Lexi's marvel acc

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.

Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.

He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.

He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."

His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."

His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.

"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

⤷ masterlist

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.

You can’t keep doing this to yourself. 

Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.

Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.

Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.

On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.

Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t. 

You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.

Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.

It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.

And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.

It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.

You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.

What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.

You never looked at him the same. 

It’s not for lack of trying.

God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes. 

Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.

But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today. 

And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.

At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.

You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.

The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.

You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up. 

Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.

You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.

He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either. 

You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.

He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard. 

He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull. 

His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.

You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.

He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your  phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.

He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.

He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good. 

He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.

He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.

He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades. 

Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.

Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel. 

But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend? 

Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.

You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.

He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.) 

Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.

He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.

He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.

He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room. 

The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.

He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.

Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.

This is your diary.

The first entry is from three weeks ago.

22 May I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.

I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.

Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.

23 May My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.

He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.

Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.

23 May Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again. 

Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that. 

He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.

24 May I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.

The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.

25 May This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.

26 May Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.

Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too. 

Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.

28 May Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-

“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.

Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.

He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it. 

You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.

14 June He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-

He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.

-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.

Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.

You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.

And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.

Except it’s not there. 

You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.

You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.

You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it. 

You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.

Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.

You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.

Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.

He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.

“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.

“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.

He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”

You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.

“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t. 

“I’m not buggy.”

“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”

“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”

He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”

Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”

“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”

“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”

“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.

“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”

“I meant, like, after that.”

“After I finished the lawn?”

You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.

“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”

Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”

“Long shower,” he says.

“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.

“The hell is an everything shower?”

“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”

His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.

“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”

His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”

Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause. 

“So what are you reading at the mo-”

“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.

“Why is that?” you ask.

“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”

You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead. 

“I was sixteen-”

“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”

You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”

“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”

You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight. 

“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.

“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.

“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.

“I didn’t think you liked reading.”

“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise. 

“What are you reading?”

Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.

“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”

You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.

Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”

He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”

“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”

He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.

You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.

But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.

Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him. 

You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful. 

“Where did you get that?” you bark.

“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”

“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”

Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch. 

“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”

You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.

“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.

“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”

Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.

“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”

He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.

“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”

He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.

“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”

Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.

He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”

He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.

“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”

You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.

“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.” 

Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.

“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.

Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.

You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined. 

If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?

He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.

“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”

“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.

You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.

He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.

Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.

A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you. 

“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”

You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.

“Since when?”

“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.

“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.

“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.

He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.

“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.

“Isn’t that when we first-”

“Yes.”

The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.

“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”

He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.

“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”

You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.

He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”

You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.

“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”

The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.

None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?

He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.

“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.

“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”

“For how long?” he demands.

“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.

“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”

Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal. 

“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”

“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.

“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”

There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.

Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.

When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.

He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.

You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.

He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.

It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?” 

Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?

“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.

“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”

Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.

“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”

He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”

You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.

He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.

“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”

You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.

Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”

Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”

“Wha- yes?” 

“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”

“What were you doing in my-”

“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”

You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.

“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”

He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.

“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”

You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.

His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.

“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this. 

He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”

“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”

He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”

Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.

“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”

Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.

He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”

It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.

“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.

Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control. 

“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”

The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.

“Turn around,” he bites out.

With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.

You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.

When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.

“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.

“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.

He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”

You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.

“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”

“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”

“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”

Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”

“Let me help you out.”

His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.

“Read.”

Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious. 

One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.

Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.

“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-

Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.

“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”

You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.

“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”

You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.

“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”

You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.

“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”

With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.

A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.

You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.

You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.

Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.

Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.

“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.

You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically. 

He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”

You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.

“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”

“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”

“You still are. Sometimes.”

He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”

You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago. 

“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”

It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.

You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”

You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.

Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”

a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 bucky taglist: @dolcesaints @marina468 @avgdestitute @tw1sters @dxnsgrl @thegirlwhowaited5everok @pjo4life1939 @otheliesstuff @domitaylorsversion @simplemind-simplematter @love-stucky @queen-acdc @epiphanyrogers @monicasposh @daddysbitchybaby @yearninglustfully @starr-jazz @las-galletas @thatesqcrush @mathcat345 @openlyluckyartisan @buckmybarnes @atsumubabe @annoyingrebelsoul

Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.

You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.

Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.

You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.

The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.

Do not pass go. Do not think about B—

You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.

And therapy, probably.

Omelette first.

You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.

Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.

A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.

The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.

You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.

Shawn? No.

Jake? Married now.

Harry? Hell no.

Dylan? Too soon.

Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.

You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.

It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.

It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.

The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.

Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.

“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”

Beeeeeeep.

—

Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.

Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.

Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.

He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.

Thwack.

It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.

Thwack.

That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.

It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.

Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.

The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.

Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.

He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.

1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.

His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.

“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”

The call ended with an abrupt click.

Oh, you poor thing.

Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.

He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.

You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.

It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.

With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.

“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.

God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.

He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"

“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.

You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.

“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.

“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.

“Can I come in anyway?"

You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.

“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"

“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.

He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.

It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.

The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.

“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.

“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”

“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.

“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.

“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.

He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.

“Bucky! Stop it—"

“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”

“Can you not—"

“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."

“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.

He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.

Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.

“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"

“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”

You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.

There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.

“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"

“I hate you.”

“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.

“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"

“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.

Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."

He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I haven't decided."

“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.

Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.

He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.

He was here to take care of you, nothing else.

You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.

Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.

“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.

Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."

But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"

Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“You want me to kill him?"

The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.

“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”

“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”

“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.

“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.

“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”

Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.

He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"

“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."

It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.

“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.

“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”

“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.

“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.

You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.

“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.

He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"

You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.

“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."

“Bet your ass I will…”

“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.

He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.

Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?

He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.

But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.

But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.

And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.

And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.

By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.

It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.

And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.

With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.

He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.

But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.

—

You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?

Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.

Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.

Someone was cooking in your apartment.

Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.

You couldn't believe what awaited you.

Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.

“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”

“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”

He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.

“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”

“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.

“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”

“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.

“So why did you?"

“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"

The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.

His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.

You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.

“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry."

“What?" You turned back towards him.

“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.

Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.

You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.

With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.

“Thank you, B," you murmured.

“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.

The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.

“Your veggies are burning.”

“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."

You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."

His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.

“How's your head?" He asked.

You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.

“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"

“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.

His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."

“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”

“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."

“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.

He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.

“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"

He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.

“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.

His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.

You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.

But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"

You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."

He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."

You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"

“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.

“Hey, B, did you get any wine?—"

“No."

“Fiiiiiiiine.”

You were going to kill someone. 

You weren’t sure how you were going to do it, seeing as the people that you worked for were all highly trained assassins, soldiers, or flew around the sky in metal suits– but you were going to kill one of them. Or all of them. 

You gave them one task. Just one. Not even a task– a simple request. To put their dry cleaning out in the hallway every Tuesday morning so you could run it out to the cleaners. That way, if there was a party that Tony was throwing Friday night, there would be enough time for the cleaners to go through all of the clothes and have it ready for pick up by Friday morning. 

Now, you were going through all of their rooms. You had their permission, of course.Even if you didn’t, they didn’t particularly mind. You’d been working with them for a while now. 

In terms of keeping their lives together off the field, you were their saving grace. You kept them in the good graces of America and the rest of the world. You worked overtime to do any damage control online, combing through forums and squashing any potential harmful rumors that could possibly appear. At this point, you could be an agent yourself with the amount of computer and investigative work you were doing. 

You kept track of their meetings with government officials because they sure as hell didn’t want to meet with anyone. You took notes since they didn’t care to pay attention, then condensed them later and dropped it off at their rooms– personalized notes in a way that you knew they would actually pay attention. Then, you would be the one to form up some sort of reply to those same government officials to tell them to politely fuck off in a way that made Captain America smile at you gratefully.

You kept the pantries and the fridge stocked with all of their favorite goodies, even the more hard to find, out of season fruits. You once found the personal phone number of a company’s CEO and demanded they put you on a special delivery list because Sam was getting pissy that his favorite preworkout mix was always out of stock at the wholesale market down the street. Wanda was very particular to this strawberry farm in Japan. You learned an entire new language just to make sure you could communicate with the owner. 

It wasn’t totally thankless work. There were more than a few perks that you had when it came to working for the Avengers. 

For one, your salary was through the roof (thanks to Tony), and you didn’t even have to spend it on rent in New York. They gave you your own room with a bathroom, and you were free to use the common areas in the compound as if you were part of the team yourself. You could use their kitchen and gym, walk around the floor in your pajamas during and after work hours if you really wanted to, and no one would say a word to you.

It was assistant work, but you weren’t required to wear fancy pants suits or skirts to work. The last time you wore something nice to a full day of work was your first day, when you didn’t know how relaxed they were.

You didn’t know any other assistant that clocked into work wearing sweatpants and a tank top. When you were wearing your nicer clothes, the others would make a face at you and ask you who died. You would only roll your eyes at them before going into a conference room. After your meetings, you would simply go back to your room to change into something more casual. 

The added security they gave you was nice, too. They treated you like a friend, not just an employee. They invited you out for their team gatherings because to them, you were part of their team. You may not be fighting on the field with them, but you helped keep their lives in check. They made sure to let you know that they appreciated you.

Oftentimes, when they would come home from missions that were overseas, you would find different trinkets and souvenirs waiting for you. Bucky was the type to leave them in your room without ever saying a word to you. In the beginning, you had no idea that it was him. Steve and Natasha presented you their presents directly, handing them to you with smiles on their faces. The others would leave them on your desk with a note. At this point, you had an entire bookshelf in your room dedicated to the little things that they had brought back for you during their trips. 

It touched your heart every single time that they even thought about you while they were out there. That they saw something on the street in the middle of their mission, thought that you would like it, and paused their pursuit just to get it for you. 

One time, Bucky got you an obsidian rock with a gold shine on it. It looked like his arm. Steve later told you that he found it on the ground, and thought you’d like it. He was right. You polished that rock and put it on your nightstand. 

You had to remind yourself of those sweet gifts right now, as you were hauling laundry through the halls. Your blood pressure was rising with each step. 

No one was around. 

Steve and Bucky should be down in the gym around this time– it was their allotted training time. Everyone knew better than to try and get in the way of two super soldiers in training, though sometimes others would just watch them spar. It wasn’t a good idea to try and get in the middle of it though. 

Natasha and Clint were most likely in the firing range practicing some new tricks with the arrows that Clint had just designed in the lab. He’d been so excited to finally play around with them, to show off his new toys to Natasha. He’d been waiting for her all week to give him some time, and she finally followed him down there. 

Sam told you that he would be spending his free day in the lab, messing with Redwing. This morning, he grunted to you that he completely had to fix the poor machine. During their last mission, Bucky had ‘accidentally’ slammed into Redwing, squashing it into a wall. Something about the look in his eyes lets you know that Sam doesn’t believe that it was an accident. 

Tony was completely out of the compound for the next two days. He and Pepper were on a much needed couples trip. If you remembered correctly (and you did), it was their anniversary trip. You had tried convincing the scientist to take a longer trip– you even cleared out his schedules completely, and planned the trip for him months ago. He merely gave you a smile and let you know it was okay. You still didn’t expect to see him for another week. 

Wanda was in the kitchen, with Vision. It was her turn to cook lunch for the remaining members in the compound, and Vision insisted on assisting her. That means, her prep and cooking time would be increased by triple as she attempted to walk him through every single step patiently. 

Honestly, there was no party since Tony wasn’t around. There was no reason that you should be grabbing their laundry, but it was the routine. If you broke routine now, after doing this for so long, then you might as well throw away your entire schedule. That, and you were slightly afraid of the amount of clothes that would pile up in their rooms if you simply let it rot for another week. 

You should’ve let the fucking laundry fester.

“Fuck–” Steve groaned at the same time Bucky moaned his name.

You saw sin and felt regret fill your entire body. Then, they met your eyes. Both men, stopping in their actions of pure pleasure– wide eyed, breathless, flustered– staring at you with shock. They were both sweaty, tangled in each other, completely bare. You’d seen more of them than you ever thought you’d have the privilege of witnessing. 

You tore your eyes away as quickly as you could. You felt your heartbeat pounding in your neck as you searched for the laundry basket that you knew was to the right of Bucky’s door– and snatched it like it owed you some sort of debt. You didn’t say a word before you slammed the door shut, and ran down the hall, dragging everyone’s dirty clothes and secrets with you. 

From what you could tell– no one knew about the relationship between the two of them, and you sure as hell weren’t going to sell them out either. If this was something that they would keep private between themselves, then so be it. It was just a damn shame that they had to be all over each other when you were doing your job. 

You did what any logical person would do in this situation. 

You avoided them.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been too difficult. You knew their schedules like the back of your hand. You knew what time Steve woke up to go run outside because he preferred to breathe fresh air instead of using the treadmill. You knew what time that Bucky generally fell asleep after his insomniac brain calmed down for the night. You knew what time both of them sat down for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You controlled their meeting schedules, debriefs, and other things. You had full access to the security cameras in the compound from a few taps on your phone, and you could definitely look for them if you thought they were hiding somewhere. Avoiding them should not have been hard for you. 

Then again, you really did think you knew their schedules. But if you really did, you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. They were supposed to be in the gym, working up a sweat by avoiding each other’s fists, not working up a sweat by fisting each other’s cocks. 

You pushed the mental image out of your mind as you walked down the hall, squeezing your tablet to your chest a little tighter. You needed to focus. You had a meeting with some officials later that you couldn’t fuck up. You needed to complete a presentation on why they should leave the Avengers alone for the thousandth time that year. 

However, it was like both men decided overnight to make your life a living hell. 

Both Steve and Bucky were in the conference room that you were supposed to be in. Their hushed conversation died down when you entered. Your steps faltered, but you gave them a small, polite smile. There was a chair’s distance in between them, and your eyebrows furrowed briefly at it. Usually, they sat beside each other during the team meetings and debriefs. 

“Good morning,” you greeted. “You guys don’t have to be here for this meeting. It’s not on your agenda.”

“You’re defending us to assholes every other week. I think it’s fair we sit in, maybe intimidate them a little bit,” Bucky muttered, sitting back in his seat, relaxed and poised. His ankle is crossed over his knee as he stares at you, a tilt in his head. Every single one of your movements is being observed. He’s watching you like some sort of predator, and you’ve never felt smaller. 

You looked at Steve next, for help, but maybe you should’ve known better. Of course he would agree with his fucking boyfriend because he just gave you a pretty smile, and nodded. 

And the committee that came in didn’t know about your inner turmoil, and none of them wanted to sit in between either of the super soldiers. Once the chairs had filled up, once you finished shaking hands with everyone– you realized this was their plan from the start. You had to sit yourself right in between them, pretend that you weren’t screaming inside, and start the meeting.

It was a little easier once you got going. You could ignore both men. They didn’t say much, only nodded in agreement with your words or grunted in disapproval when the committee said something fucking stupid. 

Eventually, thanks to your pie charts and eloquent words, you managed to push back and gain some more freedom for your bosses-slash-friends after a two hour long argument. You watched as the committee left, giving them a pretty, satisfied smile as they muttered under their breath about getting you next time. 

“Is that how these meetings always go?” Steve asked you. 

“Just about,” you sighed, running your hand through your hair. “They just spew bullshit at me, and they think they’re right. Obviously, they’re not.”

“You hold your ground pretty well,” he murmured. “I’m sorry that we leave you to deal with this. With them.”

You could only shrug, though there was a little tingle of pride that began to blossom in your chest. Well, to be fair– this is why they hired you to begin with. To make their lives easier in every single aspect. Not just laundry and snacks. 

“You guys fight out there. It’s my job to make sure that you guys can keep fighting the important battles,” you told him, briefly meeting his eyes. 

Steve stares at you, for just a few moments. He’s studying your features, looking you up and down. Briefly, you recognize something in his eyes. There’s admiration. It makes you feel giddy. Noticed. A smile comes onto your face. 

It’s quiet in the conference room for a few moments as you finish organizing the notes and packets that you received from the useless officials that were just in the room moments ago. You grab your tablet next, and move to stand.

“About what happened earlier this week–” Bucky began to speak, and your body bristles.

No. You do not want to talk about this. Not now, not ever. You can go the rest of your life pretending that you never saw them, actually. 

“I have another meeting to get to,” you cut him off, shoving the rolling chair behind you so hard that it hits the wall. It’s a lie. You have no meeting. This was your only calendar item for the morning, and you’re free until after lunch.

Still, you’re all but running out the door seconds later. You don’t turn back even when Steve calls out your name to try and get you to stop. You’re disappearing down the hall, rushing to your private office as fast as you can, and locking the door behind you. 

Neither man gives up on attempting to corner you.

You’ve found solace in latching onto another team member every single chance that you get. 

You’ve stuck by Clint’s side in the hallways, chatting with him over updates on his kids when you know that Steve and Bucky are waiting for you around the corner to ambush you. You give him ideas on what gifts to give to his kids, and you even start an Amazon wishlist for him so that he can easily send some presents back home. 

When Tony returns from his anniversary trip with Pepper (that you accurately guessed he would take a week instead of two days), you started to spend your free time in the lab with him. You even started allowing him to spew random science terms at you that you normally would nod off to. Right now, it’s the best thing you could’ve ever asked for, especially when you can see Bucky’s shadow in the corner of your eye, stalking you. 

You wondered if this is what it was like to be hunted by the Winter Soldier. 

You avoid Sam, though you know it confuses him. Sam is a little too close for comfort with both super soldiers. He would invite them into a conversation, and then Sam could possibly be dragged away from that same conversation, and leave you alone to confront the same demons that you’ve been hiding from for over a week now. You’re still polite with him, but you try not to be caught with him alone. 

You don’t even try with Vision. 

Wanda and Natasha are definitely your safest bets. Out of everyone on the team, they were the ones that you got closest with first– that broke down the wall of boss and assistant. They were more than overjoyed when you were hired, and they were the only ones on the team that listened to you when you asked them to set their laundry out, and to update the digital list when they wanted more snacks or supplies.

So, you remained glued to one or both of their sides. You didn’t tell either of them what was going on, even though they both could tell you were on edge. 

You still remained professional throughout each debrief meeting and team gathering. You conducted each mission report with ease, ignoring the gaping hole that Steve and Bucky were burning into the sides of your head. You smiled politely, and quickly excused yourself out of the room each time. You didn’t want to be caught alone with them. 

If, on the off chance, you didn’t have anyone to grab onto, you locked yourself into your own room or office. You knew you couldn’t keep living like this. You just hoped that both of them would drop it, and the three of you could just forget about it. 

And it seemed that’s exactly what happened. 

After about another two weeks of avoiding them, they both stopped staring. Stopped waiting for you around corners, stopped sitting in during your personal meetings with the committees, and they continued as they were before. Steve would give you his polite smiles from across the room as he greeted you. Bucky would wish you a good morning in the hall as he walked by.

Your world finally went back to normal. You didn’t have to use a buddy system to go around your workplace. You didn’t have to leave the compound entirely, spending the night at your parent’s place because you didn’t feel like using the designated room you had in the apartments complex in the compound in fear that the men would somehow catch you off guard– and you definitely didn’t have to look over your shoulder trying to hide from soldiers that had much more experience than you did when it came to hunting. 

You could finally breathe again.  

You looked down at your tablet, running the stock of the weapons room before cursing to yourself. Very briefly, you wondered if someone on the team forgot to sign off on their casings– if they took more than they thought they did.

You looked through the lot numbers with a frown, shaking your head. You needed to get more, order more of the generic kinds of bullets that they had for their rifles and handguns. Then, you needed to go beg Tony to make some more of the special kinds of bullets and have to ask him to forgive you even though it wasn’t your fault for not noticing. He always would. 

Except you knew this would end in another impromptu team meeting where Tony would stress the importance of signing when you take shit from the collective team armory. You know a few of them, like Clint and Wanda, would tune out during the meeting. After all, they didn’t use guns. 

“You would think that F.R.I.D.A.Y. would be programmed to have this shit weighed like one of those hotel mini fridges that auto charges the room,” you muttered to yourself, tapping your screen. You sat down on the bench behind you, letting out a deep sigh. 

“Oh, shit. Are we going to be pulled into another meeting?”

You straightened at the voice, turning around. Bucky was at the entrance of the door, a frown on his face. He looked a little breathless, and he was wearing a compression shirt with the Avengers logo on his bicep, along with sweatpants. He must’ve gotten back from the gym– actually from the gym. 

You couldn’t help the smile that came onto your face at the slight despair in his voice. You turned back towards the shelves, shaking your head.

“It’s not a meeting. Think of it as a… get-together. Just a chat,” you replied.

“Right– because being yelled at by Stark is just a chat,” Bucky snorted as he walked into the armory, going towards his locker. He unlocked it, grabbing a towel to wipe at his forehead. 

“I mean, I don’t see your sign-outs on the log,” you hummed, pulling up the spreadsheet onto your screen. “And you sound pretty defensive. Seems like you’re guilty of something, Bucky.”

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” he responded. “I’m not the only one that doesn’t use the sign out sheet. I know Sam doesn’t.”

“Are you just ratting him out now to save your own ass?” you scoffed.

“I’m lessening my load of the blame.”

You rolled your eyes, your smile growing just a bit wider as your eyes scanned the shelves one last time, checking to make sure you did a proper count before you placed the order. 

“Is there anything you need me to get for you?” you asked him, scrolling through the cart on your tablet screen one more time. “Any spare parts or wiring for your arm that Tony doesn’t have? Do I need to contact Princess Shuri for anything?”

You could hear the gears in his arm whirring, and you looked up at him. You watched as Bucky flexed, and you felt your mouth go dry for a moment as you stared. His arm was pretty– but Bucky himself was just pretty. The compression shirt he wore also did little to hide every single line and contour of his muscles as he flexed. You followed the line of sweat that went down his neck, disappearing down the collar of his shirt. 

He was looking down at himself, thankfully, and not at you. He couldn’t see that you were blatantly ogling a taken man. You moved your eyes up towards his face right as he looked back at you, and you gave him a trained smile, waiting for his response. 

“Arm’s good. Thank you,” he answered, giving you a nod.

“Anytime. Just let me know, or send me a text if you need me to get you something,” you said, looking back down at your tablet.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him still turned towards you. Still watching you. Briefly, you felt a flash of PTSD wash through your body– like how you felt over a month ago when you were trying to avoid him and Steve entirely. 

You forced your body to relax because that war had already passed. You’ve had several conversations with both Steve and Bucky– just like this one that you’re having right now– and you’ve been completely fine. You busy yourself with the order, input Tony’s business card number that you know by heart, and choose the express delivery option. 

You let out a sigh of relief when you see that the delivery will come within two days. Enough time before their next mission. 

“Lucky for you, no team meeting needed,” you said, standing. “Only because I caught the low stock in time.”

“My savior,” he chuckled, shaking his head. 

You’re moving now, thoughts already occupied to your next task– which is the pantry– when Bucky’s hand clasps over your upper arm. His grip isn’t hard at all. You could easily slip out of his touch if you wanted to. No, this is just to stop you from leaving. Not to hurt or harm you.

“Did you think of something?” you asked, eyes dropping down to where he had his hand on you. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, and released you. 

Your arm feels cold without him there. Then, you feel something behind you– a presence. You look over your shoulder, and Steve is standing in the doorway, blocking your only exit route. You freeze, looking between them for a few seconds.

Dread is filling your stomach as you clutch your tablet in your hands. Bucky gently takes the device from you before you can break it, putting it into his locker so you can’t even create an excuse for needing to be somewhere else. You look at him damn near helplessly as he shuts his locker, and presses his back against it. 

“I thought we were over this,” you said slowly.

Steve shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. “We just let you think that we were. I didn’t realize that the civilian we hired was actually an agent when she didn’t want to be caught.”

“Take a seat,” Bucky told you, gesturing back towards the bench.

You can’t do anything but listen. Once you’re seated, Steve enters the armory, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t linger too far away from the door. Maybe it’s to ensure that you can’t run. Even if you get close, you don’t have that much faith in yourself to outmaneuver them. They hold you with too much regard in their heads. 

“Why can’t we just… I don’t know– not talk about this?” you frowned at them as they stood in front of you. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the first person that’s walked in on their friends fucking each other like rabbits– we do not have to discuss the logistics of me seeing all three seconds of your possibly extensive intimate life.”

“You… have a very indecent mouth,” Steve said slowly, and Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes. 

“You haven’t told anyone?” Bucky asked, looking you up and down.

“Why would I?” you asked, exasperated. “That’s not my business to tell! Is that what this is about? I could care less if you were fuck buddies or married– literally, I do not care. Is this some leftover stigma that’s instilled in your bones from the forties? Guys, we’re in the 21st Century. Men being in a relationship is not uncommon these days. I grew up with gay uncles. This is not new for me or literally anyone on the street.”

“Is that what we are to you? Gay uncles?” Steve asked. There’s an amused look on his face that makes you want to laugh, but nothing about this scenario is funny to you. You want to leave. Run. Start looking over your shoulder, and jump at shadows again. 

“Grandpas, maybe, with the way you both hold a fucking grudge,” you muttered. 

The way Bucky raised his eyebrows at you makes you straighten up completely. You clear your throat, slightly intimidated, and you look everywhere but their face as you try to come up with your next words.

“Listen, okay, I’m sorry,” you said, swallowing thickly. And you really do mean it– you don’t want to walk in on any of your friends doing the deed. “I thought you both were in the gym. Like you were supposed to be, and it was laundry day. If you guys just put your fucking baskets out in the hall like I’ve told you several times, then I wouldn’t have seen you guys naked, and heard you guys moan each other’s names, but I promise I haven’t told anyone. I’ll take this to my grave.”

They’re both silent for a few moments, and you mustered up the courage to look at them. Steve and Bucky aren’t looking at you. They’re looking at each other, having some sort of silent conversation that you know only couples that have been together for years can have. 

You honestly have nothing else to lose. 

“By the way– who the fuck has sex on a Tuesday morning, and doesn’t lock their bedroom door?” you added, watching both of their heads snap back towards you. “Especially a couple that is trying to remain hidden?”

A laugh fell from Bucky’s lips as Steve chuckled beside him, shaking his head. Just like that, the tension you felt in your body was disappearing. 

“You got us there,” Steve nodded, hands on his hips.  

You let out a breath of relief, shoulders sagging just slightly. You rubbed your palms onto your thighs, and closed your eyes briefly as you let yourself relax for a second. “Can I go now? Are we done here?”

“Not quite.”

Your head snapped back up. “What? Is this not it?”

“I heard something interesting, a few months back from Nat,” Steve started, and your eyebrows furrowed at him. You had no idea where the conversation was going now. “You know, she’s always trying to set me up on dates, and I keep shooting her down.”

“Right,” you nodded slowly, then gestured between them. “And now I know why. Do you want me to try and get her off your case without alerting her?”

“No, no. That’s not it,” Steve shook his head, smiling at you. “She tried setting me up with you.”

Your lips parted, and you blinked at him. You could feel the color draining from your face as your heart worked overtime to keep all your bodily functions working properly. You were going to kill Natasha. Yeah– that’s who you were gonna murder in cold blood. 

“She told me that you confessed to her something about climbing me like a tree–”

“Stop fucking talking,” you cut Steve off, raising a hand up in the air. You couldn’t look at him, and your eyes were trained on the ground as your other hand came to cover your face. You tried focusing on your breathing. Slowly, you lowered your hands to your lap as you took in a breath. “Obviously, I didn’t fucking know you were a taken man. I wouldn’t have said that shit if I knew–”

“She also said that you stare at me a lot during training,” Bucky interjected. 

“You know… I used to think talks between girls were sacred, confidential… I’m gonna kill her,” you murmured, more to yourself than either of them. 

The armory was silent, save for the thumping of your heart wreaking havoc in your chest out of pure shame and embarrassment. Maybe you wouldn’t even have time to kill the assassin. You were certain that you were going to die here. Maybe from heart palpitations. 

Your leg started to bounce up and down as you pulled your lip in between your teeth. Your clothes were clinging onto your skin uncomfortably, and your blood was burning, heating and blossoming in color that you were certain that both men could see. You could feel the weight of their eyes on you, never pulling away, consistently watching you. 

You can’t even deny it. You can’t deny what Natasha said, try to say that she’s lying because that wouldn’t be right either. You did say that about Steve, and just moments ago you were looking at Bucky like you were going moments away from having a wet daydream. You were attracted to both men, and that was a clear and obvious fact. 

You took in another breath, and held it for a few moments.

You’re scared. They must be disgusted with you, you think. You’re not only their friend, but their assistant. You work with them, handle their private schedules, and you know everything about them. It’s not right for you to be having these kinds of thoughts about them, let alone voicing it out loud to anyone. Forget about losing your job– you’re afraid of losing their trust. 

“It was… inappropriate for me to talk about you, and look at you like that,” you decided to say, coming up with the best professional apology that you could muster. “I’ll be careful to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Sweetheart, what? No– we’re actually about to ask you if you wanted to join us in bed.”

The pounding in your chest stops abruptly as your head snaps up towards Bucky. You’re certain he could see the shock and confusion all over your face, and he gives you a smile– almost boyish. There’s no repulsion on his face. He almost looks a little giddy, relaxed.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Steve, but he’s all fuckin’ muscle. There’s nothing soft about his body,” he continued, a deep sigh escaping his chest.

“You think there’s anything soft about you?” Steve demanded, raising an eyebrow at him. “You have a vibranium arm. Do you think that’s comfortable to sleep next to?”

“I have another arm, Rogers. I don’t know why you insist on taking the left side of the bed,” Bucky shot back. 

“It’s my preference,” Steve grunted. 

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve, crossing his arms as he turned slightly to look at his boyfriend. They’re engaging in some light hearted banter, one that you don’t care enough to tune into. Not when you’re trying to make sense of what was just said to you.  

Time doesn’t exactly feel real, but you’re watching them argue in the way that you’ve watched your parents argue many times before. You’re certain that they’ll make up soon, give each other a light peck on the lips, and then walk out of the room holding hands and talk about what they’ll eat for dinner soon. But, the question still remains–

“You want me to sleep with you? Both of you?” you finally asked.

They both turned to you, not like they just suddenly remembered that you were there. No, they were fully aware of your presence the entire time. Steve gives you a smile, and nods. And Bucky hums.

“Only if you want to,” Steve said.

“Why me?” you asked. It’s the only logical question you can think of at the moment.

“Because you’re the only one who knows about the two of us,” Bucky shrugged, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “And you’ve shown obvious interest in us. It’s a win-win scenario for all of us, isn’t it?”

“In that case, then it doesn’t have to be… me right? I’m sure you could go find a third to join you somewhere else. Someone discreet that can keep secrets,” you quickly said, your mind reeling. “I don’t– I don’t want to be some last minute option to some fantasy–”

“Hang on,” Steve quickly cut you off, coming forth. He’s kneeling in front of you know, hands closing over yours. He’s eye level with you, stopping all of your self deprecating thoughts before it can start spilling out. “You’re not a last minute option. Truthfully, you’re the first option and the only option. Since we heard what Natasha said, we’ve actually been discussing it– discussing you. There’s just not an easy way to bring all of… this up. Also, it’s not just a fantasy, sweetheart. Bucky and I have been with girls before, you know that right?”

“I… have been made aware,” you nodded slowly.

Steve shrugged at you. “So it’s just us wanting to get back into it, just sharing someone with each other. And we like you. You’re reliable, smart, and very pretty. You’ve kept our secret for the past month, and we are very thankful for that. And like we said– no pressure. If this isn’t something that you want to do, then we don’t have to. You don’t have to. It’s just an offer.”

Man. You hate Captain America. 

The leader of the Avengers– fuckin’ great at speeches and good at talking people down from heightened emotions. He’s talking to you incredibly softly, gently. His hand is warm on top of yours, grounding you in place where you sit. He doesn’t stray away from eye contact, and the blue of his eyes are cozy– if that even makes sense. It does, to you. 

You look behind him, towards Bucky, and he offers you a nod of agreement. 

“You don’t have to decide right now, doll,” Bucky added. “Just let us know whenever you’re ready– oh. Steve rarely uses his room, by the way. So, if you make up your mind, you know where to find us.”

With that, Steve stands. He offers you one last smile, and they both leave you there in the armory to sit with your thoughts. Your dirty fucking thoughts. 

A week went by since that afternoon. They had gone on an overseas mission, came back with a few cuts and scrapes. You sat through a few government meetings with fake smiles plastered onto your face. You greeted both Steve and Bucky whenever you saw them over those seven days. You had regular, civil conversations with them. 

They came up to you when you did your regular tasks, asked you about things around the compound. You found a new gift on your bed from Bucky when they returned from the mission. Steve asked you about the debrief that was scheduled next week. Both of them asked you if it was really necessary for them to attend Tony’s party at the end of the month, and if they really needed to be fitted for a new suit.  When you said yes, they both groaned. You threatened to drag them to the tailor if they missed their appointments.

It was too normal. As if the conversation you had with them never happened, as if they didn’t offer to turn your world upside down. Well– they didn’t say that. You had just laid awake in your bed, imagining what they would do to you.

Those three seconds that you witnessed were all you had as a preview, but those three seconds felt like a lifetime. You could only imagine what would happen if you were involved in the mix between two super soldiers with insane amounts of stamina. They reserved the gym’s sparring area for two hour blocks because they could keep fighting for hours at a time. The only reason they didn’t go for longer was so they could go for the punching bags instead, and work on their forms. 

Would you even survive a single night with them?

The question echoed heavily throughout your mind as you stood in front of Bucky’s door. You knew better this time– you knocked. And you waited, but not for long. It opened, just a crack, and you saw the soldier peek through the sliver he created, then visibly relax when he saw it was just you. 

“Come on in,” Bucky told you, opening the door wider for you. 

You forced your feet to move, to step through the threshold of his door. Steve was already in bed, but moved to sit up against the headboard when he saw you. Both men were in pajamas– Steve in a t-shirt and shorts, Bucky wearing a white tank top and cotton pants. They were both watching you, curious.

“I’ve never done something like this before,” you told them, feeling a little exposed under their gaze. You laced your hands together nervously, just to give yourself something to do. “Have you guys?”

“Nope,” Bucky answered. “It’s new for all of us.”

That made you feel slightly better. You watched as Steve came off of the bed, and both men moved to stand in front of you– just a singular step away. You looked up at both of them, breath caught in your throat.

“Are you sure about this?” Steve asked, voice soft, reassuring. You nodded, and he let out a small laugh before he shook his head. “You gotta say it, pretty thing. We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You studied their faces for a moment. They were both being patient with you, waiting for you to give them permission. Steve’s gaze was gentle, soft, just like he was in the armory, but there was something darker swirling behind his eyes. Bucky was a little more blatant in his hunger. His jaw was clenched as he looked at you, storm grey eyes looking you up and down, before settling on your face as he waited for your answer. 

“I’m sure,” you whispered, finally releasing the breath you were holding. 

They must’ve really talked about this in depth because their actions were coordinated. Careful. Almost like a dance. 

Bucky reached for you first, pulling you into him while Steve sidestepped you to stand behind you, effectively sandwiching you behind both men. In one quick second, Bucky’s lips were on yours, while Steve busied himself with gathering your hair to the side to attach his mouth to your neck and shoulders. 

“You smell good. Did you just shower?” Steve hummed against your neck.

Of course you showered before coming here. Why wouldn’t you? You scrubbed and shaved every part of your body until you were silky smooth. You lathered on your lotion to ensure that your skin was bouncy, then made sure to layer on your perfume and waited the perfume amount of time to ensure that it soaked into the crevices of your pores before you made the journey to Bucky’s room. You didn’t just do your regular date night ritual— you went above and beyond. 

“Yeah,” you murmured against Bucky’s lips— and he took it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. You couldn’t help but let out a soft noise against his mouth, and he squeezed your waist in appreciation. 

Steve’s hands shifted at your hips, tugging at the hem of your shirt, tugging the material upwards. Bucky released your lips briefly to allow Steve to pull your shirt over your head, and watched as Steve cupped your breasts from behind. He kneaded the mounds slowly, your breath hitching as he experimentally massaged you, trying to see what you liked the most. 

“Mm… You’re right, Buck. It is nice to have someone soft,” Steve chuckled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Ah, Steve—“ you gasped, pressing back into his chest as Steve took your nipples in his fingers, rolling the slowly hardening peaks between his fingertips. 

“You owe me money,” Steve said to Bucky, and you could hear a grin on his voice– almost bragging. “I made her say my name first.”

“There’s still more bets on the table,” he grunted, swatting Steve’s hands away from you. You were being torn away from the warmth of Steve, and pulled into the cool touch of Bucky. The temperature difference was alarming, but it wasn’t unwelcome. 

“Bets?” you whispered to Bucky as he hoisted you into his arms, your legs being wrapped around his waist. 

You’ve been in Bucky’s room before, but not for long periods of time. You’ve only been here to grab his laundry basket, hang up his dry cleaning and his suits in his closet, and drop off any new gear that had been developed in the lab onto his bed. But now, Bucky’s bringing you to his bed. 

“Don’t worry about it, doll,” he hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before he laid you down onto the mattress. “Just relax.”

Then, you were being dragged away from under him, and up the bed. You were half laying, half sitting against Steve’s chest, who was resting back against the headboard, like he was when you first walked into the room.

“You’re hogging her all to yourself, Buck,” the blonde soldier clicked his tongue disapprovingly. His hand came up from behind you, cradling your jaw to turn you to face him, to kiss him. Unlike Bucky, who was trying to take it easy on you, it seemed like something had snapped within Steve. The kiss was hungry, deep, and he didn’t ask for entry. He demanded it– licking into your mouth and exploring like he owned the space. 

If Bucky cared that Steve was suddenly taking all of your attention, he didn’t show it. No, Bucky busied himself with other matters that were more important to him. Like taking your shorts off of you. 

Steve didn’t let you break the kiss from him. In fact, his hand tangled into your hair, holding you in place as Bucky dragged the last remaining fabric off and away from your body, then settled himself between your legs and Bucky kissed your other lips. 

You couldn’t keep kissing Steve back, not when Bucky’s tongue was doing pretty circles around your clit, and one of his fingers was poking at your entrance, but never fully pressing inside. Steve didn’t hold it against you thankfully. He kept one hand in your hair, keeping your head tilted to the side to give him some space to watch the show in front of him while his other hand paid attention to a hardened nipple.

“Jesus– fuck, Bucky,” you whimpered, your hips twitching up into Bucky’s face. 

Bucky chuckled against you, and his vibranium hand came to your stomach to gently keep you in place, warning you to stay put. You would say that it wouldn’t be too hard not to, with two super soldiers having their hands all over you, but you were having a difficult time staying still. 

Their touches were barely anything at all. They continued to ghost over your skin. The only real pressure you got was Bucky’s tongue, but even that wasn’t much. He was enjoying every single little sound you made, every little tremble of your legs around his head– and Steve was humming right beside your ear. Both of them were enjoying the sight in front of them.

They were trying to break you, and it was working. 

“Please,” you begged, so impossibly needy.

“Please what?” Steve asked you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “What do you want, sweet girl?”

Anything, at this point. But Bucky’s moved away from your core, and Steve’s also removed his hand from your chest. They’re both on the same fucking wavelength– they’re adamant on making your life harder. What did you expect though? These two grew up together, fought in the same war together, and went through hell and back for each other– of course they would have each other’s back like this. 

“Your pussy is soaked, doll,” Bucky said, cutting through your mental conflict. You looked back down at him, and nearly sob when he takes his fingers, and parts your folds, and tilts his head at the sight of you– fully on display for him. A smile comes to his face when he watches your aching hole squeeze around nothing at all. 

A moan rips through your throat as Bucky sinks two fingers inside of you without warning, all the way down to his knuckles. Steve adjusts his hold on you, locking his arm around your waist as he presses a comforting kiss onto your shoulder. 

Just as quickly as Bucky filled you, he’s leaving you– and the loss is immediate. You let out a whimper, but Steve moans when he sees the arousal left behind on Bucky’s fingers. 

“Shit– she really is wet,” Steve muttered, and Bucky grinned, shifting onto his knees between your legs. You can only watch with uneven breaths as Bucky brings his fingers to Steve’s mouth– and he licks all of your juices clean off of Bucky’s fingers.

“Our poor girl is so deprived, huh?” Bucky hummed, watching Steve for a few moments before looking back down at you. “All you do is work. Never heard you talk to the other girls about getting fucked good. Don’t worry, pretty girl. We’ll take care of you. Just gotta let us know what you want.”

“God– I want your cock,” you whimpered, breathless. You met his eyes as a grin came over his features, and he lowered himself on you, capturing your lips in an open mouthed kiss. You could feel the outline of him through his pajamas pressing against your leg, hard, thick, and waiting for you–

“Fuck,” Steve cursed behind you. It wasn’t one that sounded like he was enjoying what he saw. In fact, he sounded annoyed. You and Bucky broke the kiss, and looked at him. His eyebrow was creased, and his jaw was clenched. 

Confusion and worry washed over your features as you looked between both men, but Bucky quickly pressed another kiss to your lips, a silent reassurance that everything was okay before he sat back on his knees and pulled his tank top over his head. 

“Now you owe me money, Steve,” Bucky told him, relishing in his win as he undid the tie on his pants.

Oh. Another bet, you realized.  

“Shut the fuck up, and fuck her already,” Steve grunted, reaching forward to grab your legs, spreading you open for his boyfriend.

“Working on it. Be patient,” Bucky chuckled, and kicked his pants off– now just as naked as you were. Your eyes immediately traced down his body, watching as the length of him stood proud, slapping against his stomach as it came free from the confines of his pajamas.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him. All of it went straight down to your core, producing extra arousal for him to allow him to just slip in easier because there was no way that he would fit otherwise. In fact, you could feel Steve’s dick against your back this entire time, hard and thick, and you didn’t even know if he would fit you either–

“You’re staring,” Steve murmured behind you, nipping at your neck.

“Am I not supposed to?” you whispered back, making him chuckle as his lips moved up to your jaw, trying to catch your lips again. He was distracting you, while Bucky got into position, dragging himself between your folds. It wasn’t working well.

You felt the head of Bucky’s cock slowly press in, and your mouth paused against Steve’s lips. Bucky cursed above you as Steve’s hands tightened behind your knees, keeping you just where you needed to be for Bucky as he slowly pressed in, bottoming out completely. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky groaned, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist. You leaned your head back against Steve’s shoulder as you nodded in agreement. You couldn’t say a word in response. “Steve– fuck– you’re gonna love her pussy.”

“Stretch her out good for me,” Steve said.

Bucky took those words like a challenge. 

You were already so tightly wound up from Bucky’s mouth on you, their hands all over you but not doing anything much, and now? Your first orgasm ripped through you without any warning– and you found out another bet was won by Bucky at that moment. Even so, Bucky continued fucking into you like this was the only thing task he had to complete, and he was doing it well. 

He pulled out all the way until only the tip of his cock was left behind, and then dove right back in– hard– meeting your hips with such vigor that made you see stars behind your eyes. You were reduced to a whimpering, moaning mess under Bucky– and he was eating it up. Your chin fell to your chest, and you could see it– you could watch where he entered and exited you with each thrust, and the sight made you tremble in Steve’s arms. 

“Are you gonna cry?” he cooed at you, almost mockingly, grabbing your face to force you to look at him. All the while, he never stopped fucking you. If it wasn’t for Steve’s assistance, you were certain that you would’ve tried wrapping your legs around his waist now, or pulling away from him out of pure overstimulation. “Sweet thing, you gonna cry on my cock?”

“Think you broke her, Buck,” Steve chuckled from behind you. 

“All stupid and cock drunk, aren’t you?” Bucky grunted, hips slamming into yours to force a noise out of you, and his fingers slipped into your mouth. “Gotta wake up, baby. You gotta fuck Stevie after me, remember? We can’t leave him hanging. He’s being so good for us, so patient.”

You could only give him a muffled reply with his fingers stuffed into your mouth, tears prickling into the corners of your eyes, and he hummed in response– satisfied with your answer.

Bucky’s fingers left your mouth, much to your despair, returning to your waist. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, less calculated. You heard Steve’s breath hitch behind you, felt him shift a little against your back. You could feel Bucky’s cock twitch inside you.

“Shit, doll— can I cum in you?” Bucky moaned, meeting your eyes. His voice was softer now, a little desperate. “Tell me where I can—“

“Inside me,” you choked out, your voice a little hoarse. “Please, it’s okay— I’m on the pill—“

His hand was wrapping around your throat a second later, his mouth on yours in a wet, messy kiss. Your own walls began to tremble around him as your legs began to shake. Moments later, you felt it. The warmth of his load spilling inside you, the tremble of his body against yours as he came, and he was moaning into your mouth, your name falling from his lips.

Slowly, Steve let go of your legs. You could feel your muscles scream with the release, finally happy to be resting in a more natural position as they came down. Bucky still continued to kiss you, murmuring soft praises about how good you are and how sweet you feel around his cock. 

He’s slipping out of you moments later, partially soft, and your body goes rigid as his fingers scoop up his cum and shove it back into your hole. 

“Can’t waste a drop, doll,” Bucky clicked his tongue at you, leaning back down to press another kiss to your lips. “Don’t let any of it spill before you get on Steve’s dick.”

Gently, he’s pulling you up. You have no feeling in your body— you’re sated and boneless, but he’s right. Steve’s been waiting, patiently, quietly, and you turn to him.

“Take this off, Steve,” Bucky grunted, tugging on his shirt as he dropped onto the bed beside the two of you. You’re also reaching for the hem of Steve’s shirt, pulling it off of Steve’s body, and tossing it off to the side somewhere. 

You rested your hands on Steve’s shoulders, looking down at him— his bare chest, as his hands rested on your hips. He was also checking you out, looking in between your legs where you definitely failed to keep Bucky’s release fully inside of you. 

He sucked in a breath at the sight, and looked back up at you. 

“Feel good, sweetheart?” he asked you. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, giving him a smile. “Wanna make you feel good, too.”

“Jesus,” he groaned, head leaning back and hitting the wall. You took the chance to trail your hands down his chest, and Steve’s lips parted, watching your every move as his hands on you tightened. Your hand dipped below the waistband of his shorts, going directly for his cock, feeling him out. 

Ah.

Bucky definitely stretched you out for Steve, but the fit would still be tight. Where Bucky was long, and filled you in all the way, Steve would be ripping you apart. 

You stroked him just a few times, spreading the precum that leaked over his length, and you watched Steve’s expression for a few moments before leaning forward, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips. 

Bucky wasn’t having it. 

“You’re stalling,” he tutted, pulling you and Steve away from the headboard. 

The sound of fabric tearing filled the room, and there was nothing left between you and Steve as he laid beneath you, your hands on his abdomen for stability. 

“Buck—“

“Shut up. She feels so good when she’s overstimulated. I’m doing you a favor, Stevie, and she’s trying to recover,” Bucky grunted. 

Bucky was behind you, kneeling, an arm wrapped around your waist as you straddled Steve’s hips. Between your legs, he’s holding Steve’s cock, lining him up with your entrance, and sinking you down in one fluid motion that makes both you and Steve gasp out in unison.

Steve’s hands reach for both of you— one hand on your thigh and one hand grabbing Bucky’s hand as he shifts to hold onto your waist.

“Bucky— Bucky fuck slow down—“ Steve cuts himself off with a moan.

You can only whimper in agreement, fingernails digging into Steve’s body as Bucky himself sets the pace. He’s controlling this— he’s fucking you directly onto Steve, hands on your waist, lifting you up and down with ease on Steve’s cock. 

“What? You don’t like it?” Bucky chuckled from behind you. “Isn’t she so warm, Stevie? You don’t like how your cock is soaked with both mine and her cum right now?”

You clamp down around Steve in response to Bucky’s words, and a loud curse falls from Steve’s lips as his eyes fall shut. 

“Jesus fucking— Buck— shut the fuck up, you saying all that shit is— just making her—“ 

Steve can’t even finish his own sentence, not when Bucky is grinding your hips against Steve’s, humming in approval at his own handiwork. He’s enjoying this, watching both of you fall to pieces in his hands. 

“You’ve been doing this all night. Since when do you talk back to me?” Bucky asked Steve, lifting you up off of Steve. You see the panic in the soldier’s eyes at the realization, and he pushes himself onto his elbows to meet Bucky’s gaze. 

And you are empty. You’re dripping all over Steve, soaking him beneath you, and a whimper falls from your lips. 

“Wait— wait— why am I being punished?” you forced out, grabbing onto Bucky’s hands quickly, looking over your shoulder to him. You sound damn near pathetic. “I didn’t— I didn’t do anything—“

“Look, Stevie. Look at what happens when you can’t be good,” Bucky shook his head before he leaned in closer to you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips to placate you— but it’s not enough. “Our girl gets punished, too.”

Your head whipped immediately to the other man. “Steve,” you begged softly, helplessly. 

“I’ll be good,” Steve muttered, sinking back down into the pillows. 

And Bucky’s feeling merciful because you don’t even think that’s a good enough apology, but he’s returning you to Steve’s cock within the next few moments— or maybe it’s a punishment with how hard he’s slamming you down onto him. 

Punishment for who? You’re not certain. 

Both you and Steve can’t keep up with the new, sudden pace. Steve’s hands are all over you, hands on your hips and thighs, but also reaching past you to touch Bucky. He never closes his eyes though. He’s watching every single movement, every single motion, and he’s vocal. It sends tingles down your spine that goes straight down to your core, and he feels every single twitch and spasm— and he lets you know he’s felt it. 

“Cum whenever you want, doll,” Bucky whispered into your ear, one of his hands slipping between your legs to rub your clit. “Only Steve can’t cum without my permission right now.”

You let out a shaky moan, nodding deliriously at the added stimulation. It didn’t take long, not with Steve continuously spearing you with Bucky’s help, and the tight circles rubbing into the overly sensitive nerves— you came for the third time that night. 

Bucky didn’t stop fucking you onto Steve’s cock the entire time. 

“You feel good?” Bucky continued. “Stevie making you feel good?”

“Y… Yeah,” you moaned, swallowing thickly. “Feels… Feels really good, Bucky.”

“Hear that, Stevie? You might deserve to cum tonight,” Bucky chuckled. 

“Let him cum in me,” you whined, grabbing onto Bucky’s wrist. “Want it.”

“God,” Steve groaned from under you, his fingers digging into your thighs. “You want my cum, too? Want me to mix with Bucky’s?”

“Please,” you nodded frantically. 

“Bucky,” Steve called out, his voice broken and hoarse— he was asking for permission. Begging for it. 

“You heard our girl,” Bucky hummed, releasing your hips, and relinquishing control to Steve. “Do what she wants.”

Steve’s hands replaced where Bucky’s was, and you were no longer being slid up and down Steve’s cock. He held you right in place above him, his hips pistoning up into yours. You barely caught yourself on his chest, grounding yourself as he uses your body to get exactly what he wants from you— doing exactly what you asked him to do. 

It doesn't take him long, not when he’s been watching Bucky fuck you for the past hour, and being deprived of his own release due to Bucky’s words. Soon enough, you’re not sure who’s release is whose, but you’re filled to the brim, warm, and sticky. 

You’re both panting, and you’ve collapsed onto his chest. His hands are on your back, holding you against him as his cock softens inside you, and slips out. 

You feel Bucky shift beside you, pressing kisses to your spine in appreciation, before he’s muttering your name for some attention. When you lift your head, he catches your lips, kissing you. 

“Be a good girl and clean up Steve’s cock,” he murmured against your lips.

A shiver runs down your body and you nod, lifting yourself up from Steve’s chest. You kneel between his legs again, and lower yourself down to his softened member. It’s kinda cute when you see it like this.

Steve flinches when your tongue meets his head, and you taste it— all three of you on Steve’s skin. He’s kinda squishy in your mouth in a way that makes you want to giggle. It’s slightly endearing, in a strange way. 

Both men are watching from above, eyes glued to every single one of your movements as you lick Steve clean of the remnants of your sin. When all that’s left is nothing but your saliva, you lift back up, and they both give you lazy, satisfied grins. 

Bucky beckons for you to come closer, pulling you to settle in the middle of them before he reaches between your legs. 

“What the fuck—?!” you gasped out, grabbing onto his arm to steady yourself as two fingers dipped inside of you and curled. You watch as he pulls away, taking the mixture of your releases, and brings it to Steve’s lips, just like how he did earlier. 

Except, Steve doesn’t fully swallow. It settles on his tongue, and Bucky meets his mouth, both men groaning at the taste. You can only watch as their tongues mingle, as their bodies press closer together, and a sense of heat begins to bloom in your stomach again.

And they don’t forget about you. Steve’s holding your hand, thumb rubbing along your knuckles while Bucky’s fingers are moving up and down the side of your thigh slowly. 

When they part, Steve’s tilting your head up to kiss you, and Bucky’s peppering kisses all over your neck and shoulder. Then, it switches. Bucky’s mouth is against yours, while Steve marks all over your collarbone and chest. 

“Wanna do this again?” Bucky murmured against your lips. 

Your eyes widen as you pull away from him. 

“Right now?” you demanded, slightly horrified. 

“I mean— I can. I don’t think you can,” he said. Steve chuckled from beside you. 

“We could make this a regular thing, if you’d like,” Steve offered. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“I— Huh? Like regular fuck buddies? A friends with benefits kind of situation?” you asked, frowning. 

Bucky made a face. “I don’t do fuck buddies, sweetheart. I don’t enjoy sharing.”

“You would be sharing me with Steve.”

“That’s different. Exclusive sharing with Steve is acceptable,” he dismissed.

“Again, you don’t have to make the decision right now,” Steve quickly told you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Take your time. Just rest for right now.”

You settled in bed with both of them, in the middle. Steve fell asleep relatively fast, his chest pressed to your back and his face in your hair. Bucky was to your front, face all up in your breasts. Both men had their arms draped around your waist, murmuring about how nice and how soft you were to hold. 

You couldn’t sleep.

Did they just ask you to join their relationship?

masterlist

you remember the first night it happened clear as day— her dad, bucky, offering to drop you home after a movie night at their place, with the rain pounding on the car roof.

his hand brushed yours on the gear shift, and before you knew it, you were pulled over on some empty side road, his mouth on yours, rough, urgent, like he'd been holding back for years.

you swore that was it, just a stupid mistake born out of too much wine and loneliness, but then when you cried over mid-terms, he showed up at your college dorm, knocking on your door with that half-smile that always made your stomach flip.

"thought you might need a break from studying," he'd said, and you let him in, knowing full well rebecca was an hour away, oblivious to everything.

now, seven months in, it's this tangled mess of stolen weekends and late-night texts, him driving out to see you, taking you to diners three towns over where no one knows your faces.

places with sticky booths and neon signs flickering outside, where you laugh over greasy fries and he tells stories about his old job, the one that left him with scars he doesn't talk about much.

but everytime you part ways, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, promising yourself it's the last time, that the guilt twisting in your gut is too much to ignore. but you know the truth.

rebecca is your best friend, has been since high school, the one who dragged you out of your shell with her endless energy and bad jokes. betraying her like this? it eats at you, makes you feel small, dirty, but then his name lights up your phone, and you're right back in it, heart racing like a fool.

the drives back from those dates are always quiet, his hand on your thigh, the radio humming some old rock song he hums along to off-key. you’d watch the highway lights blur past, wondering how it got this far, how you let yourself fall into something so reckless.

he's older, sure, with that salt-and-pepper scruff and lines around his eyes from years of raising rebecca alone after his wife bailed. she left when rebecca was just a kid, off to "find herself" or whatever bullshit excuse people use when they don't want the responsibility.

bucky never badmouths her though. not to you, anyway. he just shrugs it off like it's ancient history, but you see the tightness in his jaw when old photos come up.

and you? you're just the shy girl who's always faded into the background, the one who flusters easily and second-guesses every word.

but with him, it's different; he makes you feel seen, pulls out this side of you that's bold and needy, whispering things in your ear that make your skin heat up.

still, the whirlwind always spins you out, leaving you dizzy and swearing off it, only to cave when he calls.

seven months in, and he's like a drug you can't quit.

now, here you are at rebecca's birthday party, the house buzzing with laughter and music thumping from the living room speakers. you didn't want to come— god, no —but skipping out on your best friend's birthday would raise all kinds of red flags.

you know she’d personally see to it that you’re hunted for sport if you’re not there.

so you showed up, dressed in that simple black dress you know looks good but doesn't scream for attention. your plan was to hug the walls, chat with a few mutual friends, and slip out early with some excuse about a headache.

but the second you step through the door, your eyes lock on him across the room.

bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter, beer in hand, talking to some guy from the neighbourhood. he’s looking every bit the casual dad in his faded jeans and button-up shirt rolled to the elbows, showing off those forearms that you've traced with your fingers too many times.

his eyes flick up, meet yours for a split second, and it's like electricity zaps through you.

looking at him in rebecca’s presence wouldn’t be a big deal. hell, you’ve spent one too many nights right on his bed. no, that’s not what you’re worried about.

thing is, it’s been three days since that disaster in his bathroom. and you haven’t spoken since.

now it’s just this heavy silence hanging between you, making your chest ache every time you think about it.

forcing your head to turn away quickly, you weave through the crowd toward the backyard.

the air out here is cooler, laced with the smell of barbecue smoke from the grill someone's manning, but it does nothing to settle the knot in your stomach.

why did you say it?

the words you’d uttered replay in your head like a bad loop, that moment crashing back uninvited.

it was late, rebecca out with some friends, and you'd snuck over under the pretense of picking up a forgotten sweater.

but one look from him, with that knowing smirk, you were backed against the sink, his hands everywhere.

the mirror fogged up from the hot water he'd turned on to mask any noise. but it didn't matter; you were lost in it, his body pressing into yours, hips snapping deep and relentless.

his fingers worked between your legs, circling just right, building that pressure until you were gasping.

it felt so good, too good, the kind of release that blotted out everything else. the guilt, the secrecy, and every other ugly truth was just background noise.

right as you teetered on the edge, it spilled out of you without warning.

"i love you." the three words tumbled out of you without preamble, highlighting every thought you’ve had for these past months now displayed in neon over your head.

bucky froze behind you, his rhythm stuttering and in that silence, panic flooded you.

he didn't say it back. he didn't say anything.

your eyes snapped open to see the surprise in his, and it hit like a gut punch.

oh god, what have you done?

you pushed him away, pulling off him in a rush, ignoring the slick mess between your thighs as you yanked your clothes back on.

you didn’t pause to hear what he had to say, to see if he had anything to say at all. before his voice could tear off his throat, you were already bolting out the door.

the tears stinging your eyes made it blurry, but you slammed your way through the house and into the night without looking back.

now shaking off the memory, you grab a drink from the cooler outside.

the party's in full swing now, people clustered in groups, rebecca's laugh cutting through the noise as she dances with a bunch of friends in the living room.

you spot her for a second through the sliding glass doors, her hair bouncing, face lit up with that infectious joy that always makes you smile despite everything.

there’s some guilt twisting inside you, asking how you can face her after all this?

but it’s not for long, this thing between you and her dad is over now.

you paste on a grin when she waves you over, mouthing "come dance!"

the drink on your hand is your excuse as you point at it and shake your head.

maybe if you just avoid him long enough, you can get through this.

but then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him again, this time in the hallway, deep in conversation with a woman. it takes a second for you to register who it is.

his ex-wife.

she's here?

of course she is. it’s her daughters birthday after all. the tall and elegant figure she is, with an effortless style you could never pull off, laughing at something bucky says.

when her hand touches his arm lightly, jealousy bubbles inside you without an invitation.

she’d left him, abandoned them both for some wanderlust dream, traveling the world while he scraped by raising rebecca alone.

and now she's back, chatting like old times, and he's letting her?

heart races as you watch them, making you feel sick to your stomach.

does he still have feelings for her? is that why he didn't say it back?

it makes your throat tight, somehow you force yourself to look away, but your eyes keep drifting back.

to him.

to them.

he's not glancing your way at all, completely focused on her, nodding along to whatever story she's telling.

it stings more than it should, this indifference, like you're invisible after everything.

embarrassing tears prick at your eyes, you blink them back hard, pretending to fiddle with your phone.

why isn't he looking for you? three days of nothing, and now this. he’s talking to her while you hover like a ghost.

the hurt inside mixes with anger, making your hands shake a little as you sip your drink.

one of your friends spots you, walking over to you with a tipsy grin. "hey! where've you been hiding? rebecca's been asking about you… come on, shots!" she grabs your arm, pulling gently, but you shake your head, voice coming out weaker than you want.

"nah, i'm... i'm not feeling great. think i might head upstairs for a bit, get some air or something."

brows crossed, she examines you by vision alone. "you okay? you look kinda sick. want me to grab you some water?"

"no, no, i'm fine.” you force a smile that feels brittle. "just need a minute. tell rebecca i’ll be back." your friend nods, squeezing your shoulder before getting swallowed back into the crowd.

the stairs seem to blur with each step you take, the tears threatening to spill anytime now.

upstairs. his room is up there, the bed where you’ve spent countless hours. going there would be stupid, reckless in a house full of people, but your feet carry you up anyway, like muscle memory.

halfway up, you realise what you're doing, steps faltering. no, you can't go there. it’s too risky, too loaded with memories of tangled sheets and whispered promises.

you veer toward the end of the hall, pushing open the door to the first-floor balcony.

the cool night air hits you, a fresh set of tears now slipping free. you try to breathe deep, try to steady the whirlwind inside.

five minutes pass on that balcony, maybe a little more, and you just stand there gripping the railing until your knuckles ache, forcing slow breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth like some half-remembered trick from when you used to panic before presentations in college.

the air feels cooler than it did when you first came up, and it sticks to the damp tracks on your cheeks. you wipe at them with the heel of your hand, smearing whatever mascara survived the earlier tears, and swallow hard a couple times until the lump in your throat loosens enough that you can breathe without hiccuping.

okay. you're okay. or at least calm enough to fake it downstairs again. rebecca’s birthday isn't over yet, and disappearing for too long will only make her come looking, all worried eyes and questions you definitely can't answer.

pushing off the railing, you turn toward the door, the hurry to get down now your foremost aim.

but the knob turns before your fingers even touch it.

bucky steps out onto the balcony, door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that makes your stomach drop.

his eyes find yours immediately, steady in that way that always used to make you feel safe, but right now it just feels like exposure. you freeze where you are, staring back at him, when you realise your mouth is dry.

"are you okay, honey?" his voice comes out soft, like it’s always with you. there's concern there, real enough that it almost cracks something open in your chest.

you force the words out. "yeah. just needed some air. i'm going back down."

bucky tilts his head to side, like he’s challenging you, not moving a step out of your way. "you don't look okay."

the gentleness in it stings worse than if he'd snapped. you feel your lip tremble before you can stop it, feel the heat rush back behind your eyes. "that's not your business anymore."

he exhales through his nose. "right."

that's it. one word. he steps aside, opening the path back inside, and you hate how easily he lets you go. there’s no grab for your wrist, no explanation about the ex-wife still downstairs or the silence that's simmered between you for three days.

just right. like you're a stranger who wandered too close. you brush past him, close enough to catch the faint smell of his soap and the beer on his breath.

it takes everything not to turn around and demand something — anything — from him.

but you don't.

you walk through the door, down the hallway, and the whole time your throat burns with the hope you'd stupidly let flare when he asked if you were okay. hope that he'd follow it up with more, with words that would fix this mess.

now it's gone again, snuffed out, and the sadness settles over you again.

you make it halfway down the stairs before you hear his boots behind you. steady, like he's giving you space but not letting you out of sight. it makes your skin prickle. you don't look back.

as you reach the bottom of the stairs, the noise of the party pierces your ears. there’s laughter spiking over the music, glasses clinking, someone yelling about another round of shots.

you make a beeline to the kitchen, needing water, needing something cold to press against the ache in your chest.

but before you can reach the sink, a voice stops you. "you must be the famous best friend."

it's her. his ex-wife. standing there with a wine glass in one hand, polite and practiced smile on her face, hair framing it in soft waves. up close she's even prettier than she looked from across the room.

"hi.”

"i'm rebecca’s mom." she says it casually, like it's no big deal, like she didn't walk out on them years ago. she probably doesn’t know you needed no introduction. "she talks about you all the time. says you're basically family."

forcing your mouth into something that might pass for a smile, you nod curtly. "yeah. we've been friends forever."

"that's so sweet. she's lucky to have you." she sips her wine, eyes flicking over you like she's trying to place you in some mental photo album. "how's she holding up with the new job? she mentioned something about a promotion last time we spoke."

she says it like she calls rebecca daily, like she’s part of the day-to-day. you want to snap that rebecca’s doing great without her, that she doesn't need the occasional check-in from someone who chose freedom over family.

but the words stick. you're not that person. not brave enough, not loud enough, not snappy enough anyway. instead you just say, "she's good. really happy."

"that's wonderful." she touches your arm lightly. "tell her i met you, okay? i know she probably thinks i’ll forget."

your throat is too tight for more words. another nod is all you can manage. when you slip away toward the fridge, your hands shake as you pull out a bottle of water.

a long sip doesn’t help with the sick feeling curling tight inside your stomach.

as you turn back around, bucky's there. across the kitchen, leaning against the counter, talking to rebecca. she's laughing at something he said, and he gives her a soft smile you’ve seen up close. the one that's real. you watch the way his eyes crinkle, the way he ruffles her hair when she teases him, it hits you all over again how much he loves his daughter. how much he's always loved her. and how little that seems to extend to you right now.

rebecca spots you, face lighting up before it shifts into concern. she pushes past a couple people to reach you. "hey. you okay? you've been weird all night."

"i'm fine." it’s a lie, and it comes out thin.

her face tells you she’s worried. "you look like you're about to puke. seriously, what's going on?"

"just... headache. too loud maybe." you rub your temple for effect, hating how easily the excuse rolls out.

rebecca glances over her shoulder at her dad, who's already watching the two of you. "dad… can you drive her home? she's not feeling good."

you don’t know what you expected from bucky, but it’s not this single nod followed by, "yeah. no problem."

the keys are already in his hand as he walks over to you. "come on. let's get you out of here."

you open your mouth to protest, but rebecca's already hugging you goodbye, murmuring "text me when you get home, okay?" and then she's gone, pulled back into the crowd by someone with a birthday tiara.

you're left standing there with him.

the party's noise fades behind the closed door as you follow him down the driveway to his car. he walks over to the passenger side, to open the door for you like he always does.

"i'll just take a cab or something." your words stop him mid- motion.

his hand’s still on the handle. "why?"

"i don't wanna bother you."

"you're never a bother, honey." his voice is softer now, almost careful, but it only makes the hurt flare hotter.

something snaps inside you. the words come out louder than you mean. "can you just — leave me the fuck alone, bucky?"

he stares at you for a long second, jaw working like he's chewing on what to say. when he speaks again his tone's harder, edged with frustration he's been holding back. "you know what? i've been patient. real patient. but you don't get to scream at me like that. get in the car."

"i don't want to be anywhere near you."

"why?" he steps closer, not crowding but close enough that you have to tip your head to meet his eyes. "what the hell is going on with you?"

the question is open, right there. and for a second you almost break. you almost spill everything, the ‘i love you’ that was blurted out, the silence that followed, the way seeing him with his ex-wife carved you open.

but the hurt wins instead. "i hate you. i don't want to see your face."

he lets out a breath, and rubs a hand over his jaw like he’s debating what to say next. "okay. you can hate me. you can stare out the goddamn window the whole way. but you're getting in the car... it's late, you're upset, and i'm not letting you wander around lookin’ for a ride when i can take you home. so get in."

tears burn again, because even now he’s being steady, practical, the gruff asshole who won't let you self-destruct. it makes you want to scream more. makes you want to cry harder. you hate how much you still want him to fix this. hate how much his voice calling you honey is echoing in your head.

the door doesn’t deserve the treatment you’re giving it as you yank it open, and slide into the passenger seat. you slam it shut hard enough that the car rocks a little.

bucky doesn’t mind though, or if he does, he doesn’t show it. he gets in on his side slower, quieter. as starts the engine, the low rumble fills the car, headlights cutting across the driveway as he pulls out.

you turn your face to the window, not because he’d asked but because you can’t bear to look at his face now. you watch the streetlights smear past in streaks, arms wrapped tight around yourself. tears slip free again, silent this time, dripping onto your lap.

he doesn't say anything else.

all you can think is how badly you wish he'd just said it back that night in the bathroom. how badly you wish he hadn't let you walk away so easily tonight. how badly you love him, even now, even like this.

the car keeps rolling for maybe ten minutes, headlights slicing through the dark, the only sound the growl of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement from earlier rain.

tears have mostly dried on your face but your eyes still burn, raw from crying.

every few seconds you sneak a glance at him. his profile is half lit by dashboard glow, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh like he's forcing himself not to reach over.

he hasn't said a word since you got in. hasn't even turned the radio on.

then the car slows. it’s anything but gradual, just an abrupt stop, as he pulls off onto the shoulder where the road dips into a little turnout you've driven past a hundred times but only stopped at once.

seven months ago.

but the last time though, there was rain hammering the roof, his mouth on yours for the first time, hands shaking when he slid them under your shirt, both of you breathing hard.

it’s the same spot. the last place you want to be.

"i wanna go home." you speak without turning to look at him.

the sudden quiet is deafening as he kills the engine. “i'll take you after you talk to me."

"there's nothing to talk about."

"how about we start with why you hate me all of a sudden?"

"i don't want to talk to you."

the sound of him unbuckling startles you as you watch him turn his body toward you. he reaches over, steady fingers curling around your wrist, tugging you gently until you're fully facing him.

his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist once, almost absentminded, before he lets go. "what happened, baby?"

the word brings every buried memory to the surface. "you don't get to call me that. not after everything."

"after what?"

"why are you humiliating me like this?" your voice cracks on the last word, higher than you want.

"humiliating you?" he repeats it slowly, brow furrowing deeper. "i'm just trying to understand what's going on in that head of yours."

tears well against your wishes. again. "you're way too old to be playing these stupid games. take me home or i'm getting out and walking."

a long sigh leaves him, telling you he’s just as tired with this as you are. "i really don't get it. you bolt out of the house three nights ago like the place is on fire, wantin’ space, and now you're mad that i actually gave it to you?"

the way he says three nights ago makes something soften in your chest, just a fraction. he’d counted the days too. "when did i ever say i wanted space?"

"three nights ago. you ran. didn't even—" he stops, rubs a hand over his mouth. "didn't even pull your dress down all the way. you just took off."

"i didn't leave wanting space. you ghosted me."

"ghosted?" he sounds genuinely confused, almost annoyed at the word. "honey, i don't even know what that word means in this context."

"don't try to make a joke right now."

"i'm not joking. swear to god i thought you needed space. you ran out crying, didn't answer my texts the next day. what was i supposed to do, chase you down the street?"

"you could've called. you could've said something. anything."

"i did call. it went straight to voicemail… figured you turned your phone off on purpose."

you don't remember any calls. but then your phone was on silent, buried in your bag because you couldn't bear to look at it, terrified of what might be there or what might not. fresh guilt twists in your gut. "i... i didn't see them."

"yeah. well." he leans back a little, giving you space again, but his eyes stay locked on yours. "so i waited. thought you'd come ‘round when you were ready. then tonight you show up lookin’ like someone's kicked your puppy, won't even look at me, and now you're telling me you hate me. help me connect the dots here."

the tears spill over freely in front of him now. you wipe at them angrily. "i told you i loved you. and you just... froze… you didn't even say anything. i was so embarrassed. so i ran."

he goes quiet for a long beat. when he speaks again his voice is almost hesitant in the way it comes out. "you're embarrassed you love me?"

"don't… don't ask me questions like that. you're being unfair."

shifting closer to you, his arm stretches close to you. close enough that you feel the heat off him. "baby, you never gave me a chance to say anything. one second you're moaning it against my mouth, next second you're shoving me off and sprinting out the door, pussy still wet on my dick, leaving me standing there like an idiot with my pants around my thighs. what the hell was i supposed to think?"

the crude way he says it makes your face burn, makes your thighs press together involuntarily. shame and want are mixed now, so tight you can't possibly separate them. "i was ashamed you didn't say it back."

"you didn't give me time to."

"i did."

"what — one second?" he leans in, voice dropping to something almost dangerous. "if you tell me you gave me one fuckin’ second i'm gonna pull you over my knee right here and spank you till you can't sit tomorrow."

heat floods your cheeks, your neck, lower. you open your mouth to argue but nothing comes out at first. just a shaky exhale. "that's not fair."

"life ain't fair, sweetheart." but his tone softens again.

“but — but you froze. i saw it.” you honestly don’t know what you’re trying to do and why you’re doing it, but you do it anyway.

“yeah. i froze. because the girl i’ve been sneaking around with for months just said she loved me while i was buried balls-deep in her, and my brain short-circuited. sue me.”

you turn to look at him properly, there’s dark circles below his eyes, like he’d not slept in ages, even though it’s been just three days, there’s also something raw in them. tiredness? like he’s been carrying this same knot in his gut that you have.

“so you don’t?” the question comes out small, and totally unnecessary.

“don’t what?” his face is painted with confusion.

“love me.”

he stares at you for a beat, then leans across the console with a soft sigh, close enough that you smell the faint beer from the party still on his breath. his hand comes up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, thumb pressing just under your jaw so you can’t look away.

“if i didn’t love you i wouldn’t be sittin’ here on the side of the road at one in the morning trying to figure out why you’re crying instead of just droppin’ your ass home and calling it a day.” his voice has dropped a few octaves. “i wouldn’t drive five fuckin’ hours to eat shitty diner eggs with you because you said you were stressed about exams... i wouldn’t keep your stupid fuzzy socks in my glovebox because you always complain your feet are cold... i wouldn’t lie to my own kid every other week just so i can spend ten minutes kissing you in a parking lot towns away so no one would recognise us.”

“then — then why didn’t you say it?” you hiccup your way through the sentence.

“because i’m not good at this shit. i’m bad at talking, honey.” he lets go of your neck but doesn’t pull back. “i don’t do big declarations. i show it. i thought you saw it. thought you knew.”

“i — i thought… maybe i was just convenient. the young naive girl who didn’t ask for too much.”

his laugh is short. “convenient? sweetie, nothing about you is convenient. you make me lie awake wonderin’ if becca’s gonna figure it out and hate me forever... you make me paranoid every time i text you goodnight in case she sees my phone… you make me drive in circles for an hour after i drop you off just so i don’t have to go back to an empty house thinking about how fucked up this is. that ain’t convenience. that’s me being in deep and not knowing how to climb out. not wantin’ to.”

shoulders shake as you cry harder. he reaches over again, this time slower, thumb swiping under your eye, smearing the mess of mascara. “stop that,” he mutters. “please don’t cry… you’re killin’ me here.”

“i thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“i want you so bad it scares the shit out of me.” he drags his hand down, cups your cheek rougher than necessary. “but i’m not gonna beg. and i’m not gonna say pretty words if they don’t come natural. you want poetry, go date a college boy. you want someone who’ll show up at your dorm with coffee at six o’clock because you pulled an all-nighter, someone who’ll fix your shitty car when it breaks down again, someone who’ll fuck you and then hold you after till you fall asleep — that’s me. that’s what i got.”

“you love me.” it’s a statement, the first real true thing that’s coming out of your mouth.

“yeah.” he doesn’t look away. “i do. been doin’ it for a while. i just… didn’t know how to say it without sounding like some old bastard trying to keep a girl half his age.”

more tears fall. you can’t stop them. “you’re not old.”

“i’m old enough to know better… old enough to know this is gonna blow up in our faces eventually. becca’s gonna find out and she’s gonna hate me. maybe hate you too. but i’m still here. still sitting in this goddamn car because the thought of dropping you off and walking away makes me feel sick.”

you lean forward before you can stop yourself, your voice is a whisper when it does come. “say it again.”

he doesn’t ask what, just says it like he’s confessing, professing. “i love you. stupidly. completely. madly. even when you’re being a brat.”

“i’m sorry i ran.”

“yeah, well. next time give me more than half a second to get my head out of my ass.” his hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your face up. “and maybe don’t leave me standing there with my dick still wet.”

heat rises up to your neck. “that’s mean.”

“truth ain’t always pretty.” but his mouth quirks, baring the smallest hint of a smile. “you gonna keep cryin’ or you gonna kiss me so we can stop freezing our asses off ‘ere?”

you don’t answer with words. you lean in to crash your mouth against his. it’s anything but pretty. teeth knock, noses bump, you taste salt, him and desperation. his hand fists in your hair, tugging hard enough to sting, angling your head so he can lick into your mouth deeper, claiming you all over.

you whimper against him, hands scrambling up his chest, fingers curling into the worn flannel like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

he breaks the kiss just enough to mutter against your lips, breath coming in hot puffs. “gonna take you home soon. but first i need you to understand somethin’.”

“what?”

“next time you feel like bolting, you stay. you yell at me, you cry on me, you slap me if you have to — but you don’t run. because i’m not good at sweet-talkin’.”

“okay.”

“say it.”

“i won’t run.”

“good girl.” the words come out rough, possessive, making heat pool low in your belly despite everything. he kisses you again, slower this time, tongue sliding against yours like he’s memorizing the taste.

when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours. your hands stay on his chest, fingers curling tighter into the shirt, feeling the steady thump of his heart under your palms — faster than usual, exactly like yours.

it’s reassuring in a way you didn’t expect, this proof he’s just as wrecked, just as tangled up in the mess you both made.

sliding one hand lower, you trace the line of buttons down his shirt, letting your nails scrape lightly over the fabric, enough to make him shift in the seat.

“fuck,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded as he watches your fingers. “you tryna start somethin’ we can’t finish out here?”

words do not come out of your mouth, but your hand dips lower, palm pressing flat against the growing bulge in his pants, feeling him twitch under the fabric.

three days without him had felt like forever, every night alone replaying that bathroom moment until it ached, and now here he is, solid and warm, loving you back, and you can’t get enough of him.

hips bucking up just a fraction into your touch, you feel him grow harder. “careful, honey. been three days — i’m — i’m not in the mood to be gentle.”

the lack of control in his tone contrasts the meaning of his words, earning a light squeeze from you. you watch his jaw clench as you palm him through his jeans.

the power flips for a second, this control you have over him, the way his breath catches when you press harder.

but it’s short-lived. he grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away only to yank you closer, half across the console until you’re straddling his thigh, dress hiking up your legs.

“push the seat back.” the command in his tone has you obeying immediately, as you fumble for the lever on the side. the seat slides back with a mechanical whine, giving just enough space.

he’s already working his belt open, zipper rasping down, and you lift up on your knees to help, shoving his pant and boxers low enough to free him.

hard, thick, the tip already slick, he's a sight to behold, making your mouth water, making that empty ache between your thighs sharpen. reaching down, your fingers wrap around him, to feel the vein pulse under your grip.

“jesus— slow down,” he grunts, head falling back against the headrest, but his hands are on your hips, guiding you up and over him. “turn around.”

heat floods your face at another demand, but you do it anyway, twisting in the tight space until your back presses to his front, knees braced on either side of his thighs.

the dress you’re wearing stands no chance against him, as his hands work to shove it higher, bunching it at your waist.

deft fingers hook into your panties to tug them aside, not even bothering to pull them off. the cool air hits your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of him pressing against you, the blunt head nudging at your entrance.

“missed this,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up under your dress to cup your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple through the thin fabric until it pebbles. “missed you.”

it’s a love letter in two words, you know the weight of it. but those fingers on your nipples, and his cockhead on your entrance makes you only whine. “bucky — please.”

your hips rock back on their own, desperate for more than just the tease.

the way he’s touching you, makes everything else fade— the party, the guilt, the fear of tomorrow. right now it’s just him, just this, the way he knows your body like it’s his own.

a mean chuckle erupts from him, as his free hand guides himself, sliding the head through your folds, coating himself in the wetness that’s been building since the kiss. “so fuckin’ wet already. just three days without my dick and you’re dripping like this?”

“shut up.” there’s a wild need in your plea, he must’ve heard the urgency because he thrusts up in one smooth motion, burying himself deep until your ass meets his hips.

the stretch burns just right, filling you completely. you can only gasp as your head falls back against his shoulder.

“there we go,” he groans, both hands now under your dress, cupping your breasts, squeezing as he rolls his hips once. “missed this tight little cunt. been thinkin’ about it every night, stroking myself wishing it was you.”

the words are filthy and honest, no sugar-coating, the way he always talks when it’s just you two.

lifting your hips to chase that friction, you try to move, but his grip shifts. one arm bands around your waist, holding you still, the other hand stays on your breast — his priority — pinching your nipple until you whine.

“move — please, bucky, i need—”

“nah. lemme feel this first. been too long without her… look at her squeezin’ me tight, baby.” not caring about your demands, he rocks just enough to make you clench around him, definitely not enough to satisfy. “you ran out on me last time, left me hard and achin’. gonna make you wait a bit.”

frustration builds, mixing with the pleasure of him thick inside you, stretching you open. “that’s not fair,” you breathe, trying to grind down, but his arm tightens, keeping you pinned.

“life ain’t fair, remember?” he nips at your earlobe, then slides his hand down from your breast, over your stomach, until his fingers find where you’re joined. he spreads you open wider, thumb circling your clit, teasing, mocking, making your thighs tremble. “but you were a brat earlier, screamin’ in my driveway like that. think you need a reminder.”

before you can respond his hand lifts, then comes down sharp. a light slap right on your exposed clit, the sting shoots through you like electricity. the mix of pain and pleasure makes you cry out as you tighten around him involuntarily.

“fuck — that’s it,” he mutters while he does it again, a little harder this time, fingers all slick with you. “feel that? that’s for runnin’ on me. for makin’ me wait three goddamn days.”

the slaps come in quick succession now, each one making you gasp, hips jerking despite his hold, the sensation building until it’s almost too much.

tears prick again, but these are not from hurt. no. these are from the overwhelming need, the way he knows exactly how to push you to the edge without letting you fall. “bucky — please, i’m sorry, just— move, fuck me, something.”

a satisfied laugh rumbles off of him. “alright, honey. since you asked so nicely.”

with a sharp slap to your ass, his hips snap up, pulling a shocked moan out of you that echoes. you brace harder on his knees, meeting his thrusts as best you can in the cramped space, the sound of skin slapping skin mixing with your gasps and his grunts.

even through all that, one of his hands remains on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. the other guides your hips, fingers digging in the flesh.

“missed feelin’ you ‘round me. go on, ride it —show me how much you need this.” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing the skin.

the only thing you can do as you obey him wordlessly, you lift and drop back down with all your might. the angle lets him hit that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

the windows fog up soon enough, the heat, the sweat fastening the process. every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, the coil in your belly tightening fast.

this time, the hand on your tit does leave, only for it to land between your legs, fingers finding your clit. for better or for worse — you don’t know yet — he’s not slapping this time, just rubbing tight circles that match his rhythm.

“cum for me, sweetie.” his voice is strained like he’s holding back. “wanna feel you soak my cock. been dreamin’ about it.”

the words tip you over, pleasure crashing through you in waves, clenching around him so tight he swears under his breath.

with a cry of his name, you tip him over this time, as he follows you right after, thrusting deep one last time before spilling hot ropes of cum inside you.

with a groan, you you slump back against him, both of your breathing ragged now. his arms wrap around your waist to hold you close as the aftershocks fade.

“fuck,” he mutters finally, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “needed that.”

“me too.” you turn your head to catch his mouth in a lazy kiss, tasting the salt on his lips.

he helps you off him carefully, fixing your dress, and tucks himself away with a wince. “alright. now i’m really takin’ you home. before we get arrested or some shit.”

a soft laugh escapes you as he pulls you in for another kiss, using that opportunity to buckle you up. it’s something he’s done a hundred times before but never fails to make you smile.

the car rumbles to a start, and his hand finds its way to your thigh like it belongs there.

the rest of the drive feels longer than it should. his hand stays either on your thigh or laced with yours the whole way.

every now and then he glances over, eyes flicking from the road to your face, like he's soaking in the sight of you not pulling away.

you watch the familiar buildings slide by outside, your place coming into view too soon, lights dimmed in most windows at this hour. your stomach twists a little as he pulls into the parking lot.

there’s a sudden quiet after he cuts the engine, which makes everything feel heavier. he just sits there staring out the windshield for a second before turning to you and lacing your fingers with his again.

"here we are.”

the idea of getting out, walking up those stairs alone to your empty room, suddenly feels like a chore. after days of silence, you don’t want this to end just yet. your lower lip pushes out without meaning to, a pout forming as you stare at your linked fingers, the contrast of his rough skin against yours.

as he notices your expression,he lets out a small huff that might be a laugh. "what's that face for?"

"nothing." but your voice comes out small, petulant even, and you feel silly for it, acting like a kid who doesn't want the day to end.

he squeezes your hand once, reminder that he’s still here. "don't look like nothin’. you pouting 'cause i'm dropping you off?"

the memories of his lips on yours as you were mounted on him come rushing back, suddenly making you feel stupid now. he’s yours, always gonna be, there’s nothing you have to worry for. but still walking away now means facing the empty bed, and you don’t want that. "maybe. i just... don't want you to go yet."

the responsible adult in him leans back against the seat, as he watches you with that steady gaze that always makes your stomach flip a little. "gotta get some sleep, honey. it's late."

"i know." but the pout deepens, and you hate how needy it makes you sound, how the emotions bubble up so easy after everything tonight.

the tears, the confessions seem a lifetime ago.

"alright. what do you want then? can't just sit here all night staring at each other… or we could get in the back?"

heat floods your face at his suggestion, like this hasn’t happened at least a million times before. but sex is not what you want. just a few more minutes with him will suffice even if it’s just staring at his goddamn beautiful face. but the words slip out before you can even begin to think. "ice cream?"

bucky looks at you like you’d suggested something ridiculous. he blinks, confusion framing his features. "ice cream. at —" he checks the dashboard clock, squinting a little "— almost two in the morning?"

"yeah." you feel a small smile tug at your mouth despite the pout. "please?"

like he can ever say no to your face. like he can ever say no to you. he lets out a long sigh that's more fond than annoyed. "you're a pain in the ass, you know that?" but he's already reaching for the keys, twisting them back in the ignition. the engine roars to life again, headlights flooding the lot.

"thank you," you murmur, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his cheek, lips brushing the stubble.

he grunts in response, but his hand finds your thigh as he pulls out, resting heavy and warm just above your knee. "don't thank me yet. not sure what's even open this late."

his eyes scan the streets more than the road itself, searching as he weaves through empty blocks lined with closed shops and flickering neon signs promising twentyfour hour this or that but never ice cream. "you like bossin’ me around way too much… know i can never say no to that pout, huh?"

"this is a craving. you won’t understand." you cross your arms but you’re smiling because of the way he just admitted that he can’t refuse you.

"craving, huh? i know all your cravings, honey. especially the one where you get on your knees and wrap those pretty lips ‘round me like it’s your favorite toy to play with."

your cheeks burn hotter as you swat at his arm lightly. "keep talking like that and i’ll never do it again… see how you like waking up hard with nobody to take care of it."

a chuckle from him fills the car. "you say that now. but we both know you love it just as much as i do."

after another ten minutes of circling he spots a little place squeezed between a gas station and a laundromat. the open sign is flickering like it’s on its last legs. "there we go," he says, pulling into the empty lot. "looks like they’re still serving somethin’. if we get food poisoning, i’m blaming you.” the last line is probably a threat. you think. not enough to make you care though.

the lot smells like old fryer oil when you both get out and walk to the window. a tired guy leans on the counter still scrolling his phone. "what’ll it be tonight?"

bucky glances at you. "your call, honey." he says it like it’s casual, but you know he’s watching you choose, like this tiny decision of yours matters more to him.

you lean closer to the glass scanning the faded menu board. "um… two cones please. one vanilla with sprinkles and one chocolate swirl."

the guy nods and starts scooping without much enthusiasm. bucky pays before you can even reach for your wallet muttering "don’t even start with that" and hands you the vanilla one first. the chocolate, he keeps for himself but you already know how this goes. he always ends up giving you half of his.

you both wander over to the rickety picnic table nearby.

the sugar hitting your tongue and the sprinkles sticking to your fingers satisfy you in a good way. it’s childish, messy and exactly what you needed. something simple. something that doesn’t hurt. something that doesn’t remind you that you’re in love with your best friend’s dad.

bucky takes a bite of his chocolate and makes a face like it’s too sweet for him, but keeps eating anyway.

"this any good?" he asks after a minute of watching you lick a drip from the side of your cone.

"yeah it’s perfect." you take another lick letting the cold melt on your tongue, only to catch him staring. "what?"

"nothing. just like seein’ you happy after all that crying earlier. makes the drive worth it."

you feel that familiar twist in your chest, the guilt and love mixing together but right now the sweetness wins. you reach over and steal a bite from his cone before he can pull it away.

"hey… that’s mine."

"not anymore." you grin and take another small lick from his making sure to get extra chocolate on your tongue.

he shakes his head but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that reaches his eyes and softens the lines around them. "gonna finish both, aren’t you?"

"probably. you always eat half of mine anyway so it’s only fair."

"fair, my ass." he takes a bigger bite of what’s left of his, then offers you the rest without being asked. "here, finish it before it melts all over the table."

you accept it happily letting the two flavors mix on your tongue, vanilla and chocolate together the way they always seem to when you share like this. the sprinkles crunch between your teeth while he watches you with that quiet look, the one that says more than he ever puts into words.

"thanks for humoring me tonight."

he shrugs like it was no big deal. "wasn’t humoring. just didn’t want you going up to that room alone and poutin’ yourself to sleep. plus i like seeing you eat. reminds me you’re real and not some dream i… cooked up."

you don’t tell him that sometimes you’re scared of the same thing, just bump your shoulder against his, the contact warm and solid. "i’m real. and i’m yours. even when i’m being a brat about ice cream at two a.m."

"damn right, you’re mine." he drapes an arm around your shoulders pulling you closer so your head rests against his shoulder.

the night feels quieter now just the distant hum of a car on the main road and the occasional drip of melting ice cream onto the table. you finish the last of both cones, licking your fingers clean while he sips from a water bottle the guy handed over with the order.

"you know tomorrow’s gonna suck, right?" you ask, not wanting to break the moment but needing to say it anyway. "rebecca’s gonna text and ask how i’m feeling and i’ll have to lie again."

"yeah." he sighs, the sound heavy but not defeated. "we’ll figure it out. one day at a time. right now though, i’m just glad you’re here eatin’ ice cream instead of crying in my truck."

you lean into him a little harder at that, because one day at a time is the only way you survive lately. "me too." you tilt your head up catching his mouth in a slow kiss that tastes like chocolate and vanilla and him. "take me home now?"

he kisses the tip of your nose before standing and offering you his hand. "yeah… let’s get you to bed before i change my mind and drag you to the backseat."

a laugh escapes you as you take his hand, letting him pull you up, the sugar high mixing with the warmth in your chest as you walk back to the car.

the drive to your place is short this time. there’s no need to fill the silence, you just sit there, relishing in the warmth of his hand on your thigh.

when he parks he leans over for one more kiss, like he’s memorizing the taste of you mixed with ice cream. "text me when you’re in bed.”

"i will." you glance back once to see him watching until you reach the door. he always waits until you’re inside. always. like he doesn’t trust the world with you.

sleep comes easier that night as his words echo in the dark. "i love you. stupidly, completely, madly. even when you’re being a brat."

turns out he’s not that bad at talking, after all.

my masterlist !

extras. came out of hibernation to post this, now off to it i go.

permanent taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @solivagant-reverie @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute + to get added to the taglist!

a/n: my second exam has been cancelled a few days ago because the professor is sick, so I got angry and stayed up all night on saturday to finish this wip that has been locked in my docs since this summer! it's really just porn without plot and I think it's definitely the filthiest thing I've ever written. don't like don't read. hope you'll enjoy 🍓

Bucky Barnes has chosen this life.

That is the part people never seem to understand.

The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns; a place where people wave too much and chat way too long. Bucky doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates. That is as far as it goes.

He is in his late forties, and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, strong, built by labor rather than vanity: thick arms, powerful shoulders, hands rough with grease and scars. There is a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort rather than neglect.

And this only makes him more noticeable.

Women are aware of him, of course. He is an attractive, single man. The combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl works in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. The lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper end up in the first trashcan he sees— invitations and phone numbers he never glance at twice.

Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by myself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is something other people project onto him; he simply calls it peace. He has built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers, and he intends to guard it fiercely.

The neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned not to bother him, and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.

And Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.

He calls the cops when the rich couple two doors down throw backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He watches the patrol car’s lights flash briefly against his living room wall, jaw set, arms crossed, and goes back to his book the second the noise dies down. He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to get off his property without even opening the screen door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.” Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street. He has never decorated out of spite after that. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.

His neighbors also learn not to park in front of his driveway, and not to ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They do not to expect pleasantries or smiles anymore. Bucky exists like a closed door— solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.

And it works. Until now.

The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud, too long. He watches from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before he starts complaining about the noise.

Then you step into view.

You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone— a friend, maybe— reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head, stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it belongs there.

Bucky's frowns deepens.

You’re younger than most people who can afford a house on this street, and pretty in a way that feels unfair— soft, bright, effortless. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… Happy, comfortable. Like you fit already.

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your presence.

Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple— fresh off their last noise complaint— wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman shows up with lemonade to cool off, the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling "correctly".

He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.

Your gaze lifts and finds him standing stiff in front of his door, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly, voice hopeful.

Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes back inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself it’s nothing.

You’re just another neighbor, another disruption… Another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.

Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence on this street.

The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him.

“Oh, hi!”

Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder. You’re standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t ignore you completely the first time you tried speaking to him.

He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… Noise.

“I’m your new neighbor.” You say anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name, but he just nods once, eyes already dropping back to the envelopes in his hand.

You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment… Anything.

However, you are brutally plunged in an awkward silence.

“Okay.” You drawl softly, then recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”

You wait another second, yet his gaze doesn’t acknowledge you. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes on his back, curious rather than offended. That somehow makes it worse.

The next few times, he tells himself it’s bad timing.

He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching in your hair. You pause when you see him, smile like it’s reflexive.

“Morning.”

He grunts, adjusts his jacket, and walks past you without breaking stride. 

Another time, he’s unloading groceries from his truck when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.

“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement makes your skirt ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching as you balance on the balls of your feet. Bucky looks away too late, heart giving an uncomfortable thud in his chest. Heat creeps up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and he swallows hard, jaw tightening as he forces the fleeting image of your soft skin out of his mind.

Bucky hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one, hands it to you without a word.

“Thank you.” You say breathless, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.

Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else.

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.

On trash day, it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, glancing his way.

“Hey.” You greet him softly one morning, like you’re testing the word.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk much.” You add, not accusatory. 

He stiffens, jaw tightening, and drags his bin to the curb harder than necessary.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake enough to tolerate existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours, struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.

He stops without meaning to.

You look up when you hear him, relief lighting your face. “Oh! Hi— sorry, I think this thing hates me.”

You laugh quietly, embarrassed, trying to close it. He watches for a second too long, the way your brow furrows in concentration, and you bite your lip when the bag rips more.

With a sigh, he steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.

Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciate that.”

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

“Have a nice day!” You call after him.

He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.

By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is said with affection and pride, with that tone people use when they are fond of someone.

Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about how you helped her carry groceries inside. The rich couple brags— loudly— about how you offered to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you baked delicious cookies, and Mrs. Johnson praised you after you volunteered to help clean up at end of the last neighborhood meeting.

And Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard. And he grits his teeth every damn time.

“She’s exactly what this street needed.”

Bucky clenches his jaw.

He doesn’t understand it. How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these people just take, take and take? You are always so open, so willing to be involved, and God– your smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn… Real.

And worst of all, you still treat him the same. Still polite, still warm. You greet him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.

It irritates him in a way he can’t quite name.

Bucky is used to being despised, he knows how to live with it, justify it. But this quiet, persistent kindness… It doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.

And he doesn’t like not knowing what to do with you.

On a late summer afternoon, when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, irritation simmering low and constant.

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already annoyed.

“Hi.” 

He freezes.

You’re standing at the edge of his driveway, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.

Bucky straightens slowly and wipes his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

“I just—” you hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is open, genuine, brows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.

“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just… I wanted to know if there was a reason, since... You know, we are neighbors, and I’d like to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t do anything.” He simply mutters.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like pressure on his chest.

“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I try to respect that, I really do. I just thought… Maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”

“It was.” He replies roughly, too quickly.

You blink, taken aback, and a hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away.

“Oh,” You nod once. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” You then add quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

That word makes his stomach twist. Bucky watches you walk away, the space you leave behind feeling heavier than the conversation itself.

That night, he lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling longer than usual.

Your words replay in his head whether he wants them to or not. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.

Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his life intact. But for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to.

It’s later than he usually stays up, the house dark except for the low lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy from the day. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze there is.

That’s when a light flicks on across the street.

He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.

At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. And then he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop. Same height, same alignment. A clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.

Straight into your world.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the pale light of the screen illuminating your features. The lamp beside you casts a warm, golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in. You’re wearing pajama shorts that ride up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses, because he can clearly see your nipples poke through the fabric.

Something unfamiliar stirs in Bucky’s belly, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth. 

He shouldn’t be watching.

The thought lands fully formed, sharp and immediate.

Bucky turns away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

When he risks another glance, just to make sure the curtain angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. The sound doesn’t reach him, but he knows it anyway. He’s heard it before, that soft melody that always sounds genuine. 

Something tightens in his chest.

He forces himself to step back, to pull his own curtain closed with more force than necessary. The room plunges into shadow, suddenly too small, too warm.

He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead, and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.

The next night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.

He looks anyway.

Your window is lit, you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open again. You’re absorbed, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.

He leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

It’s almost… Fascinating, being able to see the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.

You look beautiful.

The thought comes uninvited, unwelcome.

He swallows, jaw flexing, eyes narrowing like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. He tells himself that he just happens to be here, that’s all. Still, he doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.

After that, it becomes a problem.

Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. He wonders if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the straps of your tank top slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast on.

When he does catch you, you’re often on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. You also check your phone with a small smile, often.

Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?

Bucky comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small routines without meaning to: you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; you stretch your arms over your head when you stand, slow and unselfconscious, like you’re completely alone in the world.

When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze unfocused. You also have a habit of circling your bed before lying down, straightening the sheets even when they don’t need it. Sometimes you sit on the edge for a moment, shoulders slumping as if the day finally catches up to you. When you laugh, you tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.

You like background noise. A TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You wander barefoot most nights, nudging things back into place with your toes, absently rubbing your foot against your calf when you stop. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself instinctively, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.

It’s summer, and you dress for it, much to his poor heart.

Inside your apartment, you wear clothes that cling dangerously to your luscious body: short shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show your beautiful curves when you move. Sometimes you kick your sandals off the moment you get inside and pad around barefoot, toes curling against the floor. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.

You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, you scroll on your phone, or lie on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air as you watch something on your computer. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand, something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.

Bucky hates how much he notices. These details carve themselves into his mind against his will, and they feel personal, earned, even though they aren’t. You aren’t performing, you’re just living. And it makes observing you so much worse.

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him: you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

Bucky perks up like a dog at his owner's arrival when he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately appearing as a pair of headlights follows. You’re not alone.

Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. His breath catches once he reaches his bedroom after spending ten minutes behind the curtains in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you and your possible companion from his kitchen. Because there's a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re nearly naked on your sheets, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs are bare and parted, hands curled in the man’s hair and a head working furiously under your eager guide.

Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in pure pleasure. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him.

His lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open. The sounds from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes eagerly devour the sight. 

An itch burns deep in his chest, something raw and consuming trying to claw its way out.

Your moans and giggles resonate in his mind even after your room has gone dark and the only thing that can be heard outside are the crickets.

The worst part is Bucky doesn’t stop there. He finds himself watching, captive to your parade of lovers, growing jealous of the returning faces.

He tries to tell himself there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing: you leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you let the curtains stay apart. And the build-up eventually makes him cave, palming his cock on a night when you’re climbing on top of your lover of the day, breasts on full display and bouncing with a delicious rhythm. Bucky’s hardly hidden now, resting back in his desk chair with his sweats pushed down just enough to tuck his briefs underneath his balls, drawn tight as he fists his cock.

His hand is rough and calloused, the complete opposite of what he imagines yours might be if you’d ever stoop as low as touching him like this. The thought of something this filthy happening only makes his hips jerk harder into his palm, sweat pouring down his temples and every muscle contracting with the urge to release. Your moans faintly slip through your open window, finding him in the darkness like a beacon.

Bucky pretends you know he’s there, that you want him to hear, to see. He imagines your eyes on his cock as he grinds his palm over the head, his thumb slips over the slit, and suddenly he’s spilling over his hand with a pathetic grunt, breath shaky.

What a miserable, old man. Is this really his routine now?

It’s unavoidable: as soon as he gets home after work, the first thing he checks for is the light in your window.

As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, the fact that you keep going on dates with random men is unbearable.

He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and seething jealousy pour in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You've been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged any words since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.

They don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, twisting sideways in the chair until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the little things on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.

They don’t know that when you get home from work, you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling for a while. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those ten quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.

Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness.

Two months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently— shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there, of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.

The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He hates how these men get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.

The first time he talks to you it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.

Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending not to watch you wrestle with the machine. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and bare. Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.

“Come on.” You mutter, huffing.

Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and annoyed— at the mower, at himself, at the way he’s been staring too long.

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.

You startle, turning fast. “Oh!”

You hadn’t seen him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how abrupt he sounded.

You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked. 

“Ah.” You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”

He crouches beside the machine, hands moving automatically. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a pause. 

“You don’t have to—” You start.

“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clears his throat. “If you want.”

You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to read something in his face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”

Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.

“It’s fine.” He mutters, not looking at you.

Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely, weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of you, of the way the sun highlights the curve of your shoulder, the way you chew lightly at your bottom lip absently.

When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”

You pull once, and the engine starts immediately.

Your face lights up. “Thank you so much!”

He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close. Or maybe not close enough.

There’s an awkward beat.

“Um,” You say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”

His stomach drops.

“I mean,” You rush on. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”

“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.

You blink. “James.”

He nods, ears burning. “Most people call me Bucky. My friends.”

Your smile softens in a way that feels… Less polite. More personal.

“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”

There’s another pause.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds, voice low, almost shy. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Once he feels heat creep up his neck, he looks away first.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

Your car won’t start one morning, hood popped open, you pacing your driveway while a guy from the night before stands there looking useless. Bucky watches from his window, jaw tightening. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. You don’t have to—”

“Already here.” He mutters.

He fixes it fast, and the guy thanks him, claps him on the shoulder like they’re buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down until he leaves soon after, awkwardly kissing your cheek.

You linger.

“I really appreciated it.” You muse. “You keep saving me.”

He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”

Sometimes it’s a loose stair on your porch. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy box you can’t lift on your own. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t watching from his window five minutes earlier.

He never talks much. Just grunts, nods, mumbles an occasional instruction.

But there are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that linger a second too long. When your eyes meet, he looks away, cheeks faintly pink, shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, you don’t push conversation.  And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it.

Bucky has come to memorize a few names, the one that stands out the most is Noah, a confident little shit.

The guy’s been around for days. He recognizes the car the moment it pulls up, parking a little too close to your driveway, staying a little later each time. Bucky has memorized the way he laughs too obnoxiously, the way he leans in like he already belongs at your side.

He’s also one of those that goes away once dawn hits. That’s what finally snaps something in Bucky.

It’s well past midnight when your front door closes behind you And Noah. Your lights go on, then the bedroom light. Bucky sits in the dark of his living room, unmoving, jaw tight, hands clasped together so hard his knuckles ache.

He doesn’t sleep.

He reads with his eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he watches an old re-run of a dumb game show. But most of all, he waits.

Dawn comes slow and gray, bleeding into the street like a held breath finally released. Birds start chirping, and the world gradually wakes up, unaware.

Your front door opens, and predictably, Noah steps out, stretching, running a hand through his hair as if he’s had the best sleep of his life. Asshole.

Bucky is already outside, leaning against his porch railing with an air of insolence, observing like a predator eagerly waiting to bite on his prey’s jugular.

The man notices him halfway down the steps and slows. “Uh… Morning.” He greets, forcing a half-smile that looks more like a grimace.

Bucky doesn’t return it.

“You’ve been here a lot.” He grunts.

The man hesitates. “Yeah, well—”

“You staying?” Bucky asks directly.

There’s nothing casual about it, nothing friendly.

“No,” Noah replies quickly. “Just heading out.”

Bucky pushes off the railing and walks closer, stopping just short of the sidewalk. Close enough that the man has to tilt his head back to look at him.

“You got plans with her later?” Bucky asks, scowling.

The man frowns. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”

Bucky’s eyes harden, gritting his teeth. “It is.”

There’s a pause, too long to not be uncomfortable.

The younger man swallows, awkwardly chuckling. “Look man, she’s great,” he says, like that might help. “I just— I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”

Bucky takes a small step forward, enough to make Noah flinch. “Then don’t come back.”

The man bristles. “You threatening me, old man?”

Bucky leans in slightly, voice dropping. “No. I’m warning you. This old man sees you around here again and he’ll fold you like a lawn chair, got it?”

The silence that follows is thick, charged. Noah looks past Bucky, down the empty street, then back at him.

“Wasn’t worth it anyway.” He sneers.

Bucky has to dig his nails into the skin of his arms to stop himself from beating this brat to a pulp.

Your date leaves in a hurry, car pulling away faster than necessary as the wheels screech on the asphalt.

He stays rooted on the sidewalk until the street settles again. His heart is pounding as if it’s trying to get out of his chest, but his hands have never been this steady.

The next ones are quicker. Less conversation, just a mere look, a question asked with an eerie calm. His presence alone does most of the work. Men who once returned now run away like criminals escaping a sentence.

Bucky watches them go with a sense of grim satisfaction curling in his chest. Because they never waited for you to wake up, and his girl deserves someone who stays. And each time one of them leaves and never comes back, it feels like he’s fixing something broken.

Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist, and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features; even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen again.

He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha, a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of a crowded bar wrapping around them. He listened more than talked, like always; nodded at the right moments; let the conversation wash over him.

Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.

Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm down on Bucky’s thigh, eyebrow lifting in silent question.

He stilled it for exactly ten seconds. Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, sharp-eyed, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”

He grunted. “No.”

It’s a lie, and they all knew it.

The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it— no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.

Because if he stayed out too long, he might have lost his favorite part of the night.

Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark. “You sure you’re okay, man?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk. The drive home was fast, his hands tight on the wheel the whole way.

It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear— that sharp, ugly thing in his chest— hasn’t gone away. It’s just been waiting.

The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.

Empty, except for your car.

Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.

Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car— had the nerve to force you drive him home the morning after, like some kind of favor. The memory made Bucky’s jaw tighten, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know what they’ve got.

He parked, cut the engine, and didn't linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.

Your light is on, and there you are.

No one else is with you. Just you, alone, safe, winding down.

Bucky exhales, the sound leaving him slow and heavy, like he’s been holding it in all evening. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his chest eases just a little. He can tell that you are about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he briefly turns away to look for the sweatpants and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas, but when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air sharply leaving his lungs in an instant.

Your phone lies forgotten on the mattress by your side, while your covers have been thrown back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your sheer tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, shorts nowhere in sight. From where Bucky is standing, he has a clear view of the way your panties stick to your pussy, a wet spot already in the center. Your head is thrown back, lips parted as Bucky strains his ears to catch one of your sweet sounds.

He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself. You pinch and tug your nipples, letting it harden through the fabric and alternating it with your palms squeezing the flesh of your breasts. 

His pants grow tighter, breath stuttering as your eyelashes flutter and your brows furrow, chasing the pleasure stirring warm in your belly. Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides.

What prompted this? Were you reading something dirty and got too worked up? Were you watching something on your phone and needed the same release you seem to crave after every date?

Were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?

He watches your chest heave as both of your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing the fabric somewhere on the floor. He wonders what would you do if he were there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work, leaving you whimpering as he plays and sucks on your nipples until you beg him to stop. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket at home, still smelling your slick on the delicate fabric. Bucky would bring them to the garage so he could lock himself in the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock, or better, suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him all day during his shift, keeping his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo.

You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead you slide the straps off your shoulders and tug them down until your beautiful breasts are freed. You’re completely bare for Bucky to admire: nipples turgid, thighs spread, and hands feeling yourself up, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening core.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, harshly exhaling as he palms his painful erection. He groans at the brief relief, noticing the fabric already damp, precum leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling at the thought of having you on your knees, peering up at him with that same innocent glint you have in your eyes whenever you greet him.

Bucky watches enraptured as your fingers finally reach your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your slick around, making sure to avoid your throbbing clit.

He’s never seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and licked and worshipped the way it deserves. Bucky could give you that: nurse on your clit, tongue at your entrance, encouraging you to grind against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and lose yourself over and over again in your own pleasure, squirting all over his face. He would be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever, wherever and however you want.

Your fingers shine as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Bucky can’t help it anymore as he undoes his belt and unbuttons his jeans to wrap a warm hand around his hard cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He bites his bottom lip until it hurts to muffle a loud groan when he starts to lazily stroke his length.

He has to squeeze the base when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit. When they plunge inside, Bucky swears he can almost hear your gasp. He leans his forehead on the braced forearm against the wall, shoulders bowed. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable; he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his jeans, letting the fabric vulgarly hang around his thighs. He jerks his length as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin as his hands grope your hips.

At some point you pull your finger out, and Bucky has to tighten the grip around the base of his cock, toes curling into the floor and teeth gritting against each other as his dark eyes follow the length of your body. You sit up, only to reach for your nightstand.

His eyes trail on the curve of your ass, until a strangled grunt almost makes him choke when he finally has a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.

His breath hitches, lips parting when you lie back, because in your hand there is a black rabbit vibrator. Bucky is dizzy. It's so pathetic that at his age he's been reduced to a lonely man spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks herself with a dangerously thick dildo. 

He watches you drag the head of the toy between your folds, wetting the silicone with your slick. You must be so damn needy, because you immediately press the shaft in. Your muscles contract, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch as you push it all the way in. You toss your head back, your hand smacking against your mouth to probably muffle a deliciously loud moan before slipping down to harshly grab your breast, running your fingers along your hard nipple.

Would you squirm just as much as you are doing right now if Bucky were to fuck you, hips fidgeting from how restless and cock-drunk you are? Would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it?

Bucky’s hand matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically move the toy in and out, precum sticking to his fingers and he uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you are edging yourself repeatedly, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up, on the brink of the release that only a real cock like his could give you.

Your slick wets the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, the sheets... And Bucky licks his lips, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he firmly holds you down by your hips in a mating press, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making. They would burn every time water hits them, reminding him of the tightness of your pussy.

Suddenly, you fumble with the handler, pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back and your back perfectly arches up as you go back to fuck yourself with the lucky toy deeper so the unforgiving vibrations tease your clit. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, at the thought of how good you must feel right now with the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.

Bucky curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your body squirm, mouth forming a perfect circle and brows furrowing. He can tell you are close by the way your back arches, and your hips jerk up to meet the ruthless vibrations. He strokes his hard cock and squeezes on the tip at the same time you grind the toy into yourself, desperately circling your hips. 

When you finally come, it’s entirely different from the previous times with your dates. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so gorgeous. Your features scrunch up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening in a silent scream as your entire body desperately shakes in pure bliss. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins stroking his rock-hard cock frantically. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his heavy breathing fill the otherwise silent room; that's when he lets his eyes squeeze shut.

Your pussy would clench around his cock so nicely, and your tits would bounce with each deep thrust as your hazy eyes would look at him pleadingly, so dizzy from his fat cock you'd let the whole neighborhood hear how good Bucky fucks you. He imagines you begging for him to come inside you with that sweet, polite voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy pussy for days.

The pressure finally snaps and Bucky comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking, while hot spurts of cum coat his hand; it's so intense some spurts even end up soiling the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when this is possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had; the full-body shiver when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has him almost fall on his knees.

When he finally opens his eyes as he’s still trying to catch his breath, his sight is a little foggy, yet he can spot the weak smile on your face. Your arm is thrown over your eyes as if relishing in the fuzzy after glow.

Every part of him vehemently yearning for you has been sated for now, but Bucky knows this will never be enough.

You wake up slowly, tangled in sheets that still smell faintly of a citrusy perfume that does not belong to you, and the unmistakable scent of sex. The sun has been up for a while, light spilling warm and bright through the window. For a moment, you just lie there, staring out of the window, replaying the night before in lazy fragments— laughter, too much wine, more laughter, the weight of a body on yours that’s still here. 

Ben.

A small smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it, small and giddy and a little disbelieving. You turn your head just enough to see him asleep beside you, hair mussed, mouth slack in a way that’s oddly endearing. 

Carefully, you slip out from under his arm, moving slowly to not wanting to wake him. The floor is cool under your feet as you head to the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind you. You take a quick shower, humming under your breath and thinking about making pancakes. When you’re done, you dry off and pull on one of your sundresses, the kind that makes you feel pretty without trying. You smooth it down, glance at yourself in the mirror and put on a little bit of gloss.

You picture him sitting up in bed when you come back. Maybe smiling, teasing you about taking too long. But when you open the bathroom door, the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled where he was, no sign of him anywhere else. No footsteps, no muffled voice, no note. As if he had never been here in the first place.

With a sigh, you pad toward the kitchen barefoot, sunlight warming the floor beneath your feet.

A week of no dates isn’t long, not really. And yet it feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.

You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even showed as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.

You don’t understand it.

You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. And if you’re honest, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing– an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.

Still… It stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, and attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. It left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all.

You’d started to wonder if the problem was you.

And then there’s Ben.

Ben is different. Not perfect, but easy. Familiar in a way that surprised you. He’s your friend’s cousin, in town for a short holiday, and she’d spent an entire week talking your ear off about how handsome he was, how sweet, how she just knew the two of you would get along. She wasn’t wrong, you’d clicked almost instantly. Conversation flowed without effort, and for once, it hadn’t felt like you were trying to be interesting enough to be chosen. That’s why it hurts a little more this time. That’s why today the quiet feels heavier than usual.

Something in your peripheral vision makes you stop. You turn fully toward the window that gives on your front lawn, and freeze.

Right there in your driveway stands Bucky Barnes, rigid, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

And in front of him— half in, half out of a car— is Ben, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, movements jerky and nervous. He keeps glancing over Bucky’s shoulder like he’s expecting witnesses, fumbling with his keys, nodding too fast at whatever is being said to him.

Your neighbor’s mouth is a hard line, his brows drawn down, eyes dark and locked on the man like he’s pinning him in place with nothing but sheer presence.

You can’t hear the words, but you don’t need it to understand what’s happening.

Ben bursts out in a short, loud laugh, too fake, then slides fully into the driver’s seat like he’s in a hurry. The engine roars to life, and tires peel out of your driveway faster than necessary.

Gone.

You stand there, heart pounding, anger flooding your chest so fast it makes you dizzy.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You don’t even put on shoes. You grab the front door, yank it open, and step outside barefoot, the morning breeze slightly cool against your skin.

“James.”

He actually flinches. Bucky turns slowly, like he’s already calculating how bad this is going to be. His jaw tightens when he sees your face— bare, furious, eyes blazing.

“What was that?” You demand.

He exhales through his nose, slightly bowing his head in greeting. “Morning.”

“Don’t,” you snap, stalking closer. “Do not do that. What the hell was that?”

He looks away, and that alone makes your blood boil.

“You just scared him off,” you say incredulously. “Didn’t you?”

“I talked to him.”

“If looks could kill he would be in a fucking casket by now.” You retort.

Bucky simply shrugs. “He got the point.”

“What point?” You lash out, taking a deep breath after.

His head snaps back to you, eyes flashing. “Listen, I was just making you a favor.”

You laugh, sharp and loud. “A favor!? Oh please! From where I’m standing, you’re a man who ignored me for months, barely acknowledged I existed, and now you suddenly think you get to interrogate the people I bring home?”

“I wasn’t interrogating.”

“It sure as hell looked like it.”

He steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.

“Do you do this with everyone? Is it some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor? Or are you obsessed with me?”

His jaw tightens, but you press on, words spilling like a waterfall now that you’ve started. “Do you have any idea how confusing you are? One minute you won’t even answer when I say hello, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, fixing my car, carrying groceries like it’s your job—”

“I was helping.”

“—and now this?” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Charged.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Barefoot on the concrete, eyes still rimmed with drowsiness, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.

“I want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”

You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They take what you give them and then run,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction. “You’re not.”

You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt protectiveness, yet you refuse to back down. “That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time to guys who don’t even have the decency to stay– who don’t see what they’re getting… It drives me fucking insane.”

Your chest tightens, still your brows furrow. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”

Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“I didn’t ask for... Whatever you are doing.” You mumble.

“I know.”

“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to talk to me!”

Bucky steps closer without meaning to. Too close. You can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, sharp and bright, but there’s something hot and far too dangerous curling underneath it.

His eyes drop to your mouth, then swallows.

“Every time you bring someone home,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

“And yet,” he admits, exhaling harshly. “I lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” You swallow, steading yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end. “You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”

His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint not to touch you.

“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to go away, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea— your anger, his lewd actions, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.

But his body doesn’t listen.

All he can think about is how your warmth reaches him effortlessly even through the thin fabric of your dress; the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous.

And now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.

His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last inch between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides to the point his knuckles turn white, like that would be enough to hold himself back. His pulse makes his ears ring, drowning out reason, pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything— or change it beyond repair.

God, he wants you so bad.

Not gently. He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.

He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth.

He reaches for you like it’s instinct, like gravity finally wins. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, thumb brushing your cheek. His forehead dips to yours, breath uneven.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire. You can feel him everywhere without him completely touch you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creep up your neck, and the way his blue eyes keep flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make has your heart wildly pounding in your ribcage. You realize, dimly, that Bucky's been fighting this longer than you have— that every step he’s taken toward you these last days has cost him something.

And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.

Because you need this.

You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.

Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere, and see what happens when he finally lets go.

You stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for. Something akin to hunger quickly flashes in his eyes, before he finally makes you his.

The kiss is exactly what you expected: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t, crashing into yours with teeth and tongue, hands moving fast, sure, one still gripping your jaw and the other fisting in the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.

You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed immediately as he deepens it, tilting your head back, looming over you until you’re forced to take a step back or be crushed by him; still, his arm tightens around your torso with a low growl.

Your hands come up without thinking, clutching at his shirt, fingers digging in the fabric. You kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frantic pull of your clothes.

Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, chest heaving and thumb brushing your cheeks like he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Fuck.” He mutters, wrecked. Then he kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling before it disappears, with bruising urgency, hands wandering everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first.

A rough sound tears out of his chest between kisses. He pulls back again enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. “You have any idea how hard it was watching that?”

You blink, breathless.

He laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurts him. His grip tightens, grounding himself. “You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I couldn’t.”

Those words make you still.

You press a hand to his chest, gently but firmly. “Bucky. What do you mean?”

For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours, that pink blush appearing high on his cheeks.

“I watched you.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to at first. It just… Happened. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and honest. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... When you weren’t.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.

He stills. “You— what?”

“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”

Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly but not forceful; it’s got a bruising sort of gentleness that makes you wobble slightly, his arms squeezing your waist until you're pressed firmly against his chest. His body is a wall, hot and solid, and you quickly melt into it.

“All this time I’ve been beating myself up for it.” He pants against your lips, making you gasp as his mouth trails down your neck. “An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving his cock into your sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind. 

“But you are just as filthy as me, sweetheart. So fond of keeping your curtains wide open at night for me to see everything.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest as his other hand grips your jaw firmly, not enough to hurt, to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”

You’re hooked, unable to challenge him, your fury reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him as his wandering hands end up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little. 

“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S–Someone is going to see.” You protest weakly.

He briefly glances around, before leading you behind your parked car in front of your house. “Better stay quiet then.” And he is pressing his hand against your core, his fingers sliding into the front of your panties to allow his middle digit to play with your slick. His large frames crowds you against the vehicle, his other hand palming your ass. 

You feel so exposed yet so alive, your core throbbing as your fingers clutch at his shirt, and your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure. 

“Yeah? Feels good, doesn't it?”

You tilt your hips into his hand, a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low chuckle, teasing you with expert precision. 

“How were they, hm sweetheart?” He mumbles against the skin of your neck, surprisingly put together as he quietly lower your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. Then, his palm comes down on your ass, heavy and sharp, making you whimper. “Answer me.”

“Not–not like you.” You admit, head falling back with a gasp as his thumb works over your swollen nub, rubbing it to a steady rhythm. “Oh fuck.”

“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That's why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those boys weren't satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol' neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”

Your breath hitches as you feel your climax frantically building, raw and electric.

“Don't be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking.

“Hm I've indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing against your palm. Your eyes go wide; you aren't sure how long he’s been dealing with it, but the hardness of it has you swallowing, slightly intimidated by the large size.

Your fingers twitch where they’re trapped between your bodies, squeezing at his shaft as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear, and his fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips.

“Quiet or that asshole Murray will come out.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”

You can’t find the words even if you want to scream that no, you only crave Bucky's attention, though the possibility to be caught with him fingering you against your car only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction on your clit.

“C'mon, baby.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep squeezing his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I'll let you touch it.”

Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I— Fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his shoulder.

“This what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs against the top of your head, cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling. He barely hides his smug smile, leisurely looking around for any nosy pair of eyes, while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn't just make you come in the middle of your driveway.

You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky's breath hitches at the sight of your glistening temples and hazy eyes. “Need more.”

His tongue traces your lower lip and a whimper escapes you, before he makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts it in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. Bucky then pulls back just enough to let you both breathe.

“Lift your dress.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bent over the windowsill in his bedroom.

“You’re making a mess.” He mutters, voice low and rough. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs, testing your resistance as you welcome the gentle press of his fingers inside with a whine of protest. He promised he would let you touch it. “Don't whine. I have to make sure she's ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?” 

You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip as the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can't believe you're really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It'd be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what's going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes' house– the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being– and your lips keep parting in shameless moans.

“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you moaning for a grumpy, old man's dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs out as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... Who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Bucky for everyone to hear.” His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the cool air as he takes a tentative lick. “I knew you'd taste fucking delicious.”

“Careful, old man.” You shoot back, breathless but so eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can't go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... Anything can— fuck!”

Two of his fingers penetrate your hole at once, leaving you gasping and trembling. “Ah, look at you going quiet.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”

You nod whimpering, giving over to his dominance. It's incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.

He’s relentless, holding you right there as your hips literally hump his face, writhing against his mouth.

“Tight little pussy.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches intently as your slick wets your inner thigh. Quickly standing up, he fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip dark and swollen; he finds some relief by stroking it, while his other hand smooths down your back. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.

“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.

“Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut at the praise, the fat head of his cock gliding through your swollen folds, up and down, then teasing your entrance. “But you’re gonna let me do it, right baby?”

Your nod is just as eager, quite pathetic you'd add later. You rock back just a fraction, clit brushing the underside of him, and sparks shoot through your body.

His smile is borderline wolfish. “That’s right.” He leans over you, enough to whisper in your ear. “'M gonna ruin you, pretty girl and you're gonna thank me for it. Understood?”

Once the tip breeches your hole, your back goes rigid. “Bucky I—I don’t think it'll fit.” You admit with wide eyes. He simply chortles, cooing as he hears your shaky exhale.

“Don't worry, sweetheart.” His hands soothe you, trailing up and down your sides, eyes locked on your pussy as he pushes through your folds, coating his girth with your slick. “You can— shit— you can take it.”

He eases into you slowly, each inch leaving you panting and clenching until he’s fully inside, until you’re stuffed and squirming under him. His breath hitches, forcing himself to still for a moment, letting you adjust to the burning stretch.

“Look at you.” He grunts, a layer of arrogance in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your sides as he rocks forward. “See? Took it just fine. You were made for me, sweetheart.” Your walls clench around him like it's terrified he might disappear if you don't hold tight enough, and he gradually builds a steady rhythm, using his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill. 

The sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to block your scream is a sharp reminder of the unusual silent morning. You feel impossibly full and stretched. Each thrust makes your spine arch; Bucky fills you just perfectly, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur.

“It'd be enough for our neighbors to take a look outside of their window, or open their door, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut you are.”

You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly and not too fast.

“They could be watching right now.” He taunts in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your chest, before lowering the front of your dress as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family.

Your pussy clenches at his teasing, gaining a mocking laugh from him. “Yeah? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”

You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded hands tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from the one you're used to. Bucky's hands are weathered and callused from his job, he's always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while slamming your pussy toward oblivion; it’s intense and raw, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.

“She’s begging for it.” His voice is a low rasp, chest heaving as much as yours, even if he keeps up his cocky facade.

Your entire body locks in, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You're pretty sure the squelching sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonate loud and clear across his front lawn.

“Yes yes yes! Right there fuck, right there!”

He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.

“Gonna come Bucky, oh God, please need it so bad— fill me— shit!”

“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you clench. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I'll make you leak for days—”

“Yes yes yes, please!” You blabber loudly, forgetting completely about the fact that you're basically getting fucked raw on a windowsill in the middle of a random Sunday morning. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips grinding back and your pussy milking him.

“Fuck fuck– that's it, that's it, good girl. Gonna fill you up so good.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.

“Fuck, such a pretty slut.” Bucky grits through clenched teeth, your whimpers alone sending him over the edge. “I’m coming, baby. Fucking–” One thrust. “Take it.” He groans, loud and broken, finally spilling thick and hot inside you, his cock pulsing deep until you're left full and shaking like a leaf.

You are grateful for his possessive and bruising hold on your hips since your legs are so weak you'd be barely able to keep yourself up. Meanwhile, Bucky is trying to catch his breath against your neck after his powerful orgasm, careful to not put all his weigh on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.

Maybe you were right. Maybe he really did get a cramp.

When he finally slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, making him chuckle with mirth as he helps you in an upright position, gently to not hurt you. Who knows how long you've been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge anything else. A sharp sting prickles your lower back, but you couldn't be more satisfied.

“Good girl, you took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own soreness. His lips press a soft kiss on your forehead, then on your lips, before he sighs content, eyes closed and lips brushing your temple. “Finally mine.”

The months of stolen glances and quiet, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it's just you, him, and no barriers between.

Still... Sometimes you meet him at your window, though this time you sit right in front of it, legs spread and eyes fixed on him. And Bucky takes it all in as he fists his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy; occasionally, it's some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.

You moan a little louder than necessary now, just for him. Your eyes lasciviously trace the broadness of his shoulders until they reach his strong arm, flexing as he pumps himself. His free hand always grips the frame so hard he once cracked it to hold himself back from running to you, to keep up this little game you proposed as you started dating.

The anticipation builds slowly and achingly each time. You drag it out for him, rubbing your clit with teasing circles while you call his name so sweetly he has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to calm himself down.

And when you finally come, his pace quickens, the fire in your belly igniting back wild and untamed at the sight of his own climax.

And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants still unbuttoned... Well, it's not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.

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A sharp little slap lands on your cheek, a condescending tap that stings just enough to jolt your eyes open.

“Eyes on me when I’m talking to you, pretty girl.”

Bucky’s voice is a tether, deep, cooing, and laced with something cruel, as he toys with your pussy, never quite pushing in.

You blink up at him, lips parted, tears staining your cheeks.

“There she is,” he rumbles, thumb finding your clit in mean, deliberate circles that make you whimper. “My clever little thing. You were so mouthy in class today, baby. All those big words, arguing like you knew better than me.” He smiles, lazy and wolfish. “Go on, sweetheart. Let’s hear a few now.”

But his cock keeps nudging at your entrance, catching just enough to make your cunt flutter around nothing and your thoughts dissolve.

“I—I can’t—” you hiccup. “You make—fuck—you make it very hard to think.”

“You can’t?” he echoes, mocking and indulgent. “But you’re my best student, baby. Is your little pussy making you stupid already?”

He pushes in, just the tip, then pulls out again, as if to prove a point. You cry out in a needy sob.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” you agree desperately.

He laughs, patronising, and grabs your face, squishing your tear-soaked cheeks between one large hand until your lips pucker in a pathetic, ruined pout.

“Aww, don’t pout sweetheart,” he coos, condescending and fond, thumbing your tears away as he bullies the head of his cock back inside. “S’okay. Brains are overrated when you’ve got a pussy like this.”

You whine, glassy‑eyed, hips twitching, cunt fluttering uselessly around him, trying to pull him deeper. His thumb drags against bottom lip, before he presses it into your mouth. Instinct takes over and you suck, mindless.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, cock twitching, just inside you. “You’re so dumb like this.” You moan around his thumb, drooling. “Just a needy little fucktoy now, huh?”

You sob again, nodding dumbly. “Y-yes, sir—”

“Good fucking girl,” he growls, finally bottoming out in one long thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to think, baby. Just cry real pretty and take what your professor gives you.”

Just like you. 

Tonight’s dress is dark green silk, backless, and perfectly inappropriate for the London chill that never seems to leave your bones anymore, even inside. Your hair is pinned up in an updo so deliberate it’s meant to look effortless, all arranged to bare the elegant slope of your back like a threat. 

A few strands have been strategically allowed to fall loose, of course, just so your perfect polish doesn’t come across as unapproachable. 

Enough edge to say I’m young enough to still care, and enough statement to say I’m powerful enough that I don’t have to. Or at least that’s what your stylist said.

You’re already on your second glass of champagne before the canapés have come out. Not because you’re having fun. God no, but because it gives your hand something to do, and your mouth something to occupy so it can’t twist into something impolite the next time someone leans in with a concern-lilted inflection (read: thinly veiled curiosity barely dressed as sympathy) and asks, “Will your husband be joining us this evening?”

You’ve fielded three of those in the first hour. Possibly four. At least one from someone who absolutely knew the answer before they asked, which somehow makes it worse.

But you laugh gracefully the way you’re supposed to, like none of this touches you, as you make his excuses, each one rehearsed until the syllables shine. ‘He couldn’t make the trip across the pond this time’, or ‘he’s buried under committee meetings back in D.C.’ or ‘he sends his warmest regards and deepest regrets’. Just the right blend of fond and disappointed, like a woman who’s used to being loved from afar.

Because this is the shape of your life now: standing in a ballroom decked to the halls, mingling with perfect poise whilst you field questions about the ghost of Christmas past you still wear a ring for.

You realise you're rubbing said ring - the band sits there, warm and familiar. You'd tried taking it off once, two weeks ago, just in private. Got as far as twisting it halfway before your chest went tight and you shoved it back on.

Optics, you’d told yourself. Optics.

That’s what it means to be married to a congressman. Or not married. Or somewhere in between, depending on the version of yourself the situation calls for. Tonight, apparently, you’re playing the loyal half of a perfectly functional power couple.

People come to you for proximity to him. Not your work. Not your office. Not your accomplishments, which have included several strategically defused trade disputes, four successful summits, and a quietly brilliant manoeuvre that kept a NATO rift from turning into an international crisis. None of that matters anymore, not since Bucky became congressman. 

Now you’re just greeted as the glossy envelope for a message they actually want delivered elsewhere. 

Which is almost funny, albeit in that bitterly ironic way, because you, of all people, can’t even get him to pick up the damn phone. 

You don’t even remember the last time he told you anything first. Then again, you're not sure you've told him much either. When did you stop calling? When did the texts become logistics instead of love?

More often than not these days, you find out about most things in his life the same way everyone else does - via press release. Which, you suppose, is fitting. After all, isn’t that what your marriage is now, too?

And on the rare occasion that you do get a heads-up, it doesn’t come from him. It comes from his assistant. That bright-eyed, overly efficient, little blonde who answers his phone like she’s guarding national security secrets and always calls you Mrs. Barnes with a certain kind of pointed sweetness that makes it clear it’s a job title she’s planning to be promoted into.

And no, you are not wondering if he’s fucking her. You’re not. You are not.

It’s none of your business anymore. That was the agreement. Publicly together, privately separated. It was mutual, rational, and clean. Or at least that’s how you both pitched it: two adults, two careers, two calendars so catastrophically misaligned that marriage started to feel more like a diplomatic effort than a romantic one.

But divorce was out of the question, of course. His PR team thinks it’s better for his approval ratings if he’s still seen as the devoted husband. And yours thinks the word divorce reads as crack in the polished surface they’ve spent years selling to the world. Apparently, your marriage is the American dream. 

Which tracks, really, because no one actually lives it, and it falls apart the second you stop performing.

So you both play the part. Smile for the cameras. Stay in step when the flag is watching. And when it’s not? He can do who what he wants. You certainly are.

Which means you’re definitely above petty jealousies and quiet suspicions and the deep, crawling irritation that rises in your throat every time her name appears in your inbox with a subject line like Congressman Barnes regrettably will not be attending…

That was this morning’s smug little gem. She can’t even bring herself to write your husband. Or even Bucky. It’s always Congressman Barnes, like she’s writing to a stranger and he’s just another man in a suit. Like love was never part of it. Like you haven’t kissed that mouth goodnight a thousand times. Like you haven’t memorised the weight of his body curled into yours on nights when the Hydra ghosts came knocking and all you could do was hold him until morning forgot them.

You wonder if anyone holds him now. If he even lets them.

But none of that matters right now. Because by every metric, be it press, presence, or political timing, you’re hosting the social event of the season. Months of planning. Countless moving pieces, negotiated to the inch. And it shows. Yes, everything is perfect. It has to be.

So why won’t your pulse stop tripping?

“Your heart is racing. I could hear it from across the room.”

The breath of Matt’s voice at your side is low, warm, and intimate. He doesn’t announce himself. He never does. He just materialises, quiet and effortless, slipping through the cracks in your composure like he was always meant to be there. 

It’s a skill he's perfected since he flew in 3 months ago for what should’ve been a routine case: American grad student, wrongful detention, violated rights. Except it wasn't routine. It was a nightmare. And Matt Murdock had walked into your office, brilliant and relentless, and fixed it in seventy-two hours.

The embassy had him on retainer the following week. You had him in your bed a month after that.

Matt is careful at events like this. Always is. He ghosts in from the side, lets his shoulder hover close to yours like he’s just another guest drifting through the conversation, entirely harmless.

You don’t look at him right away. You don’t need to. You know that voice like you know the soft give of his mouth against your neck. You know the heat of him beside you. The weight of him when he presses in. The way his suits are always far too pristine for what he does to you in them.

“Are you spying on me, Counsellor?” you murmur without turning, keeping your eyes trained on the sea of glittering conversation ahead. As though you don’t already feel your pulse changing shape at the scent of his cologne when he leans in just enough to brush your ear with his hushed voice.

“Just keeping an ear out,” he replies, warm and maddeningly innocent. The same kind of innocent as the hand that finds the small of your back mid-sentence, warm, steadying, and just slightly lower than is professionally advisable. “It’s hard to ignore a distress call.”

“I am not distressed,” you counter, not yet glancing his way, though you subtly lean into the pressure of his hand, aching for more.

The game is half in the glances withheld. But when you do turn, it’s with the barest tilt of your head, an upturned corner of mouth. The practiced sort of acknowledgment that reads friendly at a distance and something far more dangerous up close. He’s wearing a black suit with the silk tie you picked last week.

“You are… composed under duress,” he says at last, his smile curving slow, a touch crooked, edged with that particular brand of trouble that always sounds like charm when he wears it. “Which is very sexy, by the way. If deeply inadvisable for long-term blood pressure.”

You purse your lips like you’re holding back a retort, but your mouth betrays you at the corners - traitorous, flickering with the ghost of something softer. His hand is still there. Warm against your bare skin. Just above the low dipped back of your dress, strategically, yet infuriatingly still.

Except for his pinky. That traitorous thing begins to move in a subtle back and forth, just at the hem of propriety, tracing slow, idle lines. Lower than he should. Like he can’t help himself. Like he’s not really thinking about it. Like his body is betraying him in the way yours already has, heat blooming beneath his touch in that unbearable space between too public and far too intimate.

“Mm, thank you, Dr. Murdock,” you hum lightly, taking a sip of champagne, like you’re not acutely aware of every nerve ending along your spine. “Remind me what I’m paying you for again? Because it’s certainly not health advice.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Legal counsel. Keeping Americans out of foreign prisons. The occasional corporate sabotage. Managing your rapidly escalating sexual frustration.”

The last part lands lower, his voice dipping into something rich and pointed. You let your gaze flick to his lips for the briefest second, drawn by memory more than choice. The press of his lips against your throat last night surfaces uninvited, threading heat through your body in slow, deliberate coils. The kind of heat you have absolutely no business carrying right now.

“Your retainer doesn’t cover the last one,” you flatly retort, trying to hold on to the seams of your composure.

“Oh,” he laughs, entirely too pleased. His smile turns razor sharp, a contrast to the velvet of his voice, which remains smooth as sin and just as indulgent. “I do that part pro bono.”

His hand drifts lower, no longer pretending at subtlety. You inhale, sharp and involuntary, and your pulse stumbles in your throat. You know he can hear it. Your whole body prickles with awareness, strung too tight beneath the weight of restraint.

“Matt,” you hiss, quiet, dangerously close to breathless.

“Madam Ambassador,” he returns, mockingly reverent.

“People are going to notice,” you manage, aiming for cool and missing entirely. Instead, it lands somewhere just above a whisper, too thin to carry any weight.

“No, they won’t,” he murmurs, dipping his head just enough to make it feel intimate, almost conspiratorial. “They don’t see you the way I do.

“You look incredible tonight, by the way,” he adds, almost lazy. “It’s extremely distracting.”

You don’t look at him. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, and his voice is a breath too close. “I’m not starting anything.” An intentional pause. “Yet.”

Oh fuck. You know that tone. And you know how easily it undoes you. Your hand grips the stem of your champagne flute with too much pressure.

“That’s for later,” Matt continues, still smiling, still playing innocent, still entirely unbothered about the molten situation he’s creating beneath your thighs. “When we’re locked in your office, and you’re bent over the desk—” It’s humiliating, how quickly he short-circuits you. Especially here. Especially now. Surrounded by diplomats and donors and enough political firepower to start a polite war. “—this dress pushed up to your hips, hands flat, legs shaking. Trying so hard not to make a sound while I—”

“Madam Ambassador!”

You nearly drop your glass. 

Your head spins to the source of the sound as your aid appears at your side like she’s been launched from a cannon, all breathless urgency and faintly flushed cheeks, clearly trying not to run while absolutely running. The intimate bubble created between you and Matt bursts in a flash. You blink, once, twice, trying to remember how to put your professional mask back on.

She leans in closer, lowering her voice in the practiced way of someone attempting to make a scene look like not a scene.

“I’ve just got word that your husband is—“

But whatever seconds of warning you were about to get arrive too late. The doors don’t slam open with drama. They part neatly, elegantly, like every other perfectly choreographed detail of the night, just another entrance in a long parade of them.

Except, somehow, you know better.

So you turn. And there he is. Congressman Barnes. Bucky. Your husband.

Or rather: the six foot tall coal in your diplomatic stocking.

He stands in the open mouth of the ballroom, all broad shoulders and presence, like the media trained version of the man who once touched you like he was afraid you’d disappear. The rain’s left it’s fingerprints across the upturned collar of his coat, which he shrugs off, politely handing it to the doorman waiting. One dark strand of hair falls forward as he does, damp from the chill. He doesn’t bother brushing it back; he’s too busy scanning the room.

Steel blue eyes track the crowd with practiced efficiency. Old habits, older instincts. The assassin’s gaze never really left him, just learned to wear nicer suits.

But he’s not looking at the buzz of people, he’s looking through them, searching, until finally, they find their home.

His gaze finds yours like it always does, like there’s some old wire between you still conducting power, even now. And something in his expression goes soft. Fractional. Sharp edges dulled for one split second, like the look he used to give you across your kitchen island before the day’s chaos took him back to D.C. and left you with your coffee going cold. For a moment, the room shrinks to the two of you. 

But then, inevitable, his gaze drops, precise and burning. And you remember, in the same second he sees it, that Matt’s hand is still resting against the small of your back.

And for the first time all night, your thoughts empty, like someone yanked the power from the control panel in your brain and left you blinking through static. 

Instead, you’re just very suddenly aware: the low scoop of your dress, the heat of Matt’s fingers against your skin, the exact angle of Bucky’s jaw as he processes what he’s seeing, and the absolutely godawful presence of your aide standing next to you, still chattering on, blissfully oblivious to the way you’re internally appealing to every higher power on record, including a man in a red suit with a sleigh, to grant your Christmas wish and make the floor open up.

Bucky doesn’t react - at least not outwardly. His face is still carefully arranged, cloaking the real him. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. Oh no, they’re doing something else entirely. Calculating. Reading. Remembering.

Your spine locks. Your lungs forget how to do the one thing they were designed for. And before you can think, before you can help yourself, you step forward. Out of Matt’s touch. Like you’re guilty of something, even though this is exactly what you’d both agreed to.

Matt’s doesn’t protest. But his head tilts slightly, and his mouth flickers with the ghost of something less assured than earlier.

“Were you expecting him?” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath, pitched only for you.

You might answer. 'No'. You think you say it. But you’re not sure. Because your pulse is a snare drum in your ears and your dress is suddenly too tight and Matt is still behind you and before you can recalibrate, Bucky’s crossing the room. Big, purposeful strides, no detours, like gravity’s involved. Like the shortest distance between him and you is an inevitability. And maybe you blink. Maybe your fingers twitch. Maybe Matt says your name and you don’t hear it.

And then you feel it. Bucky’s arm curling around your waist, pulling you close and sliding into place like it never left. Like it belongs there. His fingers press into the curve of your hip, twitching slightly, like he’s reacquainting himself with the feeling of you. 

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart,” he drawls, pressing a kiss to your cheek that’s more claim than greeting. “Did I miss anything important?”

You smile before you even register the impulse, before your brain catches up with your face. It’s even not performative - it’s worse. It’s reflex, that old, honey-warm reaction buried somewhere in the marrow of you, where all the bad decisions live. 

Of course his presence short-circuits your better judgment and rewires your body like a fucking Pavlovian trigger.

"Bucky," you breathe, and it comes out softer than you mean. Laced with something warm and involuntary and utterly stupid. Almost relieved. Which is objectively ridiculous, because he wasn’t supposed to be here, and you certainly weren’t waiting for him. ”You made it."

“Couldn’t let you do this alone,” he murmurs, and he leans in just enough to make it feel tender. And then you catch it, the lingering scent of his cologne - warm, spiced, sinfully familiar. It still curls under your skin, bypasses logic, and goes straight to that inconvenient place between your legs like your body hasn’t been thoroughly updated on the terms of your separation. 

His mouth brushes the line of your cheek with a deliberate softness. “You look gorgeous tonight, baby.”

Baby.

Oh, fuck you, actually. That word is a landmine, and you step on it hard. It detonates in your chest, all heat and memory and involuntary muscle reaction.

Your breath catches in the space between your collarbone and your pride. You can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything except stand frozen, wondering how the hell you ended up here, in a ballroom full of politic’s most powerful, between your husband and your lover, and a not nearly enough alcohol in your system to deal with whatever chapter of your memoir this will eventually be filed under.

And you’re suddenly violently aware of how absurdly close and entirely too perceptive Matt is. Of how his hand has only just left the bare skin at the base of your spine. Of how the air between the three of you has tightened into something sharp and charged and idiotically male.

Bucky smiles at Matt. Or rather, Bucky does the thing he does instead of smiling, that faint curve at the corners, that almost-polite flicker of civility that’s more like a veiled assessment than an actual expression of warmth.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?” He asks, just barbed enough to jolt you straight out of the spiralling mess in your brain.

You open your mouth. Something resembling a noise emerges, high pitched and useless. You opt to close it again. Then you flick a glance toward Matt, who still hasn’t moved, though the slight tension in his jaw says enough. You are, by every measure, out of protocol, out of champagne, and rapidly running out of coherent thoughts.

You laugh. It’s automatic. Bright, brittle, entirely unconvincing. The kind of laugh that would get flagged in a hostage video.

“Yes—of course,” you say, in a voice less convincing than the one you used to convince a room full of foreign dignitaries that a rogue drone strike was merely an ‘unfortunate timing issue’. You turn to Matt, hand gesturing somewhere vaguely between them both. “This is, uhh…”

And that’s when your brain decides to eject itself from the conversation entirely. Instead, the Rolodex of introductions spins uselessly behind your eyes: This is Matt—no, too casual—This is Mr. Murdock—who is he, your high school principal?—This is the embassy’s legal counsel—sure, fine, if you’ve never met the guy before—This is the man currently fucking your wi—Jesus Christ.

Your mouth opens. Something half-shaped and unapproved begins to form. Abort. Abort. Abor—

“Matt Murdock, legal counsel for the embassy,” Matt introduces smoothly, mercifully stepping in before your mouth does something catastrophic. He extends his hand toward your husband like he wasn’t just whispering filth against your ear five minutes ago, his smile a masterclass in lawyerly charm.

Bucky doesn’t take it right away. Just stares at him. That quiet, unreadable thing he does, the one that always made other politicians uneasy and your staffers nervous, the one that means he’s doing more than thinking. He’s judging, asessing, cataloguing, slotting information into place like a sniper sighting his target, only this time the ammunition is social and the terrain is your fucking embassy Christmas party.

After leaving it almost a second longer than what’s polite, Bucky takes Matt’s hand. Firm, and a fraction too tight. Matt holds his ground, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t drop eye contact. And that, somehow, only makes it worse.

“Bucky Barnes,” he returns at last. “I’ve heard your name come up a few times.”

Matt, ever composed and gracious, nods easily. “All good things, I hope.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches - technically a smile, if you’re being generous. “That remains to be seen.”

You shift just enough to face Bucky, one hand ghosting across his shirt like you’re smoothing out his tie. “James.” You warn under you breath, into his chest, just loud enough for him. 

His eyes, those ridiculous, impossible blue eyes, cut down to you. “What?” He replies, pretending innocence. 

You give him that polished, razor-thin smile you’ve perfected over a decade of high-stakes diplomacy and rooms where the only language permitted was subtext. 

“Don’t,” you hiss through it, lips frozen in place, pressing the words through your clenched jaw like a trick of ventriloquism. “Not here.”

“Don’t what?” he shrugs with maddening innocence, like he’s never once in his life started a conflict he didn’t fully intend to finish. “I’m just talking, doll. Just acquainting myself with the man who, in my absence, has so gallantly been entertaining my wife.” 

And there it is. My wife. 

It lands like a slap from silk gloves. Yet it was slipped into the sentence like it belongs there, and, you suppose, technically it still does. Especially with how your body reacts. 

Because it’s not just a word. Not from him. And you hate that it still works on you. Hate that it makes your throat tighten, makes your skin heat where his arm sits so casually around your waist. Hate the ache that curls low in your belly, sharp as it ever was, your body still tuned to his frequency like no time has passed at all.

You try to breathe. Try to smile. Try not to picture him saying it under different circumstances - rougher, close to your ear, with your name caught between his teeth and your nails dragging lines down his back. Try, desperately, not to picture the version of him that still lives somewhere under your skin.

Instead, you so bravely try and do what any self-respecting woman with two degrees, three diplomatic awards, and several glasses of champagne in her system does. You try to salvage the conversation with dignity. 

Except you don’t get the chance. Because James Buchanan “my wife” Barnes opens his stupid mouth again.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one curious,” he adds, that casual little lilt in his voice. “Not with the way he’s hanging around you like a lost puppy.”

Your smile collapses. Even Matt’s practiced charm falters. And that’s when your hand lands flat against Bucky’s chest.

A perfectly innocent motion, of course. If someone took a photo right now, it would look like a poised, affectionate gesture - and not the silent threat it absolutely is - as you steer him away from Matt before the night can get any worse.

“Okay,” you smile so sweetly it could rot teeth quicker than Christmas candy, ‘I think the Congressman and I are just going to take a little moment, have a bit of a, you know, marital catch up,” you keep talking to Matt over your shoulder, flashing him a look that lands somewhere between apologetic and horrified, “I’ll find you later, Matt.”

And then you’re gone, dragging Bucky through the crowd, pulling him by the hand now. Not laced fingers, oh no, just your palm wrapped around his wrist like a diplomatic escort and not, say, a woman seconds from finding the nearest unoccupied corridor and verbally eviscerating her husband behind a ficus.

His gait is maddeningly casual. Because of course it is. Of course he follows half a step behind, letting you lead him through the crowd, letting you fume and fluster and curse, while he’s all composed amusement like he’s exactly where he wants to be. Like he hasn’t just detonated a perfectly groomed social event with one laced remark and a single possessive noun.

“You cannot do that,” you snap, breath sharp through your teeth, as you throw a glare over your shoulder. “You do not get to show up late and piss all over the conversation like a jealous husband.”

And just like that, he stops walking. 

Which means, by default, you’re suddenly yanked to a graceless halt mid-stride, tipping you off balance and straight back into him.

The full inertia of your forward momentum meets the immovable object of one emotionally constipated super-soldier, and your composure unravels in the three seconds it takes for your body to register proximity. Your palms slap flat against the wall of his chest to steady yourself. 

And Christ, he’s still so solid. Stupidly, impossibly solid. Your treacherous fingers hesitate a beat too long against the fabric of his shirt, caught in the gravity of muscle memory, like they’re trying to map old territory. You tell yourself it’s balance. Not the slow, aching part of you that still wants to hold on.

Eventually, eventually, you peel yourself off him and step forward again, spine straightening with diplomatic precision. 

That’s when he crosses his arms. And the way the fabric of his suit strains across the thick lines of his biceps nearly short-circuits whatever righteous indignation you’d been clinging to. Your brain stutters. Your pulse jumps. Because that body - your husband’s body - still knows how to shut your thoughts off like a flipped switch.

You swallow hard. Try to remember what it was you were furious about, and hang onto that like a lifeline.

“Didn’t know I had to RSVP to my own wife’s events,” he quips, voice all smug indifference and no apology. Like the words just slipped out of his mouth by accident, and he’s not choosing this fight on purpose. “Just in case she’s plus-oneing with her boyfriend.”

Truly, a flawless demonstration of how neither of you are good at detachment, despite insisting otherwise when you agreed to privately end your marriage and that seeing other people was allowed. 

And it hits harder than it should. Unfair and sore. Not just a jab, but a full, winding punch to the ribs.

You don’t let your face flinch, still holding his steely gaze, but the fury tightens in your throat, and the taste of champagne goes bitter in your mouth, making it hard to swallow past the taste of every unspoken thing between you.

And maybe something in your silence hits him harder than your words ever could. Maybe Bucky realises he’s pushed it too far. Maybe he even starts to feel a little guilty. Because that telltale little crease that starts to pull between his brows - the one that always used to show up when he hurt your feelings.

He looks away. Just for a second. Slides his hands into the pockets of that immaculate suit like he needs something to do with them besides reach for you.

“I should’ve called,” he admits.

“You should’ve done a lot of things,” you counter, but it comes out quieter than you expect. Not soft, nor gentle, just tired. Worn at the edges in the way you only ever are around him. 

And maybe, god, maybe this is the moment. The liminal, flickering heartbeat between fury and something vulnerable. Maybe you’re both on the edge of something real. Maybe—

“Oh, there’s my favourite couple!” 

God forbid you finish a thought this evening. Never in your life have you wanted a Christmas carol to come true quite so desperately as you want Silent Night to live up to its goddamn promise.

You don’t even get a moment to brace before both your hands are swept up in a pair of perfectly manicured claws belonging to a retired ambassador. Generous with her compliments, sparing with her actual opinions, and somehow always convinced you and Bucky are the very picture of domestic bliss.

“Oh, just look at you two,” she coos, with the kind of warm familiarity that only comes from never actually having a real conversation with either of you. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you in a room together, but aren’t you just luminous. Gorgeously luminous.”

Her gaze darts between you like a bloodhound on the scent of high-society gossip, pupils practically dilating at the sight of you and Bucky together. “James, dear, you must be keeping her happy with the way she’s glowing.”

You smother your scoff in a polite little cough. But Bucky, damn him, doesn’t miss a beat.

He smiles, a little crooked, and reaches instinctively for your waist like he’s done it every day of his life, and will do every day after this. “Trying my best, ma’am.”

“Of course you are,” she says, patting his arm in that way older women do when they’ve decided you’re a particularly well-trained husband. Then her attention swivels back to you, 

“My husband says your James speaks about you all the time, you know.” Her smile grows indulgent, like she’s letting you in on some private, precious detail. “He’s all ‘my wife says’ this, ‘my wife thinks’ that. Quite devoted, for a man drowning in committee meetings.”

And just like that, the air thins. 

Your chest folds in on itself, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s your lungs or your sense of reality collapsing first. Because you hadn’t considered that. Not once. Not in all the months of press releases and dodged calls. That he might still talk about you. In present tense. In rooms you weren’t in. Casually. Like you mattered. Like you still belonged to him in some way that wasn’t just tactical optics and expertly coordinated photo ops.

Something urgent and ugly coils tight beneath your ribs. The sharp ache of hope’s ghost. Like everything you told yourself you’d stopped wanting was still curled up somewhere inside you, only playing dead.

Your gaze lifts before you can stop it, peering up through your lashes, drawn to him like a tide to the moon you never really escaped. Your eyes search him, scrambling for something, soft in a way you hate. Even your lips part uselessly as though the questions lodged in your throat might spill out if they knew how to take shape.

But Bucky’s frozen.

Not visibly. Not in any way that would register unless you knew him like you do. You feel it in the way his hand tightens infinitesimally against your waist, in the way his jaw is tight, in the way his eyes remain pinned somewhere past the woman’s shoulder. Like he can pretend you didn’t just hear that.

But you don’t get to sit with any of it. Of course you don’t. Because she barrels onward, entirely unaware of the existential grenade she’s just lobbed into the centre of your fake marriage.

“And when,” she adds, all conspiratorial mischief as she clasps your hands again, “can we expect a baby from you two, hmm? We can’t let these genes go to waste - your children would be beautiful. Just imagine, a little diplomatic darling running around. What a legacy!”

Your smile calcifies, and your eyes strain so wide that your soul starts clawing for an exit through your sockets. You laugh, something brittle and not at all human.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be something,” you reply, and you really do mean it, just not in the way she’ll take it. “But you’ll have to excuse us, because my husband and I need to compare notes before the speeches start.”

You don’t wait for a response. You’re already turning. Already seizing Bucky’s wrist, which is annoyingly warm and comforting in a way that only makes everything feel worse. Your fingers curl around it in a firm grip that makes your intentions painfully clear and doesn’t leave room for interpretation. 

You drag him, again, through the crowd, but this time there’s no half-hearted attempt at a pasted on smile.

He follows again, of course. But this time with the sheepish obedience of a man who knows he’s two seconds from being flayed with nothing but words. His steps lengthen to match yours, just brushing close enough to trip every circuit in your body that hasn’t already shorted out.

This time, you don’t make the mistake of heading for the first empty corridor. No. This time, it’s your office. Four walls, a lock, and a door you can slam.

‧͙⋆•̩̩͙˚❅*̩̩͙•̩̩͙⋆‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛⋆˚❅•̩̩͙⋆‧͙

The second the door clicks shut, it’s like the whole room inhales with you. You twist the lock with a flick that borders on violent and turn just in time for him to speak.

“Now, to be fair, I think—”

“No, absolutely not,” you cut in, voice already high and tight, finger coming up like a weapon. “You do not get to ‘now to be fair’ me right now, Bucky.”

He blinks. Holds his hands up, palms splayed like that’s going to stop the hurricane already building in your chest. “Okay—”

“No. Not okay. You don’t get to waltz into my event, late, might I add, and unannounced, and then start growling at my colleagues like you’re marking territory you haven’t touched in months.”

“Oh, I’m the problem?” he says, and there it is, that goddamn smirk that only comes out when he knows he’s getting under your skin. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t realise my wife would be so protective over her boyfriend.”

Oh, you are one inch from throttling him.

“Jesus Christ!” You seethe, glaring at the impossibly stupid man before you. You’re pacing now, slow and sharp like a predator in heels. “Can we drop the jealous bullshit? You agreed to this, Bucky. Remember? Your suggestion, actually. We keep the optics, we drop the intimacy. I believe your exact words were ‘no strings, no hard feelings.’”

Bucky’s jaw tightens, the smirk wobbling just enough to show the real teeth behind it. He crosses his arms, that stupid tailored jacket pulling tight across his biceps again, and it pisses you off even more.

“I’m not jealous,” he shoots back, too quick and too defensive for a man supposedly unbothered. You scoff in utter disbelief. “I’m not.” He insists, and you’re not sure who believes it less - you or him. “But you and your boyfriend weren’t exactly subtle, and that’s not what we agreed to.”

The space between you shrinks without either of you meaning to close it, the argument pulling you inward like gravity instead of pushing you apart, heat collecting in the narrow strip of air between your bodies until it feels charged, unstable, one wrong movement away from ignition.

“We agreed to discretion,” you snap back, heat flaring. “Not fucking invisibility. And for your information, I’ve been seeing him for two months and nobody’s noticed a thing.”

His jaw tightens. A muscle feathers just under the skin and his eyes darken a fraction, blue sharpening into something raw and furious and hurt. But it’s gone as fast as it came, smoothed over by the cold anger he wears when he’s protecting something more vulnerable. 

His voice, when it comes, is lower. More dangerous.

“I noticed,” he states. “Immediately.”

Your stomach lurches with butterflies, but you just roll your eyes, because it’s easier than admitting the way that makes your pulse trip. 

“Congratulations, you want a medal?” You bite back, sarcasm thick enough to wade through, “You noticed because you’re a freakish cyborg with a surveillance complex and abandonment iss—”

“Because he looked like he wanted to eat you alive!” Bucky argues, eyes flaring as he steps in, voice louder now, more petulant.

His words hit like punches but land like confessions. And he’s close. Too close. The way only Bucky can be oppressive and intoxicating at once.

“Well, he wasn’t the only one in that room tonight with that look! Your wife is quite the catch, you’d know if you were ever actually around,” you fire back, loud and mean, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them.

That lands. Hard. His nostrils flare, his posture shifts. Silence slams down between you, thick and volatile. You’re breathing hard now. So is he. The air feels too small, the walls too close.

“You never call,” you continue, stepping closer now, daring him to move first. “You never check in. I find out what city you’re in from CNN half the time, and the rest of the time? I get a neatly worded email from that pretty little blonde assistant of yours.”

“It’s her job to manage my calendar!” Bucky exclaims, exasperated. 

“Is it also her job to make it nearly impossible for me to speak to my own husband?” The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and bitter. “Or is that just a perk?”

He stares at you now, brows drawn together, openly incredulous. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, brittle and furious, barely hiding your hurt. “Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?”

The line is bait. He knows it. You know it is. And you also know it’s below the belt, unfair and loaded and seething with all the things you’re refusing to admit. It sits in the air like a lit match.

For a second, he looks genuinely startled. Then, infuriatingly, his mouth curves, not soft, not amused in any kind way, but sharp with recognition. Like he’s just spotted your tell. “Jesus Christ. You’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” you snap, too fast. “I’m pointing out your hypocrisy.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re the one who walked in and picked a fight like you still get a say—”

“I am your husband.”

You don’t even remember how you got this close, or how you ended up with your back to the wall. But there’s no space between your bodies now. Just heat.

“Oh, now you remember? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you left me to rot across an ocean and then got offended when I didn’t wait quietly for you to come back.”

“I didn’t leave you,” he snaps, the control cracking just enough to let the heat show. “You knew what this job was. You knew what Congress would mean.”

“And I knew what I meant to you,” you fire back, sharper now, because something in your chest is starting to feel too tight, too close to splitting. “Or at least I did once. Before it got inconvenient.”

His jaw works. You can see the muscle jumping there, feel the tension rolling off him in waves. “You’re the one who took the London post! You think it didn’t feel like you chose your career over me?”

“Because you told me to.”

“I told you to take the opportunity,” he corrects, voice rising now despite himself. “I didn’t tell you to move your entire life three thousand miles away and replace me with the first man who pays you attention.”

That one lands. Harder than the rest.

Your chest tightens, sharp and sudden, like he’s punched straight through the ribs instead of around them. “Don’t you dare reduce Matt to a placeholder,” you say, voice shaking despite your best efforts. “He showed up when you didn’t.”

“Oh, he showed up, alright,” Bucky says, dark amusement curling around the edges of his voice. “Real hero. Must’ve been tough for him, swooping in while the husband’s away, busy doing the job he was elected to do.”

“There it is,” you whisper. You glare up at him, furious and full of something you refuse to name. He’s so close now your lips graze when you breathe. “That’s the one you keep coming back to. Like your job absolves you of everything else.”

“It explains it.”

“No,” you snap, anger flaring bright enough to burn through the hurt. “It excuses it. To you. Not to me.”

You’re so close now that you can feel the heat of him, the way his presence fills the room and presses against you, the familiar weight of him triggering memories your body is not equipped to handle right now. His hands flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach out or maybe to shove you away. You’re not sure which would be worse.

"You think I wanted this? You think I like being Congressman Barnes?”

Your heart is a snare drum, pulsing so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts over the thunder in your chest.

"You chose it.” 

"I chose it for us. To build a life where I wasn't just the Winter Soldier. To be someone you could be proud of," he pauses a moment, and when he speaks again, it's quieter than before, almost like he's embarrassed. "To be someone who deserved you.”

Your heart lurches.

Skips once, hard and ungraceful, like it’s trying to crash its way out of your chest. You hate him for saying it. You hate the weight of it, the honesty in it, the you in it. The part of you that’s still too soft for him stumbles on it, almost falters. Almost breaks. Almost

But you’re angry, and you’re proud, and he still hasn’t earnt the softness. So you weaponise the one thing you shouldn’t. You push deeper. Twist the blade just to feel the sting.

“Yeah?” you say, voice quieter now, sweeter too, but edged with a cruel bite. “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before suggesting we separate just so you could screw your assistant the second it got difficult.”

His reaction is immediate.

Bucky’s eyes flash, and for a second you can see the moment the fury slams into him, banks hard against his ribs, and claws for purchase behind his teeth.

“I’m not sleeping with her,” he spits. “Jesus Christ.”

You blink surprised, not by the denial, but by how wounded it sounds coming out of his mouth.

“I’ve never touched her,” he bites out again, louder now, breath hot against your cheek, his body pressing in so firmly now there’s nowhere for the anger to go but straight through you. “Not once. If you want her fired, I'll have her gone tomorrow.”

Your gaze flicks, traitorously, involuntarily, to his lips, pulled taut in anger but still so impossibly inviting. You hate yourself for it.

“Oh, how gallant of you,” you sneer, though your voice is starting to betray you, coming out thinner than you want.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you backs down. You’re breathing the same air now, chest brushing chest, the heat of him unmistakable, unavoidable, a memory your body never quite forgot how to respond to.

“Stop being a brat,” he warns, eyes burning as they rake over your face, your mouth, your throat. “Stop using her as a shield because you don’t like what you’re feeling right now.”

His chest brushes yours with every inhale. You can feel the heat of him through the silk of your dress. His gaze drops again, to your lips this time, and stays there just long enough to be dangerous.

“What I’m feeling?” you bite back, breath shallow, your back flat to the wall, his presence swallowing every inch of air between you. “You don’t know what I’m feeling.”

Your breath mingles, sharp and uneven, hot from the argument and the hum of tension coiled between two mouths that know exactly how the other tastes.

“I know what you’re feeling,” he replies, low, slow, and devastatingly calm. “Because it’s the same way I felt when I walked into that room and saw another man touching what’s still mine.”

His pupils are blown wide, ringed with a storm-dark blue, locked on your mouth like he can hear the lies forming before you speak them.

But it’s all too much - his heat, his scent, the familiar weight of him against you, and when you open your mouth to argue, to snap, to say something, all that punches out of your lungs is a quiet, needy little whimper.

And that’s all it takes. 

Bucky’s on you before you can even process it, crashing forward like a moth to flame, dragging your mouth to his like he’s starving for you, and swallowing the sound like it’s his to claim,.

His metal arm wraps around your waist with bruising surety, yanking you flush to him like he’s taking back what was always his.

Your bodies collide like punishment, or proof even, like maybe this is the only way either of you still knows how to communicate anymore, with heat and ache and the frantic drag of bodies trying to rewrite something they agreed to erase.

His other hand fists in your hair, gripping the updo your stylist spent far too long perfecting, fingers sinking in until strands slip free, soft and ruined already, just like you. He uses the hold to tilt your head back, guiding you into the kiss the way he wants it - deeper, harder, a kind of possession dressed up as need.

Your hands clutch at his lapels, desperate for purchase, pulling him impossibly closer even though there’s nothing left to close. You moan into his mouth, helpless and high pitched, and Bucky takes it like an invitation, tongue sliding past your lips with a groan of satisfaction that vibrates straight through you, hungry and all-consuming.

He kisses you like he’s still angry. Like he’s trying to prove a point you didn’t let him make.

Because the argument doesn’t stop. Not really. It just changes shape, becomes the rhythm of his body against yours, the way your nails dig into his shoulders, the broken little sound in the back of your throat when he mouths at the hinge of your jaw like he’s furious it still fits so perfectly there.

Bucky groans against your neck, low and guttural, like the sound is being torn straight from his chest, like the taste of you does something to him he can’t reason with. His teeth scrape your skin, not yet hard enough to mark, but enough to make you keen and arch into him, craving more. 

“Fuck, I missed this,” he mutters against your throat between kisses, panting, like he’s not even trying to pretend it’s controlled anymore. “Missed you.”

He drags his mouth back up to your lips, tasting you again, all wet heat and tongue and desperation. It’s messy now, slick and breathless, spit-slicked lips and the hot rasp of groans exchanged like promises you don’t trust either of you to keep.

Your stomach tightens as his hands start to roam lower, trailing greedily down your sides like he’s trying to remap territory he’s been exiled from.

The cool metal of his left hand is a stark contrast to the heat in your skin, and it slides lower with a possessive kind of precision, fingers spreading over your thigh through the split in your dress, gripping hard enough to bruise. He lifts your leg around his hips, dragging you closer until your hips are flush to his.

You gasp into his mouth as you feel the strain of his thick cock against his slacks, blunt pressure hot and insistent against where you’re already soaked for him.

Your head tips back against the wall with a quiet, broken moan, your mouth falling open as your hips roll instinctively against him, because your body remembers exactly what that cock feels like inside you. The stretch, the pressure, the delicious, devastating fullness. 

And it’s already begging for it again. 

You’re soaked already. Embarrassingly so. Your panties cling damp between your thighs, useless, and your clit throbs with every tiny shift of his hips.

You try to hike your other leg up around him, desperate now, frantic for more - more friction, more contact, more of him grinding against the place that’s throbbing for him. But the length of your dress restricts the movement of that leg, trapping you, keeping from what you need.

“Shit—” you whine, frustrated, nails digging into his shoulders as you pant against his mouth. “Bucky—”

He just groans, deep and low in his throat, utterly pleased at your reaction, then drags his mouth to your jaw, your throat, kissing you like it’s an addiction he’s relapsing into. “S’okay, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice heavy with unbearable fondness. “I’ve got you. I know what you need.”

And then he’s moving, shifting his grip with that maddening, unthinking super soldier ease. One hand firm around your thigh, the other gripping your hip, turning you, then walking you backward without breaking the kiss.

Your ass hits the edge of your desk, scattering the carefully arranged stack of briefing notes and security clearances like they never mattered. And before you can catch your breath, he’s on you again, crowding out every thought but the press of his body and the iron heat of his grip as he pushes your back flat to the polished wood with a kind of desperation that says this has been clawing at him for far too long.

Then his hands are already working the silk of your dress up your thighs with a force that doesn’t care about the designer label or the tailor’s handiwork. He shoves it high around your hips until the air hits your thighs and your panties are all that’s left between him and what he wants.

They’re practically translucent from how worked up you are already, clinging to your pussy like a second skin. You feel the rumble of his groan before you hear it, low and visceral and punched from his chest like he’s the one being touched.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, more breath than word, hands spreading wide over your hips, palms rough and hungry, splaying across your thighs like he’s trying to brand himself into the curve of you. “Look at you.”

You writhe under his grip, your hips canting forward without conscious thought, chasing his cock, his mouth, his hands, anything. “Bucky—please—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Never has. Not when it comes to you.

He drops to his knees, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and he peels them down slow, slow enough to tease, fast enough to keep you begging, slick strands clinging and breaking as he pulls them down. He barely tosses them aside before he’s pushing your thighs wider, nudging you open like a gift he’s about to unwrap with his mouth.

Then he's dragging your legs over his impossibly broad shoulders, spreading you wide with the strength of someone who could split you in half if he wanted.

His mouth is maddeningly close. His breath fans over your soaked folds, and it’s fucking torture, the heat of it, the knowledge of what’s coming, the way he’s just staring like he hasn’t seen you like this a hundred times before.

“You have no fucking idea,” he growls, eyes dark and locked on the mess between your thighs, “how long I’ve been thinking about this pussy. How many fucking nights I’ve jerked off in that goddamn DC apartment, fist around my cock, thinkin’ about my wife’s pussy. Wet. Open. Dripping for me.”

Your fingers claw uselessly at the desk underneath you, your back arching, nerves on fire from the heat of his breath alone. He kisses along the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed drags of lips and teeth and tongue that make your hips twitch, his every movement deliberately slow just to enjoy watching you squirm.

“God—” It comes out ruined, breathy, pathetic, all broken pride and pent-up hunger. You buck your hips toward him, shameless now. “Bucky—just, please!”

He smirks then, dark and satisfied, looking up at you from between your legs, “Well,” he drawls, “since you asked so nicely, sweetheart.”

And then there’s no thought left at all. Just his tongue parting you, licking into you with a kind of single-minded worship that borders on obscene. Wet, filthy sounds echo off your office walls as he devours you like a man starved, moaning into your cunt like he’s missed the taste more than he would air.

His tongue curls against your clit with maddening precision, the angle perfect, the rhythm devastating. He knows your body too well. Every moan. Every twitch. Every sweet, aching spot that makes you fall apart.

“Always so fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rumbles, the words pressed directly to your soaked pussy, more vibration than voice, and you gasp at the way it hits. “Knew you’d still taste the same. Knew this pretty little cunt would remember me.”

His mouth is relentless, tongue dragging slow, firm circles until your thighs tremble against his broad shoulders and your hips try to chase the rhythm, greedy for more.

Your hands find his hair, fingers sinking deep into the brunet strands. You tug, hard, like you want to punish him for how good it feels. His groan is immediate, wrecked and needy, and it vibrates against your clit in a way that nearly breaks you.

“Shit—Bucky—fuck—”

You’re barely coherent, hips rocking helplessly, fisting his hair tighter, grounding yourself in the slick mess he’s making of you. He groans again, louder this time, grinding his face deeper between your legs like he’s trying to bury himself inside you with his tongue alone.

Each pass of his mouth pulls another high, broken moan from your throat. Each curl of his tongue sends your nails raking across his scalp, hips bucking, thighs clenching, the heat building so fast you’re already spiralling, too close, too fast.

The pleasure tips past sharp into overwhelming, every nerve ending screaming as his mouth refuses to ease up, tongue relentless, precise, cruel in how well it knows you. Your hips jerk, then stutter, then try to pull away, but his grip tightens instantly, strong hands locking around your thighs, anchoring you in place, keeping you spread and open and right where he wants you.

The sounds that come out of you aren’t dignified. They’re messy, breathless, broken little noises you can’t seem to stop, each one punched loose by another flick of his tongue, another hum of satisfaction against your clit. 

“Bucky—” you whine, voice thin and wrecked, already shaking. “Please—it’s—I—”

You don’t even know what you’re asking for. Less. More. Mercy. Ruin.

“Oh, you poor thing,” he purrs, voice hot against your folds. “Your boyfriend not takin’ care of you right? Leavin’ my wife all wet and aching like this?” His tongue presses firm and slow, possessive, making you gasp. “She’s weeping for me, baby. Guess I gotta do everything myself.”

Your whole body arches, trembling, legs wrapped around his neck like you’re trying to pull him inside you. Your thighs shake. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your cunt. Your moans are broken things. Your release coils tauter and tauter.

Bucky feels it the second your thighs start to tremble, the way your body tightens, oversensitive and desperate, and he makes a pleased little sound low in his chest

“Be a good girl for me,” he whispers, licking your clit in tight, insistent circles, his voice dripping filth and possession. “Let your husband have what’s his.”

Your orgasm hits like a snapped wire. 

You shatter with a strangled sob, “Bucky—oh my god—”, the orgasm hitting like it’s been waiting months to rip its claws through you, every muscle seizing, your hands white-knuckled in his hair.

Your cunt clenches around nothing, pulsing, spasming, slick pouring down his mouth as you come undone on his tongue, your whole body shuddering like it’s too much, too bright, too intense to survive.

His tongue keeps moving, slower now but heavier, pressing and licking through your oversensitivity with a cruel patience that makes your thighs shake even harder, makes your breath stutter into sharp little gasps you can’t control.

His mouth eventually drags off you with a wet, obscene sound, as he exhales hot across your cunt one last time. You can’t even speak. You’re just gasping, fucked-out and twitching and wrecked.

You barely register the movement until he’s rising, towering over you, the heat of his body swallowing everything. Your slick coats his mouth, his chin, his stubble darkened and wet, and the sight of it makes your stomach flip all over again. 

His mouth catches yours in a kiss that’s filthy, tongue sliding against yours so you can taste yourself on him. It’s needy and deep, and you groan into it, dizzy, swallowing the filthy remnants of your own cunt off his tongue.

His hands cradle your jaw, tilting your face up, holding you steady like he’s trying to anchor you back into him, into this, into now.

He presses in between your thighs, and you can feel how hard he is, still trapped under his slacks, thick and pushing against your oversensitive pussy. You cry out into his mouth, legs reflexively trying to close, but his hands are there, firm on your hips, keeping you open like he owns the right.

“Easy,” he murmurs against your lips, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he grinds into you, slow and torturous, letting you feel exactly how hard he is, how badly he wants this. “Stay open for me, pretty girl. Just like that. That’s my girl.”

You’re whining again, desperate, keening, need crawling back into your skin. The heat is molten, sending your pulse racing, overstimulation and desire crashing into each other in a dizzy blur.

Your hips roll against him without permission, chasing the hard press of him, the wet heat of your cunt aching to be filled by his cock again, after so long, despite the tremble in your thighs.

“Fuck,” you whimper, breathless. “Fuck, Bucky—please—”

His eyes flash with need, the black of his pupils swallowing the blue entirely. And then your world flips.

His hands clamp down, and he spins you with effortless force, twisting your body and pushing you forward in one fluid motion until your chest hits the desk with a heavy thud.

“Bucky—!” you gasp, palms catching against the polished wood. More papers scatter. Something glass rolls and shatters on the floor. You don’t care.

He crowds behind you immediately, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades to keep you bent, the other yanking your dress up higher, baring your ass, exposing your soaked cunt completely to the cool air and his greedy stare.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters behind you, rough and ruined. “Look at this pussy. Still dripping for me.”

You whimper, high and wrecked, pushing your ass back against him, greedy for pressure, for friction, for him.

Behind you, there’s the unmistakable zip of his trousers undoing. Your breath stutters, a needy little gasp punching out of you as you feel him free himself, hot and thick and close.

But he doesn’t sink into you.

Instead, he presses in just enough to let you feel him. The thick, heavy length of his cock slides slow and deliberate between your slick folds, catching your clit with the head, dragging through you without breaching the place you’re begging him to fill. The friction alone makes your knees wobble, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerk back on instinct.

“Uh‑uh,” he murmurs immediately, one hand snapping to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he stills you. “Easy.”

You whine, long and pitiful, the sound vibrating through your chest as your palms press harder into the desk, knuckles whitening. Your body feels too open, too exposed, every nerve lit up and screaming for him.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, “You miss this cock that bad, baby?”

You choke on a sound, hips pushing back helplessly, chasing him, begging without words. His cock nudges your entrance, fat and hard, and your walls clench uselessly around nothing.

But he keeps teasing, that thick, perfect head catching, dragging, pressing, never breaching. “Need your husband’s cock, huh? Your pretty lawyer not fillin’ you up right?”

Your answer comes out as a wrecked, wordless moan, your head dropping, your body rocking back against him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You can’t even form a denial, can’t gather the pieces of your pride off the floor.

He taps the head of his cock against your puffy clit twice, still swollen from his mouth, just sharp enough to make you cry out and bring your focus back to him.

“Come on, pretty girl” he murmurs, possessive and coaxing all at once, thumb digging into your hip. “If my wife wants her husband’s cock, then she can ask for it.”

You sob, the frustration sharp and humiliating. “Bucky—please—please—I need your cock. I need my husband—please—”

The growl he lets out behind you is raw and unfiltered. The kind of sound that shakes down your spine and settles somewhere in the hollow between your legs, and then he’s moving, cock in hand, pressing in with a slow, punishing thrust that steals the breath from your lungs.

The thick head finally breaches you, stretching you wide, your walls clenching, trying to pull him in faster. Greedy and soaking and helpless against the thick, brutal stretch of him.

“Oh—fuck—” you gasp, voice strangled and high, hands slipping against the polished desk as your hips push back, instinctively trying to take more, take all of him.

“Jesus Christ,” he grits through his teeth, watching himself disappear into you. “You’re still so fucking tight baby—fuck—this pussy missed me, huh?”

And then hips snap forward, the last few inches slamming in until he’s buried to the fucking hilt, his pelvis flush to your ass with a sharp smack that echoes off the walls.

You scream, high and wrecked and wanton, your legs nearly giving out under the feel of him, the stretch, the heat, the fullness. Your cunt clenches around him again, fluttering helplessly like your body’s trying to pull him deeper even when there’s nowhere left for him to go.

“Listen to you,” he hisses, tone dark and filthy, thrusting just once, shallow and firm, enough to make you jolt. “You hear that, sweetheart? That’s my girl. My pretty wife. Cryin’ for her husband’s cock.”

Then he pulls back and fucks into you, hard and deep, no warning, no preamble, just a ruthless snap of hips that sends your body jolting forward over the desk, a ragged cry spilling from your lips. 

The desk creaks under the force of his continued thrusts, your skin slapping loud against his, each drag of his cock in you knocking the air from your lungs, stealing the words from your throat. All you can do is moan, wrecked, your walls gripping him like they never learned how to let him go.

And god, you’re gone. Helpless. Shaking. Crying out his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore, the world narrowed to the pounding weight of him inside you. Your pussy pulses around him, your orgasm already building again, sharp and fast and unbearable.

You turn your head, cheek dragging across the polished desk, because it’s not enough just to feel him. You need to see him, your husband, the man whose cock is currently buried so deep in you that you swear he’s knocking the breath from your lungs.

Your vision is already blurring, glassy, lashes wet with unshed tears, but you can just catch him in the corner of your eye.

Cheeks flushed, his head tipped back, strands of hair out of its careful styling and sticking damp to his brow, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he fucks you with a single-minded focus that’s almost worship.

God, he’s beautiful. You could cry just looking at him. You might, if you weren't already.

It’s obscene, how much you need to touch him, to claw your way back into his arms, to have his mouth on yours and his hands everywhere at once. You reach back, needy, desperate for any part of him you can grab, but you’re too far gone, fingers scrabbling against empty air like that’ll be enough to bridge the chasm between you.

“Bucky…” It’s a pathetic whine, the only word you can manage. Your hand still claws at nothing, pleading for contact, for reassurance, for him.

His gaze snaps to yours instantly, pupils blown and mouth curling into a pleased, wicked smile as he takes in the sight of you, cheek smushed into the desk, tears on your cheeks, still trying to reach for him even when you can barely breathe.

“Yeah, baby, I know,” he coos, voice somehow both rough and syrup-sweet, and he lets one hand slip from your hip to find your outstretched hand, holding tight through every brutal, perfect thrust.

“You're perfect, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with praise. “My pretty wife, all fucked-out and still wantin’ more.”

You can only nod, breathless and wrecked, tears still spilling down your cheeks, and the sound you make is nothing short of ruined. 

He presses his forehead to your shoulder blade, breath hot on your skin as he pounds into you. One arm braces beside your head, the other stays gripping your hand, holding you like an anchor while his hips keep driving into you, every thrust dragging another sound out of you that you don’t recognise as language anymore.

He mouths along your throat, teeth catching first, a sharp nip that makes you cry out, then another, and another, claiming skin with greedy little bites that leave your breath shattering apart.

He kisses over each mark immediately after, slow and deliberate, tongue hot and wet as he soothes the sting away.

“God,” he breathes against your neck, the sound vibrating straight into your bones. “Feel you squeezin’ me. You’re right there, baby. I can feel it.”

Your whole body shudders at the words, cunt clenching tight around him like it understands before your brain ever could. You whimper, arching your neck, exposing more of your throat to him as his mouth keeps moving, marking, kissing.

“Can’t—can’t think,” you manage, the words falling apart as soon as they leave your mouth. “Oh my god—Bucky, please—I can’t think—just wanna—wanna—”

“Wanna what?” he rasps, slowing his thrusts just enough to make it unbearable, grinding deep and holding there so you feel every inch of him buried inside you. His mouth hovers by your ear, lips brushing your skin as he speaks. “Say it, sweetheart. Use that pretty little voice.”

Your words tumble out in a broken rush, babbled and needy, breath catching on every syllable. “Wanna come—wanna feel you come inside me—need it—need it so bad—need you—”

He laughs, deep and pleased, the sound ripped from his chest as he rolls his hips again. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You want me to fill this tight little pussy up? Let it all leak out so everyone sees what I did to you?”

You’re nodding frantically now, 'yes' tumbling out of you in gasps and whines, 'please please please' the only prayer you know how to say. Your body is shaking, legs barely holding you up. Your cunt is fluttering and clenching around him like it’s begging just as hard as you are.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, thrusts picking up again, deeper, harder, bruising in the way that makes your vision go white at the edges. “Maybe I should put a baby in you like that ambassador said, huh?”

Your breath catches sharply, a needy little sob ripping out of you as his words sink in.

“‘Cause you wear that diamond so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart,” he continues, voice filthy and reverent all at once, mouth pressed to your ear. “But it’s not enough. I’m should fill you up right now. Fuck a baby into you. Make damn sure they all know who you belong to.”

Your response is incoherent. Barely a stream of whines and broken sounds, hips pushing back desperately to meet his thrusts, to take everything he’s giving you and more.

“That’s right,” he groans, snapping his hips into you hard now, claiming, punishing, every thrust landing deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Should’ve done this months ago. Fuckin’ knocked you up and had you round and swollen at this party.”

Your orgasm is clawing up your spine now. Every nerve screaming, your walls clenching so tight around him it makes him curse under his breath.

“You gonna take it all for me?” he growls, voice breaking as his own control starts to fracture. “Gonna keep it inside like a good little wife, let it take, let me mark you from the inside out?”

You gasp, voice cracking completely as the edge hits you. “Yours—m’yours, Bucky—”

That’s all it takes.

He slams into you one last time, a raw, broken sound tearing from his throat as he buries himself as deep as he can go and comes hard, spilling into you with a groan of your name. You come with him, shattered and blinding. Your body locks up as pleasure rips through you, milking every last pulse from his cock.

Your breath comes in little hiccuping gasps, lips parted, eyes glassy with come-drunk bliss, lashes sticky with tears. 

And all you can feel is the throb between your legs and Bucky’s cock softening inside you, still twitching. 

Behind you, Bucky’s chest presses warm and broad against your back, his breath ragged against the hollow of your throat. He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your shoulder. Soft now, whispering things you barely process. You feel the cadence of praise more than the words themselves, sweet nothings soaked in filth and affection.

“Good girl…” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear like a secret. “Took me so well. So fuckin’ good for me. Such a perfect little wife.”

You whimper, barely more than breath, and his hand slides slow over your belly, holding you there like you’ll float away otherwise. 

You can't move. Can't think past the hot weight of his come cooling inside you, the ache in your thighs, the taste of him still on your tongue. Somewhere beyond this office, Matt is still at your party, waiting. 

And for a moment, guilt starts to creep into your thoughts.

Then Bucky pulls out with a sharp hiss, and your body snaps back to him. A small, wrecked, little cry punches from your lungs at the loss of him. Your cunt clenches, fluttering open and aching empty.

“Shhh, sweet girl,” he soothes immediately, cooing as he drops to his knees behind you, large hands guiding your thighs open wider, one of them cold and sure where it braces your quivering body. “I know, baby. You didn’t want to let me go, huh?”

Your only answer is a shuddering moan as his warm breath ghosts across your bare, messy cunt. You twitch, whimpering again, as you feel Bucky’s come sliding slow between your thighs in wet little trails.

He hums, pleased, like a man admiring his masterpiece.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice far too soft for the words he's saying. “Fuckin’ wasting it. All that come, and you’re leaking already…”

You feel his thumb graze your thigh, catching a thick, slick trail as it drags slow and molten down your skin. His thumb slides through the mess, smearing it, lazy and indulgent, and you jolt when it nudges your entrance again.

“Bucky—” you gasp as his thumb presses firm, spreading you open again.

“Easy,” he coos, guiding his spend back into you, thumb rubbing slow, coaxing, pushing it deep while your hips try and shy away, your cunt overstimulated and twitching with every touch. “I know, sweetheart, I know. It’s alright. Gotta keep it where it belongs, yeah? That’s it. Good girl.”

Your fingers curl on the desk, lower lip trembling as your thighs clench with every slow, squelching drag of his thumb.

“Hope your lawyer likes his pussy sloppy,” Bucky murmurs after a moment as his thumb slips free, his hand dragging one last slow stroke up your inner thigh. “Because if he wants you tonight, he’s gonna have to settle for leftovers.”

You mewl helplessly, and that just earns you a kiss to the back of your thigh before he reaches down and plucks your panties off the floor. He slides them back up your legs, snapping the waistband into place with a little flick, sealing his come inside you.

His hand lingers, lazy, giving your ass a fond squeeze, fingers sinking deep into your flesh, followed by a sharp slap that makes you yelp and clench around the come he’d left behind. His palm stays there, rubbing soft over the sting, possessive as ever.

“D'you think he’ll thank me for the appetiser, baby?” He teases, amusement curling around every word. “My good little wife. Serving up seconds.”

This was for Violet, you told yourself. Totally, completely, one hundred percent for Violet.

The same Violet who’d stood at the mailbox last week and announced to the entire street that “Daddy burns the bottoms of all the Christmas cookies. It’s tragic.”

You’d laughed, made some sympathetic noise, and then gone home and immediately pulled out flour and sugar like your life depended on it.

And okay, maybe you were also weak for the very large, very handsome man who’d moved in with her in September.

Bucky Barnes. Late thirties. Single dad. Wore flannels that strained over his chest and gray sweatpants that should count as a public menace. The HOA pretended to be concerned he’d put up “noncompliant” decorations; really, they just wanted excuses to loiter by his driveway when he carried heavy things.

You’d tried very hard not to stare when he’d hauled a Christmas tree off the roof of his truck like it weighed nothing, biceps flexing, cheeks pink from the cold.

You inhaled, balanced the cookie tin on one hip, and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Bucky filled the doorway like he owned it—broad shoulders, scruffy jaw, hair pushed back with his fingers and already falling forward again. He was wearing a dark green henley and worn jeans, one socked foot and one bare, as if you’d interrupted him mid-puttering.

“Hey, neighbor.” His smile was slow and easy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You out here spreading Christmas cheer?”

Your breath puffed white between you. “Something like that,” you said. “Violet mentioned your tragic cookie situation.”

He groaned. “Did she?”

You held up the tin. “I come bearing reinforcements.”

His face softened. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, stepping back and swinging the door wide. “But I am absolutely not turning down free cookies. C’mon in before you freeze.”

Warmth wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, the house smelling like pine and cinnamon and the faint spice of his cologne. The living room glowed with Christmas: too-big tree in the front window, multicolored lights, paper snowflakes under Scotch tape, a lopsided angel on top. Animated snowmen sang on the TV.

“COOKIE FAIRY?” Violet barreled in from the couch, socks sliding on the hardwood. She slammed into your middle, tiny arms wrapping around your waist. “You did it!”

“Hi, bug,” you laughed, juggling the tin to hug her one-armed. “I brought some. Think you can help me eat them?”

“Yes.” She grabbed the tin with both hands like it was a sacred relic. “Dad, look! They’re in a real tin and everything.”

“Nothing but the best for my favorite elf,” you said.

“I thought I was your favorite elf,” Bucky muttered.

Violet gave him a look. “You’re Santa. Obviously.”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “Upgraded. I’ll take it.”

He glanced back at you, eyes warm. “Kitchen?”

“Lead the way.” You bent down to pull off your boots.

He stepped behind you without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you around the edge of the rug. It was nothing, really. He touched you like that a lot—steadying you on icy sidewalks, nudging you through thresholds, fingers warm and broad and safe.

Your body, naturally, made a massive deal out of it.

You followed him toward the kitchen archway. Violet scampered ahead, already wrestling with the lid of the tin.

You were just lifting your foot to step through when she shrieked.

“WAIT!”

You froze. Bucky’s hand tightened slightly on your back. “Vi?”

“You can’t go under yet!” she yelped, scrambling off the step stool. She skidded across the floor to the pantry and dove into a pile of boxes and craft supplies. Glitter snowflakes. A garland that had lost half its fake berries. Plastic holly.

And a cluster of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon.

Oh.

She clutched it triumphantly. “Gotta put this up.” She ran back, standing on tiptoe in the middle of the doorway. She stretched. The nail above the frame was just out of reach.

Bucky sighed, but his mouth was tipped up at the corners. “C’mere, trouble.”

He scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She looped the mistletoe over the nail with grave concentration, tongue stuck out in focus, then patted it.

“Now you can’t go under without kissing,” she declared when he set her down. “It’s the rules.”

Heat shot straight to your face. You suddenly became incredibly aware of exactly where you were standing.

Right under it.

Bucky’s gaze went up to the mistletoe, then down to you, then away so fast you almost heard his vertebrae crack.

“Vi, we talked about weaponized mistletoe,” he said weakly. “You can’t just… ambush people.”

“It’s Christmas.” She shrugged, unbothered. “Anyway, you never kiss anyone, Daddy. It was getting bored.” She hugged the cookie tin and trotted into the kitchen, humming under her breath.

You wished you could join her in obliviousness instead of wanting the floorboards to open up beneath you.

Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pinker than the cold warranted. “Uh. Sorry. She’s been on a holiday rom-com binge.”

“It’s okay.” You forced a laugh, looking up at the plastic berries. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah, that’s what my blood pressure says.”

He stepped carefully through the doorway, avoiding brushing the mistletoe with his shoulder like it was booby-trapped. You followed—definitely not staring at how his shirt stretched across his back—ducking just slightly.

The kitchen was warm and bright, counter already scattered with Violet's craft debris. She’d opened the tin and arranged a dozen cookies on the Santa plate, humming to herself.

“Those snowmen have seen some things,” Bucky remarked, leaning against the counter.

“Don’t be mean, they’re sensitive,” you said. “Besides, you try piping frosting with cold fingers.”

“I never said I could do better.” He reached for one, broke it in half, steam curling from the center. “Oh, that’s…doll. You’re going to ruin store-bought for her.”

“Good,” Violet said through a mouthful. “They taste like sadness.”

You laughed, the tension easing. The next half hour blurred into something easy and golden—coffee brewing, cocoa for Violet, stories about disastrous childhood Christmases. Bucky talked with his hands, wrists rolling, veins shifting under skin every time he reached for the sugar. Violet tried—and failed—to get more sprinkles than cookie onto her reindeer brownie.

Eventually she yawned mid-ramble, blinking slow.

“There it is,” Bucky said softly. “The crash.”

“No,” she argued reflexively, rubbing at her eyes. “I wanna watch the Grinch.”

“You can watch the Grinch tomorrow. Right now, it’s bedtime for elves.” He wiped frosting off her chin with his thumb, kissed her forehead. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll be up in five.”

She slid off the chair, clutching another cookie. “Can I say goodnight to the cookie fairy first?”

“Of course,” you said, heart squeezing as she hugged you again. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

She shuffled off down the hall. Bucky watched her go, something soft and fierce all at once in his face.

He looked back at you, shoulders loosening. “I’m gonna go do battle with the bedtime routine,” he said. “If you wanna crash on the couch, I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”

“I can walk myself,” you said automatically, warmth flooding you anyway. “But I’ll stick around. You know. In case you need backup against the Grinch.”

He smirked. “Pretty sure you’re the reason she’s asking for a puppy and a pony now, but okay, you can be backup.”

He hesitated, then brushed his fingers over your elbow, just once. “Hey,” he added, voice quieter. “Thank you. For this. She’s gonna be talking about ‘cookie fairy night’ until June.”

Your chest ached. “You’re welcome.”

He went upstairs, his tread heavy and familiar. The house settled around you. Cartoon snowmen grinned silently from the TV in the next room.

You cleaned up without really thinking—stacked plates, ran water in the sink, wiped stray smears of frosting off the table. It all felt domestic in a way that made your heart ache. Easy. Natural. Like you’d always been here.

When you finished, you wandered back toward the living room, tying your hair up off your neck.

And paused under the arch.

The mistletoe dangled above, casting a small, smug shadow on the floor.

You tipped your head back, looking up at it. Stupid plastic thing. Stupid rom-com rules. Stupid way your body buzzed just thinking about Bucky’s mouth on you for more than the brief brush of his knuckles guiding you around furniture.

You were still glaring at it when the floor creaked behind you.

“Victory,” Bucky murmured. “The elf has fallen.”

You turned. He was at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, henley rumpled, hair even messier than before.

“How many stories?” you asked.

“Three. And a song. And a solemn vow to make gingerbread houses tomorrow that could withstand a hurricane.” He padded down the stairs, eyes on you. “You still—”

He stopped halfway through the sentence when he realized where you were standing.

His gaze flicked up. Caught on the mistletoe. Came back down to you.

You felt his whole body go tight.

“Look at that,” you said lightly, your heart hammering loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Ambushed again.”

He blew out a breath, something like a laugh, something like a curse. “Yeah. Seems to be a recurring theme tonight.”

He started to skirt wide, like he had before.

Recklessness surged up under your ribs.

“Aww,” you said, letting your mouth curl into a slow smile. “Is the big brave single dad scared of a little Christmas tradition?”

He stilled.

Slowly, very slowly, his head turned back toward you.

“Careful,” he said, voice deeper now, the word more warning than joke. He closed the distance in a handful of measured strides, stopping just inside the doorway, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You keep tempting an old man like that…”

Your back bumped the opposite side of the frame as you instinctively leaned away and he followed, one large hand coming up to brace on the wood beside your head. He wasn’t blocking your path so much as caging you there, his chest nearly brushing yours, his scent all around you.

“…he’s gonna forget he’s supposed to be the responsible one,” he finished, eyes gone dark.

Your pulse fluttered against your throat. “Since when do old men look like you?” you managed.

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so strained. “You think I don’t notice you?” he asked, low. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me? The way you always just happen to have leftovers, or spare coffee, or—” his mouth twitched “—emergency cookies?”

Heat crawled up your neck. “Maybe I’m just a nice neighbor.”

“You’re a lot of things,” he said. “Nice. Smart. Way too good to be stuck in my kitchen letting my kid con you into crafts. And you’re driving me insane.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I’ve been trying real hard to leave this alone,” he went on, like a confession he couldn’t stop now. “You’re younger. You got your whole life ahead of you. You didn’t sign up for a package deal with a cranky old man and a seven-year-old who thinks glitter is a personality trait.”

“First of all,” you said, voice stronger than you felt, “you’re not old. You’re just…well-marinated.”

His brow shot up.

“Second,” you went on, heart pounding, “you and Violet are kind of my favorite people on this street. And I don’t bring homemade cookies to people I don’t want to impress, you know.”

There. Out in the air, trembling but solid.

Something helpless and hungry flashed across his face.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You’re my favorite,” you whispered. “Both of you. I like being here. I like being with you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Then he was kissing you.

It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t tentative. It was months of glances and almost-touches and late-night fantasies crashing together. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and demanding, his other hand sliding to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

You made a surprised noise that melted into a needy one, your hands fisting in the front of his henley. He tasted like coffee and sugar and warmth. The slight scrape of his stubble against your skin grounded you even as your knees threatened to give out.

He pressed in, body pinning yours gently but firmly to the doorframe, thigh wedging between your legs like it had always belonged there.

“Bucky,” you gasped into his mouth when he finally broke for air.

“Been wanting to do that since you brought us that lasagna in October,” he said against your lips, words roughened. “You know that? Walked back into the kitchen, saw the note you left for Vi, and thought, ‘Well. I’m fucked.’”

You laughed, dazed. “It was just lasagna.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t see the handwriting.” He kissed you again, softer this time, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “If you want me to, you say it once and we forget this ever happened. I’ll go back to being your neighbor with the tragic cookies.”

You looked up at him, at the worry buried under the heat in his eyes, and any nerves you’d had burned away.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you said. “I want you.”

Everything in him seemed to exhale at once.

“Good,” he breathed. “That’s real good, doll.”

He kissed you again, then again, then along your jaw, down the column of your throat. His hand slid down your side, rough palm cupping your hip. You arched into him, a whimper slipping free when his thigh pressed higher between your legs.

“Look at you,” he murmured, mouth against your pulse. “Already rubbing all over me. So needy.”

“That’s your fault,” you shot back, breathless. “You and your stupid henley.”

He chuckled, teeth scraping lightly against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Stupid, huh?”

“Deeply offensive,” you confirmed, rolling your hips down against his thigh, chasing friction.

He groaned, low and rough, hand flexing on your hip. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna end up fucking you right here in the doorway like a teenager.”

Your brain shorted out on the word fucking.

“Wh-what if I want that?” you managed.

That pulled his head up, his eyes snapping to yours.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said, voice gone dangerous-soft.

“I really, really do,” you insisted, fingers curling in his shirt. “I’ve had…a lot of time to think about it.”

He swore under his breath in a language you didn’t know, something that sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Kitchen,” he decided, like the word hurt. “First. If I take you against this frame I’m gonna put your head through the drywall, and then I’ll have to explain that to my landlord.”

You almost suggested the drywall might be worth it, but he was already guiding you backward with surprising gentleness, his mouth never straying far from yours. You stumbled into the kitchen, bumping the counter with your hip, the faint glow from the living room tree turning everything gold.

He lifted you onto the cool countertop like you weighed nothing, stepping between your knees, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

“Last chance to back out,” he said, searching your face.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and tugged him in. “You’re wasting valuable mistletoe time, Barnes.”

His answering grin was quick and wicked. “God, you’re gonna be trouble.”

His hands slid under the hem of your sweater, calloused fingers skimming your skin. Goosebumps rose in their wake. He pushed the fabric up, mouth following, teeth scraping lightly along your ribs, making you gasp.

“Too many clothes,” he muttered, already tugging at the waistband of your leggings.

You lifted your hips to help, letting him peel them down, your panties going with them. The cool air made you shiver; the heat of his gaze made you burn.

“Fuck,” he breathed, taking you in, pupils blown. “You’re so pretty.”

You shifted, suddenly self-conscious and aroused in equal measure, feeling the slick heat between your thighs.

“You gonna just stare at me?” you tried to tease, voice wobbling, “or—”

He gripped your hips and dragged you to the edge of the counter, dropping to his knees in front of you.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before his mouth was on you.

Your head thumped back against the cabinet with a dull thud. His tongue stroked through your folds like he’d been memorizing you in dreams, slow and deliberate. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, fingers flying to his hair. “Bucky—”

“Taste so good, doll,” he murmured between licks. “Been wondering…fuck…been wondering about this for months.”

Any coherent response dissolved into a strangled noise when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. His hands kept you open, thumbs pressing gently into the creases of your thighs, anchoring you there while he took his time.

He was unfairly good at this—unhurried, entirely focused, like the only thing on earth that mattered was the way you moved under his mouth. He listened, adjusting pressure and pace with every whimper, chasing every gasp like it was a star on some private map of yours.

“Please,” you whined, not sure what you were begging for. More. Less. Everything.

“I’ve got you,” he soothed, one hand sliding up to your stomach, keeping you pinned. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

You did.

A white-hot wave crashed through you, your thighs snapping around his head, heels digging into his back. You bit down on your fist to keep from shouting, a high, broken sound still escaping your throat. He groaned into you, tongue and lips never letting up, riding you through the aftershocks until you were shaking.

When you finally slumped against the cabinet, boneless and breathless, he eased back, licking his lips like he was memorizing the taste.

“Good?” he asked, voice rough, a little smug.

You laughed weakly. “Kind of wanna start a religion.”

“Blasphemy,” he said, grinning as he rose. “We’re strictly a Christmas operation here.”

He kissed you, and you tasted yourself on his mouth, something heady and intimate in the slick slide of tongues. You felt him, hard and thick, pressing against your inner thigh through his jeans.

You reached between your bodies, fingers tracing the outline, and he groaned, hips rocking into your hand.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You fumbled with his belt, heart pounding. He helped, fingers surer than yours, buckling and unzipping in quick jerks. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, and your brain flatlined for a second.

“You’ve been walking around the neighborhood like that?” you blurted.

His mouth kicked up at one corner. “Had to keep up with the festive décor somehow.”

He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking once, slow. Even in his palm he looked big—thick and long, veins standing out along the shaft, the head already damp.

Your mouth watered.

“Jesus,” you whispered. “That’s…that’s not standard issue.”

He laughed, breathless. “I’ll put that on my next dating profile. ‘Not standard issue.’”

“You better not have a dating profile,” you muttered, fingers circling his wrist, urging him closer.

“You’re bossy when you’re turned on,” he noted, stepping back into the space between your thighs. “Gonna remember that.”

The head of his cock nudged your entrance and everything in you went tight.

“Wait,” you managed, one hand on his chest. “Condom—”

His eyes flicked to yours, serious cutting through the haze.

“I’m clean,” you said quickly. “I get tested regularly. And I’m on the pill. I just…you said…”

That you wanted to breed me. That you wanted to fill me and watch it take.

The words stuck in your throat, your face flaming.

Bucky swore softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “I meant it,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m not making that call for you. You sure, doll? You wanna feel me?”

You nodded, heart in your mouth. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “Inside.”

His jaw tightened, something like awe flickering across his face.

“Fuck.”

He adjusted his grip, the blunt head pressing more firmly. “Deep breath,” he murmured.

You sucked in air, fingers digging into his shoulders.

The first push burned.

Not in a bad way, just—stretching. Your body resisting and then yielding, the thick slide of him slow, deliberate. Your walls fluttered around him instinctively, trying to make room for the intrusion.

“Christ,” he gritted. “So tight. You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how good you’re gripping me?”

You whimpered, biting your lip. “You’re…you’re big.”

“We can stop,” he said immediately, every muscle taut with control. “Say the word, doll. I pull out, we go back to cookies and Christmas movies like this never—”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped, then winced when it came out too loud.

His eyes blazed.

“Thought so,” he said, voice dropping.

He kissed you as he pushed in further, swallowing your gasp. Inch by inch, he buried more of himself inside you until finally his hips met the curve of your ass, his pelvis flush against your thighs.

You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Stuffed.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “You’re…you’re in my lungs.”

“Not quite the anatomy lesson I’d give,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours as he fought for control, “but I appreciate the imagery.”

You flexed experimentally around him and he groaned, head dipping to your shoulder.

“Don’t do that,” he warned. “Or this is gonna be a very short show.”

You smiled, dizzy. “Kinda nice knowing I have that power.”

He lifted his head, eyes hot. “You have no idea how much power you’ve got over me, doll.”

He drew back an inch, then slid in again, testing.

The friction made you see stars.

He started slow, letting you adjust, each thrust shallow but sure, his hands gripping your hips firmly enough you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. The counter creaked faintly under you.

“You okay?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“So good,” you managed. “You feel…huge.”

Pride flared bright in his eyes. “That right?” He shifted, angle changing, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made a strangled sound tear from your chest. “There it is.”

Every drag of his cock now rubbed against that spot, the sensation toe-curling, your whole body clenching around him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching your face. “Taking all of me. Such a good girl.”

Heat rolled through you at the words. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted that praise until he gave it to you.

“Like that, huh?” he said, reading you easily. “My good girl. Sitting on my cock in my kitchen like you were made for it.”

Your fingers curled tight in his shirt. “I—Bucky—”

He caught your mouth with his, swallowing whatever sound you made next. His thrusts picked up, faster now, deeper, the wet slide of him inside you obscene.

“You feel this?” he murmured against your lips, hips snapping. “Feel how deep I am? I’m right up against your cervix, sweetheart. Right where I need to be to fill you up.”

Your eyes rolled, the words slicing straight through what was left of your restraint. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Buck—”

“Yeah?” His hand slid from your hip to your lower belly, pressing lightly. You could feel the drag of him from the outside, the firm bulge of his cock pounding into you. “You feel that, doll? That’s me, right here. Stuffing this tight little pussy full.”

It was filthy and insane and you loved every second.

“Gonna come inside you,” he gritted. “Gonna pump you full of me until it leaks out around my cock. You walk home tonight, your panties are gonna be soaked with my cum. You’re gonna lie in bed and feel me still there.”

You made a broken noise, orgasm barreling toward you.

He was relentless now, hips driving into you, the hand on your belly keeping you right where he wanted you while the other cupped the back of your neck, holding your gaze.

“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, voice harsh. “Say it, doll. Say you want me to breed this pretty little cunt.”

Shame and arousal and something like longing tangled deliciously in your chest.

“I want it,” you choked out. “I want you to…to breed me. Want you to fill me up. Please, Bucky.”

His entire body jolted like you’d shocked him.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He dropped his hand back between your legs, thumb circling your clit in snug, ruthless circles. The extra stimulation sent you careening over the edge.

You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, your muscles clamping down around him, milking his cock. You bit his shoulder to muffle your cry, nails digging into his back, whole body shaking.

He cursed violently, thrusts going erratic.

“Jesus—shit—keep squeezing me like that, doll—”

He buried himself deep with a final, brutal snap of his hips, grinding against you as he spilled inside. You felt it—hot pulses of cum flooding you, filling you so full you swore you could feel each warm wave.

“Fuck,” he gasped into your neck, shuddering hard. “Oh, fuck.”

You clung to him, riding out the aftershocks together, the world narrowing to shared panting and the wild thud of your hearts.

He didn’t pull out right away, just stayed pressed to you, chest rising and falling, cock softening gradually inside you. The intimacy of it made your throat tight.

“Still okay?” he murmured after a minute, lips brushing your cheek.

You turned your head, catching his mouth in a soft, lazy kiss. “Yeah,” you breathed. “More than okay.”

He smiled into it.

When he finally eased back, slipping out of you, you made a small, involuntary sound at the loss. Warmth immediately seeped down, slick and obscene.

Bucky’s eyes dropped, watching his cum trickle out of you. His jaw flexed.

“That’s…” His throat worked. “That’s all mine.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “I mean, biologically…”

“Don’t ruin my moment,” he said weakly, still staring. His fingers brushed along your inner thigh, catching some of the mess, smearing it higher, back toward your entrance like he could push it back in. “Jesus.”

“You’re making it worse,” you pointed out shakily.

“That’s the idea,” he muttered, clearly not talking about your comfort.

Your pulse kicked when you saw the way he was looking at you—like he’d never seen anything hotter.

“You, uh…you have that look again,” you ventured.

He dragged his gaze up. “What look is that?”

“Like you wanna do something stupid.”

He huffed a laugh, stepping back so you could breathe. “I already did something stupid.”

“Pretty sure we both did something very smart,” you countered.

His mouth curved. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m gonna forget I’m supposed to let you walk home tonight.”

Your stomach flipped.

He grabbed a dish towel, dampened a corner with warm water, then stepped between your legs again, slower now. “Can I…?”

You nodded, suddenly shy.

He was gentle, cleaning you up with soft strokes, kissing your knee when you flinched at a residual jolt of oversensitivity. He helped you slide your panties and leggings back up, fingers lingering at your waist.

By the time you were more or less presentable, your legs were wobbly again—for entirely different reasons.

You slid off the counter, immediately sinking into his chest when your knees tried to buckle. He caught you, an arm around your waist.

“Easy,” he teased. “You sure you don’t want me to just carry you home? Less risk of you face-planting in the snow.”

“That’d be hard to explain to Mrs. Hargrove,” you said, words muffled in his shirt. “No, I’m fine. Just…gonna feel that tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, entirely too satisfied.

You pulled back to sock him lightly in the chest. “You’re so smug.”

“Can you blame me?” His grin was crooked and boyish. “I just had the prettiest girl on the block come undone on my cock in my kitchen. Under mistletoe. I’m basically a Christmas legend now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart did an embarrassing little swoop at “my.”

You were about to say something equally obnoxious when your gaze flicked past his shoulder.

You could see the living room doorway from here. The mistletoe still hung there, framed by the glow of the tree.

A wicked idea slid into your brain.

“You know,” you said, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt, “we technically only fulfilled half the mistletoe obligation.”

His brows pulled together. “Pretty sure we overshot the obligation, doll.”

“Mm-mm.” You shook your head, lips tipping up. “Everybody does the classic ‘kiss under the mistletoe.’ But I was thinking…”

You trailed off, deliberately letting your eyes drop to the obvious bulge reappearing in his jeans.

His breath hitched.

“There’s another way to…uh…honor the tradition,” you said sweetly.

His eyes darkened, the air between you thickening all over again. “You are going to be the end of me.”

“You already said that.” You slid your hand down his chest, fingers grazing lower, testing. He was getting hard again faster than you’d expected. That did wicked, thirsty things to you. “Consider this my Christmas contribution to the cause.”

He stared at you for a long second, something like worship and pure filth battling in his expression.

“Kitchen,” he rasped. “Door. Now.”

Your pulse spiked. “Yes, sir.”

His nostrils flared.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

He laced your fingers together and led you back toward the archway. The mistletoe swung gently above, almost innocent.

“On your knees,” he said quietly, stopping just under it, voice like velvet over gravel. “Right here.”

A thrill bolted through you. You sank down, the hardwood cool under your knees, the heel of his puppy socks just in your peripheral vision. This close, he seemed even bigger, his thighs thick, his torso a solid wall.

He cupped your chin, tilting your face up. “You good?” he asked, some of the gravel smoothing into concern. “We can stop. I don’t need—”

“I want to,” you said, cutting him off. “I want to taste you too.”

Something hot flared in his eyes.

“Open,” he ordered softly.

You parted your lips. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and pushed them down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, half-hard and already swelling.

Even after feeling him inside you, seeing him this close made your stomach drop and your mouth water.

He stroked himself slowly, lazily, watching your face. In a handful of pulls he was fully hard again, thick and heavy, the head flushed a deeper shade.

“Look at that,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Can’t even get through cleanup without wanting you again.”

“Not complaining,” you said, a little breathless.

He smiled, dark and fond. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart.”

He stepped closer, thighs bracketing your shoulders, until his cock hovered just a few inches from your mouth.

“Hands behind your back,” he said.

Heat punched through you. You laced your fingers together at the base of your spine, shoulders tightening with the position, chest pushing forward slightly.

“Pretty,” he murmured, thumb stroking your jaw. “You look so pretty like that. All submissive. All mine.”

He brought his cock closer, the head brushing your lips, smearing pre-cum. “Taste,” he said.

You darted your tongue out, licking a stripe along the underside. He hissed through his teeth, hand flying to your hair.

“Fuck.”

You took him into your mouth, as much as you could, jaw stretching. He was a lot—thick and heavy, crowding your tongue. You relaxed your throat, breathing through your nose, letting him slide deeper.

“Jesus,” he groaned, grip tightening in your hair. “That’s it. Take it, doll. Take it for me.”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking, tongue swirling, experimenting, listening for every sound he made. You couldn’t get all of him inside, not even close, but the way his cock throbbed against your tongue told you he didn’t mind.

After a dozen strokes, he gently pulled back, easing himself from your mouth. You tried to chase him, but he held you back with a hand on your crown.

“Gotta pace myself,” he managed, breathing ragged. “Want to enjoy this.”

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you said when he let you breathe, voice rough.

His eyes flashed. “Careful, doll.”

He shifted his stance slightly, widening his feet for balance, then slid his cock along your face, smearing slick along your cheek, your lips. You sighed, eyes fluttering.

Then he took himself in hand and guided the heavy weight of his balls to your mouth.

“Tongue out,” he said softly. “Lemme rest you properly under this mistletoe.”

Heat rush-flooded you.

You stuck your tongue out, flattening it. He lowered himself, his balls settling warm and heavy on your tongue, the soft skin contrasting with the weight behind it. The intimacy of it made your head spin.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. Hold still.”

You did, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded as he rolled his hips just a little, letting the weight shift, his cock bumping your forehead. You flicked your tongue up, tracing the seam, tasting salt and skin and him.

A low, broken sound tore out of his chest. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You sucked gently, dragging one into your mouth, tongue swirling. He groaned, his thighs tensing beside your head, fingers flexing in your hair.

“You like that?” you asked when he let you breathe again, voice wrecked, eyes shining.

He stared down at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend you, like you’d just done some impossible magic trick.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I like that.”

He nudged forward again and you took him, alternating between sucking his balls into your mouth and licking them, running your tongue along the tender skin, savoring every ragged noise you pulled from him. His cock bobbed against your cheek, leaving streaks of slick you could feel cooling on your skin.

He was talking again now, the words slurred by arousal. “Look at you. Kneeling under my doorway, under my mistletoe, with my balls on your tongue. My sweet little neighbor, such a good girl, letting me use her mouth like this.”

You moaned around him, the praise turning liquid in your veins.

“You’re driving me out of my fucking mind,” he rasped. “You know that? Gonna have to repaint this frame because every time I walk through it I’m gonna remember you right here on your knees, looking up at me.”

You glanced up through your lashes, cheeks flushed, drool starting to slick your chin. The way he looked down at you—wild, tender, possessive—made your stomach flip.

He let his balls rest against your tongue again, heavy and full. “Hold them for me,” he murmured. “Yeah, just like that.”

He slid forward, his cock pressing past your lips once more, filling your mouth. You relaxed, letting him guide the pace, the stretch of your jaw borderline overwhelming and exactly what you wanted. With his balls resting on your tongue and his cock sliding in and out, you felt completely used in the filthiest, most delicious way.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned. “I could come just looking at you like this.”

Your hands twitched behind your back. You wanted to touch him, to trace every muscle, to feel the way he shook. But the restraint—knowing he had you like this, knowing you were letting him—made everything hum.

He pulled out again, letting his balls roll off your tongue. You sucked in air, drool shining on your lips.

“Hands,” he said abruptly. “Gimme one.”

You freed a hand from behind your back. He wrapped it around the base of his cock, his larger palm covering yours, guiding you in a slow stroke.

“Squeeze,” he instructed. You did. He hissed. “Good. Look at that. You’re a natural.”

You leaned in, tongue laving over his balls as your hand worked his shaft, the double stimulation making him curse.

“So fucking good to me,” he panted. “On your knees, under my roof, under my mistletoe, letting me put my cock and balls wherever I want. You know how dangerous that is, sweetheart? You’re never getting rid of me now.”

Good, you thought, dizzy and turned on beyond reason. That’s the point.

His breathing stuttered, hips twitching.

“Open,” he said suddenly, pulling your hand away. “Mouth wide.”

You obeyed automatically, lips parting, tongue out.

He cupped your head with both hands, cock aimed at your mouth, balls hanging heavy just above your chin.

“Such. A good. Girl,” he gritted, voice broken, as he slid back into your mouth.

He didn’t fuck your throat, not really—just shallow thrusts, the head bumping the back of your tongue, letting you control the depth. Your jaw ached, your eyes watered, and you never wanted it to end.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Gonna come, doll. You gonna take it for me? You gonna swallow like a good girl?”

You hummed, the vibration making him curse.

He pulled out just enough that the head rested on your tongue, his balls once again dropping onto it, the weight and heat pressing down.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Say ‘ah’ for me.”

You did.

He came with a strangled sound, thick ropes of hot cum spilling onto your tongue, some splashing against your palate, some streaking your lips. You kept your tongue out, his balls still resting there, letting him paint your mouth exactly how he wanted.

He watched, chest heaving, as you closed your mouth and swallowed.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Do it again. Let me see your tongue.”

You opened, tilting your head back just a little. Your tongue was mostly clean, a few pearly streaks glistening that you chased with the tip.

His knees actually buckled.

“Fuck,” he said helplessly. “Marry me.”

You laughed, the sound ragged and delighted, then coughed when a bit of cum went down wrong. He hauled you gently to your feet, big hands steady, thumb swiping at the mess on your chin.

“Easy,” he soothed. “Jesus. C’mere.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning into your mouth like the whole thing was rewiring his brain.

When he finally pulled back, you were pressed against the wall, his hands on your hips, both of you panting.

“You okay?” he asked for what felt like the tenth time that night, eyes scanning your face.

You nodded, dazed and happy. “I’m—yeah. I’m really okay.”

He laughed softly, forehead dropping to yours. “Good. Because I’m gonna be thinking about that every time I walk under this doorway for the rest of my life.”

You glanced up at the mistletoe. “Guess Violet did us a favor.”

His expression shifted, some of the heat melting into fondness. “She’s never hearing about this particular tradition,” he said firmly.

“Absolutely not.” You snorted. “This is strictly adults-only mistletoe usage.”

He gave you one more lingering kiss, then smoothed your sweater where it had ridden up. “All right,” he sighed. “Before I do something even dumber, I should probably get you home.”

“Dumber than this?” you teased.

He flashed you that crooked grin. “You have no idea what’s on my list, doll.”

He made good on his earlier promise and walked you the thirty feet to your front door, his hand dwarfing yours, the snow squeaking faintly under your boots. The air was sharp and cold, your cheeks still hot from everything.

On your porch, he hesitated, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he said. “So I know you didn’t slip and crack your head on the tub or something.”

“I’m very coordinated, thank you,” you lied. “But…yeah. I will.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering along your jaw. “You good? Really?”

You nodded, throat tight in the best way. “Really.”

He brushed his lips over yours, gentle and sweet and so at odds with the filthy things he’d just done to you that your heart squeezed.

“Goodnight, cookie fairy,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Santa.”

You slipped inside, leaning back against the door as it shut, your pulse thudding in your ears. You could still feel everything—his weight on your tongue, his cum warm in your belly, the deep, ache-sweet fullness low in your body where he’d spilled inside you earlier.

You washed your face, changed into pajamas with slightly shaking hands, then slid under your covers, phone clutched in your palm.

It buzzed a minute later.

Bucky: elf’s out cold. house is quiet. i miss you already.

You bit your lip, typing back.

You: my knees might never recover from your hardwood floor. but it was worth it

There was a beat.

Bucky: the doorway AND the kitchen counter? i’m gonna have to avoid those at family gatherings now You: we can christen the rest of the house later, it’s fine.

Another pause, longer this time.

Bucky: i meant what i said earlier. pancakes tomorrow. and a date. like…on purpose, not just you rescuing my cooking.

Warmth flooded your chest.

You: i’ll bring syrup. and maybe more cookies. strictly for violet ofc. Bucky: careful, doll. you keep tempting an old man like that and you’re gonna end up with my last name.

Your breath caught.

You stared at the message, fingers hovering.

You: sounds like a pretty good christmas tradition to me.

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and steady, wrapping the world in white.

Inside, you fell asleep with the phantom weight of him still between your thighs, the taste of him lingering on your tongue, and the image of mistletoe hanging over a kitchen doorway that felt more and more like home.