol to come true quite so desperately as you want Silent Night to live up to its goddamn promise.
You don’t even get a moment to brace before both your hands are swept up in a pair of perfectly manicured claws belonging to a retired ambassador. Generous with her compliments, sparing with her actual opinions, and somehow always convinced you and Bucky are the very picture of domestic bliss.
“Oh, just look at you two,” she coos, with the kind of warm familiarity that only comes from never actually having a real conversation with either of you. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you in a room together, but aren’t you just luminous. Gorgeously luminous.”
Her gaze darts between you like a bloodhound on the scent of high-society gossip, pupils practically dilating at the sight of you and Bucky together. “James, dear, you must be keeping her happy with the way she’s glowing.”
You smother your scoff in a polite little cough. But Bucky, damn him, doesn’t miss a beat.
He smiles that perfectly engineered smile, the one made of clean lines and congressional polish, and reaches instinctively for your waist like he’s done it every day of his life, and will do every day after this. “Trying my best, ma’am.”
“Of course you are,” she says, patting his arm in that way older women do when they’ve decided you’re a particularly well-trained husband. Then her attention swivels back to you,
“My husband says your James speaks about you all the time, you know.” Her smile grows indulgent, like she’s letting you in on some private, precious detail. “He’s all ‘my wife says’ this, ‘my wife thinks’ that. Quite devoted, for a man drowning in committee meetings.”
And just like that, the air thins.
Your chest folds in on itself, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s your lungs or your sense of reality collapsing first. Because you hadn’t considered that. Not once. Not in all the months of press releases and dodged calls. That he might still talk about you. In present tense. In rooms you weren’t in. Casually. Like you mattered. Like you still belonged to him in some way that wasn’t just tactical optics and expertly coordinated photo ops.
Something urgent and ugly coils tight beneath your ribs. The sharp ache of hope’s ghost. Like everything you told yourself you’d stopped wanting was still curled up somewhere inside you, only playing dead.
Your gaze lifts before you can stop it, peering up through your lashes, drawn to him like a tide to the moon you never really escaped. Your eyes search him, scrambling for something, soft in a way you hate. Even your lips part uselessly as though the questions lodged in your throat might spill out if they knew how to take shape.
But Bucky’s frozen.
Not visibly, not for anyone else. Not in any way that would register unless you knew him like you do. You feel it in the way his hand tightens infinitesimally against your waist, in the way his jaw is tight, in the way his eyes remain pinned somewhere past the woman’s shoulder. Like he can pretend you didn’t just hear that.
But you don’t get to sit with any of it. Of course you don’t. Because she barrels onward, entirely unaware of the existential grenade she’s just lobbed into the centre of your fake marriage.
“And when,” she adds, all conspiratorial mischief as she clasps your hands again, “can we expect a baby from you two, hmm? We can’t let these genes go to waste - your children would be beautiful. Just imagine, a little diplomatic darling running around. What a legacy!”
Your smile calcifies, and your eyes strain so wide that your soul starts clawing for an exit through your sockets. You laugh, something brittle and not at all human.
“Oh, wouldn’t that be something,” you reply, and you really do mean it, just not in the way she’ll take it. “But you’ll have to excuse us, because my husband and I need to compare notes before the speeches start.”
You don’t wait for a response. You’re already turning. Already seizing Bucky’s wrist, which is annoyingly warm and comforting in a way that only makes everything feel worse. Your fingers curl around it in a firm grip that makes your intentions painfully clear and doesn’t leave room for interpretation.
You drag him, again, through the crowd, but this time there’s no half-hearted attempt at a pasted on smile.
He follows again, of course. But this time with the sheepish obedience of a man who knows he’s two seconds from being flayed with nothing but words. His steps lengthen to match yours, just brushing close enough to trip every circuit in your body that hasn’t already shorted out.
This time, you don’t make the mistake of heading for the first empty corridor. No. This time, it’s your office. Four walls, a lock, and a door you can slam.
‧͙⋆•̩̩͙˚❅*̩̩͙•̩̩͙⋆‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛⋆˚❅•̩̩͙⋆‧͙
The second the door clicks shut behind you, it’s like the whole room inhales with you. You twist the lock with a flick that borders on violent and turn just in time for him to speak.
“Now, to be fair, I think—”
“No, absolutely not,” you cut in, voice already high and tight, finger coming up like a weapon. “You do not get to ‘now to be fair’ me right now, Bucky.”
He blinks. Holds his hands up, palms splayed like that’s going to stop the hurricane already building in your chest. “Okay—”
“No. Not okay. You don’t get to waltz into my event, late, might I add, and unannounced, and then start growling at my colleagues like you’re marking territory you haven’t touched in months.”
“Oh, I’m the problem?” he says, and there it is, that goddamn smirk that only comes out when he knows he’s getting under your skin. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t realise my wife would be so protective over her boyfriend.”
Oh, you are one inch from throttling him.
“Jesus Christ!” You seethe, glaring at the impossibly stupid man before you. You’re pacing now, slow and sharp like a predator in heels. “Can we drop the jealous bullshit? You agreed to this, Bucky. Remember? Your suggestion, actually. We keep the optics, we drop the intimacy. I believe your exact words were ‘no strings, no hard feelings.’”
Bucky’s jaw tightens, the smirk wobbling just enough to show the real teeth behind it. He crosses his arms, that stupid tailored jacket pulling tight across his biceps again, and it pisses you off even more.
“I’m not jealous,” he shoots back, too quick and too defensive for a man supposedly unbothered. You scoff in utter disbelief. “I’m not.” He insists, and you’re not sure who believes it less - you or him. “But you and your boyfriend weren’t exactly subtle, and that’s not what we agreed to.”
The space between you shrinks without either of you meaning to close it, the argument pulling you inward like gravity instead of pushing you apart, heat collecting in the narrow strip of air between your bodies until it feels charged, unstable, one wrong movement away from ignition.
“We agreed to discretion,” you snap back, heat flaring. “Not fucking invisibility. And for your information, I’ve been seeing him for two months and nobody’s noticed a thing.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle feathers just under the skin and his eyes darken a fraction, blue sharpening into something raw and furious and hurt. But it’s gone as fast as it came, smoothed over by the cold anger he wears when he’s protecting something more vulnerable.
His voice, when it comes, is lower. More dangerous.
“I noticed,” he states. “Immediately.”
Your stomach lurches with butterflies, but you just roll your eyes, because it’s easier than admitting the way that makes your pulse trip.
“Congratulations, you want a medal?” You bite back, sarcasm thick enough to wade through, “You noticed because you’re a freakish cyborg with a surveillance complex and abandonment iss—”
“Because he looked like he wanted to eat you alive!” Bucky argues, eyes flaring as he steps in, voice louder now, more petulant.
His words hit like punches but land like confessions. And he’s close. Too close. The way only Bucky can be oppressive and intoxicating at once.
“Well, he wasn’t the only one in that room tonight with that look! Your wife is quite the catch, you’d know if you were ever actually around,” you fire back, loud and mean, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them.
That lands. Hard. His nostrils flare, his posture shifts. Silence slams down between you, thick and volatile. You’re breathing hard now. So is he. The air feels too small, the walls too close.
“You never call,” you continue, stepping closer now, daring him to move first. “You never check in. I find out what city you’re in from CNN half the time, and the rest of the time? I get a neatly worded email from that pretty little blonde assistant of yours.”
“It’s her job to manage my calendar!” Bucky exclaims, exasperated.
“Is it also her job to make it nearly impossible for me to speak to my own husband?” The word slips out before you can stop it, sharp and bitter. “Or is that just a perk?”
He stares at you now, brows drawn together, openly incredulous. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
You shrug, brittle and furious, barely hiding your hurt. “Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?”
The line is bait. He knows it is. You know it is. And you also know it’s below the belt, unfair and loaded and seething with all the things you’re refusing to admit. It sits in the air like a lit match.
For a second, he looks genuinely startled. Then, infuriatingly, his mouth curves, not soft, not amused in any kind way, but sharp with recognition. Like he’s just spotted your tell. “Jesus Christ. You’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” you snap, too fast. “I’m pointing out your hypocrisy.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re the one who walked in and picked a fight like you still get a say—”
“I am your husband.”
You don’t even remember how you got this close, or how you ended up with your back to the wall. But there’s no space between your bodies now. Just heat.
“Oh, now you remember? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you left me to rot across an ocean and then got offended when I didn’t wait quietly for you to come back.”
“I didn’t leave you,” he snaps, the control cracking just enough to let the heat show. “You knew what this job was. You knew what Congress would mean.”
“And I knew what I meant to you,” you fire back, sharper now, because something in your chest is starting to feel too tight, too close to splitting. “Or at least I did once. Before it got inconvenient.”
His jaw works. You can see the muscle jumping there, feel the tension rolling off him in waves. “You’re the one who took the London post! You think it didn’t feel like you chose your career over me?”
“Because you told me to.”
“I told you to take the opportunity,” he corrects, voice rising now despite himself. “I didn’t tell you to move your entire life three thousand miles away and replace me with the first man who pays you attention.”
That one lands. Harder than the rest.
Your chest tightens, sharp and sudden, like he’s punched straight through the ribs instead of around them. “Don’t you dare reduce Matt to a placeholder,” you say, voice shaking despite your best efforts. “He showed up when you didn’t.”
“Oh, he showed up, alright,” Bucky says, dark amusement curling around the edges of his voice. “Real hero. Must’ve been tough for him, swooping in while the husband’s away, busy doing the job he was elected to do.”
“There it is,” you whisper. You glare up at him, furious and full of something you refuse to name. He’s so close now your lips graze when you breathe. “That’s the one you keep coming back to. Like your job absolves you of everything else.”
“It explains it.”
“No,” you snap, anger flaring bright enough to burn through the hurt. “It excuses it. To you. Not to me.”
You’re so close now that you can feel the heat of him, the way his presence fills the room and presses against you, the familiar weight of him triggering memories your body is not equipped to handle right now. His hands flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach out or maybe to shove you away. You’re not sure which would be worse.
"You think I wanted this? You think I like being Congressman Barnes?”
Your heart is a snare drum, pulsing so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts over the thunder in your chest.
"You chose it.”
"I chose this for us. To build a life where I wasn't just the Winter Soldier. To be someone you could be proud of. Someone who deserved you.”
Your heart lurches.
Skips once, hard and ungraceful, like it’s trying to crash its way out of your chest. You hate him for saying it. You hate the weight of it, the honesty in it, the you in it. The part of you that’s still too soft for him stumbles on it, almost falters. Almost breaks. Almost
But you’re angry, and you’re proud, and he still hasn’t earned the softness. So you weaponise the one thing you shouldn’t. You push deeper. Twist the blade just to feel the sting.
“Yeah?” you say, voice quieter now, sweeter too, but edged with a cruel bite. “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before suggesting we open the marriage just so you could screw your assistant the second it got hard.”
His reaction is immediate.
Bucky’s eyes flash, and for a second you can see the moment the fury slams into him, banks hard against his ribs, and claws for purchase behind his teeth.
“I’m not sleeping with her,” he spits. “Jesus Christ.”
You blink surprised, not by the denial, but by how wounded it sounds coming out of his mouth.
“I’ve never touched her,” he bites out again, louder now, breath hot against your cheek, his body pressing in so firmly now there’s nowhere for the anger to go but straight through you. “Not once. If you want her fired, I'll have her gone tomorrow.”
Your gaze flicks, traitorously, involuntarily, to his lips, pulled taut in anger but still so impossibly inviting. You hate yourself for it.
“Oh, how gallant of you,” you sneer, though your voice is starting to betray you, coming out thinner than you want.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you backs down. You’re breathing the same air now, chest brushing chest, the heat of him unmistakable, unavoidable, a memory your body never quite forgot how to respond to.
“Stop being a brat,” he warns, eyes burning as they rake over your face, your mouth, your throat. “Stop using her as a shield because you don’t like what you’re feeling right now.”
His chest brushes yours with every inhale. You can feel the heat of him through the silk of your dress. His gaze drops again, to your lips this time, and stays there just long enough to be dangerous.
“What I’m feeling?” you bite back, breath shallow, your back flat to the wall, his presence swallowing every inch of air between you. “You don’t know what I’m feeling.”
Your breath mingles, sharp and uneven, hot from the argument and the hum of tension coiled between two mouths that know exactly how the other tastes.
“I know what you’re feeling,” he replies, low, slow, and devastatingly calm. “Because it’s the same way I felt when I walked into that room and saw another man touching what’s still mine.”
His pupils are blown wide, ringed with a storm-dark blue, locked on your mouth like he can hear the lies forming before you speak them.
But it’s all too much - his heat, his scent, the familiar weight of him against you, and when you open your mouth to argue, to snap, to say something, all that punches out of your lungs is a quiet, needy little whimper.
And that’s all it takes.
Bucky’s on you before you can even process it, crashing forward like a moth to flame, swallowing the sound like it’s his to claim, dragging your mouth to his like he’s starving for you.
His metal arm wraps around your waist with bruising surety, yanking you flush to him like he’s taking back what was always his.
Your bodies collide like punishment, or proof, like maybe this is the only way either of you still knows how to communicate anymore, with heat and ache and the frantic drag of bodies trying to rewrite something they agreed to erase.
His other hand fists in your hair, gripping the flawless updo your stylist spent an hour perfecting, fingers sinking in until strands slip free, soft and ruined already, just like you. He uses the hold to tilt your head back, guiding you into the kiss the way he wants it - deeper, harder, a kind of possession dressed up as need.
Your hands clutch at his lapels, desperate for purchase, pulling him impossibly closer even though there’s nothing left to close. You moan into his mouth, helpless and high pitched, and Bucky takes it like an invitation, tongue sliding past your lips with a groan of satisfaction that vibrates straight through you, hungry and all-consuming.
He kisses you like he’s still angry. Like he’s trying to prove a point you didn’t let him make.
Because the argument doesn’t stop. Not really. It just changes shape, becomes the rhythm of his body against yours, the way your nails dig into his shoulders, the broken little sound in the back of your throat when he mouths at the hinge of your jaw like he’s furious it still fits so perfectly there.
Bucky groans against your neck, low and guttural, like the sound is being torn straight from his chest, like the taste of you does something to him he can’t reason with. His teeth scrape your skin, not yet hard enough to mark, but enough to make you keen and arch into him, craving more.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he mutters against your throat between kisses, panting, like he’s not even trying to pretend it’s controlled anymore. “Missed you.”
He drags his mouth back up to your lips, tasting you again, all wet heat and tongue and desperation. It’s messy now, slick and breathless, spit-slicked lips and the hot rasp of groans exchanged like promises you don’t trust either of you to keep.
Your stomach tightens as his hands start to roam lower, trailing greedily down your sides like he’s trying to remap territory he’s been exiled from.
The cool metal of his left hand is a stark contrast to the heat in your skin, and it slides lower with a possessive kind of precision, fingers spreading over your thigh through the split in your dress, gripping hard enough to bruise. He lifts your leg around his hips, dragging you closer until your hips are flush to his.
You gasp into his mouth as you feel the strain of his cock against his slacks, blunt pressure hot and insistent against where you’re already soaked for him. Thick and unmistakable and yours.
Your head tips back against the wall with a quiet, broken moan, your mouth falling open as your hips roll instinctively against him, because your body remembers exactly what that cock feels like inside you. The stretch, the pressure, the delicious, devastating fullness.
And it’s already begging for it again.
You’re soaked already. Embarrassingly so. Your panties cling damp between your thighs, useless, and your clit throbs with every tiny shift of his hips.
You try to hike your other leg up around him, desperate now, frantic for more - more friction, more contact, more of him grinding against the place that’s throbbing for him. But the length of your dress restricts the movement of your other leg, trapping you, keeping you just shy of what you need.
“Shit—” you whine, frustrated, nails digging into his shoulders as you pant against his mouth. “Bucky—”
He just groans, deep and low in his throat, utterly pleased at your reaction, then drags his mouth to your jaw, your throat, kissing you like it’s an addiction he’s relapsing into. “S’okay, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice heavy with unbearable fondness. “I’ve got you. I know what you need.”
And then he’s moving, shifting his grip with that maddening, unthinking super soldier ease. One hand firm around your thigh, the other gripping your hip, turning you, walking you backward without breaking the kiss.
Your ass hits the edge of your desk, scattering the carefully arranged stack of briefing notes and security clearances like they never mattered. And before you can catch your breath, he’s on you again, crowding out every thought but the press of his body and the iron heat of his grip as he pushes your back flat to the polished wood with a kind of desperation that says this has been clawing at him for far too long.
Then his hands are already working he silk of your dress up your thighs with a force that doesn’t care about the designer label or the tailor’s handiwork. He shoves it high around your hips until the air hits your thighs and your panties are all that’s left between him and what he wants.
They’re practically translucent from how worked up you are already, clinging to your pussy like a second skin. You feel the rumble of his groan before you hear it, low and visceral and punched from his chest like he’s the one being touched.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, more breath than word, hands spreading wide over your hips, palms rough and hungry, splaying across your thighs like he’s trying to brand himself into the curve of you. “Look at you.”
You writhe under his grip, your hips canting forward without conscious thought, chasing his cock, his mouth, his hands, anything. “Bucky—please—”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Never has. Not when it comes to you.
He drops to his knees, dragging your leg over his shoulder, then the other, spreading you wide with the strength of someone who could split you in half if he wanted.
His mouth is maddeningly close. His breath fans over your soaked panties, and it’s fucking torture, the heat of it, the knowledge of what’s coming, the way he’s just staring like he hasn’t seen you like this a hundred times before.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and he peels them down slow, slow enough to tease, fast enough to keep you begging, slick strands clinging and breaking as he pulls them down. He barely tosses them aside before he’s pushing your thighs wider, nudging you open like a gift he’s about to unwrap with his mouth.
“You have no fucking idea,” he growls, eyes dark and locked on the mess between your thighs, “how long I’ve been thinking about this pussy. How many fucking nights I’ve jerked off in that goddamn DC apartment, fist around my cock, thinkin’ about my wife’s pussy. Wet. Open. Dripping for me.”
Your fingers claw uselessly at the desk underneath you, your back arching, nerves on fire from the heat of his breath alone. He kisses along the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed drags of lips and teeth and tongue that make your hips twitch, every movement deliberately slow just to enjoy watching you squirm.
“God—” It comes out ruined, breathy, pathetic, all broken pride and pent-up hunger. You buck your hips toward him, shameless now. “Bucky—just, please!”
He smirks then, dark and satisfied, looking up at you from between your legs, “Well,” he drawls, “since you asked so nicely, sweetheart.”
And then there’s no thought left at all. Just his tongue parting you, licking into you with a kind of single-minded worship that borders on obscene. Wet, filthy sounds echo off your office walls as he devours you, like a man starved, moaning into your cunt like he’s missed the taste more than air.
His tongue curls against your clit with maddening precision, the angle perfect, the rhythm devastating. He knows your body too well. Every moan. Every twitch. Every sweet, aching spot that makes you fall apart.
His mouth is relentless, tongue dragging slow, firm circles until your thighs tremble against his broad shoulders and your hips try to chase the rhythm, greedy for more.
“Always so fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rumbles, the words pressed directly to your soaked pussy, more vibration than voice, and you gasp at the way it hits. “Knew you’d still taste the same. Knew this pretty little cunt would remember me.”
Your hands find his hair, fingers sinking deep into the thick strands. You tug, hard, like you want to punish him for how good it feels. His groan is immediate, wrecked and needy, and it vibrates against your clit in a way that nearly breaks you.
“Shit—Bucky—fuck—”
You’re barely coherent, hips rocking helplessly, fisting his hair tighter, grounding yourself in the slick mess he’s making of you. He groans again, louder this time, grinding his face deeper between your legs like he’s trying to bury himself inside you with his tongue alone.
Each pass of his mouth pulls another high, broken moan from your throat. Each curl of his tongue sends your nails raking across his scalp, hips bucking, thighs clenching, the heat building so fast you’re already spiralling, too close, too fast.
The pleasure has tipped past sharp into overwhelming, every nerve ending screaming as his mouth refuses to ease up, tongue relentless, precise, cruel in how well it knows you. Your hips jerk, then stutter, then try to pull away, but his grip tightens instantly, strong hands locking around your thighs, anchoring you in place, keeping you spread and open and right where he wants you.
The sounds that come out of you aren’t dignified. They’re messy, breathless, broken little noises you can’t seem to stop, each one punched loose by another flick of his tongue, another hum of satisfaction against your clit.
“Bucky—” you whine, voice thin and wrecked, already shaking. “Please—it’s—I—”
You don’t even know what you’re asking for. Less. More. Mercy. Ruin.
“Oh, you poor thing,” he purrs, voice hot against your folds. “Your boyfriend not takin’ care of you right? Leavin’ my wife all wet and aching like this?” His tongue presses firm and slow, possessive, making you gasp. “She’s weeping for me, baby. Guess I gotta do everything myself.”
Your whole body arches, trembling, legs wrapped around his neck like you’re trying to pull him inside you. Your thighs shake. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your cunt. Your moans are broken things. Your release coils tauter and tauter.
Bucky feels it the second your thighs start to tremble, the way your body tightens, oversensitive and desperate, and he makes a pleased little sound low in his chest
“Be a good girl for me,” he whispers, licking your clit in tight, insistent circles, his voice dripping filth and possession. “Let your husband have what’s his.”
Your orgasm hits like a snapped wire.
You shatter with a strangled sob, “Bucky—oh my god—”, the orgasm hitting like it’s been waiting months to rip its claws through you, every muscle seizing, your hands white-knuckled in his hair.
Your cunt clenches around nothing, pulsing, spasming, slick pouring down his mouth as you come undone on his tongue, your whole body shuddering like it’s too much, too bright, too intense to survive.
His tongue keeps moving, slower now but heavier, pressing and licking through your oversensitivity with a cruel patience that makes your thighs shake even harder, makes your breath stutter into sharp little gasps you can’t control.
His mouth drags off you with a wet, obscene sound, as he exhales hot across your cunt one last time. You can’t even speak. You’re just gasping, fucked-out and twitching and wrecked.
You barely register the movement until he’s rising, towering over you, the heat of his body swallowing everything. Your slick coats his mouth, his chin, his stubble darkened and wet, and the sight of it makes your stomach flip all over again.
His mouth catches yours in a kiss that’s filthy, tongue sliding against yours so you can taste yourself on him. It’s needy and deep, and you groan into it, dizzy, swallowing the filthy echo of your own cunt off his tongue.
His hands cradle your jaw, tilting your face up, holding you steady like he’s trying to anchor you back into him, into this, into now.
He presses in between your thighs, and you can feel how hard he is under his slacks, thick and pushing against your oversensitive pussy. You cry out into his mouth, legs reflexively trying to close, but his hands are there, firm on your hips, keeping you open like he owns the right.
“Easy,” he murmurs against your lips, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he grinds into you, slow and torturous, letting you feel exactly how hard he is, how badly he wants this. “Stay open for me, baby. Just like that. That’s my girl.”
You’re whining again, desperate, keening, need crawling back into your skin. The heat is molten, sending your pulse racing, overstimulation and desire crashing into each other in a dizzy blur.
Your hips roll against him without permission, chasing the hard press of him, the wet heat of your cunt aching to be filled by his cock again despite the tremble in your thighs.
“Fuck,” you whimper, breathless. “Fuck, Bucky—please—”
His eyes flash with need, the black of his pupils swallowing the blue entirely. And then your world flips.
His hands clamp down, and he spins you with effortless force, twisting your body and pushing you forward in one fluid motion until your chest hits the desk with a heavy thud.
“Bucky—!” you gasp, palms catching against the polished wood. Papers scatter. Something glass rolls and shatters on the floor. You don’t care.
He crowds behind you immediately, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades to keep you bent, the other yanking your dress up higher, baring your ass, exposing your soaked cunt completely to the cool air and his greedy stare.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters behind you, rough and ruined. “Look at this pussy. Still dripping for me.”
You whimper, high and wrecked, pushing your ass back against him, greedy for pressure, for friction, for him, for anything.
Behind you, there’s the unmistakable zip of his trousers undoing. Your breath stutters, a needy little gasp punching out of you as you feel him free himself, hot and thick and close.
But he doesn’t sink into you.
Instead, he presses in just enough to let you feel him. The thick, heavy length of his cock sliding slow and deliberate between your slick folds, catching your clit with the head, dragging through you without breaching the place you’re begging him to fill. The friction alone makes your knees wobble, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerk back on instinct.
“Uh‑uh,” he murmurs immediately, one hand snapping to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he stills you. “Easy.”
You whine, long and pitiful, the sound vibrating through your chest as your palms press harder into the desk, knuckles whitening. Your body feels too open, too exposed, every nerve lit up and screaming for him.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, “You miss this cock that bad, baby?”
You choke on a sound, hips pushing back helplessly, chasing him, begging without words. His cock nudges your entrance, fat and hard, and your walls clench uselessly around nothing.
But he keeps teasing, that thick, perfect head catching, dragging, pressing, never breaching. “Need your husband’s cock, huh? Your pretty lawyer not fillin’ you up right?”
Your answer comes out as a wrecked, wordless moan, your head dropping, your body rocking back against him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You can’t even form a denial, can’t gather the pieces of your pride off the floor.
He taps the head of his cock against your puffy clit twice, still swollen from his mouth, just sharp enough to make you cry out and bring your focus back to him.
“Come on, pretty girl” he murmurs, possessive and coaxing all at once, thumb digging into your hip. “If my wife wants her husband’s cock, then she can ask for it.”
You sob, frustration sharp and humiliating, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it. “Bucky—please—please—I need your cock. I need my husband—please—”
The growl he lets out behind you is raw and unfiltered. The kind of sound that shakes down your spine and settles somewhere in the hollow between your legs, and then he’s moving, cock in hand, pressing in with a slow, punishing thrust that steals the breath from your lungs.
The thick head breaches you first, stretching you wide, your walls clenching, trying to pull him in faster, greedy and soaking and helpless against the thick, brutal stretch of him.
“Oh—fuck—” you gasp, voice strangled and high, hands slipping against the polished desk as your body arches, instinctively trying to open wider, take more, take all of him.
“Jesus Christ,” he grits through his teeth, watching himself disappear into you. “You’re still so fucking tight baby—fuck—this pussy missed me, huh?”
And then hips snap forward, the last few inches slamming in until he’s buried to the fucking hilt, his pelvis flush to your ass with a sharp smack that echoes off the walls.
You scream, high and wrecked and wanton, your legs nearly giving out under the weight of him, the stretch, the heat, the fullness. Your cunt clenches around him again, fluttering helplessly like your body’s trying to pull him deeper even when there’s nowhere left for him to go.
“Listen to you,” he hisses, tone dark and filthy, thrusting just once, shallow and firm, enough to make you jolt. “You hear that, sweetheart? That’s my girl. My pretty wife. Cryin’ for her husband’s cock.”
Then he pulls back and fucks into you, hard and deep, no warning, no preamble, just a ruthless snap of hips that sends your body jolting forward over the desk, a ragged cry spilling from your lips.
The desk creaks under the force of his continued thrusts, your skin slapping loud against his, each drag of his cock in you knocking the air from your lungs, stealing the words from your throat. All you can do is moan, wrecked, your walls gripping him like they never learned how to let him go.
And god, you’re gone. Helpless. Shaking. Crying out his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore, the world narrowed to the pounding weight of him inside you. Your pussy pulses around him, your orgasm already building again, sharp and fast and unbearable.
You turn your head, cheek dragging across the polished desk, because it’s not enough just to feel him. You have to see him, your husband, the man whose cock is currently buried so deep in you, you swear he’s knocking the breath from your lungs.
Your vision is already blurring, glassy, lashes wet with unshed tears, but you can just catch him in the corner of your eye.
Bucky, cheeks flushed, his head tipped back, strands of hair out of its careful styling and sticking damp to his brow, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he fucks you with a single-minded focus that’s almost worship.
God, he’s beautiful. You could cry just looking at him. You might.
It’s obscene, how much you want to touch him, to claw your way back into his arms, to have his mouth on yours and his hands everywhere at once. You reach back, needy, desperate for any part of him you can grab, but you’re too far gone, fingers scrabbling against empty air like that’ll be enough to bridge the inch-wide chasm between you.
“Bucky…” It’s a pathetic whine, the only word you can manage. Your hand still claws at nothing, pleading for contact, for reassurance, for him.
His gaze snaps to yours instantly, pupils blown and mouth curling into a pleased, wicked smile as he takes in the sight of you, cheek smushed into the desk, eyes glassy, still trying to reach for him even when you can barely breathe.
“Yeah, baby, I know,” he coos, voice rough and syrup-sweet, and he lets one hand slip from your hip to find your outstretched fingers, weaving them together, holding tight through every brutal, perfect thrust.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with praise, “my pretty wife, all fucked-out and still wantin’ more.”
You can only nod, breathless and wrecked, tears spilling down your cheeks, and the sound you make is nothing short of ruined.
He presses his forehead to your shoulder blade, breath hot on your skin as he pounds into you. One arm braces beside your head, the other stays tangled with your fingers, holding you like an anchor while his hips keep driving into you, deep and relentless, every thrust dragging another sound out of you that you don’t recognise as language anymore.
He mouths along your throat, teeth catching first, a sharp nip that makes you cry out, then another, and another, claiming skin with greedy little bites that leave your breath shattering apart.
He kisses over each mark immediately after, slow and deliberate, tongue hot and wet as he soothes the sting away.
“God,” he breathes against your neck, the sound vibrating straight into your bones. “Feel you squeezin’ me. You’re right there, baby. I can feel it.”
Your whole body shudders at the words, cunt clenching tight around him like it understands before your brain ever could. You whimper, head tipping back uselessly, exposing more of your throat to him as his mouth keeps moving, marking, kissing.
“Can’t—can’t think,” you manage, the words falling apart as soon as they leave your mouth. “Oh my god—Bucky, please—I can’t think—just wanna—wanna—”
“Wanna what?” he rasps, slowing his thrusts just enough to make it unbearable, grinding deep and holding there so you feel every inch of him buried inside you. His mouth hovers by your ear, lips brushing your skin as he speaks. “Say it, sweetheart. Use that pretty little voice.”
Your words tumble out in a broken rush, babbled and needy, breath catching on every syllable. “Wanna come—wanna feel you come inside me—need it—need it so bad—need you—”
He laughs, dark and hungry, the sound ripped from his chest as he rolls his hips again, slow and mean. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You want me to fill this tight little pussy up? Let it all leak out so everyone sees what I did to you?”
You’re nodding frantically now, yes tumbling out of you in gasps and whines, please please please the only prayer you know how to say. Your body is shaking, legs barely holding you up. Your cunt fluttering and clenching around him like it’s begging just as hard as you are.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, thrusts picking up again, deeper, harder, bruising in the way that makes your vision go white at the edges. “Maybe I should put a baby in you like that ambassador said, huh?”
Your breath catches sharply, a needy little sob ripping out of you as his words sink in.
“‘Cause you wear that diamond so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart,” he continues, voice filthy and reverent all at once, mouth pressed to your ear. “But it’s not enough. I’m gonna fill you up right now. Fuck a baby into you. Make damn sure they all know who you belong to.”
Your response is incoherent. Barely a stream of whines and broken sounds, hips pushing back desperately to meet his thrusts, to take everything he’s giving you and more.
“That’s right,” he groans, snapping his hips into you hard now, claiming, punishing, every thrust landing deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Should’ve done this months ago. Fuckin’ knocked you up and had you round and swollen at this party.”
Your orgasm is clawing up your spine now. Every nerve screaming, your walls clenching so tight around him it makes him curse under his breath.
“You gonna take it all for me?” he growls, voice breaking as his own control starts to fracture. “Gonna keep it inside like a good little wife, let it take, let me mark you from the inside out?”
You gasp, voice cracking completely as the edge hits you. “Yours—m’yours, Bucky—”
That’s all it takes.
He slams into you one last time, a raw, broken sound tearing from his throat as he buries himself as deep as he can go and comes hard, spilling into you with a groan of your name. You come with him, shattered and blinding. Your body locks up as pleasure rips through you, milking every last pulse from his cock.
Your breath comes in little hiccuping gasps, lips parted, eyes glassy with come-drunk bliss, lashes sticky with tears you didn’t notice falling.
And all you can feel is the throb between your legs and Bucky’s cock softening inside you, still twitching.
Behind you, Bucky’s chest presses warm and broad against your back, his breath ragged against the hollow of your throat. He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your shoulder. Soft now, whispering things you barely process. You feel the cadence of praise more than the words themselves, sweet nothings soaked in filth and affection.
“Good girl…” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear like a secret. “Took me so well. So fuckin’ good for me. Such a perfect little wife.”
You whimper, barely more than breath, and his hand slides slow over your belly, holding you there like you’ll float away otherwise.
You can't move. Can't think past the hot weight of his come cooling inside you, the ache in your thighs, the taste of him still on your tongue. Somewhere beyond this office, Matt is still at your party, waiting.
And for a moment, guilt starts to creep into your thoughts.
Then Bucky pulls out with a sharp hiss, and your body snaps back to him. A small, wrecked, little cry punches from your lungs at the loss of him. Your cunt clenches around nothing, fluttering open and aching empty.
“Shhh, baby,” he soothes immediately, cooing as he drops to his knees behind you, large hands guiding your thighs open wider, one of them cold and sure where it braces your quivering body. “I know. I know, sweetheart. You didn’t want to let me go, huh?”
Your only answer is a shuddering moan as his warm breath ghosts across your bare, messy cunt. You twitch, whimpering again, as you feel Bucky’s come sliding slow between your thighs in wet little trails.
He hums, pleased, like a man admiring his masterpiece.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice far too soft for the words. “Fuckin’ wasting it. All that come, and you’re leaking already…”
You feel his thumb graze your thigh, catching a thick, slick trail as it drags slow and molten down your skin. It slides through the mess, smearing it, lazy and indulgent, and you jolt when it nudges your entrance again.
“Bucky—” you gasp, voice high and strangled as his thumb presses firm, spreading you open.
“Easy,” he coos, guiding his spend back into you, thumb rubbing slow, coaxing, pushing it deep while your hips try and shy away, your cunt overstimulated and twitching with every touch. “I know, baby, I know. It’s alright. Gotta keep it where it belongs, yeah? That’s it. Good girl.”
Your fingers curl on the desk, lower lip trembling as your thighs clench with every slow, squelching drag of his thumb.
“Hope your lawyer likes his pussy sloppy,” Bucky murmurs after a moment, thoughtful and dark with amusement as his thumb slips free, his hand dragging one last slow stroke up your inner thigh. “Because if he wants you tonight, he’s gonna have to settle for leftovers.”
You mewl helplessly, and that just earns you another kiss to the back of your thigh before he reaches down and plucks your panties off the floor. He slides them back up your legs, snapping the waistband into place with a little flick, sealing his come inside you.
His hand lingers, giving your ass a slow, fond squeeze, fingers sinking deep into your flesh, followed by a sharp slap that makes you yelp and clench around the come he’d left behind. His palm stays there, rubbing soft over the sting, possessive as ever.
“Think he’ll thank me for the appetiser, baby?” He teases, amusement curling around every word. “My good little wife. Serving up seconds.”
thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please like & especially reblog/comment, as i would be super grateful for feedback <3
Tags: Established Relationship. Pregnancy. Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: Bucky achieved what every male of his kind is supposed to want. But the Thal'kyr don't do fatherhood -don't even have a word for it- and now he must figure out how to be something his species never taught him to be.
Word Count: 4.6k.
note: And this miniseries of the Tagled AU has come to an end. Thank you for reading❤️
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She felt like she was going to explode.
That was the only way to describe it. Like her body had reached maximum capacity weeks ago and was now just... holding on. Barely.
Her feet were swollen, her ankles thick and uncomfortable, no matter what kind of shoes or slippers she tried to put on. And the pain in her groin every time she walked -sharp, stabbing, every time she stood or walked- made her want to curl up on the couch and not move until this was over.
She wanted the baby out. Desperately.
And at the same time, she was terrified.
The hospital bag sat by the door, packed and ready. Had been for weeks now. Every time she walked past it, her stomach did a complicated flip that was part anticipation, part dread.
Soon.
Very soon.
She just had to get through these last few days.
----
"It has to stretch how much?"
She looked up from her phone to find Bucky staring at the laptop screen, catching his expression somewhere between horrified and fascinated.
"What are you watching?"
"The birth video." He didn't look away from the screen. "They said to watch the birth video to prepare, so I'm watching it, and-" He gestured vaguely at the screen. "How does that even fit?"
She bit back a smile. "That's kind of the whole issue, yes."
He muttered a number, still staring. "That's..." He held up his hands, trying to visualize the measurement, then looked at her with something close to panic. "That's impossible."
"And yet."
He shook his head slowly, gluing his eyes still to the screen. "I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't realize it would be..." He trailed off, apparently at a loss for words.
The online birth prep course had been his idea. The one offered in town had been, to put it generously, underwhelming. A single two-hour session in the community center with a midwife who'd seemed more interested in talking about breathing techniques than actual useful information.
And when Bucky had tried to attend with her, he'd been told -politely but firmly-that the course was for expectant mothers only. Partners could wait in the hall.
He'd looked at her with such complete bewilderment that she'd almost laughed.
"Why?" he'd asked on the drive home.
"I don't know. Space limitations? Women who feel uncomfortable around other men watching?"
"That's idiotic." He'd clenched his hand around the cone of fried fish, almost making it implode inside the car. "How am I supposed to help if I don't know what to expect?"
So they'd found an online course. Comprehensive, detailed, with videos and diagrams that Bucky watched with rapture.
"Okay," he said now, closing the laptop with more force than necessary. "I've seen enough of that."
"Traumatized?"
"Concerned." He stood and crossed to where she sat on the couch, crouching in front of her. He settled his hands on her knees, careful and gentle. "You're going to go through that."
"I am."
"And I can't do anything to help."
"You can be there. That helps."
He didn't look convinced.
She reached out, brushing hair back from his forehead. "It'll be okay. Women do this all the time."
He exhaled slowly, then shifted his attention to her feet. "How's the pain today?"
"The same. Worse when I stand."
"Then don't stand."
"Bucky, I have to move. The course said-"
"I know what the course said." He was already sliding his arms under her, lifting her carefully. "But you're in pain, so I'm moving you instead."
"That's not how this works."
"It's how it's working today."
She wanted to argue. She really did. But being carried was significantly more comfortable than walking, so she let him take her to the bedroom, where he set her down on the bed with almost reverence.
"I'm not made of glass," she said, but there was no heat in it.
"No. You're made of something much more impressive." He rested his hand on her belly for a moment, feeling the baby shift beneath his palm. "Stay here. I'll bring lunch."
"Bucky-"
But he was already gone.
She sighed, settling back against the pillows, and wondered -not for the first time- how she was supposed to convince a man who could lift her like she weighed nothing that she needed to walk on her own.
----
The breast preparation video came up three days later.
She'd been half-dozing on the couch, uncomfortable and exhausted, when she heard Bucky make a soft, thoughtful sound.
"What?" she asked without opening her eyes.
"Nothing."
"Doesn't sound like nothing."
Silence.
Then-
"The course says you need to prepare your breasts for feeding. That there are... techniques."
She cracked one eye open. "Yes," she said, "Massage, mostly. Stimulation to encourage colostrum production before the baby-"
"I can help with that."
He said it so earnestly that she almost laughed. But then she caught the look in his eyes, and it wasn't innocent at all. There was a heat there that had nothing to do with prenatal education.
"Bucky."
"It's practical," he insisted, but he'd dropped his voice, gone low and gravelly. "The video demonstrates the technique. I can do exactly what it shows. Better than it shows."
She stared at him. Something warm and traitorous clenched low in her belly despite the backache, despite how huge and uncomfortable she felt.
God, she wanted him to.
It had been weeks. Weeks since he'd touched her like he meant it. He'd been so careful -terrified of hurting her or the baby- that their intimacy had shrunk to soft forehead kisses and the most infuriating/soothing back rubs. She'd explained a thousand times that sex wouldn't harm either of them, that her body could handle it, but he still resisted, even if he said he would try to do more.
And she was starving for him. Hormones had her walking on the walls for months, and he'd barely laid a hand on her.
"Bucky," she said again, softer this time, almost pleading.
He pressed his hands carefully on her hips, brushing his thumbs against the curve of her belly like he was still afraid he'd break something.
"I just want to help," he murmured, but he'd dropped his gaze to her chest. Her breasts had grown heavy, straining against the soft maternity bra, nipples darker and more sensitive than ever. "The course says it's good for you. For the baby."
She let out a shaky laugh.
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm not lying," he growled, faintly offended. "It is true."
But when he looked up and saw the way she was watching him -lips parted, eyes glassy- something in him snapped. He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, like he'd been starving for months. She moaned into his mouth, and he answered with a low, hungry sound.
When he pulled back, he'd already slid his hands up beneath her breasts.
"Can I?" he asked, voice rough.
She nodded, words failing her.
He moved with reverence, pushing her maternity dress up and over her breasts, and then her bra, baring them to the cool air. Her nipples hardened instantly. He swallowed hard.
"They're… bigger," he noted.
"Thanks for the update, but that has been happening since the last time you checked on them."
He didn't smile. He was too focused. Slowly, carefully, he cupped them, palms warm and broad, covering them completely. The heat of his hands felt like heaven against her tight, aching skin.
"Like this," he murmured, repeating the motions from the video: slow, firm circles from the base toward the nipple.
She closed her eyes and let out a trembling sigh. It was exactly what her body needed, and a thousand times better because it was him. Because his hands were huge and rough and still so impossibly gentle with her.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, stopping immediately.
"No… don't stop."
He started again, more confident now. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples again and again, and she arched without meaning to. A soft moan slipped out.
Bucky made a strangled sound.
"You're…" He stopped, searching for the word. "Wet."
She opened her eyes. His cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide, breathing uneven.
"Bucky…"
He leaned down and pressed a careful kiss to one breast, then opened his mouth and drew the nipple between his lips, sucking gently. She gasped, flying her fingers to his hair.
"Not… not too hard-" she whispered, but her body betrayed her, pressing closer.
He eased off, but didn't pull away. He licked, sucked, slow and deliberate, switching between them like he couldn't get enough. Every flick of his tongue sent a bolt straight between her legs. She was soaked, and he knew it.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, darkening his eyes with something raw and desperate.
"I want…" He paused, like he didn't know how to say it. "I want to keep going. I want to taste."
She understood immediately.
"Bucky, I don't have milk yet. Just colostrum, and it's barely anything."
"I don't care," he growled, and the raw edge in his voice made her clench all over again. "I want everything your body makes… it's mine too."
She stared at him, stunned and turned on in equal measure. It's been a while since she saw him so possessive, so hungry for something so intimately hers.
"Come here," she whispered, tugging him up for a kiss.
He kissed her deeply, never leaving her breasts with his hands, still teasing her nipples with his thumbs. When they broke apart, she was trembling.
"Bucky… please."
"What do you want, mate?" he asked against her mouth. "Tell me."
"Touch me. I need to know you still want me."
He made a broken sound, almost a growl.
"I want you so much it hurts," he confessed, shaking his voice. "But I'm scared-"
"Bucky," she interrupted gently, cupping his face to make him look at her. "With all those prenatal videos… did you get to the part where they suggest that sex in full-term pregnancies can help the body prepare for birth?"
He frowned, knitting his brows together. "No. I didn't… get that far."
She smiled faintly, despite the ache building between her thighs. "There are hormones in semen that help ripen the cervix, make it ready. And orgasms cause mild contractions, nothing dangerous, just enough to encourage things along. It's a really good way to help me right now. I'm… so ready to burst, Bucky. I want this baby born. And I want you."
He widened his eyes slightly, processing. The fear was still there, but now it warred with that practical, protective instinct of his, the one that always kicked in when something was "good for the baby." He dropped his gaze to her belly, then back up.
"It… helps?" he repeated, voice rough but curious.
She nodded, shifting a little under him, letting her thigh brush against the tent on his pants. "Yes. And it's been months. I need you. Please."
That did it. The pretext -the logic of it being practical, good for her body, good for their child- gave him the push he needed. His expression shifted, fear giving way to resolve, and that raw hunger she'd missed so much.
He closed his eyes for a second, like he was steeling himself. Then he lifted her carefully, effortlessly, and carried her to the bedroom. Then he laid her down on her side, the way she slept best these days, and stripped off his shirt before sliding in behind her.
Bucky pressed his chest to her back, sliding one arm under her neck, curving the other protectively over the swell of her belly. He found the curve of her shoulder with his mouth, kissing slow, open-mouthed trails up to her ear.
"I'll be careful," he murmured, voice rough with restraint. "Tell me if anything hurts."
She nodded, already arching back against him, feeling the hard line of his cock pressing between her thighs through his sweatpants. He tugged them down just enough to free himself, groaning softly when his bare skin met hers.
He slipped his hand between her legs from the front, sliding his fingers through how wet she was, spreading it back, teasing her entrance until she whimpered. He circled her clit once, twice, then guided himself to her, pressing in slow -inch by thick inch- watching her face in the dim light.
She gasped at the stretch; it had been too long, and he felt bigger than she remembered, but her body welcomed him greedily. He paused halfway, breathing hard against her neck.
"More," she whispered, pushing back.
He growled low and slid the rest of the way, burying himself fully inside her. They both stilled for a moment, just feeling him throbbing inside her, her walls fluttering around him.
Then he started to move.
Slow, deep thrusts from behind, rolling his hips in a rhythm that rocked her gently forward with each stroke. He kept his hand on her belly, cradling it, feeling the way their baby shifted slightly under his palm. The other hand returned to her breast, kneading, flicking his thumb over the nipple until she moaned.
He kept the pace careful but relentless, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, grinding against her ass at the end of every thrust. The angle was perfect -deep without pressing on her belly- and she could feel every ridge of his cock dragging along her walls.
"Bucky-" she breathed, reaching back to grip his thigh.
He nuzzled her neck, grazing his teeth against the skin. "You feel so good, mate. So tight. So wet for me."
His hand left her breast and slid down to where they joined, finding her clit again with his fingers, rubbing in tight circles that matched his thrusts. Pleasure started to coil fast and sharp inside her.
When she started trembling, he shifted them carefully, rolling her forward onto her knees, lowering her chest to the pillows, belly hanging safely between her arms. He stayed behind her, bracing one hand beside her head, guiding her back onto him with the other still on her hip.
This angle was deeper. She cried out softly as he filled her again, the head of his cock nudging places that made stars burst behind her eyes. He moved faster now, snapping his hips forward, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room.
"Still okay?" he rasped, voice strained.
"Yes! don't you dare stop-"
He didn't. He fucked her steadily and deep, careful not to jolt her too hard, but letting himself go enough that she felt claimed, wanted, desired. He slipped his hand under her again, working her clit with his fingers until she shattered, clenching her walls hard around him, tearing a broken moan from her throat.
Bucky groaned her name, his thrusts stuttering as he followed her over, burying himself deep and coming in thick pulses, filling her just like the videos promised would help. He stayed inside her as he softened slightly, wrapping both arms around her belly and chest, pulling her back against him.
They stayed like that -spooning again, still joined- he pressing his lips with soft kisses to her damp shoulder.
"I love you," he whispered against her skin, voice raw. "Both of you."
She smiled, exhausted and sated, threading her fingers through his where they rested on her belly.
"We love you too."
----
A couple of days later, she woke to pain.
Not the dull, constant ache she'd grown used to. This was different. Sharp. Clenching. A band tightening around her middle that made her gasp and bend forward before releasing just as suddenly.
She lay there in the dark, breathing hard, one hand on her belly.
5:17 AM, according to the clock on her cellphone.
Another contraction hit.
She counted through it, timing like the course had taught her. Forty-five seconds. Strong enough to take her breath away.
Beside her, Bucky stirred.
"What's wrong?" His voice was rough with sleep, but he was already pushing himself up, alert.
"Contractions," she managed. "Real ones."
He was out of bed in an instant, turning on the lamp, crouching beside her. "How far apart?"
"This is the second. Maybe... fifteen minutes?"
"Okay." He ran a hand through his hair, visibly trying to stay calm. "Okay. We wait. We time them. When they're five minutes apart for an hour, we go."
She nodded, breathing through another wave.
They didn't have to wait an hour.
By 6:30, the contractions were coming every seven minutes. By 7:00, every five. Hard, regular, and undeniable.
"Hospital," she said through gritted teeth. "Now."
Bucky was already grabbing the bag by the door, his phone, his jacket. "I'll call a cab."
"A cab?"
"You're not driving right now." His hands were shaking slightly as he pulled up the app.
She didn't argue. The contractions were getting stronger, closer together, and the idea of driving her car through them didn't sound ideal.
The cab arrived in eight minutes. Longest eight minutes of her life.
Bucky helped her into the back seat, one hand firm on her lower back, the other holding hers. He gave the driver the hospital address in a voice that left no room for questions, then turned all his attention to her.
"Breathe," he murmured. "Just breathe."
"I am breathing," she snapped, then immediately felt bad. "Sorry. I-"
Another contraction hit, and she squeezed his hand hard enough that she heard his knuckles pop.
He didn't even flinch.
The hospital was a blur: check-in, wheelchair, labor, and delivery floor. They got her into a room, into a gown, and checked her dilation.
"Four centimeters," the nurse said cheerfully. "You're doing great. We'll check again in a couple of hours."
Four centimeters.
Six more to go.
Time became strange after that. Contractions that lasted forever and seconds that stretched into hours. Bucky stayed beside her the entire time, holding her hand, letting her grip him through the pain, murmuring encouragement that she barely heard.
Until the contractions got worse.
Much worse.
She screamed.
Couldn't help it. The pain was enormous, all-consuming, like her body was tearing itself apart from the inside out.
Bucky went white.
"Something's wrong," he said immediately, turning to the nurse who'd just come to check on them. "Do something. She's-"
"She's in labor," the nurse said calmly. "This is normal."
"Normal?!" He looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "She's-"
Another contraction. Another scream.
Bucky turned to the doctor who'd just entered. "You need to do something. Give her something. Make it stop-"
"Bucky-" she gasped, trying to get his attention between waves of pain. "I'm okay-"
"You're not okay!" His voice cracked. "They need to-"
"Bucky!" she grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. "This is normal. This is what happens. I'm okay."
But then another contraction hit, and she was screaming again, and she saw the panic in his eyes deepen.
The nurse who'd been checking her vitals, finally had enough.
She stepped directly in front of Bucky, putting her hands on her hips: "Young man, you are here to comfort her, not the other way around. If you can't stomach this, you can wait outside like men used to do in my time. But if you're staying, you pull yourself together and support her."
Bucky stared at her, stunned.
The nurse didn't back down. "She's doing the hardest work of her life right now. She doesn't need you falling apart. She needs you strong. Can you do that?"
Something changed in his expression. The panic receded, replaced by shame, then determination.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I can do that."
"Good." The nurse nodded once, sharp and final, then moved to check the monitors.
Bucky turned back to her, and this time his hands were steady when he took hers.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She managed a weak smile before the next contraction took her.
But this time, he didn't panic. He held her through it, let her squeeze his hand until she thought she'd break bones, and when she screamed, he just leaned close and murmured against her temple: "You're doing so well. You're so strong. I'm right here."
And he was.
Through every contraction. Every scream. Every moment of doubt when she sobbed that she couldn't do this, couldn't keep going.
"You can," he said, over and over. "You are. You're almost there."
When they finally told her to push, she was exhausted beyond measure, but Bucky was there, supporting her back with one arm, holding her hand with the other, his voice in her ear telling her she could do this, she was doing it, just a little more.
And then-
A cry. Loud and alive.
"It's a boy," the doctor announced, holding up a tiny, squirming, screaming baby covered in vernix and blood and absolutely perfect.
She burst into tears.
Bucky made a sound like he'd been punched, grabbing her hand tighter.
They cleaned the baby quickly, checked him over, then placed him on her chest, skin to skin, and she looked down at this tiny, impossible person they'd made and couldn't breathe.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "Bucky, look at him."
He couldn't speak. He just stared, hesitating with one hand like he was afraid to touch, afraid this wasn't real.
The baby had dark hair, wet and plastered to his head. His eyes were squeezed shut, little fists waving. But his ears… were slightly pointed. Just a little. Just enough.
"He's here," she said, breaking her voice. "He's really here."
Bucky finally touched him -just fingertips against the baby's tiny hand- and the baby's fingers closed around his immediately, gripping tight.
Bucky made another broken sound, and when she looked up, his eyes were glassy.
"Hi, pup," he whispered, voice raw. "Hi."
And despite everything -despite the pain and the fear and the exhaustion- she thought this might be the best moment of her life.
----
The house felt different.
Not physically, everything was exactly where they'd left it three days ago when they'd rushed out. But because now there was a third person here.
Ethan.
She carried him inside while Bucky handled the bags, and just stood there for a moment in the living room, looking around with this tiny, sleeping bundle in her arms.
"You're home," she whispered to him. "This is where you live now."
Ethan didn't respond. He was two days old and mostly interested in sleeping, eating, and occasionally screaming for reasons they were still learning to decipher.
Bucky appeared beside her, setting everything down carefully. "You should sit. You're supposed to be resting."
"I've been sitting and leaning down for three days."
"Because you just gave birth." He guided her gently toward the couch. "She said to keep up with the salt water. Two months, remember?"
Right. The postpartum seawater soaks. Her body was still adjusting back to normal after months of supporting the baby.
The basin was already filled and waiting. When did Bucky do it? she didn't know.
She sat on the couch with Ethan still cradled in one arm, and Bucky carefully lifted her feet into the water.
The relief was immediate.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He sat beside her, not touching, just close. His eyes were on Ethan, had barely left him since the moment he was born.
"You can hold him, you know," she said softly.
"I know."
"So...?"
"I'm afraid of dropping him."
She smiled despite her exhaustion. "You won't drop him."
"He's so small."
"He's almost nine pounds. Tell that to my-"
"That's small." Bucky insisted, flexing his hands, like he was working up the courage. "What if I hurt him?"
"You won't." She shifted, angling Ethan toward him. "Come on. He's your son. Hold him."
He swallowed hard, then reached out with exaggerated care, taking Ethan into his arms like he was made of the frailest kind of glass.
The baby stirred slightly, making a small noise, and Bucky froze.
"It's okay," she murmured. "He's just settling."
Slowly, carefully, Bucky adjusted his hold, cradling Ethan's head with one arm, supporting his tiny body with the other, just as he saw in the videos. The baby fit easily in his hands, small and warm and perfect.
Ethan opened his eyes for just a moment -dark and unfocused- then closed them again.
Bucky stared down at him with an expression she'd never seen before. Wonder. Terror. Love so intense it was almost painful to witness.
"Hi, pup," he whispered, voice rough. "Remember me?"
Ethan yawned.
She laughed softly, wiping at her eyes because apparently she was still crying at everything these days. Damn hormones.
"He has your nose," Bucky said quietly.
"And your ears."
He brushed his thumb gently over one of Ethan's slightly pointed ears, the only visible sign of his heritage. Everything else was perfectly human. Ten fingers, ten toes, round eyes, no gills.
Just a baby.
Their baby.
"I thought I'd be ready," he said after a long moment. "Spent months preparing. Watching videos. Reading everything I could find. And I still wasn't ready."
"Nobody ever is."
"You were."
She shook her head. "I was terrified the entire time. Still am."
He looked at her then. "You didn't seem scared."
"Because you were falling apart." She said it gently, without accusation. "Someone had to keep it together." She chuckled.
He winced slightly. "I'm sorry. For-"
"You don't need to apologize." She reached over, resting her hand on his arm. "You were scared. I was scared. We both got through it."
"That nurse was right. As a man, I should have-"
"Bucky." She squeezed his arm. "You were perfect. Once you calmed down, you were exactly what I needed. You're exactly what we need."
He didn't look convinced, but Ethan chose that moment to make another small sound, and Bucky snapped his attention back to him immediately.
"Is he okay? Does he need-"
"He's fine. Probably dreaming."
"Do babies dream?"
"I have no idea."
They sat there in comfortable silence, just watching the baby sleep. The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, warm and golden, and she thought about everything that had led them here.
"We did it," she said softly.
Bucky met her eyes with his. "You did it."
"We did it," she repeated firmly. "Together."
He smiled -small and tired- and shifted closer so she could lean against him while he held their son.
They stayed like that for a long time, her feet in the seawater, Ethan sleeping peacefully in Bucky's arms, the house quiet and still around them.
Different.
But good.
Really, really good.
----
Later, when the baby woke up hungry and screaming, when the exhaustion hit and neither of them could remember the last time they'd slept, when Bucky had to change his first diaper and looked at her with such betrayed horror that she laughed until she cried-
Even then, it was good.
Hard. Terrifying. Overwhelming.
And Bucky, holding his son in the quiet moments before dawn, feeling his tiny weight, thought that maybe this was what his people were missing. The after. Watching them grow. To get to know them.
The love.
He hadn't understood the concept before meeting her. His people didn't love. They took, they claimed, they moved on. There was no word for it in his language, no framework for the feeling that had grown in him when he looked at her.
But she'd taught him.
Taught him that love wasn't weakness. That caring about someone was a strength.
And now, holding Ethan, feeling that same fierce protectiveness, that same overwhelming need to keep him safe and watch him grow and be there for him at every moment-
Now he understood it even more deeply.
And he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
Summary: You have wonderful news to share with Bucky and Alpine helps you.
Word Count: Almost 2.3k
Warnings: Established relationship, fluff, crying, pregnancy, mention of HYDRA, implied sex, POV shift (you, Bucky, and Alpine), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Some sweetness to start off the week! @soelstress, thank you for the suggestion of the sign and letting me run with this.❤️ Beta read by the amazing @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The bedroom was close to silent when you woke, snow softly falling outside. It was the kind of winter morning that coaxed you to stay under the covers just a little longer and bask in the warmth of the man holding you. Turning your head, you smiled tenderly at the sight of Bucky sleeping, his mouth parted slightly and his hair loose around his face. His breaths were steady and gentle. It was beautiful to see him peaceful like this.
No missions. No nightmares. Just the sanctuary of your bedroom and home.
You brought a hand to his cheek, your wedding ring shining in the low light. He moaned low and pushed his cheek closer to your palm, seeking you out in his sleep. Some days, you still couldn’t believe that he was your husband and wanted to spend his life with you. It was a dream come true.
And your dream was only getting brighter.
“Love you, Bucky,” you breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Both of us.”
His hand drifted seemingly on instinct to your stomach when you shifted and you held your breath. Did he know? Or did he at least suspect?
Bucky always said that you were beautiful, but he asked recently if you switched up something in your skincare routine. He noted that you had an extra glow. You played that off as lighting and a new vitamin, which wasn’t a lie since you started taking a prenatal.
He hovered more than usual, too, his brows furrowed whenever you mentioned feeling fatigued. He cancelled a few things so you could get more rest. You also caught him staring when certain smells made your nose wrinkle, and he quietly tossed the items out before you could ask.
Your husband always took care of you.
But did he know?
Either way, he’d find out soon enough since today was the day.
You somehow managed to slip free from his hold, which wasn’t an easy feat, and got out of bed. You didn’t want to wake him just yet. He deserved to dream sweet dreams for a bit longer.
“Hey, Alpine,” you whispered when you spotted her curled up near the front of the bed, a perfect ball of white fur. She blinked at you before she stood and stretched. She knew you needed her.
You tiptoed out of the room, the cat following with grace and purpose. A flutter of nerves filled your chest before it shifted to excitement. You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face, the secret you carried ready to be shared.
The tiny chalkboard sat where you left it the night before. You’d lost count of how many times you wrote the message, erased it, and wrote it again, wanting it to be perfect. Picking it up with a shaky hand, you reread the message until the letters blurred together.
Mom & Dad are getting me a HUMAN!
Your stomach dipped and your hand flew to it.
Your baby.
You suspected you were pregnant when you missed your period, but you’d never forget the shock, happiness, and love that filled you when you saw the positive test. It had been real then, but it was sinking in just how real it was now, right on the edge of sharing the news with your husband. You and Bucky were already a family with each other and Alpine, but it was growing.
“Do you think I’d be a good dad?” he asked, his voice so small it put a crack in your heart.
“I know you’ll be a good dad if and when that day comes,” you answered, relief and love softening his eyes.
“When,” he said determinedly, his hand warm against your stomach. “When we have a baby.”
You smiled softly at the memory. You thought about how to share the joyous news until it made sense that Alpine should be the one to do so. She helped save Bucky in many ways before you came along and she accepted you as his partner without question. She would be a wonderful big sister to your baby.
“You ready?” you asked. She meowed and sat up straight, and you smiled as you placed the chalkboard around her neck. “Let’s go get your dad.”
Your eyes instantly filled with tears. Dad. He was already one to the beautiful creature in front of you, and soon to the baby you made together. You took a steadying breath, willing yourself not to dissolve into a blubbering mess.
Damn hormones. Thank God Bucky didn’t see you cry over that paper towel commercial the other day. How would you have explained that?
Alpine bumped her head gently against yours before she turned and strutted down the hall. You wiped your eyes and followed, your heart pounding in your chest when you stopped in the doorway. Bucky groaned when Alpine planted herself on his chest, and you held your breath as his eyes opened.
This was it.
“Al, what the hell?” he muttered, the sign swinging dangerously close to his face. You almost laughed before he sat up, careful not to knock his little partner-in-crime back. A flood of emotions crossed his face as he read the sign again. And again.
You exhaled because you had to. Was he happy? Was it his dream come true?
“Sweetheart…”
Bucky checked the sign again to make sure the words didn’t change to FEED ME or You forgot my treats again, Old Man. But they didn’t. He wasn’t dreaming. And he suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“Mom & dad are getting me a human,” he read out loud, his voice cracking.
You stepped into the room, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. There was so much love radiating from you. More than he ever thought he deserved.
“Is this…” He swallowed hard and got to his feet. He crossed the room in a few strides, grounding himself as he cupped your cheeks and searched your eyes for the answer he already knew. “Are you…”
“Yeah, Bucky. I’m pregnant.” You let out a watery laugh. “We’re having a baby.”
His heart cracked wide open.
He pulled you into his arms, holding you like you’d slip through his fingers if he let go. His lips found your forehead, your temple, your cheek. He felt your smile before he kissed your lips, and he couldn’t stop smiling either. The world had given him a special kind of happiness when you came into his life, and the world was blessing him once again.
A baby.
You were pregnant with his baby.
It all made sense now.
The glow he couldn’t quite place. The fatigue that hit you out of nowhere. The random smells that bothered you. And he didn’t mention it in case he was too hopeful, but his enhanced senses picked up that your smell was slightly different.
God, you were pregnant.
Of course, you were.
“I knew it deep down,” he whispered, kissing your lips again just because he could. “I knew something was different.”
It was everything he wanted and more.
You laughed softly again, a tear sliding from your eye. “You did?”
“Yeah.” His thumb swept across your cheek to catch it. “You were glowing, tired, and…” He cleared his throat when his voice broke again. “I just didn’t want to say it and it not be true.”
That would’ve devastated him.
HYDRA chipped away at Bucky’s humanity until there was almost nothing else left. He recovered, but he hadn’t dared to hope. Alpine helped him heal more, and then you came along and gave hope back to him. He loved again with his whole heart. And he quietly prayed that one day your family might expand because he wanted to be a dad to your child. Even if it never happened, loving you and Alpine would always be enough.
But you had just given him something precious.
You had given him more hope for tomorrow.
He exhaled and laughed, a sound torn between disbelief and awe. His hand drifted down and hovered over your stomach, almost afraid that he hadn’t earned the right to touch. “May I?” he asked.
You covered his hand with yours and guided it.
The moment it settled there, something inside him shifted permanently. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t something dangled in front of him just to be ripped away. It was real.
“I’m gonna be a dad,” he said barely above a whisper. “We’re gonna have a baby.”
Your smile made his heart swell.
He dropped to his knees and pressed the gentlest of kisses to your stomach. His baby was there. “I meant it when I said when and not if. I just…” He looked up at you, tears pricking his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d get this lucky.”
He wrapped his arms around you, his head pressing against your belly. For a moment, he thought he’d sob. He’d go to every single appointment and turn down any mission that would keep him away from you. He’d buy baby books and read every single one. And there was the spare room that he’d have to change into a nursery.
Alpine jumped off the bed with a meow, the sign still dangling around her neck. She batted his thigh with her paw, demanding some attention. She deserved it.
“You little sneak.” He picked her up and briefly pressed his face into her fur. “You knew before I did, didn’t you?”
She meowed smugly.
“You did great, Al,” he promised. “Really great.”
He chuckled and looked up at you. His wife, the love of his life, and the mother of his child. His chest ached with something beyond love and devotion, something he couldn’t name but felt with his entire being.
“This is the greatest gift you’ve ever given me, apart from saying ‘yes’ on our wedding day,” he said softly, setting the cat down and removing the sign with gentle care.
“It’s the greatest gift to me, too,” you said, making his heart full all over again.
“Al,” he said, a teasing smirk on his face. “Thank you again for your help, but you may want to give your mom and me a minute or two.”
Your eyes widened. “Bucky, what are you-”
He chuckled when he picked you up and carried you back to bed, something primal blending in with the love he felt. He wasn’t planning on letting you leave it for the rest of the day. Not when he had you to worship. Not when they had so much to celebrate.
“I love you,” he said, meant for both you and your baby.
“We love you, too, Bucky.” You gazed up at him and he fell in love with you all over again. “We love you, too.”
Alpine’s tail slowly swayed as her mom and dad finally settled back into bed. She left when the laughter and joy faded into soft breaths and noises not meant for her. She was certain it was that every act that changed everything.
She padded into the kitchen just as the timer went off, releasing food into her bowl. It was sufficient, but she fully expected a treat later for doing such a good job delivering the message. After that, she’d take a much deserved nap.
Oh, her dad and mom. They loved each other so much. Truly.
Her dad’s heart still thumped faster whenever her mom walked into a room. And her mom helped dad’s nightmares fade and made him smile again. They were a perfect match.
But, honestly, it took them long enough to figure out the good news.
She had known for weeks, long before the test and the chalkboard. Her mom’s scent changed, and so had her energy. Something on the television made her cry for no reason the other day. And her dad hovered more. He always did that when he loved something deeply.
Humans could be terribly oblivious creatures. But dad and mom were her humans. She wouldn’t change that for the world.
And soon, there would be another human in their home. A little brother or sister. Someone smaller. Louder. One who would grab her fur and cry at inconvenient hours.
She would allow it because this was her family.
She would supervise. She would guard the door during naps. And she would help her dad watch over and protect her mom until her sibling arrived and after.
Later, once the noise in the bedroom died down, she made her way back. Dad held mom close, their breathing slow and even now, his hand resting protectively on her stomach. They cried happy tears. She could tell.
She jumped on the mattress and curled up beside them, the air light and happy. She would demand her treat soon, but this was good for now. This was right.
And she was going to be an excellent big sister.
Bucky’s thumb traced a heart on your belly, your chest tight. You were going to cry all over again if you weren’t careful. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up,” he whispered.
“It isn’t a dream. It’s our life,” you whispered back, letting him pull you closer. “And it’s our miracle.”
He kissed your temple. “You’re the miracle,” he said, your heart skipping a beat.
Alpine purred in agreement.
Snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in beauty and quiet. Inside, surrounded by warmth and love, you, Bucky, and Alpine eventually drifted off to sleep. Your husband’s hand stayed on your stomach, protective and loving even while he rested. Your cat kept an open ear, also a guardian for your family. You’d make plans for the future tomorrow.
Today, you’d rest, let yourselves have this moment of love and peace and celebrate your growing family.
Oh, the happiness and tooth-rotting fluff we deserve. How protective will Alpine be as a big sister? And how will they announce it to the team? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Tags: Established Relationship. Pregnancy. Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: Bucky achieved what every male of his kind is supposed to want. But the Thal'kyr don't do fatherhood -don't even have a word for it- and now he must figure out how to be something his species never taught him to be.
Word Count: 5.5k.
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The nausea had finally passed somewhere around week fourteen, replaced by a steady appetite that felt almost normal after months of struggling to keep anything down.
Now, at seven months, she felt less like a person and more like a vessel: heavy, clumsy, her center of gravity shifted so far forward that she'd taken to walking with a waddle she couldn't quite control.
Bucky never said anything about it, but she caught him watching. And more telling, she noticed how often he'd end up behind her, pretending to be doing something else, feigning nonchalance, but always close enough to catch her if she stumbled.
She never called him on it. It was easier to let him linger close.
The YouTube obsession had finally eased, though she still caught him watching videos occasionally, now it was things like "how to fix a leaky faucet" or "basic electrical wiring for beginners." Productive, useful things.
The house had slowly transformed around her.
The squeaky step on the entrance stairs? Fixed.
The loose cabinet door in the kitchen? Tightened.
The window in the bedroom that never quite closed properly? Sealed and weatherproofed.
For the things he didn't know how to do, the more complicated repairs -the ones that required tools he didn't have or skills he hadn't taught himself yet- he called in favors. Men from the docks who owed him for covering shifts or lending a hand when they'd needed it…
Always scheduled for times when she was at work.
She'd noticed, obviously, and finally asked him about it one evening. "Why don't your coworkers ever come when I'm home?"
"Easier this way." He drifted his gaze down deliberately, lingering on her breasts, fuller now, straining slightly against the fabric of her maternity dress. "Fewer distractions."
She laughed, shaking her head. "I really don't think anyone's interested in... this." She gestured at herself, at her swollen belly and awkward posture.
"You don't know anything," he said flatly.
"Pfft."
His expression became serious, almost predatory. "Seeing you like this makes me want to take you the way I can't right now. Until you can't stand. And then put another pup in you."
Heat flooded her face. "Bucky!"
"They're not coming when you're here."
And that had been the end of that conversation.
----
She was digging through the overstuffed yarn cabinet one afternoon, searching for a specific shade of blue she knew she had somewhere, when her foot brushed against the edge of the loose floorboard.
The one Arthur had told her about, back when this was still just his seasonal rental. A good place to keep valuables, he'd said, and she'd started using it after Bucky had given her those first pearls.
Now there were more.
Not all of them, they'd sold a few already, carefully, slowly. Bucky had a contact at the docks, someone who didn't ask questions, who knew people who bought things off the books. The man took ten percent off the top, but that was the price of discretion.
No paperwork. No provenance required. No one wondering where a dockworker got his hands on natural pearls worth more than most people made in a year.
She'd been nervous the first time he had come back with cash instead of the pearl, a thick envelope he'd set on the table without ceremony.
"That's it?" she'd asked, staring at the money.
"That's it."
"He didn't ask where you got them?"
Bucky had just looked at her. "He's paid not to ask."
She supposed that was how things worked in that world. The docks had their own rules, their own economy. If you needed something moved quietly, there was always someone who'd do it for the right price.
Bucky knew those people now.
And, even though he pretended that lifting crates and hauling cargo took more effort than it actually did, he was still seen as one of the tougher loaders at the docks. No one would be stupid enough to try crossing him or breaking his trust. It was the kind of reputation that kept people honest, even in dishonest business.
She still remembered the day he'd come back with these ones, the new batch, the ones that had let her leave the Shipyard Supply Office.
He'd been gone for a week.
A full week of her pacing the house, trying not to imagine all the terrible things that could have happened to him out there in the dephts.
He'd made her promise not to leave the house. Had stood in the doorway, bag packed, looking more serious than she'd ever seen him.
"Promise me," he'd said.
"Bucky, is really?-"
"Promise."
So she had.
When he'd finally returned, stumbling through the door just after dawn, she'd nearly cried with relief.
He'd looked terrible. Exhausted. There were new scratches on his arms, dark circles under his eyes, and he moved like every muscle in his body was screaming.
"What did you-" she'd started, but he'd just shaken his head and headed straight for the bedroom.
He'd slept for two days straight.
She'd checked on him constantly, pressing her hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat, watching the rise and fall of his breathing, terrified that something was wrong.
But he'd just been exhausted.
When he finally woke on the third day, he'd shuffled into the kitchen where she was making tea, set a small cloth bag on the table, and collapsed into a chair.
She'd stared at the bag. "What is this?"
"Open it."
She had.
Wild pearls. Easily two dozen of them, ranging from the size of her pinky nail to one nearly as large as her thumb.
Her hands had started shaking.
"Bucky..."
"You said they're valuable." His voice was rough from sleep. "The natural ones. Said they barely exist anymore."
"These are-" She'd looked up at him, widening her eyes. "These are worth-"
"Enough," he'd said simply. "Enough that you don't have to work anymore. Enough that you can rest. That you can..." He'd gestured at her belly. "That you can get ready. For the pup."
She'd set the bag down carefully, crossed to him, and pulled him into a hug even though he smelled like the ocean and exhaustion.
"You're insane," she'd whispered into his shoulder.
"Maybe." He'd wrapped his arms around her, careful of her belly. "But you're not going back to that office."
"Bucky-"
"No." His voice had been firm. "The pup's coming soon. You need to rest. And I need..." He'd pulled back to look at her. "I need to know you're safe. Here. Not lifting boxes with papers or standing for hours or spending your time among strangers-"
"Okay," she'd said softly. "Okay."
He'd searched her face for a moment, then nodded, satisfied.
Then he'd gone back to bed and slept for another twelve hours.
----
She rubbed her feet against the floorboard.
The money had eased so much of the pressure, and Bucky had been able to relax. Just a little.
Though relax was probably the wrong word for someone who still checked the locks twice before bed and considered wrapping everything in soft foam again.
She found the blue yarn she'd been looking for, pulled it out, and closed the cabinet.
Outside, she heard his voice, low and firm, talking to someone.
She waddled to the window -there was no other word for how she moved now-and peeked out.
Another repair guy. Someone she didn't recognize. Bucky was standing between the man and the house, crossing his arms, clearly giving instructions.
The man nodded, headed toward his truck.
He watched until the truck pulled away, then turned back to the house.
When he came inside and found her at the window, he raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Just watching you scare off another contractor."
"Didn't scare him. Gave him instructions."
"Mmhmm." She turned back to her yarn, smiling.
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms carefully around her from behind, resting his hands on her belly.
"Pup's active today," he murmured, feeling the movement beneath his palms.
"Pup's always active."
"Good. Means they're strong."
She leaned back against him, letting him take some of her weight. "Or just restless. Like their father."
He huffed softly but didn't argue.
They stood there for a moment, his hands on her stomach, her body heavy and warm against his.
"Two months left," she said quietly.
"I know."
"You ready?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"No," he said finally, honestly. "But I'll figure it out."
She covered his hands with hers. "We both will."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and they stayed like that until the baby kicked hard enough to make them both gasp.
----
It started with cramps.
Sharp, sudden things that made her gasp and clutch her belly, waiting for them to pass. They came and went without pattern, without warning, leaving her breathless and shaken.
Then came the weakness. A bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond normal pregnancy fatigue. She'd sleep for ten hours and wake up feeling like she hadn't rested at all.
And her skin became dry, cracked, no matter how much lotion she used or water she drank. Her hands looked raw, her arms itchy and tight, like her body was rejecting moisture entirely.
Bucky had insisted on the doctor.
Dr. Connors had run tests. Blood work. Ultrasound. Checked her vitals.
Everything came back normal.
"The baby looks fine," he'd said, reviewing the results with a frown. "Heart rate is good. Growth is on track. Your labs are within normal range."
"Then why-" she'd started.
"Pregnancy does strange things to the body," he'd said gently. "Sometimes there's no clear answer. I'd recommend rest. Stay hydrated. Try to manage your stress levels. Call me if anything gets worse."
Rest. Hydration. Stress management.
The universal medical advice for I don't know what's wrong.
----
Bucky found her asleep on the couch one afternoon, resting on her side with a pillow tucked under her belly.
It was 3 pm.
She'd woken up at 11.
Four hours awake, and she was already exhausted again.
He stood in the doorway, watching her breathe, clenching his jaw.
The baby was a hybrid.
What if there was something -some requirement, some biological necessity- that her body couldn't provide on its own?
He didn't know, and that terrified him more than anything he'd faced in the southern waters.
He clenched his hands at his sides.
There was one person who might know. One person who'd understand what a hybrid pregnancy meant, what complications could arise, what-
His stomach twisted.
It was the last thing he wanted to do.
But he looked at her again, at the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hand rested protectively on her belly even in sleep.
He couldn't let her see this.
He grabbed the spare blanket from the chair, draped it carefully over her, and left through the front door without looking back.
----
The bell above the door chimed when he entered.
The shop had changed since the last time he'd been here, renovated, clearly. What had once been dim and cluttered was now bright and organized, walls painted in cheerful colors, stupid little decorative things hanging from the ceiling, catching the light. Wooden signs with cutesy phrases. Bins of yarn arranged by color like some kind of rainbow vomit.
He hated it.
Behind the counter, she looked up from whatever she was working on, and her expression went carefully neutral, assessing.
"Never thought I'd see you darken my door again, squid," she said, her tone flat.
He grunted, clenching his jaw, but said nothing.
She arched her eyebrow slowly and set down her needles with deliberate care, leaning back against the wall behind her, crossing her arms.
No sharp retort or dismissive comment. Nothing.
Oh, he needed something.
"You look like death," she said, creeping a smile into her voice. "What happened? Finally realized you're in over your head?"
He worked his jaw for a moment before he forced the words out.
"She's pregnant."
The amusement vanished instantly.
"You got a human pregnant?" Her voice went sharp with incredulity. "You IDIOT."
He said nothing.
"What were you thinking?" She pushed off the wall, coming around the counter. "Actually, no, don't answer that. You weren't thinking. Or at least not with your head. Typical men, can't keep it in your-"
"I know," he said through gritted teeth.
"Do you?" She was in front of him now, barely reaching his chest but somehow looking down at him anyway. "Do you have any idea what you've done? A hybrid pregnancy, you absolute-"
"I know."
"Did you do any research? Any preparation? Or did you just decide to mate with a human and hope for the best?"
He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He wanted to wrap them around her slim throat, wanted to shut her up, wanted-
But she was right.
And he needed her alive.
"She's sick," he said, voice low and strained. "Cramps. Weakness. Her skin is..." He gestured vaguely. "Dry. Cracking. The human doctor says everything's fine, but it's not. Something's wrong."
The woman's expression shifted slightly.
"And you came to me."
"You're a hybrid." The words tasted like ash. "You might know what-"
"Why should I help you?" She crossed her arms, tilting her head. "You've made your bed, squid. Literally. Why should I lift a finger to fix your mess?"
"Because-"
"That poor girl." She shook her head slowly. "Does she know what she got herself into? Does she know her baby might not survive because you couldn't control yourself?"
His chest clenched, something cold and sharp twisting in his gut.
"The baby-"
"Is half Thal'kaari," she said flatly. "Trying to develop in a human body. Do you know how many hybrid pregnancies fail? Do you know what happens when the fetus needs something the mother can't provide?"
He didn't answer.
"Of course you don't." Her voice was cutting. "Because you didn't bother to find out before you put a child in her."
"Just tell me how to fix it," he ground out.
"Why?" She studied him, narrowing her eyes. "Give me one good reason why I should help you. One reason why you deserve my knowledge after being so monumentally stupid."
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.
"Because she doesn't deserve to suffer for my mistakes."
She seemed to consider that, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully.
Then she shrugged. "Well. She's also responsible, isn't she? She slept with you-" She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "knowing what you are."
He moved before he could think about it.
Two steps forward, closing the distance between them, looming over her. He brought his voice out low and dangerous.
"Don't you put her in your mouth."
For a moment, they stared at each other. Her expression didn't change; if anything, she looked satisfied, like she'd just confirmed something.
Then she rolled her eyes.
"Seawater, you absolute fool."
He blinked. "What?"
"Sea. Water." She spoke slowly, deliberately, like explaining something to a child. "The baby is a hybrid. It needs it, there’s something in it…” she waved her hand, “the mother needs to soak in it. Daily. Even just her feet."
He stood there, frozen, processing.
That simple?
"Seawater," he repeated, voice flat.
"Seawater." She picked up her needles again. "Daily. Should stabilize her within a few days."
He wanted to feel relieved but instead, he felt like an idiot.
It was that simple. That obvious. And he hadn't-
"Don't beat yourself up too much," she said, not looking at him. "You couldn't have known. Your kind doesn't precisely excel in parenting advice. Or parenting at all."
His jaw clenched.
"Now get out of my shop. You're disturbing my customers."
He looked around. The shop was empty.
"Out," she repeated.
He turned and walked to the door, but paused with his hand on the handle.
"Thank you," he said, without looking back.
"I'm doing it for her," she called after him. "Next time, try thinking with your brain instead of whatever you have down there between your limbs."
The bell chimed as he left.
He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, breathing in the cool air, trying to ease the knot in his chest.
Seawater.
That simple.
And he'd been useless.
He turned and started walking, jaw clenched, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
The hardware store was three blocks away. He'd visited countless times now, with all the repairs he started doing. He pushed through the door, the smell of metal and paint hitting him immediately.
"James, help you find something?" The old man looked up from behind the counter.
"Containers," Bucky said. "Large ones. For fuel."
The man gestured toward the back. "Got some over there. Five-gallon, ten-gallon. Does that work?"
Bucky nodded and headed in that direction.
The containers were plastic, sturdy, with tight-sealing caps. He grabbed two of the larger ones and tested the weight and the handles.
These would work. He’ll fill them with seawater and bring them back to the house. She could soak her feet, her hands, whatever she needed.
Simple.
So fucking simple.
He stood there in the aisle, holding the containers, and wanted to put his fist through the wall.
How had he not thought of it? The baby was half Thal'kaari.
And he'd just... what? Assumed everything would work out? That human biology would somehow accommodate a creature designed for the ocean?
Idiot.
That's what the yarn lady had called him, and she was right.
He was supposed to protect them. Supposed to know what they needed, how to keep them safe. That was his responsibility, and he'd failed at the most basic level.
She'd been suffering for days, and he'd had no idea how to fix it. Still wouldn't have known, if he hadn't swallowed his pride and gone begging to-
He cut the thought off sharply and carried the containers to the counter.
----
He'd swum back along the coast, the empty containers strapped to his back, his clothes sealed in the waterproof bag. When he'd reached their beach and changed forms, he'd filled both containers and hauled them up the cliff path without breaking a sweat.
She was still asleep when he got back.
He set the containers down carefully by the door -still dripping slightly, saltwater beading on the plastic- then carried one into the bathroom.
He found the largest basin they had under the sink, set it in the tub, and began pouring.
The smell of the ocean filled the small room immediately. His shoulders relaxed slightly just from breathing it in.
When the basin was full, he went back to the living room.
She was still curled on the couch, exactly where he'd left her, the blanket around her shoulders. Her expression was tired, with dark circles under her eyes even in sleep.
He crouched beside her.
"Hey," he said softly. "Wake up."
She stirred, blinking slowly, disoriented. "Bucky?"
"Need you to come with me."
"What-" She started to push herself up, wincing. "What time is it?"
"Doesn't matter." He helped her stand, steadying her when she swayed slightly. "Come on."
He guided her to the bathroom, one hand on her lower back.
She stopped in the doorway, staring at the basin of water. "What is this?"
"Seawater."
She looked at him, confused. "Why?"
"The baby needs it." He gestured to the basin. "That's why you're sick. The cramps, the weakness, the skin… it's all because the pup needs something you can't give it."
She blinked at him. "How do you-"
"Sit," he said, guiding her to the edge of the tub. "Put your feet in. Every day. As long as you can stand it."
She sat slowly, still processing, and he knelt in front of her, carefully lifting her maternity dress.
Her skin was dry, cracked in places, and he clenched his jaw at the sight of it. He lifted one of her feet and lowered it into the water.
She gasped softly at the contact, then exhaled.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Good." He guided her other foot in, then sat back on his heels, watching her face.
For a moment, she just sat there, closing her eyes, breathing slowly.
Then-
"How did you know?"
He'd been expecting the question. Didn't make it easier to answer.
"Asked someone," he said.
"Who?"
"Someone who would know."
She opened her eyes, focusing on him. "Bucky."
He exhaled through his nose. "The hag at the yarn shop."
She frowned. "How would she-"
"She's not human."
That made her pause. "What?"
"She's merfolk. Half triton." He looked at the water rather than at her. "I thought... if anyone would know what a hybrid pregnancy needs, it would be someone who is one."
She was quiet for a long moment.
"You went to her," she said slowly. "Even though you can't stand each other."
"Yeah."
"That must have been..."
"Humiliating?" He twisted his mouth. "It was."
"I was going to say hard."
He shrugged, still not looking at her. "Doesn't matter. She knew the answer. That's what's important."
She reached out, brushing her fingers against his jaw, turning his face toward her. "Thank you."
"Don't." His voice was rough. "I should have figured it out myself. Should have known the pup would need-" He stopped, clenching his jaw. "I failed you."
"You didn't fail me." She brought her hand up to cup his face fully. "You found an answer. You swallowed your pride and got help. That's not failing, Bucky. That's... that's being a good partner. A good father."
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.
"The baby has my blood," he said quietly.
"You're not a mind reader. And you're figuring this out as you go." She stroked her thumb along his cheekbone. "We both are."
He opened his eyes, looking at her. Really looking.
She looked tired still, worn down, but there was something else in her expression now. Something softer.
Trust.
She trusted him to figure this out. To keep trying, keep learning, keep doing whatever it took to keep them safe.
Even when he felt like he had no idea what he was doing.
"How long do I need to sit here again?" she asked, wiggling her toes in the water.
"As long as you can. Ten minutes, maybe? We'll see if it helps."
She nodded, settling back against the tub. "Okay."
He stayed kneeling in front of her, one hand resting on her lower back, the other on the edge of the tub.
"Next time," she said, shifting slightly on the tub's edge, "maybe we do this in the living room? Put a towel down, set the basin there. The edge of the tub isn't exactly kind to my ass right now."
He blinked.
How had he not thought of that?
Without a word, he stood and scooped her up carefully, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back.
"Bucky!" She grabbed his shoulders, startled. "What are you-"
He carried her out of the bathroom, water dripping from her feet onto the floor, and set her gently on the couch.
"Wait here."
He went back for the basin, grabbed a towel from the linen closet on the way, and returned to the living room.
She watched, bemused, as he spread the towel on the floor in front of the couch, set the basin down carefully, then knelt again and guided her feet back into the water.
"Better?" he asked.
She settled back into the cushions with a small sigh of relief. "Much better."
He nodded, satisfied, and stayed there on the floor beside her, one hand resting on her ankle.
"She said anything else?" she asked after a moment. "The yarn lady?"
He twitched his mouth slightly. "Called me an idiot. Multiple times."
She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for going to her."
"Yeah." He looked down at the water, at her feet submerged in it. "At least she helped."
They sat there in silence for a while, the smell of the ocean filling the living room, until finally she said her feet were getting cold, and he helped her feet out, drying them carefully with a towel.
By the next morning, the cramps had eased.
By the end of the week, her skin had stopped cracking.
And Bucky made sure the basin was filled with fresh seawater every single day.
----
She felt better.
After weeks of exhaustion and pain and feeling like her body was falling apart, the salt water had fixed her. Not completely, not overnight, but enough that she could think clearly again. Enough that she could function.
And now that she could think, she was thinking too much.
She sat on the couch, feet submerged in the basin Bucky had filled that morning before leaving for work, and stared at the ceiling.
Hybrid pregnancy.
She hadn't really let herself process what that meant while she'd been sick. Hadn't had the energy to think beyond getting through each day.
But now...
Now she was thinking about it.
Bucky had told her the baby would be mostly human. That hybrids were essentially human with a few extra traits. Little things. Manageable things.
But the seawater situation had proven there were gray areas.
Things neither of them had anticipated. Things that could have gone very wrong if Bucky hadn't swallowed his pride and asked for help.
What else didn't they know?
What other complications might arise that they couldn't predict because there was no handbook for this, no medical literature, no generations of knowledge to draw from?
Bucky didn't know. He couldn't know. His people didn't raise their young, didn't stay to see what happened after birth. The males had zero involvement in child-rearing, and the females... well, they had their own customs.
She shifted on the couch, moving her hand to her belly, feeling the baby move beneath her palm.
Active today. Always active after the seawater soaks.
The baby liked it. Responded to it. Needed it.
She thought about the yarn lady. The hybrid who'd given Bucky the answer when no one else could. The one who knew what it was like to be caught between two worlds because she lived it every day.
Maybe... maybe she should go to see her too. To thank her for helping them, and to ask if there was anything else they should know. Anything else that might come up, might go wrong, might require preparation.
She deserved that much. The yarn lady. A thank you, at the very least.
And she deserved answers. They were bringing a child into the world, and they had a right to know what to expect, what to prepare for, what challenges might be waiting for them.
The baby kicked, a sharp jab against her ribs that made her wince.
"I know," she murmured, rubbing the spot. "You're restless. I get it."
She pulled her feet from the basin, dried them carefully with the towel Bucky had left folded nearby, and stood.
Her body protested, heavy and awkward and constantly off-balance, but she managed and grabbed her keys from the hook by the door.
Bucky would probably be upset that she'd driven alone, but... well. She'd deal with that when it happened.
Right now, she needed answers.
And she was tired of waiting for them to fall into her lap.
----
Behind the counter, the yarn lady looked up from her knitting.
She swept her gaze over her, lingering on her swollen belly, and something shifted in her expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Well," she said, setting down her needles. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
"You were?"
"Mmhmm. You used to come in regularly. Bought quite a bit of yarn before..." She flicked her eyes meaningfully to the belly. "Before that became obvious. Then you disappeared. Haven't seen you much without him hovering nearby."
She felt her cheeks warm slightly. "He worries."
The woman arched her eyebrow. "Does he, now." Her tone was flat, assessing. "He got you locked up in that cottage? You need help getting rid of him?"
"What? No!" She stepped forward quickly, raising one hand defensively. "No, nothing like that. He's... he's a good partner. Just-"
"Overprotective?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"Hmm." The yarn lady studied her for a long moment, then seemed to come to some conclusion. She gestured to a chair near the counter. "Sit. You look like you're about to tip over."
She did feel a bit unsteady. She lowered herself carefully into the chair, grateful for it.
"So," the woman said, picking up her knitting again but keeping her eyes on her visitor. "What brings you here? I'm guessing it's not yarn."
She took a breath. "I wanted to thank you. For helping us. For telling Bucky about the seawater."
"Hmm."
"It worked. I feel so much better now. The cramps stopped, my skin isn't-" She gestured vaguely. "It fixed everything."
"Good." The yarn lady's needles clicked steadily. "That's why you're here? To say thank you?"
"Partly." She shifted in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position. "But also... I wanted to ask if there's anything else. Anything else I should know. About the pregnancy. About what might happen."
The clicking stopped.
The yarn lady set down her needles and looked at her directly.
"What did he tell you about what the baby would be like?" she asked, leaning back against the wall behind the counter, crossing her arms.
"That it would be essentially human. Some… merfolk traits, but human enough that no one would notice unless they were looking for it."
"And you believe that?"
"Should I not?"
The yarn lady was quiet for a moment, considering.
"The seawater," she said finally. "That surprise you?"
"Yes."
"It shouldn't have. Baby's half Thal'kaari. They live in salt water. Of course, it would need saltwater." She tilted her head. "What else do you think you might not be prepared for?"
She swallowed. "The birth."
The yarn lady's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes sharpened. "What about it?"
"Bucky told me it would be mostly normal. Like a human birth. But after the water thing, I..." She trailed off, then forced herself to continue. "Is that true? Will it be normal?"
"You have a plan?"
"Go to the hospital when it's time. That's... that's the plan."
"Good." The woman nodded once, firmly. "Keep it that way. None of that water birth nonsense, no home birth with candles and mumbo jumbo, or a hippie midwife. You go to a hospital with people who know what they're doing."
"But I thought-"
"It'll be mostly like a normal birth," the older woman said, and there was an edge to her voice now. "But mostly isn't the same as completely, is it? there could be complications."
Her chest tightened. "What kind of complications?"
"The kind that needs immediate medical intervention. Hemorrhaging. Sudden blood pressure drops. You could get weak, fast, and need a transfusion. Baby could come out needing oxygen, needing monitoring. Things that are manageable in a hospital with doctors and equipment."
She felt cold suddenly.
"Things that could kill you if you're at home waiting for an ambulance," the yarn lady continued, relentless. "Or kill the baby while you're trying to figure out what's wrong."
"Bucky said-"
"He doesn't know." The words were sharp but not unkind. "He told you what he thinks is true based on what little information he has. So hospital. No exceptions. No romantic ideas about natural birth at home. You want to give yourself and that baby the best chance?"
She nodded slowly, moving her hand instinctively to her belly. "Yes."
"Then follow your plan. Anything else you want to know?"
She hesitated, then, "Is there anything else I should know?"
The woman considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "Keep up with the seawater after the baby's born. Another two months, maybe. Your body will need time to adjust back to normal requirements. Don't just stop cold once you give birth."
"Two months?"
"Give or take. You'll know when you don't need it anymore. Your body will tell you." She picked up her knitting again.
She stood carefully, bracing a hand against the chair for balance. "Thank you. Really. For all of this."
The woman didn't look up from her knitting, but her needles paused for just a moment. "Mmhmm."
"I won't take up any more of your time."
"Smart girl." The clicking resumed. "Take care of yourself. And that baby."
"I will."
She turned toward the door.
"Wait."
She looked back.
The yarn lady had set down her needles and was scribbling something on a small piece of paper. She held it out without getting up.
She crossed back to the counter and took it.
A phone number. And next to it, in neat handwriting: Marina.
"Just in case," the woman said, already picking up her knitting again.
She stared at the paper for a moment, then found the words. "Thank you."
Marina didn't respond; her attention was already back on her work.
She slid the paper carefully into her pocket and left quietly, the bell chiming softly as the door closed behind her.
pairing. ex-stepdad!bucky x reader
synopsis. you’ve made a nasty habit out of calling bucky barnes whenever you find yourself one drink too deep to drive. maybe the habit wouldn’t be so nasty if he wasn’t your mother’s ex-husband.
warnings. mdni, smut! (ex-stepcest, daddy kink, pervy!reader & pervy!bucky, piv, creampie, pussy and dick pronouns, pussy inspection, fingering/handjob, oral sex - f receiving, tip kissing?, dirty talk, exhibitionism, multiple orgasms, cumming untouched, breeding kink, tie used as a restraint, tummy bulge, window sex, wall sex, unsafe acts while standing on a chair, temperature play, a smidge of dub-con though both parties are fully consenting) age gap, congressman!bucky, taboo themes, alcohol consumption, parental death, reader has hair that can be tugged and is briefly implied to be shorter than bucky, yearning? in my stepcest fic? it's more likely than you think!, reader has a shitty boyfriend, reader cheats on said shitty bf, bucky calls the reader the following nicknames: kid/kiddo, princess, baby, sweetheart, doll, angel, slut, pervert. disclaimer: bucky and the reader did not meet or know each other when she was a minor + this is a modern au, bucky does not have a metal arm.
wordcount. 12k
hyde's input. a sabrina carpenter song hates to see me coming.
⤷ hyde-mas masterlist ꕀ ⤷ general masterlist
When did Christmas become the loneliest time of the year?
Though you may not be a scientist, you’ve been working on a theory.
Once upon a time, December was a month dedicated to love, in all shapes and forms. Christmas mornings were early to start, where a tinier version of you rose with the sun and shot down the hallway towards your parents’ bedroom, if only to force open their door and obnoxiously declare through missing teeth, “Santa Clause came!”
A rift split your family’s tradition with no warning. You had always been told your tenth year would be important, taking your age from single to double digits; but no one had told you it would also take your father. Silence stretched over the walls of your parents’ home like ivy, encasing all three of you within it. Hushed voices whispered of stages and terminal, never loud enough for you to fully grasp what they were saying. By the time you were old enough to understand, your father had already been living in the urn atop the mantelpiece for five Christmases, “There was nothing the doctors could do, he was half-way gone when they diagnosed it.”
The silence persisted until, one year, it stopped. Home for the holidays — your first time returning during your freshman year of college — you stepped foot into a wonderland of lights and noise, the smell of nutmeg dusting your nose with every inhale as you ventured into the once quiet home your Mother had made for herself, only to find her smile bright and her eyes brighter, while a stranger nervously wrung his hands by her side as she looked at you and announced, “This is James, my husband!”
While all the movies may push the narrative that step-parents are the spawn of Satan, you were quick to learn otherwise. The inclusion of James Barnes in your life may have been unexpected, yet the man had shown no qualms with making himself a comfortable, stable figure for you to lean on — one summer back at home was all it took for you to bond. And though there would never come a day where he filled the hollow shape your father’s passing had left in your heart, he carved out his own designated space, somewhere between friend and family. Suffice to say, no one had been as shocked as you when James — Bucky — informed you, “Your mother and I are getting divorced, kiddo.”
Now Bucky is running for congress and your mother is eat, pray, loving her way through life; and maybe that is the reason why you’re all alone, nursing a watered-down espresso martini and partaking in man’s oldest hobby: spilling your troubles onto an underpaid, uninterested bartender.
“- and he’s gonna leave me all alone? On Christmas!?” You almost choke on a hiccup, the outrage in your voice ringing off the walls of the empty bar. “What did I ever do to deserve all that? He can’t even apologise, because God forbid he admits to being wrong for once- ”
“Listen, it’s,” the bartender pauses mid-wipe of the dishtowel over a freshly steamed glass to check his watch, his patience lead to a drought in the wasteland of a December’s night shift. “Officially Christmas Eve. I’m exhausted, I have to be back here in less than eight hours to work the shift of Hell, and we’re forecast for snow. Why don’t you give me your boyfriend’s number and he can get you home, so you can sober up and talk this out?”
Your reply is barely intelligible, a slurry mess of numbers you recite off the top of your head — you’ve never been the best at remembering phone numbers, yet this one has a habit of flying out of you like it’s second nature. Fluent in drunken-speech, the man wastes no time punching the digits into his phone and pressing it to his ear.
As you trace your finger around the rim of your glass, you make out the faint gruff of a man’s voice ringing out of the speaker, “Hello?”
“Hey man, sorry ‘bout the late call,” he flicks his eyes over to you, heaving out a sigh while you fight off sleep with every heavy-eyed blink. “I’ve got your girl here and she’s drunk. Don’t know what kind of argument you guys had, but would you mind putting it on the back-burner for tonight and picking her up?”
Snow falls with patience, not a hint of hurry in the way it floats down to the ground, adding a new spec of white atop the road. It’s mother nature’s promise that, come morning, the entire city will sit beneath a blanket of glittering frost.
A sniffle pierces through the silent night as you press the cigarette butt to your lips again and pull in a breath, welcoming an inhale of cold nicotine. Frost nips at your nose, your cheeks, your eyelashes, threatening to freeze the tears dancing upon them before they even get the chance to spill down your face.
Inside the bar, the man continues to wipe down and clean up for the night, throwing cautious glances your way every so often. It had been a verbal struggle to convince him you would be safe outside, that you just needed to slip out for a breath of fresh air to sober yourself up. If he notices the sobs racking through your body and shaking your shoulders, he makes no attempt to interrupt nor comfort you, leaving you out in the cold to mull over your own emotional ailments.
Sudden and without warning, a vehicle pulls into the bar’s parking lot and a pair of headlights burn your retinas. Free hand reaching up to dampen the intensity of the brightness, a sense of familiarity washes over you with another gust of snow-filled wind.
The car is old. Much older than you are, as is the man stepping out of the driver’s side, his coat already half-way removed by the time he steps under the bar’s awning and brings his furrowed brows and worried mouth into view.
“Christ, kiddo, what are you doing out dressed like that in this weather?” Not once, in the five short years he was married to your mother, did you witness an ounce of anger upon Bucky Barnes’ visage. Standing before you now, draping the heavy weight of his coat over your shoulders and around your shivering bones, you swear you catch a hitch of something in his voice. Frustration. Irritation. Desperation? “Are you trying to give me a heart attack by catching frost bite? You’re old enough to know better than to do something so stup-”
“Why’re you here?” The interruption is harsher than you intend, and you witness how the words slap the older man across the face, forcing him back a step or two in shock.
“You called,” he states, frown returning full throttle as you take another drag of the cigarette, ash clinging to its tip and threatening to float down with the snow any second now.
“I did?”
Ice crunches beneath the red bottoms of his shoes as Bucky inches in a little closer, recuperating from the verbal shove you served him only moments ago. Something about his attire — a charcoal grey suit, wrinkled by a day of hard work yet stretched across the width of him like it’s tailor made and shaped to his body — feels out of place, distant, nothing like the version of him who spent years clinging on to tattered old pyjama pants because, “So what if they’re scruffy looking? They’re comfortable.”
But, then again, that’s all you two have now: distance.
No longer is he the man your mother called her own, nor the man who insisted on driving halfway across the country just to bring you home for the holidays, nor the man who became part of the furniture in your family home. This man is nothing but a would-be stranger, dressed to the nines and feeling ten million miles away, despite the hand reaching towards your mouth.
“We talked about this, kid,” he tuts, plucking the cigarette out from between your lips. “‘S no good for those little lungs of yours to be inhaling this shit.”
Then, with all the hypocrisy of a politician, he brings the nicotine stick up to his mouth and pulls in one sharp breath, before dropping it to the floor, crushing it beneath his heel and expelling a cloud of smoke in your face.
“Hey!” The whine in your voice is pathetic, half-arsed and fading into a hiccup as another sob tears through you. Reaching uselessly for the cigarette now one with the patch of snow on the pavement, your hand finds Bucky instead, who steadies it against his chest and condemns you with the knowledge of how warm his skin feels, even in sub-degree temperatures and through the fabric of a shirt. “That’s not fair! It’s okay when you smoke, but when I do, suddenly it’s a crime?”
“Life’s not fair,” perhaps the worst thing about all of this, in your alcohol-doused judgement, is the amusement Bucky finds in your pouting, the tiniest stretch of smugness turning up the corners of his lips. Unwillingly, it takes you back a few years to your mother’s kitchen. To a late night. To a bottle of wine. To no one but the two of you. To how your eyes kept drifting to his grape stained lips. “You have your whole life ahead of you. An old man like me though, ‘s no point worrying about my lungs.”
“But I do.” Maybe you imagine it, but you swear you feel his heartbeat falter beneath your hand; not for long, barely a beat, but enough for you to notice. “Worry about you.”
“Do you?” Bucky finally lets his mouth fully stretch into a smile, head tilting to the side while he takes to tugging the coat around you a little tighter, shielding you from the bite of the winter night. “‘Course you do. My girl’s still as sweet as she’s always been.”
The praise tugs at something inside you — primal, attached to a part of you no man his age, much less him of all people, should ever activate. Want, desire, an itch that needs scratching by hands other than your own. For the first time since you stepped outside, you’re thankful for the snowstorm, cooling the world around you enough to lend no power to the heat rushing over your cheeks.
Before you can dwell on it too long, the creak of a door interrupts you.
“Leave the girl alone,” there goes the bartender, stepping out into the snowy night with exhaustion on his face and a dishtowel over his shoulder, arms crossing over his chest in a way that’s obviously meant to emphasise his biceps. Nice, thick, firm; yet nowhere near to the muscle you know lies beneath Bucky’s sleeves. “Her boyfriend will be here to pick her up any moment now, so you’d best run along.”
There’s a chuckle from Bucky, tired enjoyment coming over his face as he snakes an arm around you and tugs you to his side, your shoulder pressing against his ribcage.
“Don’t worry, this one’s mine.” Mine. It reverberates in your mind, bouncing off the walls of your skull and echoing. Mine, mine, mine. Oh to be his anything. Did he call your mother that, mine, when he lay her atop their bedsheets? Would he call you that, if you let him lay you down too- “Thanks for calling, by the way. She can be a handful, but I’d never trust my girl going home with anyone else.”
My girl.
It warms you all the way over to his car — a vintage number, the vehicle he used to wax poetic about and polish every Sunday. For as little as you know or care about cars beyond their ability to drive, you miss witnessing his fits of passion dedicated to his precious Bentley.
A perfectly shined body, paired with twin headlamps and a vertical facelift along the bonnet; if you didn’t know any better, you would assume its engine runs on liquid gold instead of gas. You had asked him what model it was once, only to nod along like you understood when he listed off words like 1957 and Continental.
“Let’s get you warmed up, kid,” Bucky mutters more to himself than to you, keys turning at the engine and fingers flicking on the seat-heater, a modification he prided himself on having fitted with his own two hands. “D’you feel that? ‘S it nice?”
Empty-headed and speechless, your body has a mind of its own, thighs squeezing together and spreading a zing of pleasure through your lower abdomen, a new kind of warmth working in tandem with the heater beneath you, as your mind begins to wander off into a fantasy world where Bucky and you are exchanging body heat atop his passenger seat, hands ridding one another of the offensive barriers of clothing, his voice spilling into your ear in a mess of rasp and want, pleading you to tell him how he feels, how good he’s making you feel, how badly he’s wanted you all along-
“Hey, where’d you go?”
You snap back into reality, where his hands are no longer undressing you, cupping your cheek instead and forcing your focus onto his face.
“Huh?”
“Just now, you were drifting away from me, trapped in that pretty head of yours.” He’s gentle, yet everything about it hurts: his touch, his voice, the way his eyes scan over your features and sink deeper into a well of longing. “Thought you said you no longer needed me to come pick you up. What happened, hmm? Did you and Jonah get into another fight?”
“Joaquin,” you correct him softly, gaze daring to look at anything but him. Suddenly, you’ve never been more fascinated by an air freshener. “And no- Well, yes, but it’s not- We’re only- It’s not a big deal, I’m just over-reacting, as usual.”
“You’ve been crying,” a crease forms between his eyebrows, as Bucky slowly soothes the pad of his thumb over your cheek, smudging the tear tracks with his fingerprints. “I don’t know much about this Joaquin kid, but he shouldn’t be making you cry.”
“Bucky,” that name feels too intimate, coaxing a fresh wave of tears from your ducts and forcing you to grasp at straws for any kind of separation you can put between you and a man you once called family. “James, it’s not like that-”
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
“No! No. I just-” A sigh turns shaky as you feel your lower lip tremble, the constant back and forth motion of his thumb finally breaking the dam in your eyes, a fat tear spilling over your cheek. As though his hand is not cruel enough, he catches it with his lips, pressing gently to your cheek. “I don’t want to be alone… Not on Christmas. And I know Joaquin didn’t mean to but, he went home for the holidays and didn’t even think to ask if maybe I wanted to go too. He knows my mom is… Well, wherever the hell in the world she is right now, and that I don’t have anybody here, not really.”
Silence overwhelms the tight space of the car.
Outside, the wind howls and rattles at the windows, smearing the vehicle in tiny flecks of snow. The bar’s lights have gone out, the bartender at long last free to roam home and sleep what little he can afford to before returning to fulfil his opening shift.
Leather squeaks as Bucky shifts in his seat, inching a little closer, and that’s when you smell him. A tickle of lavender, followed by an earthy sweetness that melts into amber and masculinity; the scent of sophistication, of a gentleman.
How could you ever forget that scent? You gifted it to him, after all, the very same cologne your father used to swear by.
“That’s not true,” he finally replies, after what feels like an eternity. In reality, only a minute has ticked over on the car’s clock. “You have me. Do I not count as somebody?”
You expel a breath of laughter, disbelief marking your voice as you counter, “You know what I mean.”
“What, so, one measly little divorce, and suddenly I’m chopped liver?” That damned hand of his is still insistent on cradling your face, slipping down the length of it to grasp at your chin with its fingers while the thumb takes to stroking your jaw. “Cause it sure doesn’t seem that way, not when you keep calling me for a ride any time you catch a whiff of wine. I’m just sayin’, kiddo, I’m here, if you want me to be. You could spend the night, finally see my new place. Then we could head out in the morning, get ourselves whatever we need to cook up a Christmas dinner for two, and make the holidays a little less lonely for the both of us.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Who said anything about have? I want to.” Finite, full-stop, no room for you to bend the truth in his words and convince yourself of a fallacy where he merely feels pity. “C’mon, kiddo. I’ll even make those cookies you like, the ones with the marsh-”
“With the marshmallow in the middle,” excitement catches your tongue and runs off with it, forcing words out of your mouth before you can think better than to interrupt him.
“Exactly.”
Protesting is a fool’s game, and so you give in, let him reach over and buckle you in, before shifting the Bentley into gear and driving out into the night.
You do your best to relax, to let yourself sink into the comfort of the heated leather, and the softness of his coat, and the familiarity of his scent. Streetlights flicker by in a blurry haze of orange, spotlighting the snow as it continues to dance in the air, meeting the ground in its crescendo. When the radio begins to buffer, losing connection with the poor weather, Bucky whips out a cassette and slips it in to play.
Princess’ Playlist.
You’re almost beside yourself, rereading the fading marker along the tapes edge.
He kept it. Even after all of these months, where he likely thought he would never need to use it again — that playlist, the very same one he’d burned onto tape for you, a compilation of all your favourite songs, and all because he wanted to make the drive back from your college together a little more fun, a little more noisy, a little more full of him failing to hit the high notes in Hungry Eyes.
Just when you think you can find any semblance of normalcy, sitting next to your ex-stepfather and wrestling with the all too common taste of guilt at the back of your throat, he touches you.
More specifically, his hand meets your lower thigh.
Just above the knee, nothing scandalous about it, yet that doesn’t stop you from spiralling when he speaks, “Can’t believe you were out dressed like that, in December. You’ve been living in Washington a lot longer than me, and even I know you need more than a flimsy skirt to keep warm. It’s snowing, for god’s sake!”
“It wasn’t earlier,” you mumble, the embodiment of a petulant child as you cross your arms over your chest and pin your gaze out the window, away from those steel blue eyes. “When I went out.”
Fingers squeeze at skin, a reactionary thing; a piss-poor attempt from Bucky to quell that flame of irritation your defiant words spark up inside his chest. It only serves to make you more aware of him, and his hand, and the way it’s forced to inch further up your leg when he presses on the breaks, the car coming to a halt just in time for him to not run a red light.
You can already picture the scandal of it all, the endless headlines… Wannabe congressman runs through light! Worst of all — his passenger princess is his ex-stepdaughter! So really, even if it forces his touch to travel north, maybe it’s for the best that the next three traffic lights all turn up red.
Over the speakers, a wistful synth begins to play, the intro notes to a song you know all too well. While usually someone feels glee when they hear their favourite song, all you feel is the bitter chill of Bucky’s hand leaving your thigh and grasping at the volume dial. Sure, it only takes a moment or two for him turn the music up, and sure, his hand is back against your thigh before you can truly start to miss it, but it’s back at the bottom of your thigh, no longer skimming along the edge of your skirt.
The mixture of coffee and vodka swimming in your veins becomes your own aphrodisiac, poisoning your imagination with visions you promised yourself you would stop having.
Of Bucky, hand grasping your thigh and commanding you, voice slow and deep, to, “Spread your legs, sweetheart. Wanna see the mess I’ve made of you.”
Of that same hand dragging up the stretch of your skin, teasing the inside of your thigh, only for him to press two fingers against your clothed cunt and whisper, “Shit, she’s crying for me, isn’t she? Should have told me, princess, you know how I like to kiss your tears away.”
Of those two fingers taking their time with you, stroking you over your thong and daring to dip an inch or two into your pussy, as deep as the barrier of lace allows them to penetrate, all the while he’s taunting you for, “Just taking whatever you can get, aren’t you doll? Doesn’t matter if it’s that boy-toy of yours or your stepdad, that greedy hole just wants something to stuff it, huh? Well, go on. Ask nicely and maybe daddy’ll finally let you feel what all your mother’s fuss was about, why I had her screaming my name so loud you used to-”
“Merry Christmas!”
The sudden exclamation pulls you from your daydreams once more, Bucky’s hand now balled in a fist and at the level of your mouth, expectant eyes awaiting for you to sing the next line.
When all Bucky receives is silence, he brings his hand over to his own mouth and sings into the invisible microphone, “With a note saying ‘I love you’, I meant it.”
With the combined vocals of George Michael’s velvety voice and Bucky’s rasp filling the car, you pray to god it’s enough to cover the whimper that shakes out of you, sinking a little deeper into the passenger seat as you search for some relief for the burning between your thighs, shifting your hips until you feel the sweetness of pressure against your clit, the meat of your thigh kissing against your panties.
God, maybe Bucky is right.
Maybe you should have worn something warmer, covered up a little more.
At least if you were wearing jeans, you’d have something to rut against. Nothing too ideal, yet the stiff seam of them squeezing up against your aching, drooling pussy might have just been enough to quench whatever newly founded lust has taken hold of you.
“You okay, kiddo?” And, of course, Bucky just has to put his hand back on you, landing halfway up your thigh, all the while he shoots you a cautious smile. “You’re dancing all over the seat, my little squirmer. ‘S it getting too hot for you?”
Not hot enough, you think, and subtly roll your hips up to meet whatever pitiful friction you can gather from the damp lace, panties pulling tight around the puffy lips of your core.
Another readjustment, another shift of your hips, another goddamn red light, and you’re dancing on a tightrope, building yourself to a dull end, a climax serrated by the distance between his fingers and you.
Does Bucky know what you’re doing? Can he smell the tangy sweetness dripping out of you, threatening to leak down onto the leather and stain his seat with you forever? Is he aware of the slow movements, the subtle push and pull you make towards your own finish line, all the while he continues to hum along to whatever festive tune plays on the tape next, hand squeezing your thigh in time with the music?
It’s getting harder to fight the need swelling in your throat, a moan that’s clawing its way out of you. Before it can succeed, you sigh, head rolling to the side and finding the cold of the window, eyes forced shut when that first wave of ecstasy finally hits.
“You tired, princess?” Is the care in his voice fatherly? Or is it something deeper, something warmed not in his heart but in the fire of his loins?
Swallowing down another moan, cunt still grinding against your panties, you find the will within you to nod at his question.
He gifts you with a squeeze of his hand around your thigh, and now you wonder if he can feel the tremble in your muscles.
“That’s okay, you can sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re home, okay?”
For the first time in weeks, months, maybe even this whole year, things do feel okay.
Bucky is taking you home.
“Well, what do you think?”
Bucky calls to you, rustling around the kitchen and doing who-knows-what, one hand stirring a wooden spoon while the other scours through a drawer.
With his coat off your shoulders, his scent does not surround you — it drowns you instead, fermented into the walls of the townhouse. Sleek, modern, refined. The new home he’s made for himself in the city only adds to that distance life has placed between you; no longer does he store his favourite mug in your mother’s kitchen, or keep his record collection on display in her living room, or ease his precious Bentley into the garage.
Not a single trace of Bucky lives within your childhood home any longer, and the thought of it brings you both distress and comfort. Distress at the thought of change, comfort at the fact you won’t be there to confront it this holiday season.
Instead you’ll be here, tucked away in suburbia with the very person you thought you would be missing this Christmas.
Speaking of missing…
“I think,” you draw out the word, a twinge of humour lifting your spirits as you venture towards the kitchen and prop yourself against the marble counter. “That you don’t know how to decorate a Christmas tree.”
“Don’t be mean, kid,” there’s nothing funnier than watching a grown man try — and fail! — to whip you with a tea-towel, the cloth wrapping around his hand and claiming him as its hostage. “I put a lot of effort into that. Shed my blood, sweat and tears just to assemble the damn thing-”
“Uh-huh,” you can barely contain the fit of giggles taking over you, a dull ache forming in your cheeks from smiling so widely as he monologues about the trials and tribulations of decorating the heap of tinsel and baubels by the windowsill. “Is that why you forgot to put the star on?”
Stove off, spoon down, he tilts the contents of the pot into that mug — his favourite one — and slides it over towards you, tendrils of steam dancing upwards to flood you with the rich smell of hot cocoa.
“‘S not going to drink itself. Taste it,” Bucky commands, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the counter. The first sip has barely flooded your taste-buds with the syrupy sweet warmth of chocolate when he speaks again. “Tailored to perfection, isn’t it? Made just the way you like.” All you can do is nod over a second sip, cocoa pooling at the corner of your mouth. “I don’t forget things. Ever.”
You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your ear, and feel it in your throat, and taste it in your mouth; a constant beat that spells out his name in morse code. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…
“Then why is there no star?” You no longer feel that giddy amusement, frozen in your spot with the nervous anticipation of a baby bird about to take its first flight — will you soar high into the sky, or will you plummet to the ground and snap your neck?
His hand meets your face — a habit he’s growing all too comfortable doing this evening, touching you with casualness, as though it doesn’t bring you casualty.
“Because,” he reaches a little closer, thumb swiping over the stain of chocolate at the side of your mouth. “The star was always your job.”
The words hit you like a sucker-punch, leaving you winded and bruised. Torrid winds drag you into a tornado of memories; a twister made up of Christmases past, in which your first night back home for the holidays passed with a cup of cocoa and the starring of the tree, it’s top sitting empty for weeks in anticipation of your return. Heartbeat moving faster, mind working slower, mouth hanging lower; the only semblance of a reply you can muster is, “Oh.”
There’s every chance he’s lying, creating a fallacy to cover up his own forgetfulness.
But you want to believe it, believe him.
So, when he offers “Why don’t I go grab the star so you can finish off the tree?”, how could you possibly refuse?
If you knew the answer, then perhaps you wouldn’t have ended up in your current predicament: stood on a dining chair, perched on the tips of your toes with an arm reaching up helplessly, and the itch of Bucky’s stare pinned against you, tempting you to glance back for the millionth time and take in the mouth-watering sight of him. Tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair a dishevelled display of stress; he looks like something out of those dirty novels, a stiff-lipped CEO ready to fall head over heels in lust with his ditsy new assistant.
He looks like the only gift you want this Christmas, all wrapped together by a disapproving scowl.
“Let me help-”
“No, I’ve got it-”
“Kiddo, you’re going to fall,” thick fingers wrap around your calf, a look of anger melting into one of concern as Bucky glances up at you.
Staring too long would be a sin. You pin your eyes up ahead and remind yourself of what you are trying to do, turn it into a mantra that both grounds and controls you.
Put up the star. Put up the star. Put up st- Oh.
When did his hand reach the back of your knee?
“I said I’ve g-” Before you get the chance to finish the sentence, gravity declares itself your enemy as you inch a little taller, moments away from forcing the golden ornament onto the tree’s top, and the chair wobbles.
You tilt to the right.
Bucky pulls you to the left.
With the blink of an eye, you’re crashing down against him, arms flying out to grapple for any semblance of stability and finding his neck. Bucky’s own arms travel from legs to waist, snaking around your middle and shouldering the weight of you, now looming over him.
Eyes meet and words falter, a curtain of tension closing in around you both. Inches sit between your faces, a distance you could so easily end by simply leaning down and bracing for the ultimate impact — your lips colliding against his.
You feel Bucky pull in a breath.
His scent surrounds you once more, tempting fate with its erotic energy, a battery ready to charge up your lust. You’re more conscious than ever of the mess that stains your panties, a wetness that only seems to grow the longer you feel his hands on you. Around your waist, gripping your hip, returning to your thigh.
You’ve never seen his mouth this up close, a set of rosebud lips that practically beg to be bruised with kisses and nips.
Bucky rarely kissed your mother. A chaste peck, saved for special occasions. Yet there was one time… You arrived home early as a surprise, only to unlock the front door to find him pinning your mother against the couch, rutting against her while he unravelled her with his mouth. A mess of tongue and teeth, pulling lullabies of pleasure from your typically reserved mother.
That night, staring up at the bedroom of your childhood home, was the first night you gave in to temptation and let your mind wander, your hand slip beneath your cotton shorts and your ears tune themselves to the low register of grunts coming from the bedroom next door.
No words exchanged, just a primal orchestra composed by Bucky.
A dirty sense of shame stopped you before you could really start, two fingers barely dipped inside the entrance to your gummy walls before you remembered who he was fucking in that moment, who’s marital bed he was defiling.
“You’re staring, princess,” Bucky makes no attempt to straighten you up. If anything, you’re pretty certain he just pulled you deeper into his supportive hold. “Get lost in that dirty little head again?”
A bucket of ice-cold embarrassment pours over you, drenching you into a state of sweaty palms and burning cheeks.
“What- What are you,” flustered does not even begin to cover it, his question fully rattles you — almost as much as the hand inching up your leg. “Talking about?”
“Really, this is the route you’re going to take?” God, why is his hand still moving? “You’re a big girl now. Graduated with honours, got yourself that fancy paying job, living full-time away from home. I think you’re old enough to be honest.”
“Bucky I really don’t-”
“So you’re telling me, when my hand reaches your underwear, I’m not gonna find you wet as a whore on duty?”
Your response takes a moment too long, frozen with shock at the sudden shift in his tone, the eyes of a would-be father figure shifting into that of a predating animal that’s at last locked in on it’s prey, “No!”
The world tilts back into place in tune with the way Bucky slowly perches you back up onto the chair, the fingers trailing up your thigh slowly grazing inwards as they slip beneath the surface of your skirt.
“D’you know why your mommy taught you not to lie?” He’s mocking you with a pout, head tilting to the side.“‘Cause you’re bad at it, baby. Pathetically so.”
Two fingers ghost over the front of your panties, barely a shadow of a touch yet enough to send a ripple through your composure, lips parting to pull in a breath.
It’s getting harder to stand, knees weakened as you witness one of your dirty fantasies manifesting before you and forcing you to question life as you know it — Bucky is not supposed to touch you like this, not really. His hands are only ever supposed to be a thought, a prayer, a longing for you to cradle close to your chest and never speak aloud.
How are you supposed to think straight when a set of fingers are hooking themselves beneath your panties and tugging them down your body?
“Last chance for a little honesty, kiddo,” he calls up to you, gaze pinned on your face above instead of the lace pooling around your ankles. Words fail you as Bucky quirks an eyebrow, awaiting whatever poorly-crafted excuse you have to offer, only for him to cut you off before you can really start, “You really think I don’t know what you were doing earlier, hmm? Sitting in my car, feigning innocence. Pretending my touch didn’t have you creaming in those pretty panties. Did it feel good, grinding like a slut in heat, fighting for whatever semblance of friction you could find? Should’ve just said somethin’, princess, or asked me to help.”
Help is the opposite of what Bucky’s doing, especially when he’s grabbing at your left ankle and lifting it, nice and slow, perching it upon his shoulder. All the while his eyes never stray from yours, never give in to the darker temptations that clearly are calling for him to check on the mess he’s made of you, the mess he let you sit there and think he was unaware of.
“She’s soaking under this skirt, isn’t she?” When you shake your head at his question, he punishes you with the bite of his nails, digging into the skin around your ankle; the first mark he’ll leave on your skin.
How many more marks will he gift you, before the night comes to an end?
“If you won’t tell me the truth,” still burning you with the heat of his attention, Bucky turns his face towards your leg and caresses his lips against it, a mockery of a kiss. “Maybe I’ll just have to check for myself.”
In what may go down as the most mortifying moment of your life, you witness as satisfaction takes claim of his features and an I told you so takes shape on his tongue when at last he lowers his gaze to where your underwear lies, a streak of sticky wetness staining dark lace and brandishing you guilty as charged.
But Bucky cannot just leave this matter well enough alone, no.
It’s not enough that he’s caught you wet-handed, still teetering on a dining chair with one foot tossed over his shoulder and a star clenched in your fist, dusting your skin with golden glitter. No, this man is an observer, a researcher, a sceptic; and therefore it should be no surprise when circumstantial evidence is not enough to satisfy his curiosity. He simply must experience it with his own two eyes and his wandering hand.
Hostage to his touch, he grapples for your ankle and drags it back over his shoulder, the bottom of your foot now pressing down against his trapezius. The stretch in your thigh has a sting to it, one that pinches at both ends of your muscle. If the circumstances were different, maybe you would complain. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too conscious of your bare cunt, now thrust into the spotlight, to really notice anything else.
“Well isn’t she just the cutest thing? All drooling and glistening,” he’s not touched you, not really. Somehow, that feels more sinful, because it leaves you space to still wonder, to still hope, to still agonise over all things right and wrong that you never could have imagined this man truly doing to you. “Crying for some attention, isn’t she? Begging for someone to give her the loving she deserves. Y’gonna let me give her it?”
Your answer is half gasp, half stutter, a broken concoction of noise in reaction to the first press of his fingertips against your lower lips. Eventually, you manage a sentence, “I have a boyfriend.”
“You do,” nonchalant and free of care, he indulges in the luxury of spreading you open, parting your folds to take a peak at what’s between the curtains.
Where he hums in satisfaction, you bite back a squeal.
“You are-” like he can tell where your sentence is heading, Bucky chooses the right time to cut you off with the dip of a finger into your honey pot, barely the tip of it swiping up your slit and landing a warning tap against your clit. You correct yourself. “You were my stepfather.”
“I was,” he replies with a casualness that does not match the way he’s assessing your body, inspecting the state of carnal need he’s placed you in. “But this is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”
“James, n-no, I-”
“Shh,” he circles around your pearl, marvelling at the way your body reacts to him, subconsciously grinding against the rough pad of his finger. “You don’t have to lie, not to me. God knows I’ve wanted it too. That first summer you came back from college… Fuck, baby, you had me feeling like a dirty pervert. Strutting around the house in those see-through shorts, and laying out by the pool in the skimpiest bikinis; you were like every man’s dream and nightmare all wrapped in one.”
Just when you think you might explode or burn up in a cloud of dust and lust, Bucky eases a finger inside of you. Thicker than your own, the stretch is delicious, enough to have you throwing your head back and your eyes slipping shut.
In the heat of bliss, you forget where you are, who you are with, who you should be with. Joaquin becomes as distant of a thought as he is in presence, run away to his hometown with his precious duffel bag and his sorry excuse for an apology, and abandoning you to the capable hands of a man who picks up when you call, a few drinks too deep and searching for any excuse to see him — even if it lasts only the short drive back to your apartment, in which you once again feign that it won’t happen again.
How many nights have you forced him out of bed and behind the wheel? The tally is uncountable, at this point, lost in time throughout the near-year he’s been living in your city. And not once has he complained, or told you to stop calling…
Now, knuckle-deep inside of you, you’re starting to feel why he’s been so caring.
“Do you know how guilty I felt, getting hard over my pretty stepdaughter? I thought I was the biggest fucking cliche, seeing someone young… Something shiny and new… And wanting her all for myself,” despite the delicate delivery of his confession, there’s a certain kind of anger behind each word, brandishing you in his disappointment while his finger starts a slow rhythm, slipping out of you only for him to push back in. “So imagine my face when, after months of cold showers and trying not to picture you under me instead of my wife, I catch my precious princess burying her nose in my boxers and splitting herself open with a plastic cock.”
“Oh my god!” You’re not even sure if your exclaim is born from the shameful knowledge he just dealt you, the dirty deeds you’d long tried to keep to yourself, or the fact he’s slipping a second finger inside you, pointer meeting middle with a curl, fingertips pressing up against the spongy tissue.
“Turns out the real pervert was you. Wasn’t it?” He grants you no grace period, no moment to grow accustomed to the new stretch of your walls, and instead takes to working an ache into his wrist, fingers scissoring you open. Toes already curling, one spine-tingling thrust has you buckling into him, leg slipping back over his shoulder and your hand flying out to grasp his hair, stabilising yourself like he’d ever truly let you fall. With a sharp tug to his scalp, you witness him moan for the first time without the barrier of a bedroom wall. “I know all about how you used to listen to us, to me. Hey, hey, don’t look so shy, princess. It’s okay, d’you know why?”
Somehow, you muster the ability to reply — not verbally, but with a shake of your head.
Bucky shows no sense of urgency to finish his sentence, lazily fingering your cunt while he drags the length of his tongue over your inner thigh, teasing its way up to the crease where leg meets pelvis.
“‘Cause I was doin’ it for you. Wanted you to hear it all, wanted to be the reason you’d turn on that buzzing toy and get yourself off,” a third finger joins the fray and Bucky at last gives himself a taste of you, tongue brushing over the side of his fingers as he licks a stripe up your pussy. It’s unclear whose response is louder: your half-choked cry of his name or his animalistic groan. “God, sweetheart, she tastes so sweet. Like fucking ambrosia. Do I need to start calling you my little angel, hmm?”
Like any good drug, one hit of you is enough to have Bucky hooked.
In a matter of minutes, he goes from composed gentleman — still clad in a suit and tie, poking and prodding you in his living room like you’re nothing but a science experiment, the subject in a theory on wetness he’s trying to prove — to a debauched image of a man, knuckles bullying themselves against the dripping lips of your pussy each time he buries them deeper inside of you, while his tongue lavs over you with wanton abandon, hellbent on drinking you down and angling the right amount of pressure against your throbbing clit to have your leg clamping around his head and an orgasm ripping through you.
Gone is the star in your hand, slipped out of your grasp and now surrounded by a mess of gold dust on the floor. You’ve anchored yourself completely in his hair, your head thrown back while your hips buck against his face, guided by the firm grasp his spare hand has claimed one of your ass cheeks with, squeezing and playing with the swell of skin all the while he continues to worship up towards you with words of praise.
“Look so beautiful, you know that? So fucking pretty when you let me have my way with you.”
“Wanna taste ‘er all the time, angel. Can I do that, hmm? Can I make my sweet girl feel good everyday? I‘d treat you so good, princess.”
“Wake you up with my tongue in this tight pussy, and fuck her to sleep, send you off into your dreams with my cum stuffed nice and deep inside of you.”
“ You gonna cum? Yeah, you are. Can feel her squeezing me, gripping my fingers like a fuckin’ vice. Let go, let me see it, c’mon. Please, princess-”
“Daddy!”
Perhaps you spoke too soon earlier, believing that Bucky’s knowledge of your actions in the car was the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to you.
Perhaps, instead, the name you just cried out in a blinding pleasure is far more mortifying, enough to leave you wishing you would fall off this damn dining chair and smack your head off something sharp on the way down, leaving you dead on impact and unable to deal with the consequences of your own actions.
Locked and loaded with an apology, you poorly attempt to gather the fraying edges of your senses in hopes of stitching yourself back together and appearing as anything slightly more composed than someone still in the throes of pleasure, walls squeezing around his fingers and clit bumping against his nose, despite the fact Bucky has been frozen with no movement since that word tore through your mouth.
You keep waiting for it to happen: the rejection, the disgust, the polite send-off to be followed by him never picking up the phone again, never mind laying a single finger on nor in you.
Unlike you, it never comes.
“Come on, that’s it, put your foot down nice and careful,” it twists up your insides to hear him still speak to you so softly, like his fingers aren’t staining your skin in your own essence while they grasp your ankle and guide you back down onto the chair. “Let’s get you off of there, yeah?”
You already got me off, you bite back the urge to say.
Feet back on solid ground, you continue to feel the wobbling effect of an orgasm, legs shaky like a foal taking its first steps when Bucky’s hand flattens itself against your lower back and begins to lead you towards the grandiose windowsill.
Nearly reaching from floor to ceiling, the window sits divided by multiple wooden beams cutting through it and curtained on either side by a rich shade of crimson. Past the glass sits a neighbourhood stripped right out of a Christmas movie, with twinkling lights as far as the eye can see and the fluffiest looking snow settled upon rooftops. Fireplace blazing out into the living room and the stifling heat of Bucky’s presence at your back, the subtle chill radiating off the window is inviting, daring you to press your burning face against it.
“See all those houses, princess?” Just when you think you have your breathing under control, Bucky’s hands land upon your shoulders and send a shockwave through your system, stuttering over your next inhale. “All glittery and bright. Full of families excited to spend the holidays together, just like us.”
His hands are moving, curving down the stretch of your torso and settling momentarily on your hips. With a soft squeeze to them, his fingers slip beneath your sweater and begin to draw it upwards, trailing the cloud-soft cotton over your abdomen, your breasts, your sternum, eventually peeling it over your head and letting it drop somewhere in the room — it’s hard to focus or care when his hands dive immediately back into business, fiddling with the hooks of your bra.
“In fact, I bet there’s even someone else watching the snow fall right now,” slow, calculated, Bucky sets your breasts free from their confines only to wrap them up in his touch, palms curving around you to take them into his grasp. He tuts in disapproval, two fingers pinching at your right nipple, when you give in to the feeling and let your eyes slip briefly shut. They snap back open within an instant and faintly find his own glaring in the reflection of the glass. “What do you think, sweetheart? Think there’s another house in this street with a woman staring out into the night, about to be pressed up against the window and fucked by her daddy?”
Lost in the moment, still trying to process the way he sounds out that dirty word, you barely register the way he drags down the zipper of your skirt and leaves it to collapse to your feet, a pool of satin too delicate for the debauchery taking place between you both.
Condensation prickles your skin and raises your nipples as he forces your skin to kiss the glass, the weight of his solid figure pressing itself fully to your back. That’s when you feel him, for the first time.
Thick, heavy, trapped behind the confines of trousers; the shape of his cock pokes against your ass, enticing you with the answer to a question you would have never dared to ask aloud…
“Wait,” a little less secure than you would like to seem, you call out softly when you hear that unmistakable noise of metal unclasping, a belt unbuckling. “I want to- Let me do it, please.”
“How can I say no, when you ask so nicely?”
Turning to face him, you’re struck with the desire for something a little more intimate, a little too out of reach of what you’re comfortable asking for: a kiss.
So, instead, you take over where his hands once were and finish undoing his belt buckle, sliding the expensive leather out of the loop before letting it fall limp against his trousers. Next comes a button and a zipper, pried open by eager fingers that unwrap him like he’s the final present on Christmas day, the biggest and best that’s been saved for last.
“Careful, princess, you might break one of those pretty nails,” he says, teetering off into a chuckle when not even the prospect of ruining your manicure halts you, tugging at the navy blue band of his boxers and at last unveiling the part of him you’ve been most eager to see. “Shit! Aah- Gonna ruin me before we even start if you keep touchin’ him like that.”
His warning is half-hearted, void of sincerity, as you wrap your fingers around the width of him and slowly stroke, tip to base, imprinting the shape of his cock into your mind.
Longer than Joaquin, and thick enough to have you clenching around nothing, pussy twitching at the thought of how sweet the burn will be when he finally splits you open on it. A mushroomed tip, blushing pink and rhinestoned by a bead of pre-cum that dribbles down the underside of him and traces over the pretty blue of his vein.
He’s mouthwatering, so much so that you feel yourself swallow back a mouthful of stale saliva, your gaze fully glued to the way your hand works over his cock, somehow getting him even harder than he already is, the tip playing a game of peak-a-boo with your fingers each time they encase it.
“Does that feel nice, doll?” His own touch meets your face, thumb brushing an imaginary hair from your cheek before Bucky reaches up fully to grab a fistful of it, blunt fingernails scraping over your scalp. “Having a big, hard cock in your hand? Bet it feels like home to you, huh? Like the only thing you were put on this earth to do is to make me cum.”
“Yes,” you breathe out, without truly meaning to.
Bucky welcomes your confession with a glowing smile and a tightened fist, shifting pressure on your head and forcing you to follow the path he drags you down, mouth hovering over the heat of where his cock stands at attention against his abdomen.
“Then get him ready for you, princess,” Bucky coos, fingers massaging at your jaw as you slowly let it drop. “Show a little gratitude and give him a kiss.”
The heady scent of man floods your nose and the salty tang of cum streaks over your taste-buds as you lay a delicate kiss against his tip, gazing up at him from beneath your lashes and watching as the pink tip of his tongue — a shade you now know matches his cock — wets his lower lip.
Before you can taste much more of him, swallow him as deep-down as your throat and temperamental gag reflex will allow, Bucky is prying you off of him and turning you back around. Hands pin your own to the cold glass of the window, a silent threat commanding you to keep them there, then his touch slips elsewhere, tracing over the skin of your spine and settling at your waist.
His foot kicks at your own, nudging you to deepen the spread of your legs and make way for him. Moulding you into whatever shape he likes, tilting your hips back to an angle he deems satisfying enough — one that grants him the sight on your naked core, glistening like the lights decorating the tree, and winking at him as you clench around nothing, your body far too aware of how exposed it’s become.
“Think she can take it, angel?” Bucky’s mouth finds your neck, smattering it in a series of sloppy kisses. Between your thighs, his cock starts to edge back and forth, rutting over your folds and lathering himself in your liquid lust, head teasing your clit with a gentle nudge or two, enough to remind you of how good the friction can feel yet never enough for your moans to come to fruition, dying out in your mouth as he retreats. “Or am I going to break her? Hmm? Do I need to fuck her so loose, no man but me can ever fill her again? Go on, want you to ask for it. Beg for me, tell me how bad my baby’s cunt needs her daddy.”
Why does it feel like such an impossible task?
Each time your mouth parts, ready to shape thoughts into words, all you seem to give is whines and mewls.
Until you manage a simple, “Want it, daddy, please!”
“I know, baby,” the head of his dick presses against your entry, slipping into you with a slow roll of his hips. The action is not merciful, meant to spare you from the discomforting stretch of him splitting you open. No, it is purposeful, a way for him to make sure you feel every cunt-drooling inch of him as he sheaths himself to the hilt. “Daddy knows.”
You’ve always been a quick learner: quick to learn that your mother’s curling wand was not to be touched, quick to learn that boys often say one thing and mean another, quick to learn that secrets tend to travel places they shouldn’t once you speak them aloud.
And now you’re quick to learn that Bucky fucks with no inhibitions.
There is no learning curve, no push and pull where he tests the waters of what feels good for you, no gradual descent into a feral state where an exchange of words becomes a cacophony of grunts and groans. Where Joaquin treats you gently, takes his time to build up the heat, Bucky throws you into a immediate state of boiling, blood bubbling beneath your skin as he pounds into you.
Full does not begin to describe the feeling, the walls of your cunt gripping at his cock each time it reaches that eye-rolling spot inside of you. The sound is enough to fuel your shame, a wet shlick filling the living room with each thrust he gives, balls slapping against your pussy lips.
His hands paw at you. Deepen the arch in your spine, dig bruises into your hips, separate your cheeks just to watch the way your pussy swallows his length, in and out, coating him and yourself in your juices.
Your own hands are faltering, slipping from the glass podiums he perched them on and making their way down the length of the window. Fingerprints imbedded in condensation, you smear streaks where your hands have been, grip failing you. Bucky stops them in their tracks, the rhythm of his hips never even faltering while he grasps at your wrists and manoeuvres them behind your back, hands pinned against your tailbone.
In the reflection of the glass, you spot as he reaches for his throat.
Silk binds itself around your skin, the brown of his tie now encasing your wrists and affording him a makeshift rein, the perfect tool for Bucky to bend you to his will, fingers tugging at the fabric around your wrists and forcing your body to jolt back against him, ass smacking against his pelvis and grinding his cock that little bit deeper into you, tip teasing at what must be your cervix.
“Fuck- That’s it, princess, fuckin’ grind,” teeth clenched, he drags the word out and emphasizes it with his own hips, stilled to the hilt inside of you and sending you slumping forward, whining as your face meets the chilled glass. “Back against him, show daddy how much of a slut you are for this dick.”
“Such a slut- I’m- Oh god!”
“D’you even know how hard it used to be for me, baby? Fucking your mother, trying not to call out your name? Shit, think I actually did once, but she was too cockdrunk to notice.”
The rational side of you is begging for a little shame, for you to find repulsion in the way he’s speaking to you. But you’re too far gone, barely managing cohesive sentences while Bucky continues to fuck you against the window, imprinting more than just the shape of your hands against the cold glass.
“You had me thinking I was seeing visions, baby. Thinking I was imagining your eyes lingering over me- So tight, wanna- Ngh! Wanna fuck this pretty pussy forever. And then I caught you, saw how dirty my stepdaughter was behind close doors. All those tabs on your computer, all those girls begging for their stepdads. Knew then that I wasn’t imagining any of it.”
It’s electrifying, like walking a tight rope between ice and fire. The skin-prickling chill of the frost-bitten window against your form, pairing delectably with the thigh-shaking warmth of Bucky blanketing you from behind, mouthing at your neck, filling your cunt with cock and your ear with filth.
“Now look at my precious pervert, all fucked out for her daddy and still begging for more. Wasn’t bad enough for you that you made yourself cum in my car, with nothing but my hand against your thigh, then you had to lie to me and feign like you didn’t want it, want me. Shut you up real quick, didn’t I, once I got my fingers and my tongue on this cunt. Now you remember that you’re mine, don’t you? Remember how badly you used to dream about me having my way with you.”
It’s all becoming too much, too fast.
His thrusts. The contrast of temperatures. The sounds of his moans in your ear. The sight of your own breath stretching over the cold of the window.
You’re losing yourself, faster than you can find yourself.
“Bet you’d have even let me take you in my marital bed, right where your mother slept-”
“Stop!”
The moment that cry leaves your mouth, the world comes to a halt.
Bucky peels himself off of you like you’re on fire, tearing at the binding around your wrist only to grab at your waist and turn you to face him, stare full of care and worry as he assesses you.
You can already taste the next question he’s forming, before he even says it, and so you beat him to the chase.
“I’m okay! I just-”
In a reaction unbefitting of the man who was just fucking you six ways into Sunday, you watch his shoulders deflate and the stress exhale out of him with a single breath, the confirmation that he hadn’t inexplicably hurt you in anyway soothing an ailment inside of Bucky.
Like he can sense your hesitance, fingers pinch at your chin and steady your eyes on his, “Just what, kid?”
“I want to, you know,” you blink away a shy look, swallow back a lump in your throat. God, why does he still make you so nervous? “See you, when I- When you make me-”
“Cum around my cock?” A shit-eating smirk takes over him as you shamefully nod, hands grabbing at your face as he presses his forehead against yours. “Aren’t you just the cutest? One minute, you’re acting like a cockslut, calling me daddy and squeezing around me while I list off all your perverted actions. And then, the next minute, you can’t even tell me how you want me to make you cum.”
“Stop being mean-”
He cuts you off with a kiss, mouth melting against your own.
You feel as Bucky sighs, like he is relieved to finally grace you with the intimacy of a lover, tongue prodding at your lower lip before you open and let him in. He still tastes like you, like cum and cunt, heady and sweet as he explores the warmth of your mouth.
The buttons of his shirt fall open much slower than the one on his trousers had, the movement of your fingers slowed by his kiss. Sad to feel him stray, even if only for a moment to discard the white button-up, you pull him back into your kiss with renewed fervour.
Bucky takes the lead, guiding you away from the window and over to the wall, forcing your back against the expensive wallpaper a personal assistant or underpaid intern picked out for him, the kind of home decor a man who thinks purple socks pair well with textured green shorts would never think to use.
Next to go are his pants and boxers, shoved unceremoniously over the globe of his ass and kicked away from his feet in a joint effort from the both of you, mouths still exchanging spit.
He’s boxing you against the wall, cock pressed flush between your bodies and drooling over your torso, the faintest stain of sticky white liquid leaving his own custom art behind on your skin. Leg perching itself on his waist, Bucky takes the hint and with ease slides both hands down to the back of your thighs, scooping you up and helping you wrap yourself around him fully.
“This how you wanted me, sweetheart?” His hands rise to find your ass cheeks, squeezing them as he guides your pussy over his cock, sinking you down nice and slow. This time, he’s savouring it, watching with awe how your pelvises meet and the subtlest bulge that makes itself known beneath your skin, a visual display of how deep inside of you he is. “Face to face, watching how eager you are to swallow my dick, and how those pretty eyes stretch almost as wide as your cunt?”
“Yes, daddy,” empowered by the desire swallowing his irises in a pool of black, you find that words come a lot easier in this position. “Want you so bad.”
“God, think I need to record that, make it my goddamn ringtone so I know who’s calling every time my baby gets a little tipsy and needs her daddy to come rescue her.”
Nerves still on edge and body pushed to its limit, it doesn’t take long for Bucky to build you back up to the same electrifying state as before. Cock filling you over, and over, and over, sending your back further up the wall in tune with each thrust of his hips. With one hand gripping your waist and the other weaving itself between you both in search of your clit, something rough and steady for you to grind up against while he chases your high from inside, Bucky is rewriting the meaning of heaven, reworking the wires of your brain and showing you that this was all you’ve ever really needed, ever wanted.
Someone to pick up each time you call, and to kiss all your tears away, and to know you in a way not even you do.
“He doesn’t get me-” Cut off by your own whine, your teeth bite down on your lip as you take a peak at the fluid motions in which he slips in and out of you, a white ring forming around the base of his cock the longer he wears you both out. “Doesn’t know me like you do.”
“Who, angel?”
“Joaquin-” It feels illegal to even think of his name, never mind speak it, while tangled up with Bucky.
“‘Course he doesn’t, sweetheart.”
His pace is turning brutal again, as mouthwatering and back-arching as it was against the window.
Fingers flex in search of him, weaving themselves around his neck and up his head, tangling in his hair while Bucky smothers you in him, chest to chest. Kissing at your neck, mouthing at your ear, nipping at your collarbone. Every inch of you is connected to him, body and soul.
“He doesn’t know how desperate this cunt is,” he’s panting into your ear, the exertion he’s putting into fucking you clear in his voice. “I mean, look at how she’s behavin’ for me, baby. Crying all over daddy’s cock, screaming out for more, more, more. Have you ever told him how much of a slut you are? Ever let him see those perverted links you use to cum?
“No, I never- James! God. Please- So good.”
“Stepdad gives his stepdaughter a thorough spanking,” he lists the title off so casually, like this hasn’t plagued your guilty conscious each time you finish to it. “Stepdaughter swallows her new daddy deep. Stepdad licks his stepdaughter’s pussy. Did you always have such a depraved mind, or was it because of me?”
Gone is the shame, you find no point in even attempting to feign a different answer as you cry out, “It was you, daddy. Just wanted you.”
The longer it goes on, the further you feel yourself straying from sanity, mind lost in lust and pleasure, tightening like a coil inside of you.
“That’s right, it’s just daddy that you want,” he stills against you momentarily, hips beginning to falter like he too can’t keep going much longer, the ache in his balls growing deeper and begging for a release of pleasure. “Wanna know my favourite, the one I keet going back to?”
“Yes! God yes- Bucky- Keep going- I’m gonna-”
“Stepdad stuffs stepdaughter full of cum.”
You recognise the title better than the rest, a tab still open deep in your phone from the last time you made yourself cum to it. Now, knowing Bucky has watched the very same video, hand wrapped around his big, thick, desperate-to-cum cock…
You squeeze around him without really meaning to, sending him into a flow of curse words. Recuperating a tiny bit of restraint, he continues speaking.
“‘S that something you want, princess? Want me to paint your walls with my cum? Fuck- Cause I’ll have you feeling me for days, have it staining your little panties and letting the whole world smell it on you,” He’s so close to caving in, the end in sight for both of you, yet he still awaits that last bit of approval. One last chance to make you beg. “Shit, maybe it’ll stick. Oh, she squeezed me extra tight at that, I think she wants it, angel. Wants me to breed her real good, give you no choice but to tell your mother how you went and fucked her ex-husband, seduced him right out of her arms.”
It doesn’t matter that your mother asked for the divorce.
It doesn’t matter that it was a mutual agreement, where both parties agreed they never truly loved one another and now wanted different things.
Your mother wanted freedom, to find herself in ways she never had before.
And Bucky wanted… Well, you.
Why not give yourself entirely over to him? ‘Tis the season of giving, after all!
“Cum in me, Bucky! Please, wanna feel it- Want you to flood my pussy, to have it dripping out of me while you just keep fucking it deeper- Oh god. Yes, yes, yes!”
A blinding light overcomes your vision, turning everything hot white as your walls clamp around Bucky’s cock one last, definitive time.
One twitch of his tip and he’s spilling into you, ribbons of hot, sticky cum filling your cunt. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t still the movement of his hips. No, he keeps rolling into you slowly, whining and whimpering in your ear as he milks himself dry into your womb, a shiver shaking down his spine.
The two of you pull the other closer, as though there’s any space left to cross, hands reaching and grasping and searching for an anchor in the hectic haze of your climaxes. Just as you feel a tear of his cum roll down your thigh, the soft stab of his cock still pushing into you, something pulls you back into the living room: a meow.
There his cat sits, a ball of snow-white fur, pawing at the forgotten star on the floor.
“We still haven’t put up your star.”
Hearing his laugh warms your heart, just the same as it always has, despite the lewd position you’re in.
There’s the faintest brush of his mouth over your cheek, the same spot he’d kissed earlier in the car.
Except now the tears in your eyes are full of love and ecstasy, instead of pity and despair.
“Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re here next year to remind me.”
No longer homesick, maybe Christmas won’t be so lonely after all.
+ extra hyde!
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· pov: alpine watching these two freaks get it on:
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