Potter geek

it’s just a stupid crush. nothing more. 

it’s not like your entire life has revolved around him for as long as you can remember. it’s not like you’ve fallen so deeply in love with him that you don’t know how you’ll ever be able to move on from him, no matter how much you try.

it’s just a crush. 

except now, because of it, you’ve gone and done something you can’t undo. 

~~~

by time you get back to your car, you’re shaking. 

after everything you just admitted in the heat of the moment, of course he’s fucking asleep. of course it doesn’t fucking matter to him. 

because his words were just that: words. taunting you, deliberately riling you up for fun. but everything you said that only served to turn him on was real for you. 

how can he pretend like it was nothing, sleep like a baby after all of it?

of course. to him, you’re a stupid fucking kid. and now he knows you’re in love with him, and all you’re going to get in return is more mockery and heartbreak. 

but while he’s knocked out without a fucking care in the world, you’re in your car, panicking. your head is throbbing, the pain back with a vengeance that you wish would just go away. you open the center console to pull out your bottle of emergency meds.

a handful of acetaminophen and you’ll be fine. 

you just need this headache to go away and you’ll be fine. you’ll figure everything out once you feel better.

you’ll be fine.

~~~

it’s nothing but an interrogation when you get home. 

“who were you hanging out with?” 

“how is she doing?”

“what did you guys do? did you have fun?” 

you’re so disoriented and in so much pain that you can barely sustain the lie, maintain the facade that you were once again out with a friend. 

when’s the last time you actually saw your friends?

all the times they’ve texted, and you’ve turned them down in favor of seeing Bucky, using their names as an excuse to your parents.

who are you? are you really turning back into that stupid teenage girl that would’ve done anything just for a chance with Bucky? 

you’re a liar, a traitor. to your family and your friends. 

all just to have sex with the one man you’ve wanted for as long as you can remember. you’re tearing your entire life apart, destroying everything for him.

and to him, you’re a game. a joke. 

a good time.

you excuse yourself from the interrogation, admitting the terrible headache you’re suffering from. 

the instant you get to your bedroom, you shut the curtains and turn out the lights. they’re a nuisance, simply worsening the pain in your head that won’t let up. you try to lay down, praying that sleep will take you, even in your frantic mental state. just get some sleep, and the headache will go away. 

the pain will go away. 

you open the drawer of your nightstand, reaching inside for a bottle of pills. another handful of pills down.

it will help. 

it will. 

except when you reach to set the bottle back inside the drawer, you feel something brushing up against your fingers. dear god, not a spider, please don’t be a spider–

you sit up to look inside, fully prepared to see a spider in your drawer and start screaming. 

when you gaze down at where you just discovered the foreign entity, you see it. thank the heavens, it's not a spider. 

what you felt was the small plasticky strings fraying off an old, worn-down bracelet you haven’t picked up in years. 

it’s a friendship bracelet. 

one that a young version of you had bullied Uncle Bucky into buying for you a number of years ago, along with a matching one for him. you’d worn it for years, up until the point you stopped wearing it around the time you turned 10. 

you knew you probably still had it around here somewhere, but…

you rarely thought about it. it was a memory buried in the depths of your mind, something easily forgotten.

but with the sudden reminder, you can’t help it. 

you can’t help but start crying, burning hot tears falling down your face, your head throbbing with each sob that wracks through your body. 

you’ve ruined everything. he was someone you trusted, cared about, and now you’ve embarrassed yourself beyond belief, admitting that this was real for you.

as you pick up the bracelet, clutching it tightly against your chest, his words from weeks prior float through your head: 

“don’t want anyone but my pretty girl.”

“forever, baby. just you and me. nobody else.”

“you’re my girl.”

all of it had to have been a fucking lie. how could you have believed it? how could you let yourself believe that he might ever return the sentiment, hold the same kind of love for you that you hold for him? it's not possible, it never was.

perhaps his soft words were the reason you’d let yourself tell him the truth. you’d deluded yourself into thinking he meant it, that his words were something more than just a means of easing your anxiety. 

you know he cares about you. 

you know he loves you.

but not in the same way.

your head pounds as your tears fall harder, forcing you into a dreamless sleep.

~~~

when he wakes up a few hours later, he’s expecting you to be there. beside him, in his bed, in his arms.

you’re not. 

he stands from the bed, walking down the hallway to find your clothes that he’d littered across his floor, gone. 

you’re not in his bathroom, his kitchen. 

you're not anywhere. 

your car is gone.

you’re gone. 

and in this moment, he realizes he’s scared you off. he’s finally pushed too far, trying to drag it out of you, trying to figure out how you felt. 

he’s made it so goddamn obvious that he never could’ve wanted just sex from you. not when it comes to you. he tried to tell you with soft words and praises, but he had never been very good at this.

he’s never been good at relationships. he’s pushed everyone away one way or another.

but for you, he tried.

this is so much bigger than the two of you just sleeping together, and he wanted to do better, for you.

this whole time, he never knew what you were thinking. how you felt about any of this.

he thinks he knows, now. he thinks you’re in agreement, thinks that this is real for you, too. but he can't know. every word you said to him, all of it, is too blurred by the reality of the situation to give him the confirmation he needs. 

he sees now how his words, too, were greyed by the position you're both in. how easy it was for their meaning to fall through the cracks.

all of this has weighed on his head and heart more than he’s let on to you, but he’s tried, as best he knows how.

clearly, it wasn't enough.

he knows this is wrong. he knows that you, being who you are to him? it’s so wrong, in a million ways.

but you came home this summer, and it was just…

different. 

he couldn’t stand the idea of letting anyone else take care of you. he didn’t trust anyone else would know how. 

he never should’ve gotten himself involved with you. it’s wrong.

but once he did…

how was he supposed to let you go? 

and now, he’s gone and upset you. he’s forced you into a conversation you weren’t ready for, all because he couldn’t handle not knowing anymore. he had needed to know.

but you’re not there for him to apologize, to explain.

he knows how badly all the sneaking around is hurting you, how it’s carving away at you, and that there’s only so much he can do to ease your struggle. that’s all he wanted to do, this entire time: to be there for you. he wanted you to be comfortable with him, to never doubt that you were safe with him, even when your anxiety and your guilt surrounding the situation ate away at you.

hurting you was the last thing he wanted.

he should’ve known that somehow, he would have hurt you one way or another. 

now it’s all he can do to try and fix it. 

~~~

when you wake up a few hours later, you have three missed calls and one unread text from him. 

“you okay?” it reads. 

seriously? 

you don’t have much time to think about it before your headache comes back in full force, a choked sob falling from your lips at the sudden onset of the pain. 

fuck, fuck, you think, scrambling for the pills. 

another handful down. 

just give them time to work. you’ll be fine. 

through the searing pain in your head, you force yourself to text him back. 

“fine. needed to get home before my parents got suspicious.” 

the text shows immediately that he’s read it, the little bubbles popping up indicating to you that he’s typing.

“can we talk?” he responds immediately.

no. you can’t talk. not only are you not ready for this to be over, to lose what little of him you have for good, but you’re in no state to be having this conversation right now. 

“I’ll call you later,” is all you say, setting your phone back down on the bed next to you. 

and when your hand brushes up against the sheets, you feel it lying there: the bracelet. 

it’s a ratty old thing you haven’t touched in years, something cheap you had found at whatever store he had taken you to. you don’t remember the details of that day: why you were with Bucky, what you were at the store for.

what you do remember is how excited you’d been as a little kid when he’d agreed to buy one for the both of you, how warm and giddy it made you that you got to share it with this man you’d looked up to.

of course you still look up to him. of course you still idolize him, the same way you did when you were five and he was buying you silly little friendship bracelets.

regardless of the fact that you're so desperately in love with him, and regardless of the fact that he obviously could never love you that way, you still care what he thinks of you. you still have that stupid, childish desire to make him proud.

to make him love you, even if only in a respectful, familial capacity.

you hope you can go back to normal after all this. you hope he can forget all about this small blip in time, and that you can go back to silently loving him from afar.

even if it kills you inside, you need him in your life. 

worse yet, you won’t be able to live with yourself if his vision of you is forever tainted. 

~~~

you end up sleeping through the night successfully, only to wake up in the morning brutally uncomfortable. not showered, clothes not changed, headache not going anywhere.

you’re getting really fucking sick of this. 

you open the drawer once more, reaching for the bottle. 

another handful down. 

you drag yourself out of bed, every inch of your body feeling disgusting and exhausted. once you reach the bathroom, you turn the knob of the shower faucet on high. 

it’s just your luck that it’s only after you’ve shed your clothes and gotten in the shower that your phone begins ringing. fuck, you debate with yourself, knowing that the only person it could be is him.

what the hell does he think there is to talk about? is he just going to sweet talk you some more, tell you to come over later so he can grill you a second time? 

only after a few more rings do you finally make the decision to get out of the shower and pick up the call. except as you peel the shower curtain back and begin to jump out, the water underfoot betrays your ability to stand upright. in any other case, you likely would have been able to catch yourself.

but you’re not yourself right now. you’re dizzy, and not thinking straight. 

you fall backwards, the cold tile sharp against your back as you make contact with it. you awkwardly fall back onto your ass, water splashing everywhere in the process. as you slip, you instinctively reach for the shower curtain to catch yourself. 

bad idea.

your hands grip the curtain so tightly, the bar holding it up rips itself out of place and falls, too.

you’re more than lucky it doesn’t hit you. 

it takes you a moment to get to your feet, stepping over the bar and reaching for your phone, which is now ringing for a second time after missing his initial call. you successfully answer the call this time, turning it on speaker as you assess the situation of the shower. 

“now’s not really a good time,” you say loudly enough for the phone’s microphone to pick up your words as you walk around the bathroom. 

“I was just hoping we could talk,” he says trepidly. you’re distracted, too busy trying to turn the water off and wrap a towel around yourself in your disoriented state. 

just then, there’s a banging on the bathroom door, alongside a shout of your name.

“are you okay? what happened?” you hear your mom call out. 

Bucky, in turn, calls out your name through the phone as well. “what’s going on?” he asks, suddenly panicked. 

“I gotta go,” you yell into the phone before hanging up and opening the door to your mom, explaining that you fell, it happens. you hurriedly put your ringer on silent when he begins to call again. 

“it’s no big deal, really. I just knocked the bar out of place,” you tell her.

“you didn’t hit your head, did you?” she questions. “how did you fall?”

“no, no, I’m fine,” you reassure her, “I was just dizzy, and my phone was ringing, and… I gotta go lie down.” 

“you really shouldn’t, if you hit your head–”

“it’s okay, seriously,” you tell her, brushing off her concerns. “promise I didn’t. it’s just the headache.”

your room is still dimly lit when you return. you shut the door, encasing yourself in the darkness, easing the pressure in your head. after you put on some pajamas, giving up on showering, you look at your phone: five more missed calls and a few voicemails. 

you sit down on the bed and begin to call him back, opening your drawer once again.

another handful down.

“what the hell just happened? why did you hang up on me like that?” he asks in a panic, barely letting you get a word in. “are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you say, exasperated. 

“seriously? that’s all I get?” he questions, “I’m worried about you, I don’t know–”

“oh, you’re worried about me?” you laugh sarcastically, appalled at the audacity. “right.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean? of course I’m worried about you! first, you run out of here without a word, and then you don’t pick up my calls, and when you do finally answer me there’s some kind of commotion on your end! so just, tell me that you’re okay. or better yet, tell me the truth.”

“I’m fine,” you reiterate, annoyed.

you might be acting unfair to him right now, but you’re exhausted, and in pain, and you can’t stand to draw this out any longer. “tell me what you want to talk about.” 

he knows he’s not going to get anywhere with you, trying to encourage you to share whatever the hell just happened. he decides to continue, telling you, “well, I was hoping you could come over–”

“I’m not in the fucking mood to have sex with you right now, Bucky, I swear to god–”

“–woah, relax, that’s not what I meant–”

“–relax? you want me to fucking relax?” you yell back at him. 

you both go quiet, and you take a moment to collect yourself.

“I’m so fucking sick of this,” you mutter under your breath, rubbing your forehead with your free hand. 

“sick of… what?” he asks you tentatively. 

“all of it, Bucky. I can’t keep doing this anymore.” 

another pause.

he pipes up once more, pleading with you, “but yesterday, you said–”

“I didn’t mean any of it,” you lie. 

because that’s all you’ve been doing, for months, is lying. lying to everyone you care about just to protect your dirty little rendezvous with your dad’s best friend. lying, just so you could have pieces of a relationship, have these stolen moments that would never be anything more than a placeholder for the relationship you wished you could have with him.

you really are just a stupid kid.

“can we talk about this in person?” he asks, trying to hide how frustrated he feels. how devastated your words make him. “I can come over, we can–”

“no, no, no,” you protest, head pounding harder. “this was a stupid idea from the start. what the hell were we even thinking?”

you can’t mean it, you don’t mean this, he repeats quietly in his head. 

“whatever the fuck we thought we were doing, it’s over,” you tell him. "I'm done. I'm out."

this is the very last thing you want. you don’t want to lose what little you have of him. 

but this is never going to be anything more than a fling in his eyes. that’s all he does, is casual affairs that don’t mean anything, and you can’t live with being nothing more than that for him. not anymore.

why would you ever think that you could be more than that? 

why did you ever think you could be more than a fucking idiot kid who fell in love with the one person she never stood a chance with?

you don’t want this to be over.

the only way to move forward is to nip this in the bud now, shut it down before he begins lording it over your head that you admitted your little crush on him, using it as a reason to mock you for the rest of your life. 

tell him you didn't mean it.

convince him this was all just an accident.

let him think that this was nothing more than the actions of a confused, lost young soul who doesn’t know what she’s doing with her life. 

that’s the only way you’ll ever find peace with not getting to be his.

“right. well. maybe that’s for the best,” he affirms after a moment.  

“good,” you return hastily, trying to portray your confidence as best you can.

“fine,” he responds.

it’s all you can do to hang up the phone before you lay on your pillows and begin crying your eyes out, all alone in your room, stuck with your crippling despair and the inescapable throbbing pain in your head that hasn’t gone away in days.

sit up. open the drawer. grab the bottle.

another handful down.

maybe this time it’ll work. 

as you lay your head back down, bawling your eyes out and praying you’ll wake up and feel better, there it is again, sticking out from underneath the sheets. 

the bracelet. 

you gently reach for it, pulling it towards you and slipping it onto your wrist.

and then the darkness drags you under. 

~~~

as you begin to blink your eyes open, your whole body feels heavy. your eyes are swollen, likely from crying before you fell asleep, you deduce. you take a few deep breaths as your body begins to wake. 

you reach to scratch an itch at your nose, and your mind slowly catches up with the fact that there’s something on your face.

you force your eyes to open, and you don’t remember the lights in your room being so bright when you look down at what you’re grasping between your fingertips: a nasal cannula.

and then everything overwhelms you all at once.

the brightness of the lights in the room burns your eyes, and as you reach your other hand up to block the lights out of your face, there’s a slight stinging sensation in your elbow. the sound of a machine beeping filters into your ears as you recognize the stinging pain as the needle of an IV in your arm. there’s an oxygen monitor on your finger and a blood pressure cuff around your bicep.

what the fuck?

you’re in the hospital?

“sweetie, hey,” you hear from beside you, and you look up to see your mom standing there. “you’re awake.”

“what happened?” you ask, just now realizing how dry your throat is. 

she reads your mind before you can even speak up, handing you small cup of water. 

and then,

woah. 

your headache still lingers, but you feel a million times better than you did before. 

“I came to check on you half an hour after you fell in the shower. you wouldn’t wake up,” she tells you. she continues with a small, sad smile, “you’re a mess, you know that?” 

you can't help but crack your own broken smile, too, at hearing her words. 

“you feeling better?” your dad asks from his seat next to your bed, previously unaware of his presence. “knew your head was bugging you. got the rest of the story from your mother, and the doctors, apparently?”

your mom pipes up again, “yeah, what’s this they’re telling us about a toxic dosage of acetaminophen in your system?” 

she’s clearly not pleased at the discovery. 

“the headache wouldn’t go away, no matter what, and I just… kept taking the pills,” you excuse. in hindsight, it was a bad idea, but what were you supposed to do?

“you are severely dehydrated, have taken way too much medicine, and you have a concussion from hitting your head in the shower,” she informs you.

wow. you should have listened to her when she warned you about that. 

“you should have told me when the migraine got bad,” she tells you. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell them, “really. I just… I didn’t know what to do.”

you could have, should have told them. it’s never been this bad before, and what the hell were you thinking?

except clearly, you’ve gotten yourself into the habit of not telling them things. of lying to them. of keeping a monumental secret that could tear your family apart.

no wonder you couldn’t tell them this, either. 

your chest aches a little when you remember there’s no more need for lying. there’s no more sneaking around, none of it. 

you and Bucky are done.

but for now, you’re lucky to be alive. 

~~~

the next day goes by incredibly slow. 

you’re not allowed to look at your phone, or turn on the TV, or even read a book, all thanks to your concussion. 

you’re sent for numerous scans of your head, bloodwork, the works. they continue to hang banana bags and saline to rehydrate you. you spend an hour speaking with a therapist, ensuring her that you weren’t trying to hurt yourself. 

the pain in your head hasn’t gone away in its entirety, and you’re told you will likely have headaches on and off for a few more weeks because of the concussion. 

it’s nothing but torture, really, being poked and prodded at, all while being told to “rest” when you complain of your boredom. 

you think about Bucky. of course you do, it’s not your fault that he’s the only thing that’s been on your mind. 

you want to demand your mother gives you your phone so you can check and see if he’s texted you. you want to apologize for yelling at him. you want to give him one last kiss goodbye. 

you hate that it ended the way it did. 

but your feelings about the situation haven’t changed much. you’re still overly insecure about what he thinks of you, what you’re going to do going forward.

so you lay in the uncomfortable hospital bed, wrapped in itchy blankets, staring off into the distance and forced to sit with nothing but your thoughts. 

~~~

“you can go home tonight, seriously. I’m getting discharged in the morning, go home and rest,” you urge your parents, who haven’t left your side in over 24 hours. none of you have properly eaten or slept this entire time, but there’s no reason they can’t rectify that for themselves. you’re only here for one more night, anyways.

“no, we’re not leaving you here alone, we–”

they must notice how suddenly, you become distracted, disengaged from the conversation. your dad pauses the moment he looks to the doorway.

Bucky’s standing there, looking awfully concerned; you’re sure you’re the only one who notices it. he’s holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers, in your favorite color. 

they’re beautiful.

he looks away from you, demeanor perking up to keep up the facade that nothing is wrong, that he’s just a doting, caring friend of the family here to check up on you. 

“hey, kid,” he says, stepping inside. “heard you cracked your head pretty good, huh?” 

you watch as your dad gives him a friendly handshake and he gives your mom a hug. 

“you heard her,” he begins, voice calm as ever, “go home, get out of here. I’ll hang out with her, make sure the nurses are giving her the good stuff,” he says with an overdramatic wink in your direction. 

you can’t help but laugh a little. you know your mom is rolling her eyes as she gathers her stuff.

“we’ll be back first thing in the morning, yeah?” she tells you with a kiss to your forehead. 

“get some sleep!” your dad calls out as they walk out the door, and down the hallway. 

and then it’s just you and Bucky. 

the second you’re left alone, his fake smile falls from his face. he doesn’t meet your eyeline.

“had me worried sick, kid,” he tells you, trying to keep his tone upbeat, positive. you can see right through it. 

except you don’t know what to say. you feel stupid. ashamed. embarrassed beyond belief.

“I brought you these,” he says, stepping closer to the hospital bed and tentatively sitting on the edge, reaching the bouquet in your direction. 

you take them, bringing them to your nose to take a whiff. “they’re beautiful. thank you,” you tell him before carefully setting them on the table next to you. 

“they been treatin’ you okay in here?” he asks. it’s tense, awkward between the two of you. 

he’s really trying.

“well, they won’t let me have my phone. and I can’t do anything ‘cause of the concussion,” you mumble.

he winces when you mention the injury. “what did they say is going on with you?” he inquires.

“well, the migraine kept getting worse, so I started taking way too many pills. the doctors said I must have been dehydrated because of it. and I guess I hit my head slipping in the shower when…” you trail off, not wanting to make this any worse than it already is. 

“when…?” he presses.

you’re hesitant to respond. you don’t want to make him feel bad about it. 

but you can’t lie to him anymore. 

“when you called yesterday, I was in the shower. I was trying to jump out to pick up your call and I fell,” you admit. now, you’re the one not meeting his gaze. 

“damnit,” he whispers under his breath. “I’m so sorry, kid.” 

“it’s not your fault,” you try, “you didn’t know. I should’ve–”

“I knew you had a headache. I knew you hadn’t been feeling well,” he interrupts, “and then I had to go an’…” 

he takes a pause. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to push you. I just had to know, and now… I won’t bug you anymore. I’ll get over it, promise.”

you blink once. twice. a few more times.

what?

“I’m sorry, what on earth are you talking about?” you press, entirely confused. “I– what? know what?”

he looks up at you, the two of you finally making eye contact. 

in his eyes, he looks heartbroken. his jaw stutters as he struggles to come up with the words. 

“if any of this meant anything more to you,” he confirms. “but now I know, it was just… heat of the moment. whatever.”

it takes you a minute to catch up with what he’s talking about. after a beat, you realize: you yelled at him on the phone yesterday, telling him that you hadn’t meant any of what you said when you were at his house, in his bed. 

when you admitted your crush. confessed to him how deep-seated your feelings had been. 

you’re still hung up on everything he’s said to you up until now. and, now, what does he mean “get over it”? what exactly does he have to get over?

is he saying what you think he’s saying? 

“Bucky, I meant every word I said to you,” you clarify, unable to let him go another minute thinking any differently. you begin again, chuckling a little as you speak so honestly, “all of this was real for me. it’s always been you.” 

a pause. 

“but I know it’s not like that for you. I know it’s all just a game, and that’s okay–”

“you think this is a game to me?” he questions.

his voice cracks, heartbroken that you could think that. 

he only ever wanted you to feel loved when you were with him. 

he made you feel like you were a fucking game to him?

he scoots closer to you, taking your hands in his shaky ones as he tells you, “baby, goddamnit, this was never a game to me. not when it comes to you. it was real for me, too.”

your head is spinning. not from the migraine, not from the concussion. 

from the pure, unbridled shock and hopefulness that courses through your body, lighting up your every nerve from head to toe. 

his hands are still in yours, and his thumb traces over the hospital band on your wrist. with the motion, he displaces it from its spot, revealing what’s hidden underneath.

“you still have this?” he asks, taken aback. he smiles softly, taking your hand in both of his and tracing his fingers over the friendship bracelet that sits on your wrist. 

you remember then that you’d slipped it on before you’d fallen unconscious.

“of course I do, Bucky,” you say as though it’s common knowledge. 

he chuckles softly, telling you, “yeah, I still got mine, too. you were acting like a goddamn little princess that day.” he smirks, finally letting go of your hands. “come on, move over, kid,” he urges you, laying down in the rock-solid bed next to you and wrapping you in his arms. 

he shifts one of his hands to cup your face, directing your gaze to his. his eyes roam your face for a moment. even in your sickly state, you look perfect. 

“I love you, kid.”

holy shit.

did he really just say that?

you could jump for joy. your stomach is doing somersaults, the butterflies fluttering in your tummy as your excitement boils up. 

“I’ll never let you feel like you don’t mean the absolute world to me ever again.” 

your soul is overflowing with joy, every concern in your head going out the window. you can deal with what this means later. you can deal with figuring out the logistics of a real relationship later. 

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you say, and press your lips to his. 

for now, he loves you.

that’s all you need.

~~~

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bucky tag list part 1: (send an ask or dm to be removed)

that time when you were 16 and greened out so badly you were afraid you might die. your friends were too high to be of any help, and no way in hell would you dare call your parents. Bucky was the one you called, the one who picked you up and looked after you.

that time when you were 17, late for class, and your car wouldn't turn over. you couldn't bother your dad at work. Bucky would peel himself out of bed just to take you to school, only for you to come home that afternoon and find out he stayed home from work just to fix your car for you.

he was always there when you needed him, and he never once told your parents anything they didn't need to know.

he was your dad's best friend, one of the people you trusted most with your secrets, your life.

he was just your Uncle Bucky, and that was that.

everything that he was feeling for you was brand fucking new, the lines always so clear cut for him. one day you were just his best friend's kid, and the next? it was like a switch flipped.

whatever he saw in you was fresh. he was in the honeymoon phase of being attracted to you, you could say.

it just wasn't the same for you that it was for him.

you've loved him for so fucking long.

~~~

you were already nursing a headache when your mom told you he was coming over for Saturday night dinner.

you forced yourself out of bed and made yourself look at least partially presentable. you wanted to complain, to argue that you weren't in the mood.

you knew what the answer would be.

"he's family, honey."

if only it were that simple for you.

you ignored him when he texted you before heading over.

"excited to see me, baby?"

that answer wasn't simple, either.

none of them understood. how could they?

the way you trusted him more than anyone else on the planet. how you'd idolized him even as a child, watching him open beer bottles with his bare hands and showing you how to use power tools.

the fact that he was the reason you'd elected to go to university so far away. how you thought that maybe, just maybe, you could move on from him by going far, far away. that you'd find a smart guy your age who would distract you from the desperation you felt for the one man you could never have. who would make you forget about the feelings that drowned you all through your high school years.

that was utter bullshit, clearly.

even worse is that now, you have him, the man you dreamt of having for so long.

just not wholly. not the way you want to have him.

when you're with him, it's like a shot of adrenaline injected straight into your veins. it feels like you're on a high, like you're on top the world. he makes you feel that way: strong. impermeable.

but adrenaline wears off. it's never permanent. it just gives you a taste of how you want to feel all the time; it's easy to forget that it's overshadowed by the fact that it's all artificial.

that it's not fucking real.

so, no. none of this is simple for you the way it is for them.

~~~

at dinner, when your parents asked Bucky about the woman he'd been seeing, you practically flinched in surprise.

"it's nothing serious," he told them, "we're taking it as it comes."

wait, what?

he was seeing someone?

who?

how did you not know about this?

oh.

you recalled the time they'd asked, and he'd lied to throw them off the scent of what the hell was actually happening here. you'd pretended to go along with it, pretended that you had known and were keeping his secret for him.

you were his secret.

his words were deliberate, carefully chosen yet perceived to be casual enough that there wouldn't be too many follow-up questions. you couldn't help but wonder, though: did he actually mean what he was saying? to them, he was speaking about some fake relationship, but...

was he trying to tell you something?

enough. you're reading way too much into this.

don't pay attention to the way he's not looking over at you. or how he's not cracking any jokes like he normally does. or how he sounds like he means what he's saying.

"what's her name?"

the ache in your head throbs harder. you try not to listen as he rattles off some random name in response to the question.

you still hear it, her name, not yours. your thoughts are buried in doubts. concern. wariness.

is it a fake name? is she someone he actually knows? someone he's actually interested in?

fuck, what's wrong with you?

why do you feel so distraught?

why are you not here right now?

~~~

you're lying in bed hours later, your head still pounding, when your phone rings on the pillow next to you. of course, when you look at the screen, it's none other than Bucky.

you look at the picture that covers the entirety of the screen as your phone continues to vibrate in your grasp. it's a 0.5 image you took of him the weekend your parents went out of town. his eyes are wide as he gazes up at the screen, a hint of a smile on his face even though he tries to quell it away for the picture.

he was always there to soothe your anxiety about the situation, especially that weekend. he's good at it, too, a calming presence within the battle that your mind constantly wages against itself.

but the more you do this, the more you sneak around, continue to do things you shouldn't be doing...

the less you worry about getting caught, and the more you worry about what he thinks of you.

you watch as the 0.5 disappears from your screen, the call going to voicemail. the voicemail automatically begins to transcribe his words on your screen.

"hey, kid," it reads, "worried about you. call me back."

and everything you're panicked about suddenly seems inconsequential. he just said he's worried about you. of course he cares, don't be silly.

you open the phone to call him back, pressing your aching head back down on the pillow and holding the phone to your ear.

he immediately picks up after the first ring and begins grilling you without hesitation.

"hey, what's going on?" he asks you.

"sorry. migraine."

"well, shit, you know what fixes a headache, kid," he teases, trying to sound lighthearted.

except you're already upset. you're already wound so tight, so caught up in your concerns with this whole thing, that his comment just pisses you off.

"not everything is about sex, Bucky," you hiss back into the phone, glaring at it out of the corner of your eye as though you'd glare at him if he were standing in front of you.

he goes quiet for a minute.

you know he was just trying to help. there's nothing he can do for you from through the phone, and he just wanted to make you smile-

"are you pissed because of what I said at dinner?" he asks you suddenly.

shit. no. he can't know this runs deeper than jealousy. yeah, jealousy sounds better, you think, than letting him know how you're really feeling.

"who is she?" you ask before he can speak up again.

"she's nobody," he clarifies.

"oh, she's nobody, huh? really? do I need to worry about getting a fucking STD?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, I meant she's literally nobody," he growls into the phone. "it was a fake fucking name. she doesn't exist."

oh.

you're expecting him to be mad, to be upset with you for the implication of your words.

"do you really take me for the type to step out on you?"

wait.

what?

what the fuck does he mean by that? step out on you?

that makes it sound like he's committed. that you're exclusive. like you're in an actual relationship.

is that how he sees it? how he sees you?

you ignore it. you have to ignore it, because if you let yourself contemplate his syntax, if you let yourself read too much into it... you know you'll only end up heartbroken.

"I'm sorry, Bucky," you tell him honestly. "I didn't mean to imply you were some kind of... manwhore, or anything."

that must have been the right thing to say, because he actually laughs in response.

"yeah, okay, kid," he chuckles. "I get it. but seriously, watch your mouth next time."

"yeah. sorry," you mumble into the phone.

you both go quiet for a few moments, nothing but the sound of his muffled breathing in your ear until he speaks again.

"your head bothering you that bad?" he asks.

"yeah. not fun," you tell him, trying to deflect as best you can.

"anything I can do?" he asks, but before you can answer, he continues, "I meant what I said, by the way, about headaches. it can't hurt to try, right?"

"oh, it absolutely can," you tell him. "I think you just want to listen to me masturbate."

"can't it be a little of both? help me help you?" he says, and you can just hear the smirk in his voice.

you're rolling your eyes to yourself at his audacity, at the same time, you're already standing to lock your door and putting your earbuds in.

"I should hang up on you," you taunt him through the phone as you shove your sweatpants down to your knees.

"you wouldn't dare," he challenges you, "I know how badly you need my help, kid."

"I am capable of getting myself off without you," you argue back. "total shocker, I know."

"oh, but that's no fun," he tells you, lowering his voice. "isn't it so much easier with my voice in your ears? can you honestly tell me that you soak your fuckin' panties as quickly when I'm not there, hmm?"

your face burns with every word he says. he knows what he's doing to you, trying to turn your body against you to prove the claim he's implying.

"you think you're that good, huh?" you mumble back to him, slipping your fingers under the fabric of your underwear. "well, you're gonna have to do better than that."

"if you were here right now, baby, I'd make you feel so good. forget all about your silly little headache."

"thanks for the reminder," you grumble back.

"tell me I don't make you feel better than anyone else ever has, even your own damn self."

the whine that escapes your throat is entirely unintentional, answering his question without a single word in response.

"that's right. it's only Uncle Bucky, huh?"

"get off your high horse and tell me what to do," you practically order him.

as he talks you through it over the phone, you're blissfully unaware of what's going through his head. his curiosity, his intrigue based on what you've seemed to indicate to him.

he's not one to forget anything when it comes to you.

"come over tomorrow, headache or not, got it?"

~~~

lucky for you, the headache dissipates by the following day, along with the brain fog and the worst of your anxieties.

not all of them, though.

he keeps you on your toes constantly, continually confusing you with every contradictory phrase he says.

"it's nothing serious."

"I'm worried about you, kid."

"do you really take me for the type to step out on you?"

he cares. there's not a doubt about that.

but how much does he care? is he capable of caring about you the way you care about him?

clearly, there's a part of him that feels possessive over you, what with how often he taunts you about how easily you fall apart for him, only for him. and now, he's confirmed to you that he's not sleeping with anyone else.

this shouldn't be this difficult. you shouldn't be thinking into this so much. you're having sex, nothing more.

you pull yourself together and force yourself not to panic on the drive to his house. you try to put it out of your mind, knowing that once he's got his hands on you, it'll all go away.

well, that's what you thought.

you should've known better than to put it past him that he wouldn't grill you about your subconscious admission the evening before.

~~~

the second you get inside the door, he's dragging you to his bed, stripping you as he goes, leaving a trail of clothes behind him.

you should've known the second you got there that he was already on a tear, barely able to wait to bury his fingers in your soaking wet hole before he begins interrogating you, forcing you into a spotlight you don't want to be in.

"tell me babygirl, how many boys you let fuck my pussy 'fore me, huh?" he taunts, his lips so close to your ear that even if you tried, even though you want to, you can't escape the question. can't escape the answer you fear might scare him off.

you don't respond, hoping that maybe it's rhetorical, another off-handed inquiry that only serves to fuel the heat of the moment.

it's not.

"come on, babygirl, tell me," he encourages.

with a particularly rough thrust of his fingers inside you, the word rips itself from your lips before you can stop it.

"one," you moan out, and by that point, the damage is done, you think. "fuck, just one, Bucky. but please don't stop," you beg of him.

his motions slow, and you grow concerned. you've made him uncomfortable.

you're done for.

"how many times?" he whispers into your ear, and now, his voice is lower. rougher.

"only a few," you admit to him. fuck, you told yourself you wouldn't do this. you wouldn't let him know that this had any bearing on you personally, fuck.

but then he's looking into your eyes, and shit, his pupils are huge, eyes blackened with lust.

"fuck, babygirl," he mutters before crashing his lips to yours again, his fingers speeding their motions inside you once more. he presses up against that spot that makes always makes your whole body jerk, and you cry out into the room.

"should've been me," he grits. "bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? you'd have let me take your virginity, wouldn't you have, hmm?"

"yes," you breathe out, unable to think about what you're saying. "fuck, yes, Bucky..."

"you've thought about it, too, haven't you?" he smirks, once again easing up on the way he's fucking you on his fingers. "tell me."

oh no.

"just fuck me, Bucky, come on," you plead with him. that's far too close to home, too close to everything you've been trying so hard to conceal from him.

"oh no, you're not getting out of this so easily," he taunts, stilling his hand entirely. you want to whine and beg for him to keep going, but you know the only way you're going to get what you want is by giving him what he wants.

you swallow your pride. he hasn't run away yet, you reason with yourself. he won't run away now.

"yeah, Bucky, I have," you admit quietly. it's fucking embarrassing, if you think about it; you don't really feel like laying all your secrets out on the table for him.

and then you open your eyes to see his looking down into yours, and while it's clear his desire is still coursing through his veins, you see the authenticity and genuine interest in his gaze.

he removes his hand from between your legs as you begin speaking in earnest.

"I've had a crush on you since I was a kid, Bucky," you tell him, even though the admission might just kill you from the inside out, might just mean the end of this. "of course I always wondered what it would be like if it was you."

you feel like your ribs are being carved out of your chest, and your stomach is in knots.

"so, yeah, Bucky. I imagined it a million different ways, a million different times, for years. are you happy now?"

time to get up and run away from the pure humiliation you've just subjected yourself to.

he doesn't quite know what to say. what you've just told him is so honest and raw, and it pulls at his heartstrings. it all makes sense now, the way you acted the night before, all of it.

this is all so much more to you than he realized.

he has to take a minute to consider his next actions.

to your surprise, he brings his lips to yours once more. "I'm here now. that's all that matters," he reminds you, voice hoarse. his hand finds its way back to where you're dripping for him, kissing you softly as he works you open on his flesh fingers.

not long after, he begins running his mouth again. he just can't help himself as the thoughts pool in his head, so he whispers to you, "you know how many of your firsts I do have, pretty girl?"

your body jolts at the thought.

"did he make you come?" he questions. your mind goes into overdrive, realizing where Bucky's going with this, and it only makes your body burn warmer under his touch.

"no," you tell him. "had to do it myself."

you can practically hear the way he's smirking, happy with your answer, and his thumb presses against your clit. "fuck," you hiss as he simply holds it there, not applying enough pressure you need for it to bring you closer to the edge.

"there's one. I'm the first to ever make you come, ain't that right?"

he sounds so pleased with himself, as though he's just won the highest award that can be bestowed upon a person. maybe to him, this is that.

"please, need more," you plead as he continues to taunt you. his thumb holds you in limbo with the promise of more, if only you can convince him to give it to you.

"nuh-uh, no. I decide when you come. you hear me? gonna be the only man to ever make you come, ever," he hisses, that possessive edge of his flaring up and making you shiver.

you try not to get in your head about the reality of what he's saying to you right now. it's all talk, a means of getting off...

"yes, Bucky, only you," you affirm. "please, I want you to fuck me, the way only you can," you plead.

"ohhh, but you know better by now," he chides. "you know how to get what you want."

you whine, still in your head about everything he's saying.

"you know you love it. I know you do. say it, and I'll fuck you so good that no other man will ever compare," he goads.

what he doesn't know is that what he's saying is already true. you're already ruined, cursed to a life of wanting him, even when this all falls apart and you're forced to pretend to move on.

"please, Uncle Bucky," you give in. "I only want you."

~~~

if you were confused before, it's nothing compared to how you feel now.

he spoke to you like...

like he wanted you. to himself.

like he actually wants you the same way you want him.

except now he's asleep, cuddling up to you from behind, and you have to go home before your parents get suspicious.

what the fuck are you supposed to do now?

your headache is back.

~~~

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"come on, baby," he says, his words like molasses in your ears, "tell me you don't want Uncle Bucky to make you feel better, hmm?"

you can't help but roll your eyes at him. "you're horrible," you comment, shaking your head and smacking his arm, "now is not the fucking time for this, and you know it."

"your body's telling me a different story," he says with that stupid smirk still plastered on his face. he gently brushes your hair back off your shoulder, revealing the skin of your neck to his gaze. you make no attempts to push him away or deny his words as he leans in to press open-mouthed kisses to your flesh.

"no marks, Bucky," you scold. you really don't feel like having to spend another couple minutes in the bathroom trying to cover them up, to no avail, when you have a house full of people downstairs.

you can't help but gasp sharply when his hands on your waist suddenly spin you around, making you do a double take. next thing you know, he's suddenly picking you up like and tossing you forward onto the bed.

"Bucky!" you yelp as you fall against the sheets of your bed, but before you can turn around to yell at him, he's crawling over you, pinning you to the bed.

"shh..." he hushes you, pressing his hips down on yours to keep you in place. he's too strong for you to fight back against him, his weight successfully trapping you. you can feel his bulge up against the crack of your ass, and fuck, doing this right now is so wrong but it feels so good.

he once again pushes your hair out of the way to place his mouth back on your skin, in the gentle dip where your neck meets your shoulder. you're about to reprimand him for the second time when he murmurs in your ear, "no marks, huh?" once again, it sounds like he's challenging you, testing you.

you can't help but shiver underneath him, too distracted by the feel of his breath behind your ear, the way his voice gets deeper when he speaks when he's got you like this, right where he wants you.

"yeah. too afraid to let everyone know what you're in here letting your uncle do to you, ain't that right, pretty girl?"

a jolt runs up your spine. what if someone comes looking for you? what if someone finds out?

"relax," he says, hands running down your sides. "I've got you."

you force yourself to relax into the pillows, feeling the way his hands come down to the hem of your dress where it meets the curve of your ass.

"did you wear this for me?" he asks as he leans back, taking in the sight of you on your stomach as he straddles you from behind.

"yes," you admit to him, "who else?"

even though it was a harmless, rhetorical question, the idea of you getting all dressed up for someone that isn't him easily pisses him off.

he digs his fingertips into the plush of your upper thighs, making you wince at the increase in pressure.

"nobody else. that's not happening," he growls. he carefully lifts the hem of your dress up to reveal your skin to him, and then he's moving off of you, hands staying in place on your legs to keep you from squirming. "you're all fucking mine, you hear?"

like you would ever fight him on that. you want to tell him yes, I'm yours.

always have been.

"oh, fuck," you whimper when you feel his mouth on you, laving his tongue against you where the lace of your panties rest against your skin.

before you know it, he's sinking his teeth into the soft plush of your ass, gentle but surely deep enough to leave a bite mark. the feeling makes you moan again, and this time you bury your face into the pillow, makeup be damned. you can't stand the idea of anyone walking by and hearing what's going on right now.

his hands are all over you, cool metal fingers reaching up to press against the back of your neck. "that's it, keep quiet for me," he murmurs, lips moving delicately against you, taunting you.

you try to squirm, flinch away from the sensation, the heat of his breath against your skin.

he chuckles and continues to torment you as he whispers, "ticklish, huh?"

"no," you breathe out, trying to throw him off. your voice already sounds fucking wrecked, and he hasn't even touched you yet. you know he clocks it, even if he doesn't comment. when it comes to you, he notices everything.

"oh, but I don't believe that," he insists, his flesh hand pushing your dress further up your torso. his fingers trail down your back, the touch so soft it's barely even there. he continues to tease you, tongue darting out to taste your skin, teeth brushing against you every few seconds to keep you on edge.

the culmination of his hands, his breath, his mouth, all of it, makes you want to cry out for him. you want to let loose, beg him to fuck you slow and deep, right here, right now.

the thought reminds you of where you are. how long have you been gone?

"Bucky-"

it's as though he can read your mind, or perhaps he feels the way your body tenses up underneath him as he interrupts you, "shh, babydoll, just a few more minutes."

he withdraws his hand from the back of your neck, releasing you from your confines. both of his hands return back to their place on your waist to reposition you so you're lying on your back under him, just for him. he leans in close, resting his forehead against your own, noses touching.

"there you are," he whispers softly, as though he wasn't just driving you up a wall with gentle touches and tormenting the crap out of you.

the feeling of his lips on yours never fails to make you melt. you never want to leave his arms, what with the way he touches you like he owns you, like you're the most important thing in his life.

he's the most important thing in your life.

you wish you knew if he felt the same.

his flesh hand makes its way under your panties, calloused fingers immediately finding how soaked you are for him. he moves with determination, touching you the way he's learned makes your vision go white, bending you to his will.

"you're going to lay there and take it while I mark you up where only I can see," he whispers to you.

your head is nodding in approval before you're aware of it.

you get so lost in him, all your anxieties melting away as he leaves more marks on your skin than ever before. you let him lick and nip and bite as much as he wants, soft bruises appearing all across your stomach up to your breasts, just below where the hem of your dress lays atop your chest.

all the while, he gently thrusts three fingers in and out of you, nowhere near enough pressure to drive you to orgasm.

somehow, you feel so far away and yet so grounded at the same time.

as he moves down between your thighs, pressing your legs apart, you lift your head from the pillow just enough to get a look at the sight of him so enamored with feeling you.

you gaze over the bunched-up fabric of your dress bundled under your neck, taking in the sight of the hickeys over your torso all the way down to where he's now marking your inner thighs.

you might come just from the view: his eyes cinched tightly in pleasure as he tastes you, his lips attached to your skin like he's never wanted anything more than this. his fingers still lazily pushing in and out, lace panties soaked through, the fabric covering his fingers as he works you gently.

he always manages to do this, reducing you to nothing but putty in his hands.

and then your worst fears come true.

there's a banging at your bedroom door, and you hear your name being called out loudly.

even worse-

the jiggling of the doorknob makes your blood run ice cold.

the door is locked, you realize, silently thanking Bucky.

"I'll be right out," you call, and your voice is shaky and hoarse. fuck. "I have to change," you excuse, managing to placate your father enough that he walks away.

fuck, you might cry right now.

"it's okay, you're okay," Bucky assures you, leaning over you so his face is in line with your own. the motions of his hand picking up between your legs, trying to distract you. "I'm here."

you wrap your arms around his neck as he quickly pushes you over the edge, and it's just enough to make you relax.

"come on, darling. you gotta change and go find your dad. tell him I ran to the store."

you nod in agreement, but now, you're pissed.

pissed at your dad for ruining this. pissed at Bucky for doing this in the middle of the party. pissed at yourself for letting any of this happen, for betraying your family's trust. doing this right under their noses.

you really can't be mad at anyone but yourself.

~~~

an hour later, you're chatting with another friend of the family, one of your long-time neighbors, answering all her invasive questions.

"how's school, sweetie?"

"do you have a job this summer?"

"I'm sure a pretty girl like you has a boyfriend by now. what's his name? is he good-looking? tell me everything, darling!"

"no, no boyfriend," you assure her, casually laughing at the thought. "I'm focusing on getting through school right now."

just then, you catch Bucky's gaze from across the yard. you know he has no clue what you're talking about, no way he can hear from so far away.

it's a crazy coincidence that it's right now he looks over at you.

"school's important, but you have to let yourself have fun! live while you're young!" she encourages you.

if only she knew.

if only she, or anyone, knew.

the way you are having fun. the way you are being a stupid, idiot kid.

the way you're doing something so wrong and scandalous and fun.

the way his lips were all over your skin not even an hour ago, all while the party was in full swing, all your family and friends here.

as you look back over to him, you know he's thinking about it, too. he gives you a little smirk before taking a swig of his beer and diverting his gaze back to his conversation with your father as they man the grill.

you have to take a deep breath as you turn back to your conversation, trying your best to focus.

but how can you?

your mind is clouded with thoughts of the marks hidden just under the new dress you've changed into, only for you and him to see, to know about.

your dirty little secret, hidden in plain sight.

~~~

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you pretended to be surprised, pretended to be pissed when you were told:

"your Uncle Bucky is going to check in on you while we're gone."

"I'm an adult! I've lived by myself before!" you try to argue with them, somewhat genuinely on principle, but mostly for show. even though you were getting exactly what you wanted, you couldn't let them know that.

"either you agree, or we're not going."

and that was how you got away with spending an entire weekend alone together, naked, in your bed.

you tangle your hands in his hair once more. you've already given him enough shit for letting it get so long, but you just can't help it.

"you need a haircut," you comment to him, and he instantly pulls his head back from where he's been sucking marks on your chest. he lets out a low, breathy laugh as he looks up to your eyeline.

his hair is still damp from showering hours ago, strands dangling left and right. it's longer than you've seen it in quite a while.

"don't like it?" he teases. he knows you just love to give him a bad time.

"you're literally sporting a bob, Bucky," you laugh. "it's all the way past your chin!"

"you're a little shit," he says, bringing a hand to your bare hip. "you're going to admit you like it. one way or another."

"should give you a little man bun," you say and gather his hair into a small ball at the nape of his neck. you pretend to be annoyed as you tell him, "goddamnit, you still look hot."

"you know it, babygirl," he says, pressing his lips back to your chest.

it's nice, you think. getting to relax together, getting to pretend like you could ever have more than just these stolen moments.

your gaze trails up to the ceiling as your mind contemplates it, the fact that you even have to call these moments "stolen.” you begin to get distracted by the anxiety welling in your stomach.

you try not to let on that the stress is taking over, that you're quietly being eaten alive by your own thoughts.

but you can't hide anything from him.

"what's going on, kid?" he asks you as he pulls back.

"what if they find out?" you ask, incredibly quiet, still focusing your gaze on a small divot in the ceiling.

he pauses again.

"they won't," he assures you. he doesn't sound too confident, though.

"Bucky, they're your friends. they're my parents. and…” you trail off. you know that what you mean to say next won't help the situation.

"and?"

the anxious pit in your stomach worsens, another wave of nausea broiling in your throat.

"they trust you with me."

you know you shouldn't have said it. you knew it was a bad idea, and now you're regretting it. he speaks again before you can continue.

"they trust that I'll take care of you and protect you with my life, and I will. I would never break that promise."

it doesn't help. you wish it did.

he leans in close again. "I'm still the same person to you that I was before all this, okay?" he assures you.

you nod and turn your face towards his. the fear of being caught never fails to send you into a panic, causing that horrible pins-and-needles sensation in your hands. you try to scratch at your hands to get it to go away, and like always, it doesn't work.

"need you again," you deflect, bringing your hands to his back and pulling him up closer against you. his chest is warm against yours, the feeling soothing, but it's not enough.

"alright, pretty girl," he whispers, punctuated with a nip at your ear, proceeding to then run his tongue over your pulse point. "you know that, right? you're my gorgeous girl."

you feel his knee slot between your legs, his bare thigh pressing up against you between your own thighs. you're still dripping from the last round, the feeling of him spilling out of you. your combined release leaks onto the skin of his upper thigh as he gently grinds against you, eliciting a delicate moan from high in your throat.

"don't want anyone but my pretty girl," he tells you, running a metal thumb over your swollen lips, his fingertips then trailing down over the column of your throat in appreciation. his gaze follows the path of his fingers, admiring the sight of your skin under his touch.

his knee ever so slightly shifts between your thighs, just enough for you to feel the movement and move your hips against him in response.

"you like that? getting off on my thigh, baby?"

"mhm..." you respond, once again moving your hands to tug at his hair. "feels so good. you're so strong, Uncle Bucky..."

he smirks at that.

"and you're so delicate. look at you, baby, under me like this," he says. he gently cups the soft flesh of your breasts in his hands. "love your tits, baby. hate it when you hide them from me in those hoodies of yours. want to see all of you, always."

his flesh hand radiates heat on your skin, a sharp contrast to the coolness of his prosthetic. you feel so sensitive to his touch, every move making you feel electrified. his knee moves again between your legs, and he watches as your face reacts so strongly to the motion.

"wanna keep you laid out for me, forever, baby. just you and me. nobody else." his hands come to the back of your thighs, gripping just enough to dip his fingertips into your skin, holding your legs still.

the muscle of his thigh is so powerful against you, and you're trapped under him. it's maddening how good it feels. you're suddenly reminded of how grateful you are for all the time he spends at the gym.

"imagine that, kid," he whispers in your ear. "just you and me, like this, forever."

you feel so overwhelmed, the thoughts still pooled in the back of your mind suddenly brought back to the forefront. the physical sensation of him against you, his body pressed to yours, combined with your emotional distress is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

"don't cry, sweetheart," he whispers, pressing kisses to each of your eyes as they well up. "I'm always gonna be here for you. no matter what happens, okay?"

you're not used to him being this soft with you.

for as long as you've known him, he's loved to mess with you, give you a bad time, tease you. that was his job as your dad's best friend. that wasn't going to change just because you were sleeping together, and for the most part, it didn't.

but this? this was arguably the most important job he held, one hidden under the surface of jokes and playfulness. he was a pillar for you, always. when you were a teenager, and you couldn't call your parents, you could call him. he would always be that man, that figure for you, above all else.

the thoughts of how much you care for him scare you.

"Uncle Bucky," you cry, eyes shut tightly, tears falling harder.

you don't have to say anything else. he knows.

"I'm here, kid," he tells you, manually moving your hips quicker against his thigh to bring you the pleasure he so badly wants to see replace the sadness on your face.

he's always had a soft spot for your tears.

"look at me," he instructs. you're grinding against him ardently, your body trying to seek out the climax that's building so slowly. you force your eyes open. "you're my girl. say it."

"'m your girl," you whine, and then you feel the pressure of his knee fall away from you. before you can even comprehend the change, his hand is on you, quickly burying his fingers inside you and pressing his thumb to your clit.

"that's right. come on. let me see you come, baby," he tells you, fingers working faster.

he speaks to you so softly, and it's as though all the stress and anxiety floats away when you're reminded of how much this is worth it.

"good girl," he says, feeling you squeeze around his fingers, and then your whole body lets go. you breathe heavily through your orgasm, filled with nothing but pleasure and desire for the man bringing it to you. "love watching your perfect body come for me, only for me."

he quickly wraps you in his arms as you come down, trying to stave off the inevitable return of the anxiety you can't seem to let go of. a few minutes pass like this before you speak up.

"I'm sorry I'm ruining our weekend," you whisper into his neck.

"don't say that. you're not ruining anything. you're happy I'm here, right?" he asks you, looking down at where your face is hidden. you nod against him.

"good, 'cause I am too. that's all that matters," he coos, a hand brushing over your hair. "I'm here, kid. Uncle Bucky's here."

and for a second, you feel like everything will be okay as long as he's there.

~~~

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you walk out the front door, slamming it harder than intended, feeling somewhat annoyed but mostly guilty as hell. you try your best to shove down the guilt as you turn off your location on your phone.

~~~

you park in front of Bucky's house, fixing your lipstick and your hair before grabbing your tote and making your way to the front door.

it's open before you can even knock.

"c'mere," he smirks, pulling you in the house with a strong arm around your waist. he slams the door shut, throws your bag to the floor, and pins you against the opposite wall, slotting his knee between your legs to hold you in place. so much for your hair and lipstick, you think, as he leans in and kisses you like you're the long-lost love of his life he hasn't seen in years.

you run your hands through his hair, gently tugging at it while he kisses you. you hum in disapproval and pull back.

"you need a haircut," you tease, letting your face fall into a fake frown. you pull at his hair to emphasize your point. "and a shave, too," you joke, poking at his cheeks.

"oh, come on, you know you love the rugged look," he teases, running his fingers over his scruff, and you scoff.

"maybe I do. maybe I don't," you smirk.

"guess I'll just have to pry the real answer outta you, hmm?" he says, pushing his hand under your dress up to your hip. you smack his hand and remind him, "no. dinner first."

he smirks and pulls away from you. "you drive a hard bargain."

you smile and nod your head. "absolutely I do."

~~~

the drive to the restaurant, location still unknown to you, takes a lot longer than you anticipated. you suppose, though, that you can't risk someone seeing you and the news getting back to your parents. that would be a lot more lies to have to come up with.

you've been to dinner a million times together, just the two of you, but never in this... context.

so as you get out of the car and walk to the entrance, you're taken by surprise when he shamelessly grabs at your ass, in broad daylight.

you jump back, looking around in case anyone saw, and he laughs.

"nobody's gonna know, darlin'," he assures you.

he's gonna be the death of me, you think, and you let him guide you inside with his hand on your lower back even though it spikes your anxiety.

things go without a hitch for a while, and the first couple sips of alcohol work wonders to calm your nerves.

"trust me," is what he had told you when he suggested going the two of you go to a nice restaurant, followed by you spending the night at his place. "when have I ever led you astray?"

he was right. you trusted him.

up until the point the waitress came back to take your dinner orders.

"dad and daughter out for dinner, huh? what's the special occasion?" she asks, smiling bright, looking between the two of you.

he looks at you with a shit-eating grin on his face, before turning to tell her, "my niece, actually."

your entire body goes cold.

"for my entree, I'll have-" you try, but he interrupts you.

"no special occasion," he tells the waitress. "we just have a really close relationship."

you could fucking kill him.

you refuse to let him keep talking. you speak louder this time, telling the waitress your order, and he follows suit, not letting the smirk on his face fall even after she's gone.

"I'm not your fucking niece," is all you can come up with, you're so appalled.

"I know. but you just love to beg your Uncle Bucky-"

"enough," you hiss quietly, eyes widening in anger. he just chuckles, finding your anger amusing.

you might actually kill him.

~~~

in the car on the way back to his place, he begins to put a hand on your thigh while he drives, but you smack it away, still pissed off at him.

"oh, come on, don't be like that," he says, chuckling as he does. "it was just a joke."

"you're making up for this when we get back," you reply, voice firm.

"you know I will, pretty girl," he smiles. you grumble but don't bat his hand away this time.

~~~

you clearly didn't know what you were asking for at the time.

once you get back to his place, his hands are on you, throwing you over his shoulder and smacking your ass while hauling you up the stairs.

"Bucky!" you cry, trying to hold onto him any way you can.

"gotta keep my promise to you, don't I?" he taunts, reaching the top of the stairs and stepping into his room. he slams the door shut behind him, solely for dramatic effect, and then tosses you onto the sheets.

if only you knew he had more in store for you than just 'making it up to you.'

he stands over you at the foot of the bed, any sense of humor on his face gone. his gaze roams you up and down as he unbuckles his belt, tossing it to the side before crawling over you.

"think I should take that belt and whip your ass red with it until you learn some manners," he threatens as you inch your way backwards until you reach the headboard. he continues to follow you, not letting an inch of space come between you two.

his flesh hand comes to wrap around your neck while his prosthetic begins to shove the fabric of your dress up to your hips.

"and what do you say to me for reminding you of your place?" he asks, looking you deep in the eyes, mocking you for his own fun.

your face flushes and your heart races.

"thank you," you whisper, his hand around your throat tightening and his face moving closer to yours.

"try again," he orders. he sounds so goddamn intimidating, his entire body hovering over yours, and you feel so small underneath him.

you're probably soaked at this point, your whole body bowing down to his every whim when you tell him what he wants to hear.

"thank you, Uncle Bucky."

"that's what I fucking thought," he responds.

his hand wrapped around your neck removes itself to pull your dress over your head, his fingers working deftly to discard your undergarments to expose you to his gaze.

by time you're naked under him, you don't even have it in you to care that he's still entirely clothed.

"god, look at you," he admires, trailing his fingers up and down your sides. "I'm gonna ruin you."

you shudder at his words.

"yes, please," you whine, reaching to grip his biceps tightly.

"be good. spread your legs for me." you don't hesitate to do as he says, watching the look on his face from behind your lidded eyes. his eyes go black as he watches you listen to his instructions.

he brings two fingers to your mouth, pushing them between your parted lips. "get 'em nice and wet for me, baby," he encourages, watching how your eyes shut as your lips willingly close around his fingers.

he gently pulls them back and brings them to rub you between your legs, feeling how wet you are, only to once again bring them back to your mouth.

you gasp at the sudden motion, letting out a low whimper and looking up to meet his gaze.

"you're so messy, you know that?" he taunts. "suck 'em clean. should make you do this more often, clean up your own goddamn messes."

his words make your head spin, and it's only made worse when he suddenly withdraws his fingers once more to tease at you again.

"you're so tight," he observes, barely pressing his fingers inside you, not pushing past your entrance. it's just enough to make you whine as you lay there and hope he gives you more.

but he doesn't. he just presses his fingers against you with the sole intention of teasing you.

"Bucky," you whine after a while of him doing next to nothing. he doesn't even give you the chance to say anything else when he finally pushes his fingers inside and leans down, bringing his mouth to suck at your clit.

he moves so slowly, and once again, he's doing nothing but teasing you. his ministrations are too slow and too calculated, decidedly not bringing you any closer to the edge. he's mocking you, playing with you.

you love it. and you can't fucking stand it.

"Bucky, come on, you can't do this to me," you whine. "you're just playing games with me, I want-"

he quickly interrupts you. “no, baby, this is what I want, you hear?”

you let out a low whine.

“I know, baby. I’ve spoiled you so goddamn rotten that now you think you’ll always get what you want, isn’t that right?”

you nod. “because I do,” you complain. the words sound so entitled when you say them, but when it comes to Bucky, it's true.

“I can’t even get mad at you for saying that, baby, cause I’ve taught you that’s okay. I’m gonna fix that real quick, babygirl, don’t worry.”

oh you're fucked.

he continues to move his fingers so slowly, seemingly holding you on the brink of insanity. he takes one of your hands in his prosthetic hand and brings his mouth back to your clit, just barely sucking to make his presence known. to remind you that he's going to taunt you until he's gotten his fill.

~~~

you're not exactly sure how long he holds you there.

given the fact that your parents know you won't be home tonight, he has all night to drive you to your breaking point. he's taking advantage of it, using it to play with you like a fucking toy.

"fuck, look at that wet spot, baby. you make the biggest messes all over my sheets, every time," he ridicules, only adding to the torture you're already putting up with.

for a while, you suck it up. you lay there and let him do as he pleases, and it takes everything in you to hold yourself together.

but you can only handle it for so long. your grip on his hand in yours begins to squeeze in random intervals, and your legs begin to shake on either side of his head.

"Bucky, please," you begin, your voice broken. he can tell you're getting tired, but he's not done yet.

you don't know that, though.

you think he's finally relenting, finally having mercy on you when he begins to move his fingers quicker, curling them upwards to make you keen. his tongue works faster against you, and you're there. it's been so long he's had you like this, it doesn't take any time at all when you're whining, about to go over the edge-

and then all contact is lost.

he pulls away from you so quickly your whole body just about short-circuits. he looks up at your face, and he's fucking smirking while you're crying out, tears springing to your eyes.

"Bucky, please," you whimper, tears spilling over, bringing your hands to his shoulders, clinging to him desperately. "please, I'm sorry," you whine.

"you gonna have an attitude with me ever again?" he asks you sternly.

"no, no," you cry, "I promise, Uncle Bucky, I promise."

the term slips out without you meaning for it to.

he knows it, and he's ecstatic.

"good girl, that's right, good girl," he coos at you, bringing his fingers back to their rightful spot, buried inside you. "alright, sweetie, I got you. did so good for me."

he wraps his other hand around the back of your head, pulling you in to kiss you as his fingers work against you, not planning on stopping this time.

"alright, baby, come for me," he whispers to you. you about sob when you do, your whole body quaking. he gently kisses away your tears as you cling to him, overwhelmed and overstimulated.

"did so well," he reassures you, holding your body to his. "what do you say?"

"thank you, Uncle Bucky," you whine, words slurring together.

"good girl. gonna reward you all night, baby, I promise you."

~~~

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you nod as best you can while he holds you in place.

"yeah. my little girl. all grown up now, such a slut for her uncle, huh?"

your face warms so much you feel like you're sitting in front of the furnace. he loves rubbing this in your face, reminding you of what you're doing, forcing you to get off on it.

"that's right. you know your place, I know you do. I taught you so well."

he holds you there for you don't know how long, massaging your scalp down to the back of your neck, before bringing his hand to the front of your throat and pressing on where it bulges, thanks to him.

"my girl," he hisses. "none of those little college boys can fuck you the way you need. you needed someone you know, someone you trust, ain't that right?"

you might cry from how embarrassed and turned on you are right now.

"that's right. so needy for my cock, every fucking time, knowing how stupid you're being. you just can't get enough."

you're startled when his phone rings. he doesn't bother moving you, making you sit there while he looks down at the screen to see who it is. when he ignores it, you finally relax.

"you know I've been taking care of you your whole life, darlin'. course I'm gonna take care of you now. gotta take care of all your little needs cause no one else can, not like Uncle Bucky can."

and then, your phone rings in your pocket.

"fuck, is he calling you now?" Bucky groans.

and that's when you freak, shoving yourself off of him and falling backwards onto your ass on the floor. you reach for your phone in your back pocket.

Bucky asks you, "the hell are you doing? you're not done."

your voice is fucked when you quickly tell him, "my dad knows I'm with you! I told him we were getting dinner!"

Bucky's eyes widen. normally you tell him you're at a friend's place.

he nods and you hurry to answer.

"hey, Dad..." you try, clearing your throat, trying not to sound like you're absolutely wrecked.

"yeah, no we got takeout... yeah, Bucky's outside... yeah..."

you eventually hang up the call, both of you sitting there, startled.

no matter how much Bucky taunts you about it, it's not fun when you're reminded of the reality.

"he asked me why we didn't invite him and my mom," you tell him quietly from your spot, still on the ground.

you're both silent for a minute, the tv still playing in the background as you the awkward moment drags on and on.

you eventually both decide it's best to call it a night.

~~~

you both know better than to be reckless at this point.

but sometimes, you just can't help it.

you were trying to hop in the shower one afternoon, turning on the water, waiting for it to steam up the room. minute after minute ticked by as you stood there, naked, pleading the water to get hot.

you curse the universe when it doesn't, because it's just your luck that your dad isn't home to fix the problem.

so you shut off the water, wrap a towel around yourself, and go sit on your bed while you make a call.

"hey you, what's up?" he asks.

"can you come fix my pipes?" you tease.

Bucky stutters for a moment. "wow, that's... bold of you to say. I take it your folks aren't home?"

"you're right, they're not. but no, I'm being serious, the hot water won't turn on. can you come over and take a look at it for me?"

"yeah, sure. be over in a few."

you don't bother putting on any clothes, waiting around for the knock at the door still clad in your bath towel.

when you answer the door, you can't help yourself.

"oh, mister, however am I supposed to repay you?" you ask, pretending to be distraught, but it's ruined by the fact that you can't stop laughing as you say it.

"you're insufferable," he teases, stepping inside and yanking the towel from your form as he walks to the closet where the hot water heater is.

"hey!" you yell, reaching for the towel again.

"nothing I ain't seen before. besides, it'll encourage me to do my best work if I got an incentive for payment, don't ya think?"

that's how you end up in the shower together, hot water fixed, thirty minutes later.

he's got you pinned against the ice cold tile wall, hooking one of your legs up and around his waist. his fingers trace the skin of your thigh, his other hand behind your head to keep it from hitting against the hard wall.

"yeah, that's it. gonna let me use you, aren't you?"

"yes, yes, Bucky," you whine. he's teasing you, running his tip up and down your folds. he stares down at the sight, working you up to make you so desperate you'll do whatever he wants.

you start begging way too soon. "please, Bucky, I can't wait. please," you say, drawing out the last syllable.

he has no mercy, continuing to tease, before pulling back entirely.

"Bucky!" you cry, the only word in your mind.

"you know what I want to hear," he whispers in your ear.

he did this on purpose. he always does this on purpose, goddamnit.

"please, Uncle Bucky?"

he groans in approval, finally pushing himself into you, opening you up for him once again.

except it doesn't last long, because with the water raining down on the both of you along with the force of his motions, neither of you can keep your feet in place, and you keep slipping.

"god, least we tried," he laughs, turning off the water and picking you up bridal style to take you to your bedroom.

he barely gets the chance to lay you down when you hear the front door unlock downstairs.

you make eye contact. you're fucked, you're fucked.

"go put on your clothes. spray your shirt with the shower nozzle, tell him I sprayed you after you fixed the hot water," you whisper to him, pushing him off of you.

you both scramble to put on your clothes. Bucky does as you instructed, and you freak out when you see your sheets covered in water. you didn't bother using your towel, which clearly, was a bad move.

you're pretty sure your dad buys the excuse.

~~~

a few weekends later, your parents invite Bucky over for family dinner. he texts you before coming over, "wear a skirt for me, pretty girl."

now, as you sit at the table eating dinner, you know why.

he sits there, trailing his prosthetic fingers up and down your thigh under your skirt, all while your parents talk to him like normal. there's very little for you to contribute, so you're lucky you can focus on keeping your shit together while he messes with you, occasionally pinching your skin to keep you on edge.

"Bucky, we have something to ask you about," you hear from across the table.

his hand stops, and your jaw freezes in the middle of chewing.

"uh, what's that?" he asks them.

"we think there's something you're not telling us. and we think it's something you're both keeping from us."

you're fucked. you're done for. it's over.

"it's not what you think-" he begins, only to be cut off.

"have you started seeing someone? you've been happier lately. and knowing our daughter, she's probably already figured it out, but you've sworn her to secrecy, right?"

you let out a sharp exhale.

you're safe.

"yes, yeah. that's exactly it," he tells them, continuing to make excuses that he didn't want to say anything yet, it's still new...

his hand begins moving under the table again.

~~~

later that evening, you express a craving for ice cream.

"I'll take her," Bucky says before anyone else responds. "and I'll have her home before curfew."

you feel a pang in your chest when your dad assures Bucky, no need. we trust you with our daughter.

you know Bucky feels the guilt hit, too.

it doesn't stop you, though, from finding an empty parking lot and getting in the back seat as soon as possible.

"fuck, what would you have done if they'd found out, hmm? would you have admitted you had a thing for your uncle, baby?" he taunts, moving your hips down on his as you straddle him, riding him the way he likes.

the windows are already coated in condensation, the both of you so eager and pent up from the stress of the evening.

"no," you pant, tossing your head back.

he brings a hand to your throat, making you look at him.

"nuh-uh. you're gonna watch me while I fuck you. you're never gonna forget who it is that's fucking you like this, you hear me? I'm never going to let you forget."

~~~

when he drops you back at your house that evening, your mom asks, "vanilla?"

"I'm sorry, what?" you ask, confused.

"you get vanilla? you got some white stuff right there," she points to the corner of your lips.

you don't tell her you didn't go for ice cream.

~~~

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it's been a bad day, for mr steven "captain america" grant rogers.

a horrible day, even.

and he wants nothing more than to be taken care of. and you know this. you know this so well. and you're so ready for him, waiting patiently in your shared bedroom, dressed in his favourite lingerie. you've wrapped up with a silky robe, just for the smallest element of surprise, and when he creaks open the door, you throw him a look over your shoulder, beckoning him closer. actually, if you told him right now to get on his knees, he'd be more than willing.

so you beckon him closer, and he's pulling off bits of his suit, only for you to gesture no. and when he's close enough, you've pulled him onto the bed, quickly straddling him, covering his mouth with your own as you trail your hands along his suit, gently unzipping and pulling everything off. and when everything's off, and he's left in his suddenly very tight boxers, you tease him, taking your sweet, sweet time to open your robe, slowly shuffling it off your shoulders. you let him press kisses along your shoulders, up your neck, where he pauses and sighs softly

you let his hands wander round your waist, pulling your robe higher, pooling round your thighs now. and he slowly pulls it off, revealing the oh-so-racy set you have on underneath. you push him back on the bed, letting his eyes drink you in, his eyes raking over your body, pausing at you tits, hips and dips. his hands roam over your waist again, beginning to rock you slowly over his somehow, even more tightening boxers, and you can feel him prodding up into your panties

you're swatting his hands away, and leaning down to his ears, voice dropping to a sweet, honey-dripped, sultry tone, "hands off, pretty boy.." "all me tonight" you trail a perfectly manicured nail down his neck and chest, and stop just where his boxers begin, pulling at the waistband. each tug causes him to roll his eyes back, the sensation briefly relieving him. he's already moaning softly, and you've not even started! naughty~

and when you're done teasing him, you start dragging your hands over your own body, moaning and grinding against him, revelling in his soft, sweet whines. you can feel him - closer, and closer, and closer until yo-

pull your hips right off him, slamming down onto his torso instead

he's hot and flustered, and whining again. and fine, you're nice enough to let him roam his hands over you, and i guess you'll let him sit up, just enough to bury his head between your covered nipples, as he latches on immediately. it's his safe space, after such a difficult day of work, and he wraps round em, sucking and twisting. you let him, for a bit, before you reach back, removing your bra and throwing it, someplace, somewhere.

he leans back, and sighs, slightly more content, before he begins again. you cradle his head, letting him suck and hum over your hardened nipples

you pull his hands to your waist, and he gets the idea. he's a smart man. he pulls your panties off, and your purr back in his ear "good boy, stevie~", feeling his cock twitch beneath you. you roll yourself over his still trapped cock and he groans and moans and borderline begs- "please! pleaaaaseeee pretty girl, lemme free, lemme free f'ya" and in a sweet act of kindness, you finally pull his boxers down, thrown somewhere. and out he springs - tall, thick and throbbing. you lick your lips and giggle, and he almost cums, then and there. still, he needs you here and now, and you lean back down to him, hot kisses pressed across his neck, chest, torso - each kiss accompanied with a soft suck, bound to leave a mark.

and when you finally get there, your hands go first, stroking up and down his cock. your mouth latches onto his balls, sucking as you stroke, and though you cant see his face, you can imagine him, throwing his head back, sweet sounds barely leaving his throat. as he gets closer and closer, your tongue finally begins wrapping round his cock, about to lick up - but he's not making eye contact, not yet.

"stevie, baby, eyes down here~"

and he immediately complies. his sweet eyes locked onto your own, as you lick up, slow and painful. speaking of full - his balls are so full, so heavy, so painfully in need of release, and all he wants is to grab you, to throw you over and dick you down. but why would he do that, when your sweet tongue wraps round his tip, sucking slow and gentle as you slowly rock it up and down his shaft

and you're quickening your pace, up and down and up and down and gagging as he whines and threads his fingers through your hair, begging, "please, please pretty girl jus' lemme cum, please, need it so bad, so so so bad, baby" and you're humming in delight as he almost bucks up into you AGAIN

and when he finally cums dear GOD, it's thick and ropes down your throat, and you suck him dry, like a fucking vampire. you stay there, with him deep, fully in you and when you finally pull away, his cum dripping down your mouth, onto your tits, his cock twitches AGAIN

so now he's leaning up and you're pushing him back down, and his hands are just under your ass as you slowly roll yourself over him. you're kissing him and he can taste himself on you, on your tongue as he sucks it slowly. he's whining into your mouth as you clench round him, your pace making his eyes roll back up into themselves. for that moment, all he can see is sheer white blinding light, and all he can feel is your soft, sweet gummy walls as you moan and whisper in his ear. it's too much, it's too much!!! and yet it's still not enough, for him, as he starts pulling your hips down, needing more, needing to be in you, not just that, needing to be full in you. you take one of his hands, pressing it against his belly, and he can feel where he pushes against your walls

you're rocking up and down, and he's whining louder and louder. he can feel every. single. thing.from your lips, fanning hot breath across his neck, to your soft nails, trickling up and down his back, and your plush thighs, hitting his with just the perfect pace to your tightening walls, bringing him closer and closer and clo-

and he fears for a minute that you'll pull away again, and yet again, steven grant rogers starts begging, the sound sweeter than an angel's kiss to your ears,

"baby please, i'll be s'good f'ya lemme cum real good please baby i need it real bad real quick please please pleasepleaseplease"

in fact - he's not even breathing at this point, as he pulls your thighs down with need. borderline animalistic, in his need and urgency as he finally. fucking. cums, rocking slower into you, his breathe slowing and stuttering as he groans into your ear. he falls back a little, panting as his back hits the pillow, and you keep going just a little longer - just enough to bring you to your own release.

his hands instinctively find your waist as you do, and he gulps back as you go faster and faster, angling your hips just right. is he hard again? maybe! who knows, as your walls tighten round his cock properly this time, and he fucks up into you again, reaching up to pull himself close to you. your bodies are flush against each other, mouths barely reaching in sweet kisses as your lips bruise more and more

and finally, you both cum together. you clench just right around him, as your releases join just perfectly in sync. his big, burly arms wrap around you, his head buried in your neck as he moans and whines, sighing into your skin. you're no better at this point, slack and limp in his arms as he keeps himself there. the feeling of you, wrapped around him, is enough to keep him going, just long enough

eventually, he pulls out, his final ropes of cum covering your stomach. he sighs again, and you reach for the camera - he gets there first, of course, cooing at the sight,

"so perfect f'me, my prettiest girl ever…"

you gasp and giggle back, as he takes his pictures, before lowering himself on you again, basking in your joint post sex glow, cuddling together on your soft sheets.

you can only pray the tower didn't hear.

And anthropology told him that you were hiding something. He had studied human behavior for years, and he had some qualms about using his knowledge as a profiler against his friends and colleagues - it wasn’t nice to psychoanalyse each other, he had been told many a time - he felt that certain scientific observations needed some further study.

Take, for example, the observation of societal reactions to small or tight spaces. While Spencer knew for a fact that many people had a fear of small, enclosed spaces, also known as claustrophobia, he knew you were not one of those people.

And yet, here you were, squashed against his side in a packed elevator, displaying a heightened heart rate, higher body temperature, and flashes of discomfort only otherwise present in those with the fear.

You’d gotten onto the elevator happily enough, he’d noted. There was no trepidation or avoidance. You hadn’t once suggested taking the stairs instead. But on the second floor, a crowd of people had gotten in, and you’d been left pressed so tightly against Spencer’s chest that he could measure your pulse no problem.

Struggling to find something to comfort you in your distress, Spencer settled for a hand on your back, wrapping it around you to keep you from bumping into any more people. Morgan had already told him that elevator death statistics rarely comforted those stuck in and/or using them, and he didn’t want to alert the elevator full of FBI agents that you were in any form of distress.

Touching you, however, almost made it worse. He noted a second spike in your pulse, before you began measuring your breathing slightly more so it would calm down.

He wanted to help; he surely did, but there was only one more floor before you both reached the BAU, and before he could think of anything truly comforting to say, you’d pushed through the crowd of people and started walking to your desk as if nothing in the world was wrong.

He almost missed the beat of your heart as you walked away.

From that day on, Spencer made it his mission to figure out if you were struggling with claustrophobia or rather with something more akin to enochlophobia, a fear of crowds.

It was rather lucky then that after a few days again, you found yourselves both back in an elevator, though this one was much less crowded. Spencer was almost disappointed that he couldn’t test both variables at once to repeat the pattern of the first observation, but luck was on his side when, after all the other inhabitants of the elevator alighted on their work floors, the elevator decided to break down with only the two of you left on it.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you said, shutting your eyes in silent defeat as the elevator lights switched themselves off.

“I guess the power just went out,” Spencer said, moving a step or two closer to you to buzz the alarm, and noting the way you flattened your back against the wall to avoid him further.

After notifying the building maintenance again, he stopped and stayed near you.

“Statistically, this won’t take too long, the-”

“Spencer, if you start telling me facts about elevator breakdowns, I’m going to have a breakdown myself.”

Nodding quickly, he wisely shut his mouth, but he didn’t attempt to move back. As the next floor doors were pried open by firefighters a few moments later (the perks of a job at Quantico, expedited rescues), he stepped further into your personal space.

You couldn’t escape him without completely obviously swerving to the opposite side of the elevator, which might be dangerous considering the quick repair work that was happening on it, so you instead tried your best to hold your breath and die.

It was better than letting your mind run away with the thought - the tempting, very detailed, and somewhat scary thought - of Spencer pinning you against the wall and doing whatever the hell he wanted with your body.

There was a certain level of detail your mind went to after the boundary of personal space had been crossed, and unluckily for you, Spencer was crossing it a lot these days. You were left feeling absolutely, devastatingly horny, with an aftertaste of guilt from thinking these things about your coworker.

“Could you-” you coughed, trying to free your voice from any squeaks. “Could you step back a bit?”

The Spencer in your horny brain would’ve pinned your hands above your head and asked you if you really meant that, which of course you didn’t, you wanted to feel his hands all over you.

The real Spencer seemed to take this instead as confirmation of your fear, and backed up immediately, staying as still as a wildlife rescuer trying to calm a shaking abandoned puppy.

If only you were shaking in fear and not months of accidental sexual tension turned up to the max.

You were surprised that Spencer himself hadn’t noticed how you desired him carnally. You couldn’t hold his eye contact, and you wouldn’t even let yourself brush against him in fear that you would say something embarrassingly true. You thought these to be pretty easily defined as measures of one with unwanted sexual desires.

Spencer, however, went with enochlophobia.

“You two good down there?” Emily yelled from her perch on the floor just above you, comfortably situated between the firefighters who were currently putting a hold in the door to help you shimmy out of it.

“We need you two to get out of there quickly. We have a case in Atlanta. Wheels up in 30,” she said, reaching a hand down for your bags as the firefighters urged you to grab onto them so they could lift you.

A sudden wave of relief washed over you. Work! Real, true, and honest work to distract yourself with. A case where you could escape impure thoughts for the time being would be perfect.

You must’ve enjoyed the moment a second too long, though, as Spencer once again flooded your senses.

With a hand on your hip, chaste and purely platonic from anyone else's perspective, Spencer encouraged you forward, to meet the reach of the team of firefighters.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low and hot in your ear. He was probably giving himself a pat on the back for comforting you. “You’re doing great, just hang in there.”

Helping to send your bags up to Emily, he reached around you, his chest hitting your back, his entire body crowding yours once again near the edge of the space.

Every touch felt electric, and you wished to god it did not. You let the team of firefighters drag you out of the hole you were physically in, even as you sank further into the one you were in mentally.

After confirming his suspicions, Spencer took it upon himself to be your silent protector. If you’d had any clue that was what he was doing, you’d have definitely thought it cute.

Instead, you were just on edge whenever he so much as breathed in your direction.

He sat next to you on the jet, going so far as to ask you if you had any problem with turbulence even though you’d been working with him for the last year and he’d travelled in a plane with you. When he leaned over you to open the blinds to the window, you twitched away from his hand, so sure that it was about to land somewhere inappropriate.

He sat in the back of the van beside you when you landed, getting strange looks from every other member of the team because he was usually very serious about sitting front and centre. The stares only got more intense when he tried to put your seatbelt on for you.

“Spencer,” you whispered sharply as he stretched across you for the second time that day. “I’ve got it.”

He quickly retreated into his seat and even seemed a little disappointed in himself.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure why he was being so intense either. He’d found out about your so-called weakness, and it was like some part of him leaped into protector mode. He wanted to be closer, to study every reaction, to make things easier for you.

He really couldn’t help it when he volunteered to room with you.

With three rooms available with the company card, Rossi took the initiative and booked his own private suite, leaving Emily and JJ, Hotch and Morgan, and of course yourself and Spencer to cosy up in twin rooms.

“I’ll grab that,” Spencer said, grabbing your bag for you and climbing up the stairs, notably avoiding the elevator either out of deference to you, or because he was similarly freaked out about the morning’s elevator accident.

“Spencer, I’ve got it,” you sighed, half exasperated, half dreamy. But he was already out of sight and unlocking the door to your room, walking in to inspect it.

You trailed along quickly, noting that he’d stopped rather suddenly at the door.

“Oh,” he said, staring into the room and lowering the bags he’d commandeered to the floor.

Of course, you’d been left without a twin room. You’d been left a standard double. With, of course, a single double bed.

For Spencer, he saw this as a scientific chance to keep exploring his own theories. Was it all people you were uncomfortable with? Would the close proximity of sharing a space highlight any discomfort you had with people in general? Would you refuse the room entirely, and leave, or would you push yourself through it?

You similarly had many plaguing thoughts: how the fuck were you going to get through the night without an embarrassingly horny wet dream, or at least some kind of Nyquil to knock you out cold before you could harass the man any further?

Neither of you had the chance to discuss your new living arrangements, as you were quickly - blissfully - called into the precinct to begin your case.

Twelve hours of traipsing around crime scenes and pulling longer hours than you had in months - purposefully - you were almost glad to be heading back to sleep.

Not that you were looking forward to discussing the sleeping arrangements, but because you’d had a few more strange encounters with Spencer across the day that you absolutely needed to be unconscious to fully avoid.

First, he’d taken it upon himself to angle himself between you and any other detectives you met on the case, which actually hindered your chance to ask about evidence and the facts of the case for a few hours, until Hotch had sent Spencer on an errand.

When he’d come back, he’d pulled you aside to talk, which was normal enough, except he’d pulled you into a storage closet to talk, and though he kept the topic strictly on the case, your brain had overloaded the second he’d pressed his hand against the wall beside your head and you’d sprinted back out of the closet, avoiding eye contact with anyone who you thought may have witnessed the entire exchange.

And then he’d insisted - insisted - on driving you home alone, turning down all the offers from the local PD to get you an escort so you didn’t have to worry about the unfamiliar roads.

Spencer patted himself on the back for seeing to your needs so well.

You wanted nothing more than to fall straight into bed and never get back out again, dumping your bag, and walking straight into the attached bathroom, as you began to undress so you could take a shower.

“Don’t mind me,” Spencer said as you popped a second button, sending you jumping across the already very small room.

Leaving you stood there in shock, clutching your shirt to your chest, though you were still more or less covered, he reached around you and placed his toiletries on the counter, practically pinning you (once again) to the sink.

You weren’t cognizant of your brain making the decision, but you felt your hands pushing up against Spencer’s chest, and shoving just deliberately enough to pin him to the solid shower stall door, turning the tables on him.

“What are you doing, Spencer?” you asked, shocked both at how professional you sounded and that your hands had yet to travel from his chest to any other part of his body.

“I’m dropping my toiletries bag off,” he said, the picture of nonchalance.

“I was about to get in the shower. I told you as much before walking in here. I was undressing.”

“Yes, but-”

“You pulled me into a closet earlier, you acted strange in the elevator, frankly, you’ve been entirely too helpful today, and I know you’re a kind person, but Jesus Christ, Spencer, there’s only so much I can take!”

“I know,” he said soothingly, a soft smile playing on his lips, and if you weren’t so frustrated, you might have swooned at the way he looked at you.

“You know what?”

“That…that this is hard for you, right? It’s totally normal to-”

“Oh god,” you whispered. He knew.

“No, it’s okay, really, it happens to a lot of people, this kind of thing is just a natural part of society, and-”

“Spencer, for the love of god, please shut up!” you nearly screamed, trying your best to keep your shattered emotions in tow.

“I just want us to be able to communicate clearly about this,” he said, and with that, he raised a hand to your face, brushing a hair aside quickly and tucking it behind your ear.

No longer in control of your actions, you had no choice but to let your body push closer to his and join your lips to his, suffocating his helpful smile.

You felt his shock, but then you felt his hands grip you a little bit closer, pulling you into him and pressing his lips back into yours with the same pressure.

You gasped for air, but he pulled you in closer still, turning you around to press you against the shower door, nearly tripping inside as you tugged and pulled at one another, needing to be closer, to be close at once.

“Fuck, Spencer-” you said as you drew away, pressing kisses along his chin and down his neck as he held you propped up against the wall.

He had been incorrect, he had been absolutely incorrect in the best way, and now his cock was throbbing in his pants and you were wrapping your legs around him as you moaned into his ear with every kiss, and he was so happy that he was incorrect.

His hands fumbled against the buttons of your shirt as you similarly worked against the zipper of his pants, desperate to get him free, to feel him inside you. But you both absolutely refused to detach from one another, lips once again finding each other as you stumbled blindly around the shower stall.

Another stumble was all it took for the, luckily hot, water of the shower to pour down on you, and you detached quickly to rid yourselves of now wet clothing before colliding again.

It was quick - possibly the quickest you’d ever consummated a relationship - and near silent, no spoken communication besides moans and nods, and the fingers that had been desperately gripping your waist instead moving to spread your legs. He stroked along your clit as your hands found his cock, pumping it once, twice, and once again before you begged in a single desperate moan, and he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pressed himself in.

Blissful is how he would describe it. You were lost for words, so you wouldn’t be able to even come up with anything that could do it justice.

Neither of you lasted long, you from the months of pining, and Spencer because he’d been entirely overwhelmed in the last twenty minutes, and he usually liked time to prepare for these things.

He continued stroking you through your release, and you panted, holding yourself up against a wall as he pulled out and stroked himself to completion.

Silently, and rather awkwardly, you turned off the shower and stared at one another for a beat before you both wordlessly stepped out of the shower and got yourselves ready for sleep.

After redressing yourselves in dry nightwear, you both sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for the other to say something.

“Just… out of interest, you’re not.. Claustrophobic, are you?” Spencer asked.

“No, why?” you replied, almost confused, before he grabbed and kissed you again. A distraction from revealing his monumental fuck up.

you were actually exhausted. whole body aching, the last thing you needed was to talk to him, but as always, there he was. your asshole of a flatmate. with his stupid glasses on as his amber eyes strolled through the pages of his book miles per hour.

“well, look who it is. past midnight. seems like cinderella by how fucked up you look.”

you rolled your eyes at the smirk on his tone, kicking off your heels. “fuck off reid, i’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

your relationship had been strained from the start… you two were like oil and water. always had been, since the two of you were five and had the sufficient conscience to choose if you liked each other or not. and believe me, if you had had another choice… you wouldn’t have even taken up the offer to live with him. but your mother, diana’s best friend, as soon as she had learnt that you had been given a promotion and needed to move to quantico? had told the blonde, who excitedly told her that spencer was looking for a flatmate. that sealed your destiny. and now there you were. sharing space with the person you loathed most in the entire world.

“hell, okay, you’re not fucked up at all, ‘cause getting some dick wouldn’t have left you like that.”

you groaned, your head throbbing, full body tense. “well at least i get to fuck, not like you, you only get off to letters on paper.”

and he dared to chuckle, fucking chuckle. he closed his book and put it aside, tall frame leaving its seat at the sofa to slowly stroll over you.

“well isn’t your vocabulary a delight?” he crooked his head. “now why don’t you tell me what’s gotten you all bothered, princess. ‘cause i’m sure my incredible presence cannot be it.” he said sarcastically, but he seemed intrigued to know what had happened. “hard day at work? did starbucks ran out of caramel drizzle? or is your rose toy dead?”

“you little…” your hands were reaching for his throat, but he was faster, his tongue clicking as his strong long fingers surrounded your wrists, stopping you centimeters away from his warm skin.

“really, doll? trying to choke an fbi agent? such a bad girl…” you gasped as he pinned you against the wall. “you could get in a lot of trouble for that. maybe i should use my cuffs on you. or maybe not, i’m sure you’d end up enjoying it.” he muttered that last part against your ear, your cheeks reddish in both anger and embarrassment.

“fuck you.” you spat, and he chuckled, dark and teasingly against the skin if your neck. you were not done. he wanted to play dirty? two could do that. “and what do you say about extortion of people by your power, huh? an fbi agent trying to make me kneel under him for his status? i could easily get you fired. you should be ashamed, reid… but… it seems like you are more like… excited, huh?” and with a roll of your hips against him you confirm what you had suspected: he was hard. rock hard at that.

he smirked at you, ignoring your jab as he leaned over you. “are you threatening me?” he muttered against your lips, his tongue wetting his bottom one.

your eyes followed the movement, and your throat dried up. you squinted at him. “are you?”

“you know… all this brattiness of yours is really getting on my nerves.”

“really? by how hard you are… i would believe you’re enjoying it.” you muttered back. your breaths were mingling. there was heat pooling down on your lower stomach. and the tension exuding from your bodies could be cut with a knife.

“you need to learn to keep your mouth shut.” he growled, eyes dangerous.

“but wouldn’t you like it wide open…, reid?”

you could feel the moment he said “fuck it”, his brown eyes now completely pitch black. “yeah? then open the fuck up.”

and next thing you knew? his tongue was deep into your mouth, which had willingly fallen open for him. the two of you groaned, and the tight hold he had on your wrists turned bruising. it was as if he hated the idea that he desired you so much. maybe he did. maybe you did. but right now the only thing you could focus on was on his hard cock pushing against your belly, and how soaked your panties felt stuck against your throbbing clit. when had you gotten so wet?

a moan left you as his plush lips surrounded your tongue and sucked, a hum leaving his chest when he then moved to your neck, sucking some more on the skin there.

“i think i ought to teach you a lesson, don’t you?” you whined as he bit down on your pulse point. “answer me.” a choked gasp left your lips when one of his hands, the one that wasn’t holding now both your wrists up, came down harsh against the side of your thigh on a smack.

“yes.”

“that’s what i thought.” he purred, and your eyes almost rolled back at the sound of his deep voice. “on your knees.” he ordered as he let go of you, and busied his now free hands on unbuttoning his slacks. you got lost for a minute there as you caught sight of the wet patch decorating his boxers, but he was quick to get you back on page. your eyes widened when his hand took harshly your face. “do i need to repeat myself?” he hissed and you shook your head. “then. get. on. your. fucking. knees.” you complied, knees on the hardwood floor, puppy eyes staring right onto his. “that wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it? let’s hope you suck cock better than you follow orders.”

your pussy fluttered. fuck. why was this turning you on so much?

“show me that tongue.” you stuck it out to him. pink. salivating. ready. he hummed and pushed down his boxers and pants down his thighs. your eyes widened at the sight of his thick cock. “let’s keep that dirty mouth of yours busy, yeah?” and before you could even react, you were gagging around him. it hurt. your lips were fully stretched around him, and your jaw was about to give up by the uncomfortable stuffiness. but god… it felt so good… he tasted so good… reid groaned, fingers winding into your hair and tugging as his hips snapped and his cock hit down your throat. “fuck. so that mouth is actually good for something, huh?”

your eyes couldn’t help but water, your nails scratching at his thighs as he didn’t even give you a chance to adjust before starting to fuck your face. you couldn’t help but moan, eyes rolling as the air in your lungs thinned. he was literally fucking you dumb. and you couldn’t love it more.

“such a fucking slut. look at you. you act harsh but as soon as a dick is shoved into your throat you start to act like a good girl, hm?“ you whined, thighs squeezing against the other, throat swallowing around him and making him grunt. “jesus, you’re tight. wonder how your pussy will be. probably will have to stretch it open first, break it in since you haven’t brought anyone home to fuck since you moved in, huh?” he chuckled. “the walls are thin, you know? you think i don’t hear you pumping your fingers into your little cunt every night? poor thing. you’re so desperate for cock you would take anyone’s, huh? even mine. but, actually… i’m starting to believe it’s the one you’ve been wanting the most, isn’t it?” you whimpered. “hm? what’d you think about while fucking your pussy, doll? did you think about me listening to you? that the reason why you’d moan louder? for me to hear? wanted me to come into your room and show you what a good orgasm is supposed to feel like?” you nodded, too lost to actually try and hide how the idea of him listening to you masturbating just a few doors away made you squirt all over your sheets. he chuckled. low. mockingly. “of course you did.” he pushed down your throat even harder. “all that time acting as though you hated me and you just liked me, huh?” you gasped and coughed as he pulled out of your mouth, smacking his wet leaking cock against your flushed cheek.

“i hate you.” you swore and his eyes glinted.

“yeah? well, for someone who hates me, you really love sucking my cock.” he chuckled when, while gliding his tip along your bottom lip, your mouth subconsciously opened. “you want it?”

you kept silent. what could you say? you couldn’t say no. that would be a lie. but you also couldn’t say yes, that’d would make it too easy for him. but before you could catch yourself you were…

“please.”

begging.

his smile was that of the cheshire cat. “atta girl.” you moaned when he fed it back to you, pumping it down your throat over and over again. you relished on the musky scent, on the tuffs of hair of his base kissing your nose, on his tip making you gag over and over again until you became so messy and sloppy that trails of spit dribbled down past your lips and chin onto your thighs. “thaaaat’s it. so messy. can’t help but want to…” and then you’re gasping as hot spurts of cum hit your face, making you even more messier. spencer moans as he strokes every last drop out of his breeding tightening balls. “fuck. look at you. so pretty like this…” your mouth stays open for the dripping of it, the salty release hitting your tongue and making you hum.

when you open your eyes, your cunt throbs. he looks gone. wild in pleasure. and starving.

“get up.” your legs shake and you almost trip by how fast you complied. “i’m not done with you yet.”

not even 10 seconds go by before you’re being thrown onto his bed —his bedroom being the nearest one of the two—, and another 10 is what it takes him to get you bare before his eyes. his eyes appreciatively took the sight of your heaving chest and rosy nipples in, the smoothness of your tummy, the plush of your thighs…

he pumps his still rock hard cock. how does he manage to have that much stamina? it hadn’t even gone down —not in the slightest— after making a mess of your face with his cum.

“it’s not gonna-” you try and say, but his words cut you off quickly enough.

“mouth shut. eyes on me. legs open. i’ll make it fit. even if i have to break apart your pussy for it.” you swallow, and god, if you hadn’t you’d have died of embarrassment by the whimper that tried to leave your throat.

you open your legs for him. pussy lips spread, soaking wet just for him, hole twitching in need of being fucked and clit puffy and sensitive pleading to be touched.

“knew she’d be pretty…” he groans, licking at his lips, hand tightening around his dick. his fingers come to your sticky cheek and gathers ropes of his cum, and before you could inquire him about it, he’s stuffing them into your needy little cunt. “jesus, she’s tight. can’t wait to break her open…” your eyes roll as he sinks them to the knuckle and curls up up up until he hits that spongy spot that makes you sing the prettiest moans late at night when you know he can hear you.

“spencer…!” you whimper, your legs falling further apart, hips twitching for more.

“that’s it. open up for me.” he smirked, pushing a third finger inside that has you choking on a scream, walks tightening down hard around his digits he grunts. “trynna milk me so soon, baby? i haven’t even put it in.”

he fucks you open with harsh strokes, but he’s diligent, he makes sure you’re slicked up and ready, loose enough for his puffy head.

but when he aligns it up with your entrance, his jaw ticks. “it’s gonna be a tight fit. now, say ‘biiiiig stretch’ for me, mh?”

“biiiig—ngh!!!!” you can’t even comply, not when he’s basically splitting you in half. your nails dig on his back as he pants and tries to fit in past the first ring of muscles.

“jesus.fuck.” with a ‘pop!’ his tip presses in, and you two moan in unison. your lungs feel like you’re on fire, and your eyes sting. but fuck if it doesn’t feel good being so full. “good girl…” he praises. and at first you think it’s directed towards you. but no. his thumb sweetly circles your clit and you cry. “taking me so good… you’re doing so good for me… now, open a little bit more for me, hm?”

he’s talking. to your pussy.

but it’s not “little” how much it has to open to accommodate him. every fucking inch is devastating. and by the time his balls hit your ass, his tip —if it could be possible— would have breached your cervix and fucked itself into your womb.

he falls onto you the moment you clench, and groans against your neck. “if only i had known you’d feel this good… i would have fucked you much sooner.” he then looks at your dizzy eyes and faded face. you’re half brain dead on his cock. he can’t help but chuckle. “so this was the fastest way to make you behave and shut up, huh? good to know.” he slaps at your cheek, and you blink, breathing ragged and heavy, his hips grinding deep against your cervix, making you whimper. “don’t you dare tap out on me. i haven’t had my way with you yet.”

and then he’s fucking you. reeeeeally fucking you.

your back arches, your nails draw blood down his back, and your cunt gushes in lewd wet sounds that resonate around his room by how hard and deep he plunges into you.

“fuck. so good… best pussy i’ve ever had. made for me, aren’t you, gorgeous?” he murmurs, and you are so lost… he’s mean. his hands are rough as they grip your hips in a way you know will bruise, and his cock is so harshly fucking you open that you believe he’ll leave the imprint of himself permanently molded to your walls.

you can feel every vein, every ridge.

“spencer, spencer, spencer…!” you cry and he chuckles in between grunts.

“so now it’s ‘spencer’, huh? what happened to ‘reid’? you’re so happy to get dicked down that you’re calling me by my name now?” one of his hands surrounds your neck, and when it tightens… your pussy does as well. “fuck! and here i thought you couldn’t get tighter…”your legs cage him, making your back arch and his dick reach deeper in places no one ever had. “needy little girl… feels good, huh?” you moan, mouth open and he takes the chance to spit on it. and when you quickly and obediently swallow what he gives you? he speeds up. “fucking slut. you love this, don’t you? love the fact that i’m breaking you apart. fuck. you even let me go in raw, bet you’ll even let me breed you if i wanted, huh?” your cunt flutters and his head hangs for a second as a strangled moan leaves him. just for a moment there, he almost lost control and busted. “you want it, honey? want my cum deep into this pretty little womb of yours?” you moan and he lets go of your neck to slap your cheek again, softly, but harsh enough to make your clit twitch. “answer me.”

“yes, yes, plea-“

“not you.” he grunts, going harsher, deeper, faster. “i’m not talking to you. i’m talking to her.” your breath leaves your lungs once two of his fingers meet your puffy clit, rolling it, pinching it. your pussy squelches. and he hums. “yeah? you want it that much?” another squeeeelch!, you’re dripping down to his sheets. “then take it, pretty. it’s all yours.” and you scream, ‘cause the way in which you’re coming when his thick warm ropes of cum fill you is insane. it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. your ears ring, your vision darkens at the corners, your brain seems to melt, and your pussy squirts in little unstopping spurts that soak his cock, balls, sheets… your juices are everywhere, and fuck if it doesn’t make spencer come even harder…

by the time his balls are drained and his hips halt, his cock up to the base inside you to keep you plugged in with his cum, you’re basically passed out, eyes crossed as you try to focus back onto the present. you can’t even remember your name. fuck, you can’t even remember how to breath.

and your legs shake like crazy when in a flip he’s got you on all fours —well not all, since one of his hands has your face smudged against one of his pillows—. “again.” he says, breathless as he pushes in his still hard cock into your abused and stuffed cunt. “show me how you squirt again. i wanna see it again.”

you were not getting out of this alive.

He did a subtle tug, encouraging you to settle on top of him so you slithered into his lap, and to your surprise, you didn’t turn into a liquid version of yourself. 

Something somewhere inside your panties definitely did, though.

“Are you comfortable here?” He asked. His tone radiated nothing but sex. Soft and demanding and shaky. 

You backed up a bit to allow your glasses to unfog and nodded. He was breathy and flustered, and his glasses also had that thin layer of condensation. You wanted to look into his eyes, but your body acted on command and went back to kiss him again. This time with tongue from the beginning. Spencer had you acting shamelessly needy, and how could you not be needy for him if he kissed with his whole body? It was unfortunate how many layers of clothes were still in the way.

Your hands tugged the back of his head while his own roamed all over your thighs and ass, and he bucked his hips upwards. He was not hesitant about anything, and it was turning you into a puddle.

“We said we’d gonna take things slowly,” you whined into the kiss and almost laughed to yourself. There was nothing slow about your thoughts. You wanted him naked right now. You wanted to see him, touch his bare skin, feel every texture, every hair, know every sensitive spot and freckle. 

Spencer let out a shy laugh, painting your glasses with more fog. You wondered how ridiculous you must’ve looked because he reached for them—so delicately—and placed them over the side table by his couch, then you finally could see him in all of his flustered glory. His lips were flushed and puffier, and his cheeks, despite the room only being lit up by the TV, you could tell were tainted by a raging shade of pink.

You made him like this.

“I’m sorry, it’s really hard to take it slow when you’re like this.” He gestured between you and him with a tilt to his chin, and it sent a rush of confidence through you. “I can totally go to the bathroom and—”

You tugged his tie and shut him up with a kiss. Much stronger than any other, thanks to your glasses being gone, and he whimpered into your mouth. An exquisite sound you knew he had in him. You were dying to know what he sounded like. 

“And?” You teased.

“Distract myself,” he said in a single breath. 

“I don’t want you to go.” You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth. “I just want it slow. All of it.”

A small nod from him, then you resumed the kiss and rubbed against his bulge, because even though you wanted to take things slowly for the most part, you needed something from him. Anything that would relieve the ever-growing ache between your legs, and his erection was right there below your cunt. You couldn’t not use him, and he was evidently enjoying this. His hands had found that spot on your lower back, right below the waistband of your jeans, and stopped where he couldn’t get past anymore. You should’ve worn a skirt or a dress so his hands could travel freely over your skin. You opted to loosen the button and unzip, and it freed you from the tightness. His hands found the thin hem of your panties. Sexy, lacy panties that matched your bra. Just in case. 

You swallowed another sound from him, and you couldn’t help but echo him. It felt too good. The rough hem of your jeans rubbed your clit perfectly, and his cock pressed hard and hot and (oh my god?) thick against it. 

“Fffuck.” He released a pent-up breath, and he pressed your hips down so you’d stop moving. Just when that oh so familiar flutter was approaching and threatening to spread through your nerves. 

You frowned at him. “What?”

“Don’t… move like that.”

“Why?” Then you did it again, and he hissed between clenched teeth.

“Oh, shit.” Spencer threw his head back briefly, then stared down at where your bodies were rubbing, hypnotized by the way your hips kept on moving. Soft circular motions.

His lips parted. His chest heaved in and out. He looked so absurdly gorgeous, he made you want to eat him. 

You switched your rocking hips for your hand and palmed him over his pants. God, it was thicker in your palm, and burning up and definitely leaking by the tip. The fabric felt moist.

“Mmm,” you moaned. 

Just by touching him. Jesus christ you were a slut for him.

He looked up at you above his glasses but didn’t reply. A barely-there blink, then a knit to his brows. 

“I made you like this?” You asked. Half-teasing, half-genuinely. You needed to hear it from him.

Spencer nodded. “Even when you’re just in my thoughts.”

You stroked him once, close to the head. You felt like screaming.

“Am I in your thoughts right now?” You stroked again, firmer, and his hips jerked. 

He nodded again. “Absolutely, you’re- you’re always in my thoughts. There isn’t a moment I-”

“Are you always this hard, then?”

And he kept nodding, so you kept palming him. It jolted once. Was this his way of teasing you?

“It’s very inconvenient when you show up in my mind at the wrong moment. Not that it’s wrong to think about you, it’s just— oh shit.”

His cock jumped again, and he laughed a little, almost in pain, and when you realized what was happening to him, you switched back to rocking your hips. Almost jumped on top of his bulge over and over because, fuck, you were sure he was coming in his pants, and you were so close to doing it too. 

He was almost animalistic in the way he tugged you by the nape of your neck and brought you into a wet kiss. He groaned into your mouth while his tongue swiped against yours and you continued grinding him. Your orgasm was right there. Growing. Spreading through your cunt and into the rest of your body.

“Oh, shit,” you mimicked him. 

With a mind of their own, your hips rocked back and forth until you were a whining mess on top of him. You swore you felt him smirk in the middle of the make-out, and it was all you needed to come all over his bulge, and it was as if you’d unlocked a new level of orgasm. It lasted too long, or maybe it was the way his lips brushed over your cheek almost soothingly while he whispered something. Something you weren’t able to register clearly but was surely as sweet as he was.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart.” He tugged your head back with a fistful of your hair, dragged his delicate nose along your cheek and jaw. “Did you just come too?”

Your entire body was fluttering, and you answered by clenching your cunt that was dripping and almost melting over his erection, hoping he’d feel the answer.

He laughed a little, and his head landed on your shoulder. 

You slowly started to come back to your senses, and now you could hear well. He was still breathing like he was struggling. You kissed him once and pressed your foreheads together. If you felt like this with your clothes on, you weren’t sure if you were ready to experience naked. It would be too much. Your cunt clenched again just by thinking about it. 

“Is this what you meant by slowly?” He asked, still agitatedly.

You couldn’t help but breathe out a shy laugh. If he could see your mind...

“Not really, but I didn’t think how hard it’d be to take it slowly when you look at me like that.” 

His eyes behind the glasses turned darker just before he took them off and placed them next to yours. Like he was ready to fuck you so not slowly. 

I feel like all of my smuts end up being on Spencer's lap but nnngghhhhh I'm obsessed with his lap I want to live on his lap forever.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed 💋 and please let me know what you think! 🩷

before you could even say anything you felt bucky’s hand wrap around your waist and pull you onto his lap quickly—the action immediately making you wet. he wasted no time trailing kisses along your neck, his hands slipping underneath your shirt to play with your nipples making you gasp.

“been thinking about fucking you all day sweetheart.” he rasped, “looking so good, you’re already wet for me aren’t you sweet girl?”

“buckyy.. steve and sam are gonna come back.” you whined in response, grinding against your bulge, “buckyyy..” “i know sugar i know, you just want daddy’s cock huh? wanna ride me while sam and steve are gone.”

you nodded eagerly as bucky pulled your pants down along with your panties, his middle finger swiping through your folds, “christ baby you’re soaked..” you could hear him unbuckle his belt and jeans, his fat cock leaking with pre cum.

your hands held onto his shoulders as he lifted you, slamming you on top of his cock making you yell out in pleasure, your head thrown back, “nuh uh, look at daddy sugar.” bucky’s hand wrapped around your neck, forcing you to look at him.

your eyes hazy but full blown lustful, drool sliding out the corner of your mouth as your hips rocked, bouncing yourself like a bunny on his cock.

“c’mon sugar you can do better than that, you’re daddy’s little slutty bunny aren’t you? riding my cock in the middle of the gas station.”

you whined, nodding as you tried to go faster but fuck your thighs burned, “yes…yes daddy, your slutty bunny.” you repeated back to him making him groan in pleasure.

his fingers dug into your hips as he took control, leaning back as he rammed up into you, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head—fuck this was heaven.

the car was probably shaking but you didn’t care—too dumbed out to speak you didn’t have a single thought in your head, “my dumb little slutty bunny—fuck you feel so good sugar, squeezin’ my cock, you can’t even speak how dumb i’m fucking you, yeah?”

you squealed as he kept hitting into your spot, nails digging into his shoulders, “bucky! h-hmgghh I— oh god—“ your tight little cunt squeezed around his girth.

“c’mon sugar, cum on my cock, c’mon bunny.” he encouraged, his hand squeezing around your throat. it was like a switch, you came on his cock, your legs and body trembling as you gasped, collapsing against his body.

“my good little bunny, my sweet girl.” bucky praised, putting your shirt back on and pants, as if on cue steve and sam showed up with bags of snacks and drinks, “woah you look like you ran a marathon.” sam said to you, handing you a water.

You stretch now, half-heartedly, and the soreness reasserts itself with a wince. You hiss through your teeth quietly.

Spencer is still asleep, one arm slung across your stomach, face buried against your shoulder. His hair is a halo of tangles, his breath steady and warm against your skin. He smells like his usual bergamot soap mixed with sleep and sweat and sex.

You think to yourself that it should be illegal to look that peaceful after doing what the two of you did last night.

Your fingers twitch, tempted to wake him just to say so.

But you don’t have to. A beat later, he shifts — just enough to murmur something soft and incoherent against your shoulder blade and press his nose to your skin.

“Mm,” he hums, a little more awake now. “You’re warm.”

“So are you.” You blink your eyes open and glance over your shoulder back at him. You move again, trying to sit up, and this time the soreness flashes sharp.

Spencer lifts his head and blinks blearily at you. His hair is in his eyes, and he looks younger like this, all sleepy and soft. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, even though your hips are definitely plotting a day of revenge. “Just a little sore.”

He smiles like he was expecting that answer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He hums, amused. “Where?”

You give him a look. “Where do you think?”

Spencer grins fully now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You scoff, but it’s breathless. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he counters, smug. His hand moves, gliding down your side, dragging the sheet with it. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

“No,” you admit. “But I am going to be walking funny all day.”

He tucks his face back into the curve of your neck, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “That’s my favorite kind of damage.”

You laugh, but your eyes flutter shut again as he moves over you and rolls you onto your back. He kisses down your collarbone, a little lower, then lower still. His hand spreads over your stomach like he’s staking a claim, and his mouth follows suit.

“Spence,” you warn gently, though your voice is already going soft around the edges. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m aware of that. I want to.”

You lift your head to look at him. He’s already halfway down the bed, nosing at your hip, lips brushing skin. He glances up at you, hair falling in his eyes, smile lazily forming.

He presses a kiss just below your navel.

“Besides, breakfast,” he says, licking his lips with shameless smugness, “is the most important meal of the day.”

Another kiss, lower.

“And I very much like the taste of you in the morning,” he says, and the grin that follows is pure sin — cocky and sleepy and devastatingly pretty.

There’s no room to argue, not when he’s already mouthing down your thigh, parting your legs like it’s second nature, like this was inevitable from the moment you woke up. His fingers curl under your knees, coaxing you open even further, and he breathes in against your skin.

You brace a hand against the sheets, the other sliding aimlessly into the tangled mess of his hair. “Spencer…”

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me make it better. You said you’re sore.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to—”

“I know what it means,” he says, firmer this time. His voice drops low, smooth and certain. “It means you let me wreck you last night, and now I get to take care of what’s mine.”

That word lands hard, curls low in your belly. You don’t answer — you can’t. You’re too busy trying to steady your breathing. He’s already shifting closer, already locking an arm under your thighs to hold you in place.

You feel the brush of his mouth where you’re still tender and already aching again, and the first drag of his tongue is slow and deliberate.

“So sweet,” he hums softly against you. “You know the average person has up to 10,000 taste buds?” He glances up, breath hot against your skin. “Pretty sure mine were made just for you.”

You squirm involuntarily — too sensitive, too much, too soon — but his grip tightens just slightly, pinning your thighs down with practiced ease. His fingers splay against your hips. You’re not going anywhere.

“Stay still for me, angel,” he murmurs, voice warm and unbearably soft, challenging you to complete an impossible task.

You try. God, you try. But he knows your body too well by now. He knows exactly how to curl his tongue just right, how to flatten it where you’re already throbbing — like he’s learning your body the way he learns languages, through repetition and obsession. Like it’s the only fluency that ever really mattered. He moves with a rhythm designed to undo you molecule by molecule, like you’re his favorite unsolved equation.

“That’s it,” he says against your skin when your thighs start to tremble. “God, you’re so soft like this.”

He noses deeper, then closes his mouth around your clit and sucks, and your entire spine arches off the bed.

“Spence—”

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, licking back up, hand sliding to your stomach to press you down with gentle, unrelenting pressure.

You squirm again, and he catches your movement immediately.

“I said stay still,” he warns, low and firm. You whimper, and he smiles against you.

He shifts one arm to slip a hand beneath you, fingers curving under your ass to tilt your hips higher, and when he sinks his mouth back down and—fuck. Your whole body jerks.

“Too much?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, breathless. “N-no. Feels good.”

“I know it does, angel girl.”

It’s not fair, the way he’s still so vocal even with his mouth buried in your cunt — praises every breathless twitch of your hips like it’s a gift, worships every sound you make with a reverence that borders on unbearable. His tongue moves like he’s memorizing you, like he’s been starving, like this is the only thing he knows how to do anymore.

He tightens his grip again and devours you, slower this time, deeper, and you come like that — spread out and trembling, jaw slack, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets. Breaths leave you in broken gasps, and still, he doesn’t stop — licking you through it, slow and thorough, like he’s savoring every drop.

You expect him to pull back once your breathing slows.

He doesn’t.

Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he just presses them wider with maddening ease — like your body belongs under his hands. Like he’s barely getting started.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice rasping with satisfaction. “Not done yet.”

“Spence—” It’s barely even a protest. More like a warning, and he knows the difference. Knows the way your hips buck even as you pretend you can’t take more. Knows that the shaky whine in your throat means please, not stop. Knows you too well to listen when your mouth lies and your body begs.

“You can take it,” he whispers, tongue hot and sure. “You’re gonna give me one more, sweet girl. Yeah?”

You try to argue, but then his tongue flicks just right — again, and again, and again — and your spine bows like a live wire. You nod helplessly.

“You taste so good,” he breathes. “Don’t make me beg. One more, angel.”

He holds you down, murmuring praise between licks, talking you through it in a voice that’s simultaneously achingly tender and overwhelmingly filthy, and you feel yourself unraveling all over again. Your thighs tremble, heels digging into the mattress, and he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping his name on a broken sob, not until your second orgasm rips through you with twice the force, leaving you wrecked and open and shaking.

Only then — when you’re boneless and panting and whimpering beneath him — does he finally ease up. His mouth slows. Softens. Presses one last kiss to your overstimulated skin.

He looks up at you, flushed and glistening and smug, but his eyes are all warmth.

“Good girl,” he says, kissing your thigh again. Then again, higher. “So sweet like this.”

You can barely manage a breath, let alone a sentence.

He grins, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he pushes your trembling legs gently back together, palms smoothing over your skin like he can’t quite stop touching you. He crawls back up the bed, gaze sweet and tender, and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw, then your collarbone, then your shoulder.

“Hi,” you finally manage, dazed.

He huffs a soft laugh, leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hi.”

You blink up at him, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The quiet hums, warm and full.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, still in a bit of a trance. “Yeah. Yeah, just…”

“Wrecked?” he teases, brushing a knuckle down your cheek.

You roll your eyes in faux annoyance. “Completely.”

He smiles and settles beside you, and you curl into him instinctively.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumble.

“I know. I already told you, I wanted to.”

Your cheeks warm. “Still doesn’t count as a real breakfast.”

Spencer grins. “Speak for yourself. I’m full.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

He groans low in his throat and reluctantly lays back down. You sigh as you continue you work, each movement a confession. You grind your clit on his pelvis and moan softly.

“You fill me up so good,” you say softly, leaning down towards him. “So deep, Steve, can you feel it?”

Steve shudders.

“I —“

“Don’t interrupt,” you coo. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Steve?”

He whimpers and nods.

“I know.” You grind down on him, moaning softly. “Good boys don’t need to think, do they?”

He shakes his head.

You nuzzle your nose against his. “That’s what I thought. Just think about how good my pussy feels. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

He groans and nods. His fingers fist the soft sheets below him, his jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut.

“So handsome like this. You know that? All fucked out for me. Letting me do whatever I want to you.”

He mouths anything. Careful not to interrupt your monologuing again.

“Lover boy.” You kiss him softly. He chases after you, but you’re too quick. “Or are you just a dumb little slut?”

Steve shudders, inhaling shakily, then groaning on the exhale.

“Which one, pretty boy? You can answer.”

“I love you,” he moans.

“Just pussy whipped, huh?”

“Please — faster.”

You made no attempts to act out his request. You gently tsk at him instead, resting your palms on his warm, hair covered chest, rising and falling with each gasp and groan he has.

“You’re taking what I give you. No compromises, Steve. Just go brainless for me.”

His eyes roll into the back of his head. You giggle.

Three months into your freedom, the headlines exploded. Captain America had gone against the Winter Soldier, and in the process brought down Hydra—and S.H.I.E.L.D along with it.

The man you once knew as the Winter Soldier was revealed to be James Buchanan Barnes, a soldier who had fought alongside Steve Rogers before Hydra captured and twisted him into their deadliest weapon.

When his familiar face appeared on the screen—the same face that haunted you both in dreams and in waking life—your body froze with fear. Since then, you’ve only seen him through television reports and newspaper clippings. 

Every article said the same thing. 

The Winter Soldier vanished after the battle, a deadly ghost still running free.

Now the thought that stalks you day and night, is what would you do if you saw him again? Would you turn and flee? Would you regret not pulling the trigger when you had the chance, when he handed you his own gun?

Or would you stay rooted to the ground, unable to see the monster that abused you, and instead see the broken boy Hydra had stolen—tortured and used, just as you had been?

When Hydra fell, so did their files. Among the wreckage were documents proving you had been forced into serving the Winter Soldier for his “pleasure.” The release of those records left you feeling reeled and… utterly alone.

You half-expected sympathy—maybe even pity. And in truth, you craved it. You wanted people to comfort you—someone, anyone to tell you that you’ll be okay. But the world is cruel. Instead, some people saw your face and branded you nothing more than a killer’s whore.

Bucharest was meant to be a fresh start. A city large enough to disappear in, yet quiet enough to keep to yourself. You rented a small apartment above a cluster of grocers, where no one asked questions or even looked your way. But despite that, the silence was a gift. It was better than the judgemental stares, the whispers, or the endless questions about Hydra that you had no answers for. 

You found work cleaning rooms in a dingy hotel—a job that kept your hands busy and your mind mercifully blank. You didn’t need to speak the language, and no one cared about who you had been before. But with each small step forward, that dreadful shadow of your past trailed with you—looming over you from behind. 

You were only able to sleep with the lights on, and even then you woke up in a cold sweat, clutching at yourself and checking if your clothes were still on. You looked around the bed frantically, trying to silently reassure yourself that the soldier wasn’t there, laying beside you. 

Getting through the nights was the hardest, but at least your days were busy enough to distract you. It was a Saturday when you found yourself at the market, crowded as always. You liked it that way, losing yourself in the chatter of voices, the shuffle of footsteps, the comfort of being hidden.

You stood at a vegetable stall, weighing potatoes in your palm, when someone brushed past your shoulder. The contact made you flinch. You turned, but the man kept his head down. 

Dark jacket. Baseball cap pulled low. Backpack strapped across his chest. 

You shrugged and kept to yourself, but what you didn’t realize was that the man who lingered just a few steps away, kept stealing glances from beneath the brim of his cap.

Bucky swallowed hard, his gaze tracing the familiar slope of your arms—arms he had once bruised with his grip and lovemarks. His eyes followed the line of your neck, remembering the way his fingers wrapped around it, the way his mouth had marked it. Then his focus dropped to your lips.

Your lips. The same ones that once moaned for him, cried for him, begged him to stop. Now, they were asking casual questions about produce, and it made his chest tighten, his cock twitch, his pulse quicken.

The man at the stall he was hovering by was trying to get Bucky’s attention, but his eyes were still stuck on you. When you adjusted your bag and turned to leave, he followed. He took quiet steps, trailing you through the streets, past corners and alleys, until you reached your small apartment.

He stayed far enough behind to remain unnoticed. Years of training had made him a ghost when he wanted to be. You didn’t hear him when you unlocked your door. You didn’t hear him break in seconds after, slipping in silently the moment the shower faucet turned on.

Now, he stood in your living room, still as stone. 

Waiting. Watching.

He didn’t know what he’d say to you when you stepped out. Would guilt make him apologize?

But guilt wasn’t the only thing in his chest. His body naturally ached for something else. The soldier inside him didn’t crave forgiveness or closure. He wanted your body again. 

He wanted you. 

After your shower, your bare feet padded into the hallway, tugging the towel tighter around your body. Drops of water clung to your skin, your hair still damp as you hummed softly to yourself. You stepped into the living room, then froze.

He was there.

The man from the market. The soldier.

He stood in your living room, those familiar broad shoulders shadowed by the dim light, his eyes stared down at you, completely unreadable. 

For one fragile and tortuous second, you couldn’t move. You thought you were free. You thought that you finally left the nightmare behind. No more being his. No more being the Winter Soldier’s whore. 

But freedom had been an illusion. And here he was, tearing it apart.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” the question slipped out, thin and broken, your voice betraying the fear you fought hard to swallow.

His head lifted towards you, those sharp blue and scary eyes catching the light. He stepped forward, then paused, raising his flesh hand slowly, palm up steady as if he was trying to soothe you. Your gaze naturally darted to the other hand—gloved, concealed, yet you could still feel and taste the metal that’s hiding beneath it. 

“Don’t,” he rasped out, his voice low. “Don’t be scared. I’m not here to hurt you.”

He claims he’s not here to hurt you, yet all you knew being around him was hurt. 

You clutched the towel tighter against your chest, silently cursing yourself for being caught in such a vulnerable state—even though none of this was your fault. With a pounding heart, you took a cautious step back.

“I… I had to see you,” he said, taking a step closer as you took another one back. “I don’t even know if I should’ve come. But I couldn’t stay away.”

Couldn’t stay away.

You knew what that meant. You knew what it implied.

Back in your cell, the walls echoed with your screams as he came to you only to take, to break, to claim your body until your mind shattered piece by piece. That’s what it means to not be able to stay away.

And now, in this quiet town you’d hidden yourself in, he had found you again.

Your devil.

“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t have to do this anymore. H–Hydra’s gone… you’re free now.”

The words spilled out desperate and pleading. You searched his face, hoping—begging—for him to hear you. The way he spoke now was different than before, different from when he’d been Hydra’s weapon. There was a hitch in him, a hesitation.

He paused. His expression shifted, a slight frown and his eyebrows furrowing—the same expression you’d seen once before, in the moment he let you go.

“I’m not free,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. 

Your chest tightened. But that was something. A crack in the soldier’s shell. Something you could work with. After all, you knew what it meant to be a prisoner. You two were different sides of the same coin—kidnapped, broken down, used by monsters.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to take a small, careful step forward.

“W–we’re the same, you know? You… you don’t have to do this. I don’t even know why you’re here, or what you plan to do to me, but you don’t have to use me anymore. You can just…” your throat tightened, the words trembling out of you, “…leave. I’ll pretend you were never here. You can just turn around and walk away.”

Your voice cracked, timid and thin, and you hated yourself for how small you sounded as you tried to talk your way out of this. 

“Just leave, okay, James? Th–that’s your name, isn’t it? I… I saw it on the news.”

His shoulders stiffened at the sound of his name. Slowly, he stood up straighter, eyes locking onto yours. Just the look of his cold eyes alone was enough to knock the wind out of your lungs. Every instinct screamed at you to run, towel be damned, but your body refused. You stayed. Because you knew what he was capable of. 

Even here, under your own roof, he held the power.

Three months of hiding without your body to use did a number on him, hollowing him out. 

He knew it was wrong—God, it was so fucking wrong—but the wanting never stopped, and he didn’t know why. At night, he dreamed of you, his body betraying him, craving you. 

And now that you were in front of him again, his whole body burned—stiff with restraint, hot with need. A part of him wanted to hold you, to whisper how sorry he was for everything. But the stronger part ached to pull you in, rip that towel away, and take back what he’d lost the night he let you escape.

It was wrong. So utterly wrong. But it felt carved into him—like the Winter Soldier had been programmed to claim you.

“I couldn’t help it,” he rasped, voice fraying. “I saw you and… it’s like something in my head tells me to come to you.”

He stepped forward. You took one step back. 

“I want to apologize,” he continued, his voice unsteady. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. For what I’ve done to you.”

He took another step closer. This time, you didn’t move.

“I don’t think I could just let you go without saying it. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, but…” his voice dropped even lower and rougher, as though the words themselves dragged against him.

You said nothing. You didn’t even know what to say. Ironic, really—how you used to beg for him to speak to you back in your cell, and now that he stood here apologizing, your voice failed you.

“Can… can I hold you?” he asked, the words trembling and heavy. “Just once more. One last time. After that, I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone. Forever. You won’t have to see me again. You’ll never even know I was here.”

You didn’t know if you could believe him. God, you wanted to—you were desperate for him to be out of your life forever. But hadn’t he let you go once before? And still, here he was. If he could hand you freedom once and take it back, what was to stop him from doing it again?

But still. You wanted to believe him. Just one embrace. That was all he claimed to need to finally release you. 

One hug… and then you’ll truly be free. 

Your feet started moving before you could think. Slow, cautious steps carried you forward until you were standing right in front of him, towel clutched tight against your body. He raised his arms stiffly, like he was silently asking if you were sure this was okay. 

When he pulled you in, it was hesitant—awkward, almost human. His chin dropped, breath brushing the crown of your damp hair. For a long second, it felt like the kind of embrace he might have given if life had been different. 

If neither of you had been broken.

But the longer he held you, the less it felt like an apology.

His grip tightened around your waist, practically crushing you against his strong chest. He inhaled you, his chest rising and falling against you—harder and rougher like he was struggling to keep control. 

“God,” he murmured against your hair. “I can’t get enough of you.” 

You shuddered in his arms, the towel slipping against your damp skin. You pressed lightly at his chest.

“O-okay, that’s enough—”

“Just a little longer, baby,” he cut you off, his grip tightening. “Your soldier needs this.”

Your eyes widened as his hands began to roam, rough against the thin fabric, the towel rustling under his touch. His breathing grew heavier, chest rising hard against yours, until you felt the unmistakable press of his arousal straining through his pants.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please. Let go of me.” 

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” his head shook slowly, his nose brushing through your damp hair. “My body craves you. It always has. I let you go once, that was mercy. This…” his voice dropped, almost reverent, “…this is my reward. The soldier always gets his reward.”

A cold chill ran through you as his hands left your hips, sliding up until both circled your throat. Pressure built around the fragile column of your neck.

You pushed your hands harder against him, gasping. “No, stop! You don’t have to do this anymore!”

“Don’t scream too loud, baby,” he murmured. “I could snap this pretty neck of yours in an instant. You remember that, don’t you?”

Your throat bobbed against his palm as you swallowed hard, eyes squeezing shut to keep the tears from spilling.

“Please. Don’t do this. Don’t do this…” you cried. “You said you would go.” 

The words trembled out of your mouth like a prayer with no hope of being answered.

He gazed down at you, thumb stroking your jawline—what was supposed to be a soothing gesture felt like a cruel mockery. 

“I know, angel. I know. But I just need you one last time,” his voice softened to a whisper, coaxing, poisonous. “Then I’ll set you free. I promise.”

The false promise rang in your ears. You didn’t dare meet his eyes—those blue eyes that had been dragged through hell and back, through Hydra’s torture. Eyes that had once spared you.

You hated this. Hated yourself for standing frozen instead of screaming, for trembling instead of fighting. But if he let you live before… maybe he would again. Maybe if you endured, if you gave him what he wanted, he would finally leave you alone.

So you told yourself you’d survive this, just once. 

And then you’ll finally get your freedom. 

“You… you promise?” 

“With everything I have, angel.” 

But you knew how hollow those words were. He was a man running, a man who barely recognized his own name, a man without a home. In truth, he had nothing. Nothing to sacrifice.

“And you’ll leave me alone? Forever?”

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. One hand moved gently under your chin, tipping your head upward. “Open your eyes.”

You remembered the last time he barked those same words in your cell, but this wasn’t the same. His tone was softer, coaxing, as if he were luring you into a trap.

Slowly, reluctantly, you blinked your eyes open, one hand clinging to your towel, the last scrap of modesty you had left.

His eyes drifted down to your towel. “Take it off,” he ordered. 

You shook your head, breath shaking. “I… I don’t want to—”

His grip on your throat tightened, just enough to make you gasp again. His face hovered close, voice sharp as a blade.

“I said take it off. Now.”

Your hand trembled as you loosened your grip and let the towel slip down. It fell to the floor, pooling at your feet. You kept your gaze on him, fighting every instinct to turn away. Because if you did, you knew you’d be in trouble. 

His face remained unreadable as his eyes moved down slowly. Then his hand moved, rough fingertips brushing along your fragile neck before gliding even lower. He traced the hollow of your collarbone, pausing at the soft curve of your breast, and you shivered under his touch.

“You’ve got goosebumps,” he murmured, tracing slowly over your hardened nipple. “I know you’re nervous… but we’ve done this plenty of times before, haven’t we?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. And it didn’t seem like he was waiting for a response anyway.

A low and amused hum escaped his lips as his fingers circled and teased, tugging lightly with unexpected care. The softness unsettled you. He was never gentle like this with you in the cell.

“You always begged me to be gentle,” he said, his breathing getting heavier. “So I’ll give it to you gently this time. Just like you wanted.”

Hearing him speak this much was strange.

Back in your prison, his words had been rough, sharp, and commanding. Now they were quiet and… almost soft. And it was worse, because it sounded like a twisted imitation of kindness. Whatever part of him that wasn’t The Winter Soldier anymore was still broken and fractured.

“Just… please make it quick,” you pleaded. 

He glanced at you, his brow twitching slightly in annoyance. “I can’t do that, sweetheart.”

His hands slid lower, gripping your waist and pulling you snug against him. “I haven’t seen you in months. I need to take my time… savor you… before I leave you for good.”

Before you could say anything, his mouth crashed onto yours, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. He said he would take his time, yet he kissed you like there was no more time left in the world—tasting, consuming, devouring—until his hunger overtook every emotion. 

His hands tightened on your waist, forcing you to stay still. You stayed rigid, unresponsive, until he arms shifted and lifted you easily by your hips. His gloved left hand—the one you remembered was metal—steadied you effortlessly against his chest, while his flesh hand hooked beneath your thigh, spreading your leg to wrap around his waist.

You clung to his shoulders instinctively as your body was being carried helplessly down the hall toward your bedroom. He lowered you onto the mattress slowly, his lips never leaving yours, claiming you with every breath.

When he finally pulled back, he stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at you with ravenous eyes.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he ordered, peeling off his jacket. 

Then his henley. Boots. Belt. Pants. 

Until at last, he was completely bare before you.

For the first time, you saw him stripped of his gear, stripped of the leather and belts that had always shielded him. Scars marred the place where flesh met metal. His chest was broad and scarred, his arms large, and his legs sturdy.

And his cock—hard, leaking, and eager—ready to take you once again. 

He stepped closer to you, his eyes lingering on your body.

“You’ve taken good care of yourself,” he muttered. “I’m… happy for you.”

His knees sank into the mattress as he crawled towards you, eyes burning with unsatisfied hunger. His hand slid along your side, pausing at your waist.

“You’ve been eating right. Better than whatever they fed you back in your cell. I can see it in your curves… like here,” his fingers squished down on the soft flesh of your hip, “...and here.” He squeezed at your bare leg.  

You whimpered at the contact—a small, helpless sound that made his cock twitch against your thigh.

He groaned low in his chest, grabbing his cock and giving a few rough pumps before dragging his tip along your reluctantly slick folds. The faintest brush of your warmth against him had his breath stuttering, his whole body shaking like he might lose control right there. This—this heat, this softness—was what exactly he’s been starving for.

“When I fuck you,” he rasped, voice heavy with hunger, “I don’t want to hear ‘soldier’ anymore. Not even James,” his gaze locked on yours. “You’ll call me by my real name. Bucky. Understand?”

You nodded weakly, but his eyes narrowed.

“Say it.”

“I… I understand, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

A satisfied sigh escaped him as he pushed forward, slowly forcing himself past your entrance. The stretch made him grunt, his cock throbbing hard inside your tight and warm walls.

“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “After all the times I had you in that cold cell, you’re still so goddamn tight. Like this little pussy was made to take my cock and mine only.”

You whimpered beneath him, your body trembling against the mattress as the bedframe creaked under each thrust. One of his hands pinned firmly to your hip, steadying you, while the other roamed your body—grabbing, groping, desperate to feel every inch of you.

At first, he moved slowly, his hips rocking against yours. But you can tell with the way his jaw clenched and his arms flexed that he was holding himself back. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple softly. 

“Gentle… just like I promised,” he murmured softly, yet there is a strain in his voice. 

The longer he stayed buried inside you, the more his restraint unraveled. His thrusts grew heavier, his breath harsher against your ear. The poor bed groaned louder, as though it might give out at any moment.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. His words shook with guilt, but his body betrayed him, driving faster, harder. “I’m… trying. I swear, I’m trying—but I can’t. I can’t stop.”

You gasped when his hand gripped your thigh, hauling it upward and angling your hips. His cock slid deeper, impossibly so, forcing you to take every thick inch. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, clinging to him as his pace pushed you further into the mattress.

Every movement was filled with borderline desperation. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, hips snapping hard against yours. “Too rough—I know. I know. But I need you… I need you too much.”

His words slurred together as he continued rutting inside you, his hips moving with a litany of guilt and desire. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your lips together to keep yourself from spilling out any noise. 

“Look at me,” he ordered when he noticed your eyes were shut. “Eyes. On. Me.” 

You opened your eyes reluctantly—dazed and trembling. He let out a wicked grin at the sight, his chest heaving and his pupils blown wide. He rolled his hips, making you whimper again. 

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You remember how to take me.”

“Y-you said you’d be gentle…” you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks as he slammed into you. 

His face twisted into a snarl. “I know, angel,” he groaned, his thrusts growing rougher and deeper. “I know I promised. I’m sorry—I can’t stop. I can’t.”

Your body shook beneath him, every punishing drive making the bedframe rattle even more. His flesh hand clamped down hard on your thigh, forcing your legs wider, forcing you to take him to the hilt.

“I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he rasped, voice breaking even though his pace turned merciless. “But I need you. God, I need you. It’s like my body remembers you… programmed to claim you… no matter how much I fight it.”

You gasped as he rutted harder, his cock digging deep inside against your tight walls. His metal hand pinned your wrist above your head. His chest heaved, his eyes dark and wild, but also wet with guilt.

“Fuck,” he groaned, shaking his head, his thrusts savage despite the apologies spilling from his lips. “I’m hurting you, I know I am. I’m sorry, angel—so fucking sorry—but I can’t slow down. I can’t stop needing you.”

His mouth crashed against yours in a desperate, devouring kiss, like as if kissing you would make you forgive him. 

His thrusts turned frantic, every snap of his hips were hard and rough, like he was punishing himself as much as he was using you. 

“C-can’t stop… I can’t stop wanting you,” he gasped. “It’s been too damn long, baby. Too fucking long—” 

“Angel…” his voice cracked as he rutted deeper, his metal hand forcing your hips still against the mattress. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—but I need to finish inside you. I need to claim you one more time.”

Your body arched beneath him, his cock stretching you, filling you until all you could do was whine and groan beneath the weight of him. “P-please… just hurry up!” 

His thrusts started getting sloppy and messy, his pace completely losing rhythm as his dark mind took control. His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips slammed into you one last time—bottoming out completely. 

A loud and broken groan escaped his lips, his cock twitching and pulsing deep inside you as his release flooded into your tight walls. The warmth spread through your core, and you felt utterly full and disgusted.

His body slumped against yours, his hold on you softening just slightly.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice raw with guilt. “Forgive me—I couldn’t let you go without leaving a part of me inside you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven pants. Your trembling hands pressed against his strong bare chest, weakly trying to push him away even though he was still buried deep inside you. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were lost in the ringing in your ears. You shook your head, sobs tearing free as your body shook violently beneath him.

Then his arms gathered you close, pulling you tight against him. He tried to rock you gently, but your body remained stiff, broken. He murmured against your ear, words you couldn’t catch—or tried to tune out. You didn’t know. 

You felt wet kisses trace your hair, your temple, your cheeks. But your body reeled at the contact. 

Little by little, exhaustion took over. Your eyelids grew heavy, your sobs softened, and your trembling eased. Your breathing slowed. His arms never loosened. He cradled you, rocking you gently until sleep finally claimed you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, even though you were long gone in unconsciousness. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

When you finally woke up, the room was silent and cold. His warmth was gone, his presence erased.

Only the faint imprint of his body remained in the sheets, the lingering scent of sex in the air a haunting reminder. Your body still bare, still trembling from the night, proof that he had been here.