Part of the rewrite, so please do tell me what you think!! đ
Content warnings: Mentions of trauma, government experimentation, implied abuse, PTSD, emotional distress, moral ambiguity, coercion, secret projects, and themes of control and autonomy.
This prologue deals with heavy themes and may not be suitable for all readers. Please read with care.
No graphic violence or explicit content â this chapter focuses on the reader's perspective, their internal conflict, and the first tense encounter with Bucky.
WC: 1387
Masterlist
Disclaimer | Chapter 1
âThis is to keep everyone safe. You understand, right?â Tony says, sliding a pen across the table.
The Sokovia Accords sit in front of me. Thin pages pretending to be a âpromiseâ. A government vow to keep the world safe.
My name never appears. Just classifications. Categories. Permissions.
The word human repeats so often it starts to feel smaller every time it shows upâless like a truth, more like a restriction. A box theyâve already decided I fit into.
I look up and exhale slowly.
âTony,â I say, already tired, âthis isnât protecting everyone. Itâs definitely not protecting me.â
I hesitate, then add quietly, âThis sounds like a cage.â
â(Y/N/N), itâs not like that. You know that.â Tony finally meets my eyes. His voice is softer now. âIâm trying to keep you safe. Iâm trying to keep you alive.â
The words land heavy in my chest.
âIââ I swallow. âCan I think about it? Just⊠sleep on it?â
Tony exhales and drags a hand down his face. For a moment, he looks older than Iâve ever seen him. Then he nods. âYeah. Okay.â
The Avengers Compound feels hollow afterward. Too big. Too quiet.
Half the team is goneâscattered, on the run, and Tony is already talking about recruitment, about rebuilding, like you can replace people the way you replace armor. Iâm the last one who hasnât signed.
I never thought Iâd miss structure. Never thought Iâd miss being swallowed by a government agency, or sleeping in six-by-two bunks on a ship that never really stopped moving. At least back then, someone always told me where I stood.
Now, standing in the echo of what used to be a team, Iâm not sure if refusing to sign makes me free⊠or a target.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the stack of papers on my desk. They feel like theyâre staring back at me, looming like a sleep paralysis demon. I sit up and run my hands over my face before finally getting up.
I leave my room and knock on the door that usually has answers.
But Steve isnât there anymore.
Heâs off somewhere with the âWinter Soldierâ âor whatever remains of him. I rest my forehead against the door, suddenly feeling like a lost child again. Only this time, Iâm not one.
The Accords sit back in my room, waiting.
And for the first time, I feel the full weight of being a legal adult settle into my chest.
Nat steps out of her room and stops when she sees me standing in front of Steveâs door.
âDid you sign them?â she asks.
âNot yet.â I turn to face her. âAnd honestly, I donât know how you did.â
The words come out harsher than I mean them to.
Nat doesnât flinch. She just watches me for a moment.
âItâs a lot more complicated than that.â
âIs it?â I say, heat creeping into my voice. âYou live in a gray area. Youâre trained, not enhanced. You get more clearance.â I laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. âBut I get a leashâ
The hallway goes quiet.
Natâs expression tightens, not angry. Calculating. Careful.
âThatâs not what this is,â she says evenly.
âThatâs exactly what it is,â I shoot back. âYou sign and you get oversight. I sign and I become an insurance policy.â
She exhales slowly. âI signed because Iâve seen what happens when you donât.â
I shake my head. âYou signed because you still get to choose.â
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. She hands me a phone, a simple keypad phone, and walks off. I let out a breath I didnât know I was holding.
I tuck the phone into my pocket, its weight solid against my hip. I take a deep breath, deciding I should probably rest.
By morning, the compound is already buzzing. Tonyâs trying to rally the stragglers, talking about missions and recruitment, but I can barely hear him. He says something about a spider kid who can help us, and I really couldnât care less.
My thoughts keep circling back to what Natasha said, and I swear the phone is burning a hole in my back pocket. I pull out the outdated little device. Thereâs only one number saved.
Steve.
Of course it is. Thatâs such a Steve move.
I hover over the call button, thumb hesitating. Maybe heâll have answers. Maybe heâll say something that nudges me in the right direction. Or maybe this is how I end up in the Raft.
Iâm still government property. A technicality.
An eighteen-year-old technicalityâold enough to be held responsible, old enough to be punished. Expected to answer for actions that would qualify as espionage, international violations, war crimes.
Actions I took under a government organization that no longer exists.
For four years, SHIELD authorized everything I did. Signed off on it. Buried it. I was a minor, operating under orders, protected by jurisdiction and classification. A child weaponized by a system that took responsibility for the fallout. Now that entity is gone.
And with it, the protection.
We get the alert before we even land. Unauthorized access attempt. Stark Industries hangar. Quinjet bay. Tony doesnât say it out loud, but we all know what that means.
âTheyâre going for transport,â Rhodey mutters.
âOf course they are,â Tony replies. âCap never stays put.â
By the time we touch down, the airport is already too quiet. Wide open space, too much room for things to go wrong. Vision scans ahead, calm and methodical. Natashaâs silent beside me, unreadable.
This isnât a conversation.
This is containment.
We spot them near the hangar entrance â Steve, Sam, Wanda, Clint, and Barnes.
Theyâre exactly where the intel said theyâd be.
Tony steps forward anyway. He always does. âYouâre making this harder than it has to be, Cap. Walk away. Weâll figure this out.â
Steve shakes his head. âYou know I canât do that.â
Thatâs when I understand: this was never about changing minds. This was about buying time.
The moment Steve shifts his stance, the tension snaps.
âAlright,â Tony sighs. âThen weâre doing this.â
He glances over his shoulder. âUnderoos.â
Something drops from the sky.
Red and black. Too fast. Too loud. Too young. Too inexperienced.
The kid lands, stumbles, then immediately starts talking like this is the greatest day of his life.
Spider-Man.
Rhodey lets out a stunned laugh. I just stare.
âSo thatâs Dungarewski,â I mutter.
The first blow lands seconds later. The shield hits concrete, and suddenly the airport isnât empty anymore â itâs a battlefield.
â(Y/N), with the kid,â Tony orders. âDonât let Barnes and Wilson get to the jet.â
âOn it.â
Spider-Man webs Sam midair, hauling him sideways. Barnes moves instantly, metal arm tearing through the webbing as if itâs nothing.
I intercept before they can regroup.
This isnât personal. I donât hesitate. I donât hesitate because hesitation gets people killed.
Barnes turns toward me, assessing, calculating. He fights like someone trained to end things fast. No wasted movement. No anger. Just efficiency.
I match him blow for blow, forcing distance, keeping him away from the hangar. Heâs strong, stronger than the files suggested, but heâs not reckless.
That stands out more than it should.
Then Vision fires at the runway.
Wanda screams.
The fight fractures.
Everything stops being clean after that.
Steve sprints for the jet, Barnes close behind him. Nat isnât with Steveâsheâs intercepting TâChalla, firing to hold him back.
What is she doing? I just had to run over there. I try to help Nat but she pushes me off. âGo!â she screams at me, pointing to the jet. I look at her, I look at the jet, and finally I look at Tony.
â(Y/N), stop!â Tonyâs voice crackles in my ear.
I reach the ramp just as Barnes turns, metal hand gripping the edge. Steve hauls him inside.
I should let go.
I should stop.
I should-
Instead, I jump.
The ramp seals shut behind us, cutting off the roar of the airport. I walk to the co-pilot seat like this was always the plan.
âWhat are you doing?â Steve asked.
âThought you might need help pilotingâ And I sit down like I didn't just sign my death sentence.
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⎠PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
⎠WC: 6k
⎠WARNINGS: friends to lovers, reader is 18, bucky is 20, college!bucky, romanogers, SMUT (p in v, protected sex for once, fingering, dry humping, car sex, virginity/virginity loss, BCB (big cock bucky), pussyjob if you squint really hard) yearning, j*hn w*lker is a dick, miscommunication, YEARNING, slow burn but not but super slow burn?, excessive use of eye rolls, he's down bad, tooth rotting fluff, open ending.
⎠SUMMARY: Your prom date ditches you, and Bucky, ever the gentlemen, offers to take you. He gives you the full senior prom experience even though he's your brother's best friend and your crush for the past decade.
+fran: I wrote this with greasy hair, after work, before a shower. apparently I reach a flow state when I'm feral. this is my baby and I love this fic so much please for the love of all that is holy, tell me what you think. can be read alone, it will have sequels tho.
‷ songs/playlist for this: there she goes - the la's, always everywhere - charli xcx, ruin the friendship - taylor swift, back to friends - sombr
more
The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town.Â
At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much asâ"
That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you.Â
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.Â
"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate.Â
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 wayâthe kind of loud that doesnât 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.Â
Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too.Â
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.Â
Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Buckyâs low laugh every time he winsâbecause of course heâs winning.
âDude, youâre cheating,â Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.
âIâm just better than you,â 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.Â
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.Â
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 Natashaâs 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 youâ
Youâre standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as youâre supposed to.
âOkay, noâseriously,â Kate says, pointing at you like sheâs making a case in court. âJohn is going to lose his mind.â
Yelena hums in agreement. âHe already looks at you like he has no thoughts.â
You laugh, a little breathy. âThatâs not even true.â
âIt is completely true,â Kate insists.
âYouâre just saying that.â
âWe are not just saying that,â Yelena shoots back.
Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of themâbut sheâs listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject.Â
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 notâ
âAlright,â Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. âTurn around. Let me see the full thing.â
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.Â
"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 thatâs 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.Â
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.Â
âI was gonna explain,â John says finally, like that makes it better.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. âExplain what? That youâre ditching me the night of prom?â
âIâm not ditching you,â he says quickly, defensive already. âItâs justâOlivia asked me to go with her and itâs complicated.â
âComplicated?â you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. âJohn, itâs prom. Weâve had this planned for weeks.â
âI know, I know,â he says, exhaling like youâre the one making this difficult. âBut sheâs going through stuff right now and I donât wanna make things worse.â
Your chest tightens. âSo you thought canceling on me last minute wouldnât make things worse?â
âThatâs not what I said.â
You huffed. âThatâs exactly what youâre doing.â
He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinkingâcalculatingâtrying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.
âLook,â he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, âyouâre gonna have fun no matter what. Youâve got your friends, itâs not like youâll be alone.â
The words hit harder than anything else heâs said.
Because theyâre so easy for him. So dismissive.
âSo thatâs it?â you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. âYou justâdrop me and go with her, and Iâm supposed to be fine with that?â
âIâm not dropping you,â he insists again, frustration creeping in. âItâs one night.â
âItâs prom,â you snap, the word catching in your throat. âItâs not just some random thing, John.â
âWhy are you making this such a big deal?â he shoots back.
Thatâs what does it.
Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he canât see it. âIâm making it a big deal?â you echo. âYouâre the one who decided, what, an hour before weâre supposed to leave, that I donât matter as much as your ex?â
âItâs not like that,â he says, sharper now. âYouâre twisting it.â
âIâm not twisting anything,â you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. âYou just told me exactly where I stand.â
He exhales, long and annoyed, like heâs already over the conversation. âYouâre being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you canât even respond.
âOkay,â you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. âOkay. Go with her.â
ââSee? Thatâs all Iâm saying, itâs not thatââ
âNo,â you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still canât see you. âI get it now.â
Thereâs a shift on his end, like he didnât expect that. âWaitââ
âHave fun at prom, John.â
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.Â
Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds.Â
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.Â
And of course it was Bucky.Â
"Hey, Walker finallyâ" 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.Â
"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue.Â
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 stupidâ"
He shook his head. "It's not stupid."
You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."
"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted.Â
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.Â
"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."Â
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.Â
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.Â
He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."
You smiled widened. "Likely."
"Or a secret, better option threeâ"
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?"Â
"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 andâ"
"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.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
No.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
"I'm not your baby."
He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again.Â
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."Â 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed.Â
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.Â
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 wantâ"
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.Â
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.Â
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 youâ"
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.Â
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.Â
You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.
"Is thisâ I meanâ okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've neverâ 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'reâ fuckâ 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, pleaseâŠ" 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 yourâ
"Iâ" 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.Â
Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space.Â
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 couldâ
"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.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
It was quiet after.Â
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 heâ
"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.Â
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 movâ "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
pairing: brother's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader, AU setting
summary: It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with minor plot, childhood frenemies to lovers, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, dacryphilia, mean bucky, size kink, brat taming, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, jealousy, use of petnames (sweetheart, baby, angel etc.), reader described having hair bucky can twirl and as being smaller than bucky, no use of y/n, lots of cursing, bucky convinces reader to let him hit it raw (idk if that's a warning lol), moodboard pics do not depict reader
word count: 11.1k
a/n: idk if this is deranged in a hot way or just deranged but i hope you enjoy lmao. bucky is very mean in this and invades reader's privacy so stay away if that's not your thing!!
The abrasive, thrumming buzz of the lawnmower lets you know heâs back. You stop tapping on your phone, pausing for just a moment while you try to resist the urge. You fail. You pull up to your knees and peer out the window beside your bed.
Bucky is in your back garden, driving forward the shabby rusted lawnmower that lives in your shed. The one that has likely never been used by anyone but him. Heâs not shirtless like he sometimes is - heâs in a black t-shirt - but you swear you can make out the muscles of his strong back even from this distance. The way they clench and tense with mild exertion. A heat settles low and deep in your stomach.Â
Heâs waving before you realise youâve been caught. You roll your eyes - exaggerate it a bit so you know he can see - and slump down on your bed again when he gives you a slanted smile.
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 canât keep doing this to yourself.Â
Or, rather, he canât keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, itâs so much worse when theyâre 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 neighbourâs 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 ânoâ, 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 wonât.Â
Youâre not really sure what is up with Buckyâs 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 Buckyâs room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your momâs 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 donât 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 youâre 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 - theyâre 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 Whatâs-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.Â
Itâs 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.Â
Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. Youâre 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. Youâre back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. Itâs 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.Â
And youâve tried everything there is to try. Youâve 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 Wandaâs 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 itâs a stupid idea. It wonât 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 hasnât ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Buckyâs strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that youâre 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.Â
Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. Youâre just a little floating head above the window sill. He canât 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.
Youâre back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.
He doesnât need to be here, if heâs being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and thereâs not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isnât exactly a paradise, but itâs not bad either.Â
You wonât be here forever, though. Heâll 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.Â
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.Â
His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions havenât. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. Itâs 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 âstop being such a pain in my assâ, 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.
Heâs sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether itâs yours or his, he canât remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good.Â
He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what youâre doing right now. He wonders if youâre on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if youâre 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 canât picture a face - just some obscure blur - but heâs probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He canât see you going for someone without good grades.Â
Buckyâs 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. Itâs 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. Heâs 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.Â
But thatâs a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now heâs 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?Â
Obviously not. But itâs a nice thought.
You probably donât do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. Youâre too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.
He doesnât 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. Youâre 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 heâs also just a man.)Â
Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isnât strictly sexual - in fact, itâs mostly something else - but heâs not sure how to define it. He likes you, except âlikeâ doesnât seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So itâs easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself itâs all he wants.
He has run out of patience. You still havenât come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.
He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you donât hear his footsteps and think heâs 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 doesnât.
He canât 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.Â
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 doesnât.
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 didnât 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. Itâs not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. Iâm just glad itâs over.
I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I donât. Iâm just relieved and feeling awkward. I donât 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 canât 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. Theyâre all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I wonât 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, itâs kind of cute.
Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesnât quite believe them when they say itâs 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 canât stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said heâs going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while theyâre 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 Iâll die if I have to see him do something like that again.Â
Buckyâs grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that heâs done everything else - he had forgotten about that.Â
He wasnât 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 âpornoâ, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.
24 May
I might be going insane. I shouldnât have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think itâs 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 arenât big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Buckyâs 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 didnât black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.
25 May
This stupid diary isnât doing shit. Itâs making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Buckyâs stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until Iâm an inch from passing out. Maybe thatâs 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 thatâs why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending heâs 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 guyâs name too.Â
Bucky hasnât 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 havenât gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-
âFuck,â 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. Heâs 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 isnât so prissy after all. Heâs 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 heâs won some game that he didnât even know he was playing. Heâs dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it.Â
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 canât help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasnât finished.
14 June
He came around with the lawnmower again. Itâs 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. Iâm so fucking wet. Iâm going to have a long, cold shower and tonight Iâll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.
Then and there, Bucky decides that wonât 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. Heâs 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 itâs not there.Â
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 theyâre 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 didnât carry it in with you. Itâs not there. Itâs not anywhere.
You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except thatâs 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 motherâs 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, donât let him find it. Please donât let him find it.Â
You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didnât touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.
Your parentsâ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isnât there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadnât even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, youâre absolutely certain of. But youâre 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 Buckyâs 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 itâs untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.
Heâs lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesnât move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. Youâre distracted by it momentarily. You didnât think this would be his sort of thing.
âWhatâs up?â he asks you, still not looking your way. He didnât shower. Heâs still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.
âJust saying hi,â 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. âJust saying hi.â
You nod. His smile breaks free then, but itâs not altogether a nice one. âWell, hi,â he says.
âHi,â 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.
âWhatâs got you all buggy?â he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. Heâs 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 didnât.Â
âIâm not buggy.â
âYeah yâare. You got bugs.â
âYou got bugs,â you snap. âIâm perfectly fine.â
He laughs. âAlright, you donât got bugs. I have bugs âcause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?â
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. âMaybe I just wanna talk to you.â
âOh yeah?â He doesnât seem convinced. You nod.
âYeah,â you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. âSo what have you been up to?â
âSweetheart, whatâs goinâ on?â he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. âYou know what Iâve been up to. You saw me out there.â
âDuh,â 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.
âDuuuhhh,â he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. âWhyâd you ask then, smartass?â
âI meant, like, after that.â
âAfter I finished the lawn?â
You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.
âNot much. Watched this,â he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. âDid a bit of light reading. What about you?â
Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. âIâve been in the shower,â you say casually. âWhat are you reading?â
âLong shower,â he says.
âWell it was an everything-shower,â you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.
âThe hell is an everything shower?â
âDonât be dense. Itâs literally in the name. Itâs called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.â
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.
âA-as in,â you stammer. âYou do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.â
His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. âRight. That kind of everything.â
Your face heats up. Thereâs a brief pause.Â
âSo what are you reading at the mo-â
âYâknow I think youâd like this,â he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You canât help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.
âWhy is that?â you ask.
âThereâs this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. Sheâs been working there five years and she still cries every time. Sheâs like you.â
âIâm not like that.â
âYes you are,â he laughs and the sound travels through you. âRemember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?â
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.Â
âI was sixteen-â
âAnd if youâre tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say youâre full of shit.â
You look at him resentfully. âLike youâre any tougher. Youâre the one who saved him.â
âWell you know I canât help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. Youâre a pretty crier, sweetheart.â
You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and youâre 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 itâs at your expense. You know instinctively that youâll be failing at your new resolution tonight.Â
âShut up. Donât be weird,â you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and thereâs something in his expression that you donât like.
âSo you said you were reading something?â you say. Youâre aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.
âMhm,â he says, nodding once. The programme canât be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.
âI didnât think you liked reading.â
âI have a newfound appreciation for it.â He smiles at the screen and maybe youâre 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.Â
âWhat are you reading?â
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.
âDonât worry about it. âSâtoo dirty for you, sweetheart.â
You really fucking hope that doesnât mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, donât let him have the book.
Your voice comes out weak and fractured. âAre you⊠reading smut?â
He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. âThat what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.â
âBucky,â you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. Thereâs a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. âWhat are you reading? Please.â
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 youâre rolling forward, hardly aware of what youâre doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually youâre 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. Youâre not even sure what youâre 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 didnât mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him.Â
You suppose itâs better that heâs 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.
âDonât be such a baby,â Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful.Â
âWhere did you get that?â you bark.
âYour room,â he says, as if it should be obvious. âInteresting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?â
âFuck you!â you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. âYou 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!â
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.Â
âLike I said,â he says sternly. âDonât 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 youâre an inch from passing out?â
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.
âFuck you,â you say again with considerably less vitriol.
âI will,â he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. âIf thatâs what you want.â
Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. Youâre not sure if heâs 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.
âGot nothing to say now? Thatâs ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Letâs look.â
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.
âI came home from college today,â he starts to read, voice low. âEveryone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I donât know how itâs possible but heâs 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 heâs like in bed. I donât 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.â
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.
âYouâre goddamn right I do,â he says, smiling as if heâs talking about something totally innocent. âYou want me to show you, sweetheart?â
Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. Youâre still suspicious. It wouldnât 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. âDonât go dumb on me already, silly girl.â
He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.
âWhy donât you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.â
Youâre not sure what youâre doing, but at this point itâs 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.
âI want him so bad. I think Iâll die if I donât have him. The orgasms Iâm giving myself arenât enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. Iâll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. Iâm going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.âÂ
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.
âFuck it,â 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.
Youâre 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.Â
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. Youâre 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. Youâre high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.
âYou ready to admit it yet? That you want me?â
âI want you,â you breathe. Itâs 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. âI know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Donât worry, Iâll take good care of you.â
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 doesnât fumble even remotely with the clasp.
Once youâre 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 thatâs what that should feel like.
âWanna know a secret?â he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you.Â
âWant you too. Wanted you since we were kids.â
You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.
âSince when?â
âJust fuckinâ told you,â he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. Itâs a distraction tactic.
âNo but when? What age?â 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. Youâre soaked through.
âDoesnât matter,â he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.
âYes it does. Tell me,â you say. Because youâre muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - youâre stubborn.
He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. Youâre not.
âWas sweet on you when I was ten,â 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.
âIsnât that when we first-â
âYes.â
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 havenât lost your head completely.
âYouâve liked me since we first met as little kids?â
He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so youâre 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.
âCan you shut the hell up for two seconds?â he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until youâre completely bare underneath him. âTryna do something here.â
You laugh at him, but it doesnât 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 - youâre 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. âYou see how fucking desperate you are?â he asks. âBarely touched you and look how youâre reacting. Nobodyâs ever touched you right, have they?â
You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. Itâs almost predatory.
âPoor thing,â he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. âI can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait âtill I get my cock in you.â
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 didnât 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.
âYâfeel so fucking tight,â he grunts, eyes on your lips. âThis what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?â
You nod, but itâs not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.
âYes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.â
âFor how long?â he demands.
âI- what?â you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.
âHow long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?â
Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you donât answer him, he will stop again. And thatâs a lousy deal.Â
âA long time,â you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.
âFuck, sweetheart. Shouldâve told me. Wouldnât have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Wouldâve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldnât have had the time to write in that silly little book. Wouldâve put you in your place.â
âPut me in my place?â you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you canât concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure heâs giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasnât 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.
âYeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well Iâll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when theyâre home.â
Thereâs 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. Youâre not sure if youâve 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 doesnât even make a show of it - heâs not even trying to make you watch him. Heâs 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 youâre 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.
Youâre still a little mad at him over that boorish âputting you in your placeâ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.
Heâs the biggest youâve ever seen and itâs not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didnât think it would be this pretty. You didnât even know a cock could be pretty.
Itâs huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. Itâs 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.
âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart?â he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. âFeelinâ shy?âÂ
Your mouth opens and closes. âI donât know how muchâŠâ you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. Youâve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?
âYâdonât know if itâll fit?â 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.
âDonât worry, angel, weâll take it slow. Donât want to break you. Not this time, anyway.â
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.
âWhat the hell, Bucky? Donât-â
He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. âI know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. Iâll let you play with it as much as you want. But Iâve waited long enough and Iâm not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?â
Youâre 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.
âGood girl,â 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. âMy good girl Youâre so sweet when youâre doing what I tell you to. Wish Iâd known I could shut you up like this.â
Youâre trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, itâs just turning you on more.
Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. âCondom,â you gasp. âIn my room.â
Bucky laughs against your neck. âYou think Iâm wearinâ a rubber with you?â
âWha- yes?âÂ
âDonât fuck with me, sweetheart, I know youâre on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.â
âWhat were you doing in my-â
âIâm clean, just got checked. And Iâm willing to bet youâve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.â
You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but heâs a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldnât lie to you about this. Youâre 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 youâre squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You donât say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.
âYeah?â he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. âYou gonna let me skip the rubber?â
âYeah,â you breathe. âJust stop fucking around Bucky. Please.â
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. Itâs leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.
âSuch a good girl,â he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. Heâs thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if heâs trying to comfort you, but itâs still coming across slightly patronising. âLetting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.â
Youâre loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. Itâs starting to feel good - more than good. But heâs still not in all the way. You have no idea how youâre 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.
âThis what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?â 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.Â
He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. âAnswer.â
âYes,â you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You canât wrap your head around whatâs 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. âPictured you every time.â
He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. Youâre filled to the brim with him. âI 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.â
Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. Itâs creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. Itâs all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you canât help but love.
âItâs okay, angel. Iâm 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.â
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 youâre 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.
âOh, sweetheart,â he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. âAlways been such a crybaby. Youâre so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.â
It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.
âI know, baby. Itâs so much, isnât it? I know,â he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. Itâs not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You canât work out exactly what youâre feeling, and you know that now isnât 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 canât stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when heâs still pretending he hasnât lost an ounce of control.Â
âStop with those fuckinâ eyes,â he grunts, catching your gaze. Youâre still teary-eyed and pouty. âGonna make me lose it early.â
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.
âTurn around,â 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 donât 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 donât feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.
When you finally do feel his touch, itâs his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.
âWhat you whining for now?â he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.
âPut it back in,â you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. Youâre no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. Youâre too far gone.
He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. âYou need it that bad?â
âDonât be a dick.â
He laughs low. âStill so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?â
You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.
âThatâs it,â he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. âKnew youâd take my cock like this. Knew youâd feel this good, just didnât think youâd be this fucking dirty.â
âFuck, Bucky, I need you,â you moan. Youâre obscurely aware of the fact that youâll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. âNeeded you so bad.â
âYeah?â he grunts. âWhy donât you tell me what you needed so bad?â
Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. âI- no, Bucky, I canât-â
âLet me help you out.â
His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. Youâre 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.
âRead.â
Your head spins back, even though you canât see him from this angle. He canât be serious.Â
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.
âMatt 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!â-
Buckyâs hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.
â- 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 Iâm dripping with hisâŠâ
You canât go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and youâre already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.
âJesus, you have a thing for this shit? Thatâs real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. Youâre the only one who is gonna take it from now on.â
You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. Heâs panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you canât 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.
âAw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Canât help but give you what you want. You want my cum?â
You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.
âFuck, yeah you do,â he growls. âSuch 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.â
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. Itâs 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 youâre sure youâre likely giving as good as youâre getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what youâre saying.
Bucky wasnât 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. Youâre sensitive and sore, but thereâs something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises itâs 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.
âYou still with me, sweetheart?â he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.
âUh huhâ 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.
âThought you said you werenât gonna break me,â you say sardonically.Â
He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. âMight have gotten carried away.â
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 doesnât work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.
âYou really meant that?â you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. âAbout wanting me since we were kids?â
âHell yeah,â he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. âI was so crazy about you when we were kids. Canât believe you didnât know.â
âHow could I know? You were always so mean to me.â
âDonât tell me you donât know what that means in kid-language.â
âYou still are. Sometimes.â
He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. âOld habits.â
You nod, but youâre still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago.Â
âIâm sorry for reading your diary,â he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. âIt was a shitty thing to do. I donât regret it, because I donât know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.â
Itâs so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. Heâs 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 itâs the two orgasms.
You still donât 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.
âIâll make it up to you,â he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. âJust wait âtill I get my tongue on you.â
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. âDonât look at me like that. Iâll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.â
a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao
summary: 5.2k. you drunk-dial your ex-situationship
cw: pov switching, thunderbolts era, fluffy caretaking, mild angst, day-drinking, hurt/comfort, mild brat-taming, Bucky has the patience of a saint, mentions of sex/hooking up
an: inspired by âGo Go Juice" by Sabrina Carpenter. this turned out so much mushier than I expected and with no explicit smut, who am i
| masterlist
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'sâgagâ, 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 boysâand 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 Bâ
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 combinedâbut 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.
âYouâve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If notâŠdon't.â
Beeeeeeep.
â
Buckyâs fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. Heâd 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 wantedâfor 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, thwackâSNAP.
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.
âFuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.
âHeeey, Bucky, itâsâhyukâmeee.â God, you sounded drunk. âI, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we couldâhyukâhooks up, er, noâhang out sometime?â you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. âActually, f-forget I said anythingâIâm just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, IâI hope you're doing good, B.â
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.
âYour 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. âIt is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?â 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. âBucky, whatâre you doinâ here?"
âYou 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.
âSounded like you could use some company," he continued.
âDidn't think that you'd pick up. Iâm f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.
âCan I come in anyway?"
You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.
âDon't you have like, hero shit to do?"
âNah, 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 90âs 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.
âYou're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the gâs.
âI am not." And he wasnât, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.â
âPlease, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.
âYeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.
âHeyâexcuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.
He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. âFrisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. âSalacious Strawberryâ" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.
âBucky! Stop itâ"
ââserve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguardââ
âCan you notâ"
â140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. âDoll, this will strip paint."
âI swear to fuckâ" 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. âLanguage." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.
âWho the hell do you think you are barging in hereâ"
âYou 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. Iâm not one of the little party boys in your phone.â
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.
âSo, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"
âI hate you.â
âYou can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.â Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. Youâd need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.
âYou can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"
âI 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. âYou're different."
He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. âGood different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.
âI haven't decided."
âWell, I always do my best thinkinâ 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 totsâthey were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. Heâd 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. âThanks, 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.
âI promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. âIt's just beenâŠ" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.
Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. âYou don't have to explain anythinâ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. âEat up."
But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. âHe 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 godâit was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, yâknow?"
Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. âYou dumped him?"
You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
âYou want me to kill him?"
The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.
âI've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accidentââ
âNo, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.â
âThat's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.
âNo assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra sâs, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.
âFine, no assassinations," he said. "Iâm sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.â
Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. âAnd yet, it keeps happening,â you muttered.
He realized his mistake, then. âDollâ"
âI know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. âYouâve 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.
âJustâjust forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.â 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.
âEasy now, I gotchaâ." 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? Câmere, honeyââ
âNoâ" 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.
âYou 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.
âJust wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.
He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. âDid you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. âThat's why you called, huh?"
You nodded. âBut you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.
âI 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. âAnd you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."
âBet your ass I willâŠâ
âOh, 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 oâclock, 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.
Heâd 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.
â
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 itâwait, 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 sinceâ
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.
âThought 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?â
âDid youâŠâ 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. âWhy did you do all of this?â
He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. âYou called me," he said, as if that explained anything.
âYeah, for a hook up, notâ" you gestured around the apartment, "ânot for you to babysit me.â
âDon'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.
âI am notâ" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.â
âObviously." 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.
âSo why did you?"
âHow about a âthank youâ?" He was deflecting.
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. âAre 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.
âJust go, Bucky. You've done enough. â You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.
âIâm sorry."
âWhat?" You turned back towards him.
âIâm 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 Iââ his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. âI just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, butâfuck, Iâve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...â he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.
Maybe you were still a little drunkâokay, definitely still a little drunkâbut 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.
âThank you, B," you murmured.
âAnytime, 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.
âYour veggies are burning.â
âFuck âem," he said. âYou just want the pasta anyway."
You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. âYeah, 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.
âHow'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.
âPoor thing," he cooed. âYou really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"
âI was stupid," you muttered, petulant.
His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. âYou were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."
âWouldn't have all those losers in my phone if youââ
âI know, I know,â he pouted, loosening his hold. âDon't have to rub my nose in it."
âJames 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.
âMaybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking upâ"
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. âHooking 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.
âSo 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. âFirst, 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,â 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. âAnd when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.â He leaned back to look into your eyes. âSound 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. âS-sounds great."
He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. âNow, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."
You perked up at that, pout falling away. âDid you get myâ"
âYour 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.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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summary: you're in charge of keeping the avengers schedule clean and functioning properly. what happens when two super soldiers divert from what their original plans are, and you walk in on them getting it on? now, they won't leave you alone.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, no use of y/n, established relationship (steve n bucky), threesome, piv, creampie, cum eating, oral (f + m receiving), fingers will be put in mouths, language, dirty talk, dom ?? bucky, switch steve, sub reader, they lowk talk you through it, lots of orgasms, riding, handjobs, pet names (doll, sweetheart, sweet girl, pretty girl, baby), steve and bucky are gambling, this is just filth idk what to say
word count: 10.7k
a/n: me??? freaked out??? never!
masterlist
You were going to kill someone.Â
You werenât 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 suitsâ but you were going to kill one of them. Or all of them.Â
You gave them one task. Just one. Not even a taskâ 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.Â
Now, you were going through all of their rooms. You had their permission, of course.Even if you didnât, they didnât particularly mind. Youâd been working with them for a while now.Â
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.Â
You kept track of their meetings with government officials because they sure as hell didnât want to meet with anyone. You took notes since they didnât care to pay attention, then condensed them later and dropped it off at their roomsâ 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 companyâs 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.Â
It wasnât totally thankless work. There were more than a few perks that you had when it came to working for the Avengers.Â
For one, your salary was through the roof (thanks to Tony), and you didnât 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 werenât 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 didnât know how relaxed they were.
You didnât 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 youâd like it. He was right. You polished that rock and put it on your nightstand.Â
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.Â
No one was around.Â
Steve and Bucky should be down in the gym around this timeâ 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 wasnât a good idea to try and get in the middle of it though.Â
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. Heâd been so excited to finally play around with them, to show off his new toys to Natasha. Heâd been waiting for her all week to give him some time, and she finally followed him down there.Â
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 âaccidentallyâ slammed into Redwing, squashing it into a wall. Something about the look in his eyes lets you know that Sam doesnât believe that it was an accident.Â
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 tripâ 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 didnât expect to see him for another week.Â
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.Â
Honestly, there was no party since Tony wasnât 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.Â
You shouldâve let the fucking laundry fester.
âFuckââ 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 pleasureâ wide eyed, breathless, flusteredâ staring at you with shock. They were both sweaty, tangled in each other, completely bare. Youâd seen more of them than you ever thought youâd have the privilege of witnessing.Â
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 Buckyâs doorâ and snatched it like it owed you some sort of debt. You didnât say a word before you slammed the door shut, and ran down the hall, dragging everyoneâs dirty clothes and secrets with you.Â
From what you could tellâ no one knew about the relationship between the two of them, and you sure as hell werenât 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.Â
You did what any logical person would do in this situation.Â
You avoided them.
In hindsight, it shouldnât 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.Â
Then again, you really did think you knew their schedules. But if you really did, you wouldnât be in this predicament in the first place. They were supposed to be in the gym, working up a sweat by avoiding each otherâs fists, not working up a sweat by fisting each otherâs cocks.Â
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 couldnât fuck up. You needed to complete a presentation on why they should leave the Avengers alone for the thousandth time that year.Â
However, it was like both men decided overnight to make your life a living hell.Â
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 chairâs distance in between them, and your eyebrows furrowed briefly at it. Usually, they sat beside each other during the team meetings and debriefs.Â
âGood morning,â you greeted. âYou guys donât have to be here for this meeting. Itâs not on your agenda.â
âYouâre defending us to assholes every other week. I think itâs fair we sit in, maybe intimidate them a little bit,â 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. Heâs watching you like some sort of predator, and youâve never felt smaller.Â
You looked at Steve next, for help, but maybe you shouldâve known better. Of course he would agree with his fucking boyfriend because he just gave you a pretty smile, and nodded.Â
And the committee that came in didnât 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 everyoneâ you realized this was their plan from the start. You had to sit yourself right in between them, pretend that you werenât screaming inside, and start the meeting.
It was a little easier once you got going. You could ignore both men. They didnât say much, only nodded in agreement with your words or grunted in disapproval when the committee said something fucking stupid.Â
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.Â
âIs that how these meetings always go?â Steve asked you.Â
âJust about,â you sighed, running your hand through your hair. âThey just spew bullshit at me, and they think theyâre right. Obviously, theyâre not.â
âYou hold your ground pretty well,â he murmured. âIâm sorry that we leave you to deal with this. With them.â
You could only shrug, though there was a little tingle of pride that began to blossom in your chest. Well, to be fairâ this is why they hired you to begin with. To make their lives easier in every single aspect. Not just laundry and snacks.Â
âYou guys fight out there. Itâs my job to make sure that you guys can keep fighting the important battles,â you told him, briefly meeting his eyes.Â
Steve stares at you, for just a few moments. Heâs studying your features, looking you up and down. Briefly, you recognize something in his eyes. Thereâs admiration. It makes you feel giddy. Noticed. A smile comes onto your face.Â
Itâs 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.
âAbout what happened earlier this weekââ 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.Â
âI have another meeting to get to,â you cut him off, shoving the rolling chair behind you so hard that it hits the wall. Itâs a lie. You have no meeting. This was your only calendar item for the morning, and youâre free until after lunch.
Still, youâre all but running out the door seconds later. You donât turn back even when Steve calls out your name to try and get you to stop. Youâre disappearing down the hall, rushing to your private office as fast as you can, and locking the door behind you.Â
Neither man gives up on attempting to corner you.
Youâve found solace in latching onto another team member every single chance that you get.Â
Youâve stuck by Clintâs 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.Â
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, itâs the best thing you couldâve ever asked for, especially when you can see Buckyâs shadow in the corner of your eye, stalking you.Â
You wondered if this is what it was like to be hunted by the Winter Soldier.Â
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 youâve been hiding from for over a week now. Youâre still polite with him, but you try not to be caught with him alone.Â
You donât even try with Vision.Â
Wanda and Natasha are definitely your safest bets. Out of everyone on the team, they were the ones that you got closest with firstâ 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 didnât tell either of them what was going on, even though they both could tell you were on edge.Â
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 didnât want to be caught alone with them.Â
If, on the off chance, you didnât have anyone to grab onto, you locked yourself into your own room or office. You knew you couldnât keep living like this. You just hoped that both of them would drop it, and the three of you could just forget about it.Â
And it seemed thatâs exactly what happened.Â
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 didnât have to use a buddy system to go around your workplace. You didnât have to leave the compound entirely, spending the night at your parentâs place because you didnât 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 guardâ and you definitely didnât have to look over your shoulder trying to hide from soldiers that had much more experience than you did when it came to hunting.Â
You could finally breathe again. Â
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 casingsâ 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 wasnât your fault for not noticing. He always would.Â
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 didnât use guns.Â
âYou 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,â you muttered to yourself, tapping your screen. You sat down on the bench behind you, letting out a deep sigh.Â
âOh, shit. Are we going to be pulled into another meeting?â
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 mustâve gotten back from the gymâ actually from the gym.Â
You couldnât help the smile that came onto your face at the slight despair in his voice. You turned back towards the shelves, shaking your head.
âItâs not a meeting. Think of it as a⊠get-together. Just a chat,â you replied.
âRightâ because being yelled at by Stark is just a chat,â Bucky snorted as he walked into the armory, going towards his locker. He unlocked it, grabbing a towel to wipe at his forehead.Â
âI mean, I donât see your sign-outs on the log,â you hummed, pulling up the spreadsheet onto your screen. âAnd you sound pretty defensive. Seems like youâre guilty of something, Bucky.â
âNot sure what youâre talking about,â he responded. âIâm not the only one that doesnât use the sign out sheet. I know Sam doesnât.â
âAre you just ratting him out now to save your own ass?â you scoffed.
âIâm lessening my load of the blame.â
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.Â
âIs there anything you need me to get for you?â you asked him, scrolling through the cart on your tablet screen one more time. âAny spare parts or wiring for your arm that Tony doesnât have? Do I need to contact Princess Shuri for anything?â
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 prettyâ 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.Â
He was looking down at himself, thankfully, and not at you. He couldnât 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.Â
âArmâs good. Thank you,â he answered, giving you a nod.
âAnytime. Just let me know, or send me a text if you need me to get you something,â 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 bodyâ like how you felt over a month ago when you were trying to avoid him and Steve entirely.Â
You forced your body to relax because that war had already passed. Youâve had several conversations with both Steve and Buckyâ just like this one that youâre having right nowâ and youâve been completely fine. You busy yourself with the order, input Tonyâs business card number that you know by heart, and choose the express delivery option.Â
You let out a sigh of relief when you see that the delivery will come within two days. Enough time before their next mission.Â
âLucky for you, no team meeting needed,â you said, standing. âOnly because I caught the low stock in time.â
âMy savior,â he chuckled, shaking his head.Â
Youâre moving now, thoughts already occupied to your next taskâ which is the pantryâ when Buckyâs hand clasps over your upper arm. His grip isnât 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.
âDid you think of something?â you asked, eyes dropping down to where he had his hand on you.Â
âYeah,â he nodded, and released you.Â
Your arm feels cold without him there. Then, you feel something behind youâ 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 canât 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.Â
âI thought we were over this,â you said slowly.
Steve shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. âWe just let you think that we were. I didnât realize that the civilian we hired was actually an agent when she didnât want to be caught.â
âTake a seat,â Bucky told you, gesturing back towards the bench.
You canât do anything but listen. Once youâre seated, Steve enters the armory, closing the door behind him. He doesnât linger too far away from the door. Maybe itâs to ensure that you canât run. Even if you get close, you donât have that much faith in yourself to outmaneuver them. They hold you with too much regard in their heads.Â
âWhy canât we just⊠I donât knowâ not talk about this?â you frowned at them as they stood in front of you. âIâm pretty sure Iâm not the first person thatâs walked in on their friends fucking each other like rabbitsâ we do not have to discuss the logistics of me seeing all three seconds of your possibly extensive intimate life.â
âYou⊠have a very indecent mouth,â Steve said slowly, and Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes.Â
âYou havenât told anyone?â Bucky asked, looking you up and down.
âWhy would I?â you asked, exasperated. âThatâs not my business to tell! Is that what this is about? I could care less if you were fuck buddies or marriedâ literally, I do not care. Is this some leftover stigma thatâs instilled in your bones from the forties? Guys, weâre 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.â
âIs that what we are to you? Gay uncles?â Steve asked. Thereâs 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.Â
âGrandpas, maybe, with the way you both hold a fucking grudge,â you muttered.Â
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.
âListen, okay, Iâm sorry,â you said, swallowing thickly. And you really do mean itâ you donât want to walk in on any of your friends doing the deed. âI 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 Iâve told you several times, then I wouldnât have seen you guys naked, and heard you guys moan each otherâs names, but I promise I havenât told anyone. Iâll take this to my grave.â
Theyâre both silent for a few moments, and you mustered up the courage to look at them. Steve and Bucky arenât looking at you. Theyâre looking at each other, having some sort of silent conversation that you know only couples that have been together for years can have.Â
You honestly have nothing else to lose.Â
âBy the wayâ who the fuck has sex on a Tuesday morning, and doesnât lock their bedroom door?â you added, watching both of their heads snap back towards you. âEspecially a couple that is trying to remain hidden?â
A laugh fell from Buckyâs lips as Steve chuckled beside him, shaking his head. Just like that, the tension you felt in your body was disappearing.Â
âYou got us there,â Steve nodded, hands on his hips. Â
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. âCan I go now? Are we done here?â
âNot quite.â
Your head snapped back up. âWhat? Is this not it?â
âI heard something interesting, a few months back from Nat,â Steve started, and your eyebrows furrowed at him. You had no idea where the conversation was going now. âYou know, sheâs always trying to set me up on dates, and I keep shooting her down.â
âRight,â you nodded slowly, then gestured between them. âAnd now I know why. Do you want me to try and get her off your case without alerting her?â
âNo, no. Thatâs not it,â Steve shook his head, smiling at you. âShe tried setting me up with you.â
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. Yeahâ thatâs who you were gonna murder in cold blood.Â
âShe told me that you confessed to her something about climbing me like a treeââ
âStop fucking talking,â you cut Steve off, raising a hand up in the air. You couldnât 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. âObviously, I didnât fucking know you were a taken man. I wouldnât have said that shit if I knewââ
âShe also said that you stare at me a lot during training,â Bucky interjected.Â
âYou know⊠I used to think talks between girls were sacred, confidential⊠Iâm gonna kill her,â you murmured, more to yourself than either of them.Â
The armory was silent, save for the thumping of your heart wreaking havoc in your chest out of pure shame and embarrassment. Maybe you wouldnât even have time to kill the assassin. You were certain that you were going to die here. Maybe from heart palpitations.Â
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.Â
You canât even deny it. You canât deny what Natasha said, try to say that sheâs lying because that wouldnât 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.Â
You took in another breath, and held it for a few moments.
Youâre scared. They must be disgusted with you, you think. Youâre not only their friend, but their assistant. You work with them, handle their private schedules, and you know everything about them. Itâs 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 jobâ youâre afraid of losing their trust.Â
âIt was⊠inappropriate for me to talk about you, and look at you like that,â you decided to say, coming up with the best professional apology that you could muster. âIâll be careful to make sure that it doesnât happen again.â
âSweetheart, what? Noâ weâre actually about to ask you if you wanted to join us in bed.â
The pounding in your chest stops abruptly as your head snaps up towards Bucky. Youâre certain he could see the shock and confusion all over your face, and he gives you a smileâ almost boyish. Thereâs no repulsion on his face. He almost looks a little giddy, relaxed.
âDonât get me wrong, I love Steve, but heâs all fuckinâ muscle. Thereâs nothing soft about his body,â he continued, a deep sigh escaping his chest.
âYou think thereâs anything soft about you?â Steve demanded, raising an eyebrow at him. âYou have a vibranium arm. Do you think thatâs comfortable to sleep next to?â
âI have another arm, Rogers. I donât know why you insist on taking the left side of the bed,â Bucky shot back.Â
âItâs my preference,â Steve grunted.Â
Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve, crossing his arms as he turned slightly to look at his boyfriend. Theyâre engaging in some light hearted banter, one that you donât care enough to tune into. Not when youâre trying to make sense of what was just said to you. Â
Time doesnât exactly feel real, but youâre watching them argue in the way that youâve watched your parents argue many times before. Youâre certain that theyâll 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 theyâll eat for dinner soon. But, the question still remainsâ
âYou want me to sleep with you? Both of you?â 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.
âOnly if you want to,â Steve said.
âWhy me?â you asked. Itâs the only logical question you can think of at the moment.
âBecause youâre the only one who knows about the two of us,â Bucky shrugged, like itâs the most obvious answer in the world. âAnd youâve shown obvious interest in us. Itâs a win-win scenario for all of us, isnât it?â
âIn that case, then it doesnât have to be⊠me right? Iâm sure you could go find a third to join you somewhere else. Someone discreet that can keep secrets,â you quickly said, your mind reeling. âI donâtâ I donât want to be some last minute option to some fantasyââ
âHang on,â Steve quickly cut you off, coming forth. Heâs kneeling in front of you know, hands closing over yours. Heâs eye level with you, stopping all of your self deprecating thoughts before it can start spilling out. âYouâre not a last minute option. Truthfully, youâre the first option and the only option. Since we heard what Natasha said, weâve actually been discussing itâ discussing you. Thereâs just not an easy way to bring all of⊠this up. Also, itâs not just a fantasy, sweetheart. Bucky and I have been with girls before, you know that right?â
âI⊠have been made aware,â you nodded slowly.
Steve shrugged at you. âSo itâs just us wanting to get back into it, just sharing someone with each other. And we like you. Youâre reliable, smart, and very pretty. Youâve kept our secret for the past month, and we are very thankful for that. And like we saidâ no pressure. If this isnât something that you want to do, then we donât have to. You donât have to. Itâs just an offer.â
Man. You hate Captain America.Â
The leader of the Avengersâ fuckinâ great at speeches and good at talking people down from heightened emotions. Heâs talking to you incredibly softly, gently. His hand is warm on top of yours, grounding you in place where you sit. He doesnât stray away from eye contact, and the blue of his eyes are cozyâ if that even makes sense. It does, to you.Â
You look behind him, towards Bucky, and he offers you a nod of agreement.Â
âYou donât have to decide right now, doll,â Bucky added. âJust let us know whenever youâre readyâ oh. Steve rarely uses his room, by the way. So, if you make up your mind, you know where to find us.â
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.Â
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.Â
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 Tonyâs 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 didnât offer to turn your world upside down. Wellâ they didnât 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 gymâs sparring area for two hour blocks because they could keep fighting for hours at a time. The only reason they didnât go for longer was so they could go for the punching bags instead, and work on their forms.Â
Would you even survive a single night with them?
The question echoed heavily throughout your mind as you stood in front of Buckyâs door. You knew better this timeâ 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.Â
âCome on in,â Bucky told you, opening the door wider for you.Â
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 pajamasâ Steve in a t-shirt and shorts, Bucky wearing a white tank top and cotton pants. They were both watching you, curious.
âIâve never done something like this before,â you told them, feeling a little exposed under their gaze. You laced your hands together nervously, just to give yourself something to do. âHave you guys?â
âNope,â Bucky answered. âItâs new for all of us.â
That made you feel slightly better. You watched as Steve came off of the bed, and both men moved to stand in front of youâ just a singular step away. You looked up at both of them, breath caught in your throat.
âAre you sure about this?â Steve asked, voice soft, reassuring. You nodded, and he let out a small laugh before he shook his head. âYou gotta say it, pretty thing. We wonât do anything youâre not comfortable with.â
You studied their faces for a moment. They were both being patient with you, waiting for you to give them permission. Steveâs 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.Â
âIâm sure,â you whispered, finally releasing the breath you were holding.Â
They mustâve really talked about this in depth because their actions were coordinated. Careful. Almost like a dance.Â
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, Buckyâs lips were on yours, while Steve busied himself with gathering your hair to the side to attach his mouth to your neck and shoulders.Â
âYou smell good. Did you just shower?â Steve hummed against your neck.
Of course you showered before coming here. Why wouldnât 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 Buckyâs room. You didnât just do your regular date night ritualâ you went above and beyond.Â
âYeah,â you murmured against Buckyâs lipsâ and he took it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. You couldnât help but let out a soft noise against his mouth, and he squeezed your waist in appreciation.Â
Steveâs 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.Â
âMm⊠Youâre right, Buck. It is nice to have someone soft,â Steve chuckled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
âAh, Steveââ you gasped, pressing back into his chest as Steve took your nipples in his fingers, rolling the slowly hardening peaks between his fingertips.Â
âYou owe me money,â Steve said to Bucky, and you could hear a grin on his voiceâ almost bragging. âI made her say my name first.â
âThereâs still more bets on the table,â he grunted, swatting Steveâs 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 wasnât unwelcome.Â
âBets?â you whispered to Bucky as he hoisted you into his arms, your legs being wrapped around his waist.Â
Youâve been in Buckyâs room before, but not for long periods of time. Youâve 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, Buckyâs bringing you to his bed.Â
âDonât worry about it, doll,â he hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before he laid you down onto the mattress. âJust relax.â
Then, you were being dragged away from under him, and up the bed. You were half laying, half sitting against Steveâs chest, who was resting back against the headboard, like he was when you first walked into the room.
âYouâre hogging her all to yourself, Buck,â 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 didnât ask for entry. He demanded itâ licking into your mouth and exploring like he owned the space.Â
If Bucky cared that Steve was suddenly taking all of your attention, he didnât show it. No, Bucky busied himself with other matters that were more important to him. Like taking your shorts off of you.Â
Steve didnât 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.Â
You couldnât keep kissing Steve back, not when Buckyâs tongue was doing pretty circles around your clit, and one of his fingers was poking at your entrance, but never fully pressing inside. Steve didnât 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.
âJesusâ fuck, Bucky,â you whimpered, your hips twitching up into Buckyâs face.Â
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 wouldnât be too hard not to, with two super soldiers having their hands all over you, but you were having a difficult time staying still.Â
Their touches were barely anything at all. They continued to ghost over your skin. The only real pressure you got was Buckyâs tongue, but even that wasnât much. He was enjoying every single little sound you made, every little tremble of your legs around his headâ 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.Â
âPlease,â you begged, so impossibly needy.
âPlease what?â Steve asked you, pressing a kiss to your temple. âWhat do you want, sweet girl?â
Anything, at this point. But Buckyâs moved away from your core, and Steveâs also removed his hand from your chest. Theyâre both on the same fucking wavelengthâ theyâre 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 otherâ of course they would have each otherâs back like this.Â
âYour pussy is soaked, doll,â 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 youâ fully on display for him. A smile comes to his face when he watches your aching hole squeeze around nothing at all.Â
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.Â
Just as quickly as Bucky filled you, heâs leaving youâ and the loss is immediate. You let out a whimper, but Steve moans when he sees the arousal left behind on Buckyâs fingers.Â
âShitâ she really is wet,â 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 Steveâs mouthâ and he licks all of your juices clean off of Buckyâs fingers.
âOur poor girl is so deprived, huh?â Bucky hummed, watching Steve for a few moments before looking back down at you. âAll you do is work. Never heard you talk to the other girls about getting fucked good. Donât worry, pretty girl. Weâll take care of you. Just gotta let us know what you want.â
âGodâ I want your cock,â 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 youâ
âFuck,â Steve cursed behind you. It wasnât 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.Â
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.Â
âNow you owe me money, Steve,â Bucky told him, relishing in his win as he undid the tie on his pants.
Oh. Another bet, you realized. Â
âShut the fuck up, and fuck her already,â Steve grunted, reaching forward to grab your legs, spreading you open for his boyfriend.
âWorking on it. Be patient,â Bucky chuckled, and kicked his pants offâ 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 Steveâs dick against your back this entire time, hard and thick, and you didnât even know if he would fit you eitherâ
âYouâre staring,â Steve murmured behind you, nipping at your neck.
âAm I not supposed to?â 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 wasnât working well.
You felt the head of Buckyâs cock slowly press in, and your mouth paused against Steveâs lips. Bucky cursed above you as Steveâs hands tightened behind your knees, keeping you just where you needed to be for Bucky as he slowly pressed in, bottoming out completely.Â
âHoly shit,â Bucky groaned, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist. You leaned your head back against Steveâs shoulder as you nodded in agreement. You couldnât say a word in response. âSteveâ fuckâ youâre gonna love her pussy.â
âStretch her out good for me,â Steve said.
Bucky took those words like a challenge.Â
You were already so tightly wound up from Buckyâs mouth on you, their hands all over you but not doing anything much, and now? Your first orgasm ripped through you without any warningâ 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.Â
He pulled out all the way until only the tip of his cock was left behind, and then dove right back inâ hardâ meeting your hips with such vigor that made you see stars behind your eyes. You were reduced to a whimpering, moaning mess under Buckyâ and he was eating it up. Your chin fell to your chest, and you could see itâ you could watch where he entered and exited you with each thrust, and the sight made you tremble in Steveâs arms.Â
âAre you gonna cry?â 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 wasnât for Steveâs assistance, you were certain that you wouldâve tried wrapping your legs around his waist now, or pulling away from him out of pure overstimulation. âSweet thing, you gonna cry on my cock?â
âThink you broke her, Buck,â Steve chuckled from behind you.Â
âAll stupid and cock drunk, arenât you?â Bucky grunted, hips slamming into yours to force a noise out of you, and his fingers slipped into your mouth. âGotta wake up, baby. You gotta fuck Stevie after me, remember? We canât leave him hanging. Heâs being so good for us, so patient.â
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 responseâ satisfied with your answer.
Buckyâs fingers left your mouth, much to your despair, returning to your waist. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, less calculated. You heard Steveâs breath hitch behind you, felt him shift a little against your back. You could feel Buckyâs cock twitch inside you.
âShit, dollâ can I cum in you?â Bucky moaned, meeting your eyes. His voice was softer now, a little desperate. âTell me where I canââ
âInside me,â you choked out, your voice a little hoarse. âPlease, itâs okayâ Iâm on the pillââ
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.Â
Heâs 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.Â
âCanât waste a drop, doll,â Bucky clicked his tongue at you, leaning back down to press another kiss to your lips. âDonât let any of it spill before you get on Steveâs dick.â
Gently, heâs pulling you up. You have no feeling in your bodyâ youâre sated and boneless, but heâs right. Steveâs been waiting, patiently, quietly, and you turn to him.
âTake this off, Steve,â Bucky grunted, tugging on his shirt as he dropped onto the bed beside the two of you. Youâre also reaching for the hem of Steveâs shirt, pulling it off of Steveâs body, and tossing it off to the side somewhere.Â
You rested your hands on Steveâs shoulders, looking down at himâ 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 Buckyâs release fully inside of you.Â
He sucked in a breath at the sight, and looked back up at you.Â
âFeel good, sweetheart?â he asked you.Â
âYeah,â you nodded, giving him a smile. âWanna make you feel good, too.â
âJesus,â he groaned, head leaning back and hitting the wall. You took the chance to trail your hands down his chest, and Steveâs 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.Â
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.Â
You stroked him just a few times, spreading the precum that leaked over his length, and you watched Steveâs expression for a few moments before leaning forward, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips.Â
Bucky wasnât having it.Â
âYouâre stalling,â he tutted, pulling you and Steve away from the headboard.Â
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.Â
âBuckââ
âShut up. She feels so good when sheâs overstimulated. Iâm doing you a favor, Stevie, and sheâs trying to recover,â Bucky grunted.Â
Bucky was behind you, kneeling, an arm wrapped around your waist as you straddled Steveâs hips. Between your legs, heâs holding Steveâs 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.
Steveâs hands reach for both of youâ one hand on your thigh and one hand grabbing Buckyâs hand as he shifts to hold onto your waist.
âBuckyâ Bucky fuck slow downââ Steve cuts himself off with a moan.
You can only whimper in agreement, fingernails digging into Steveâs body as Bucky himself sets the pace. Heâs controlling thisâ heâs fucking you directly onto Steve, hands on your waist, lifting you up and down with ease on Steveâs cock.Â
âWhat? You donât like it?â Bucky chuckled from behind you. âIsnât she so warm, Stevie? You donât like how your cock is soaked with both mine and her cum right now?â
You clamp down around Steve in response to Buckyâs words, and a loud curse falls from Steveâs lips as his eyes fall shut.Â
âJesus fuckingâ Buckâ shut the fuck up, you saying all that shit isâ just making herââÂ
Steve canât even finish his own sentence, not when Bucky is grinding your hips against Steveâs, humming in approval at his own handiwork. Heâs enjoying this, watching both of you fall to pieces in his hands.Â
âYouâve been doing this all night. Since when do you talk back to me?â Bucky asked Steve, lifting you up off of Steve. You see the panic in the soldierâs eyes at the realization, and he pushes himself onto his elbows to meet Buckyâs gaze.Â
And you are empty. Youâre dripping all over Steve, soaking him beneath you, and a whimper falls from your lips.Â
âWaitâ waitâ why am I being punished?â you forced out, grabbing onto Buckyâs hands quickly, looking over your shoulder to him. You sound damn near pathetic. âI didnâtâ I didnât do anythingââ
âLook, Stevie. Look at what happens when you canât be good,â Bucky shook his head before he leaned in closer to you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips to placate youâ but itâs not enough. âOur girl gets punished, too.â
Your head whipped immediately to the other man. âSteve,â you begged softly, helplessly.Â
âIâll be good,â Steve muttered, sinking back down into the pillows.Â
And Buckyâs feeling merciful because you donât even think thatâs a good enough apology, but heâs returning you to Steveâs cock within the next few momentsâ or maybe itâs a punishment with how hard heâs slamming you down onto him.Â
Punishment for who? Youâre not certain.Â
Both you and Steve canât keep up with the new, sudden pace. Steveâs 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. Heâs watching every single movement, every single motion, and heâs vocal. It sends tingles down your spine that goes straight down to your core, and he feels every single twitch and spasmâ and he lets you know heâs felt it.Â
âCum whenever you want, doll,â Bucky whispered into your ear, one of his hands slipping between your legs to rub your clit. âOnly Steve canât cum without my permission right now.â
You let out a shaky moan, nodding deliriously at the added stimulation. It didnât take long, not with Steve continuously spearing you with Buckyâs help, and the tight circles rubbing into the overly sensitive nervesâ you came for the third time that night.Â
Bucky didnât stop fucking you onto Steveâs cock the entire time.Â
âYou feel good?â Bucky continued. âStevie making you feel good?â
âHear that, Stevie? You might deserve to cum tonight,â Bucky chuckled.Â
âLet him cum in me,â you whined, grabbing onto Buckyâs wrist. âWant it.â
âGod,â Steve groaned from under you, his fingers digging into your thighs. âYou want my cum, too? Want me to mix with Buckyâs?â
âPlease,â you nodded frantically.Â
âBucky,â Steve called out, his voice broken and hoarseâ he was asking for permission. Begging for it.Â
âYou heard our girl,â Bucky hummed, releasing your hips, and relinquishing control to Steve. âDo what she wants.â
Steveâs hands replaced where Buckyâs was, and you were no longer being slid up and down Steveâs 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 youâ doing exactly what you asked him to do.Â
It doesn't take him long, not when heâs been watching Bucky fuck you for the past hour, and being deprived of his own release due to Buckyâs words. Soon enough, youâre not sure whoâs release is whose, but youâre filled to the brim, warm, and sticky.Â
Youâre both panting, and youâve collapsed onto his chest. His hands are on your back, holding you against him as his cock softens inside you, and slips out.Â
You feel Bucky shift beside you, pressing kisses to your spine in appreciation, before heâs muttering your name for some attention. When you lift your head, he catches your lips, kissing you.Â
âBe a good girl and clean up Steveâs cock,â he murmured against your lips.
A shiver runs down your body and you nod, lifting yourself up from Steveâs chest. You kneel between his legs again, and lower yourself down to his softened member. Itâs kinda cute when you see it like this.
Steve flinches when your tongue meets his head, and you taste itâ all three of you on Steveâs skin. Heâs kinda squishy in your mouth in a way that makes you want to giggle. Itâs slightly endearing, in a strange way.Â
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 thatâs left is nothing but your saliva, you lift back up, and they both give you lazy, satisfied grins.Â
Bucky beckons for you to come closer, pulling you to settle in the middle of them before he reaches between your legs.Â
âWhat the fuckâ?!â 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 Steveâs lips, just like how he did earlier.Â
Except, Steve doesnât 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 donât forget about you. Steveâs holding your hand, thumb rubbing along your knuckles while Buckyâs fingers are moving up and down the side of your thigh slowly.Â
When they part, Steveâs tilting your head up to kiss you, and Buckyâs peppering kisses all over your neck and shoulder. Then, it switches. Buckyâs mouth is against yours, while Steve marks all over your collarbone and chest.Â
âWanna do this again?â Bucky murmured against your lips.Â
Your eyes widen as you pull away from him.Â
âRight now?â you demanded, slightly horrified.Â
âI meanâ I can. I donât think you can,â he said. Steve chuckled from beside you.Â
âWe could make this a regular thing, if youâd like,â Steve offered. âI wouldnât mind.â
âIâ Huh? Like regular fuck buddies? A friends with benefits kind of situation?â you asked, frowning.Â
Bucky made a face. âI donât do fuck buddies, sweetheart. I donât enjoy sharing.â
âYou would be sharing me with Steve.â
âThatâs different. Exclusive sharing with Steve is acceptable,â he dismissed.
âAgain, you donât have to make the decision right now,â Steve quickly told you, pressing a kiss to your temple. âTake your time. Just rest for right now.â
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.Â
summary. maybe blurting out âi love youâ in the middle of sex was not your best moment. but heâs your best friendâs dad. shouldnât he know better?
word count. 8.7k
warnings. smut, mdni, 18+, non-specified age gap, bit of angst and hurt/comfort, unprotected pnv, pussy slapping, pussy pronoun, tit groping, soft but mean bucky (donât ask me how lol), bratty reader if you squint, usage of nicknames (honey, sweetie, baby), no use of y/n.
notes. half of readerâs problems wouldâve been solved if sheâd just talked. but sheâs a bit much like me, so yk.
READ ON AO3
it's been seven months since you started sneaking around behind rebecca's back, and every single time, it feels like the world's about to crash down on you.
you remember the first night it happened clear as dayâ 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. youâd 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 comeâ god, no âbut skipping out on your best friend's birthday would raise all kinds of red flags.
you know sheâd personally see to it that youâre hunted for sport if youâre 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. heâs 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 rebeccaâs presence wouldnât be a big deal. hell, youâve spent one too many nights right on his bed. no, thatâs not what youâre worried about.
thing is, itâs been three days since that disaster in his bathroom. and you havenât spoken since.
now itâs 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 youâd 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 youâve 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 didnât 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.
thereâs some guilt twisting inside you, asking how you can face her after all this?
but itâs 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. itâs 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.
sheâd 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. heâs 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.â you force a smile that feels brittle. "just need a minute. tell rebecca iâll 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 youâve 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. itâs 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. rebeccaâs 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 itâs 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 heâs 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. thereâs 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 â anything â 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. thereâs 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.â
"i'm rebeccaâs mom." she says it casually, like it's no big deal, like she didn't walk out on them years ago. she probably doesnât 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 sheâs part of the day-to-day. you want to snap that rebeccaâs 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 iâll 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 doesnât 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 youâve 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." itâs a lie, and it comes out thin.
her face tells you sheâs 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 donât know what you expected from bucky, but itâs 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 handâs 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 â 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 âi love youâ 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 heâs 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 lookinâ for a ride when i can take you home. so get in."
tears burn again, because even now heâs 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 doesnât deserve the treatment youâre 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 doesnât mind though, or if he does, he doesnât 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 heâd asked but because you canât 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. itâs 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.
itâs 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. âi'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 heâs 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, wantinâ 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. heâd counted the days too. "when did i ever say i wanted space?"
"three nights ago. you ran. didn't evenâ" 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 âround when you were ready. then tonight you show up lookinâ 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 â one second?" he leans in, voice dropping to something almost dangerous. "if you tell me you gave me one fuckinâ 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.
âbut â but you froze. i saw it.â you honestly donât know what youâre trying to do and why youâre doing it, but you do it anyway.
âyeah. i froze. because the girl iâve 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.â
you turn to look at him properly, thereâs dark circles below his eyes, like heâd not slept in ages, even though itâs been just three days, thereâs also something raw in them. tiredness? like heâs been carrying this same knot in his gut that you have.
âso you donât?â the question comes out small, and totally unnecessary.
âdonât what?â his face is painted with confusion.
âlove me.â
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 canât look away.
âif i didnât love you i wouldnât be sittinâ here on the side of the road at one in the morning trying to figure out why youâre crying instead of just droppinâ your ass home and calling it a day.â his voice has dropped a few octaves. âi wouldnât drive five fuckinâ hours to eat shitty diner eggs with you because you said you were stressed about exams... i wouldnât keep your stupid fuzzy socks in my glovebox because you always complain your feet are cold... i wouldnât 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.â
âthen â then why didnât you say it?â you hiccup your way through the sentence.
âbecause iâm not good at this shit. iâm bad at talking, honey.â he lets go of your neck but doesnât pull back. âi donât do big declarations. i show it. i thought you saw it. thought you knew.â
âi â i thought⊠maybe i was just convenient. the young naive girl who didnât ask for too much.â
his laugh is short. âconvenient? sweetie, nothing about you is convenient. you make me lie awake wonderinâ if beccaâs 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 donât have to go back to an empty house thinking about how fucked up this is. that ainât convenience. thatâs me being in deep and not knowing how to climb out. not wantinâ to.â
shoulders shake as you cry harder. he reaches over again, this time slower, thumb swiping under your eye, smearing the mess of mascara. âstop that,â he mutters. âplease donât cry⊠youâre killinâ me here.â
âi thought you didnât want me anymore.â
âi want you so bad it scares the shit out of me.â he drags his hand down, cups your cheek rougher than necessary. âbut iâm not gonna beg. and iâm not gonna say pretty words if they donât come natural. you want poetry, go date a college boy. you want someone whoâll show up at your dorm with coffee at six oâclock because you pulled an all-nighter, someone whoâll fix your shitty car when it breaks down again, someone whoâll fuck you and then hold you after till you fall asleep â thatâs me. thatâs what i got.â
âyou love me.â itâs a statement, the first real true thing thatâs coming out of your mouth.
âyeah.â he doesnât look away. âi do. been doinâ it for a while. i just⊠didnât know how to say it without sounding like some old bastard trying to keep a girl half his age.â
more tears fall. you canât stop them. âyouâre not old.â
âiâm old enough to know better⊠old enough to know this is gonna blow up in our faces eventually. beccaâs gonna find out and sheâs gonna hate me. maybe hate you too. but iâm still here. still sitting in this goddamn car because the thought of dropping you off and walking away makes me feel sick.â
you lean forward before you can stop yourself, your voice is a whisper when it does come. âsay it again.â
he doesnât ask what, just says it like heâs confessing, professing. âi love you. stupidly. completely. madly. even when youâre being a brat.â
âiâm sorry i ran.â
âyeah, well. next time give me more than half a second to get my head out of my ass.â his hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your face up. âand maybe donât leave me standing there with my dick still wet.â
heat rises up to your neck. âthatâs mean.â
âtruth ainât always pretty.â but his mouth quirks, baring the smallest hint of a smile. âyou gonna keep cryinâ or you gonna kiss me so we can stop freezing our asses off âere?â
you donât answer with words. you lean in to crash your mouth against his. itâs 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 youâll fall apart if you let go.
he breaks the kiss just enough to mutter against your lips, breath coming in hot puffs. âgonna take you home soon. but first i need you to understand somethinâ.â
âwhat?â
ânext time you feel like bolting, you stay. you yell at me, you cry on me, you slap me if you have to â but you donât run. because iâm not good at sweet-talkinâ.â
âokay.â
âsay it.â
âi wonât run.â
âgood girl.â 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 heâs 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 â faster than usual, exactly like yours.
itâs reassuring in a way you didnât expect, this proof heâs 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.
âfuck,â he mutters, eyes half-lidded as he watches your fingers. âyou tryna start somethinâ we canât finish out here?â
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 canât get enough of him.
hips bucking up just a fraction into your touch, you feel him grow harder. âcareful, honey. been three days â iâm â iâm not in the mood to be gentle.â
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 itâs short-lived. he grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away only to yank you closer, half across the console until youâre straddling his thigh, dress hiking up your legs.
âpush the seat back.â 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.
heâs 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.
âjesusâ slow down,â he grunts, head falling back against the headrest, but his hands are on your hips, guiding you up and over him. âturn around.â
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 youâre 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 itâs nothing compared to the heat of him pressing against you, the blunt head nudging at your entrance.
âmissed this,â 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. âmissed you.â
itâs 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. âbucky â please.â
your hips rock back on their own, desperate for more than just the tease.
the way heâs touching you, makes everything else fadeâ the party, the guilt, the fear of tomorrow. right now itâs just him, just this, the way he knows your body like itâs 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 thatâs been building since the kiss. âso fuckinâ wet already. just three days without my dick and youâre dripping like this?â
âshut up.â thereâs a wild need in your plea, he mustâve 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.
âthere we go,â he groans, both hands now under your dress, cupping your breasts, squeezing as he rolls his hips once. âmissed this tight little cunt. been thinkinâ about it every night, stroking myself wishing it was you.â
the words are filthy and honest, no sugar-coating, the way he always talks when itâs 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 â his priority â pinching your nipple until you whine.
âmove â please, bucky, i needââ
ânah. lemme feel this first. been too long without her⊠look at her squeezinâ me tight, baby.â not caring about your demands, he rocks just enough to make you clench around him, definitely not enough to satisfy. âyou ran out on me last time, left me hard and achinâ. gonna make you wait a bit.â
frustration builds, mixing with the pleasure of him thick inside you, stretching you open. âthatâs not fair,â you breathe, trying to grind down, but his arm tightens, keeping you pinned.
âlife ainât fair, remember?â he nips at your earlobe, then slides his hand down from your breast, over your stomach, until his fingers find where youâre joined. he spreads you open wider, thumb circling your clit, teasing, mocking, making your thighs tremble. âbut you were a brat earlier, screaminâ in my driveway like that. think you need a reminder.â
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.
âfuck â thatâs it,â he mutters while he does it again, a little harder this time, fingers all slick with you. âfeel that? thatâs for runninâ on me. for makinâ me wait three goddamn days.â
the slaps come in quick succession now, each one making you gasp, hips jerking despite his hold, the sensation building until itâs 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. âbucky â please, iâm sorry, justâ move, fuck me, something.â
a satisfied laugh rumbles off of him. âalright, honey. since you asked so nicely.â
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.
âmissed feelinâ you âround me. go on, ride it âshow me how much you need this.â 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 â you donât know yet â heâs not slapping this time, just rubbing tight circles that match his rhythm.
âcum for me, sweetie.â his voice is strained like heâs holding back. âwanna feel you soak my cock. been dreaminâ about it.â
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.
âfuck,â he mutters finally, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. âneeded that.â
âme too.â 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. âalright. now iâm really takinâ you home. before we get arrested or some shit.â
a soft laugh escapes you as he pulls you in for another kiss, using that opportunity to buckle you up. itâs something heâs 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.
thereâs 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.â
the idea of getting out, walking up those stairs alone to your empty room, suddenly feels like a chore. after days of silence, you donât 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 heâs still here. "don't look like nothinâ. 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. heâs yours, always gonna be, thereâs nothing you have to worry for. but still walking away now means facing the empty bed, and you donât 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 hasnât 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 itâs 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 youâd suggested something ridiculous. he blinks, confusion framing his features. "ice cream. at â" he checks the dashboard clock, squinting a little "â 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 bossinâ me around way too much⊠know i can never say no to that pout, huh?"
"this is a craving. you wonât understand." you cross your arms but youâre smiling because of the way he just admitted that he canât refuse you.
"craving, huh? i know all your cravings, honey. especially the one where you get on your knees and wrap those pretty lips âround me like itâs your favorite toy to play with."
your cheeks burn hotter as you swat at his arm lightly. "keep talking like that and iâll 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 itâs on its last legs. "there we go," he says, pulling into the empty lot. "looks like theyâre still serving somethinâ. if we get food poisoning, iâm blaming you.â 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. "whatâll it be tonight?"
bucky glances at you. "your call, honey." he says it like itâs casual, but you know heâs 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 "donât 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. itâs childish, messy and exactly what you needed. something simple. something that doesnât hurt. something that doesnât remind you that youâre in love with your best friendâs dad.
bucky takes a bite of his chocolate and makes a face like itâs 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 itâs perfect." you take another lick letting the cold melt on your tongue, only to catch him staring. "what?"
"nothing. just like seeinâ 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⊠thatâs 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 thereâs a smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that reaches his eyes and softens the lines around them. "gonna finish both, arenât you?"
"probably. you always eat half of mine anyway so itâs only fair."
"fair, my ass." he takes a bigger bite of whatâs 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. "wasnât humoring. just didnât want you going up to that room alone and poutinâ yourself to sleep. plus i like seeing you eat. reminds me youâre real and not some dream i⊠cooked up."
you donât tell him that sometimes youâre scared of the same thing, just bump your shoulder against his, the contact warm and solid. "iâm real. and iâm yours. even when iâm being a brat about ice cream at two a.m."
"damn right, youâre 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 tomorrowâs gonna suck, right?" you ask, not wanting to break the moment but needing to say it anyway. "rebeccaâs gonna text and ask how iâm feeling and iâll have to lie again."
"yeah." he sighs, the sound heavy but not defeated. "weâll figure it out. one day at a time. right now though, iâm just glad youâre here eatinâ 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⊠letâs 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. thereâs 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 heâs memorizing the taste of you mixed with ice cream. "text me when youâre in bed.â
"i will." you glance back once to see him watching until you reach the door. he always waits until youâre inside. always. like he doesnât 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 youâre being a brat."
turns out heâs not that bad at talking, after all.
my masterlist !
extras. came out of hibernation to post this, now off to it i go.
summary: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door. he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience, but everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you arenât really that far behind.
warnings: non-canon; set in summer; second person (she/her pronouns for reader); age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky (I was inspired by logan howlett's personality); loner!bucky; size difference (he's beefy and has a soft tummy); they're both pervert tbh; protective behavior; possessiveness & jealousy; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (đââïž); soft dom!bucky; masturbation (f & m); sex toys; brief oral (f receiving); brief spanking (blink and you'll miss it); fingering; sexual acts in public; pussy pronouns; a few uses of 'slut' & he calls himself 'old' multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough sex; creampie.
word count: 13.5k
a/n: my second exam has been cancelled a few days ago because the professor is sick, so I got angry and stayed up all night on saturday to finish this wip that has been locked in my docs since this summer! it's really just porn without plot and I think it's definitely the filthiest thing I've ever written. don't like don't read. hope you'll enjoy đ
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 doesnât 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 armâs 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 doesnât 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 seesâ 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 heâs trying to be petty, he genuinely doesnât understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He watches the patrol carâs 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 someoneâs dog wonât 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 âparticipationâ and âneighborly effort.â 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 itâs an emergency. They do not to expect pleasantries or smiles anymore. Bucky exists like a closed doorâ solid, immovable, uninterested in whatâs 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 heâll give them before he starts complaining about the noise.
Then you step into view.
Youâre carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someoneâ a friend, maybeâ reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head, stubbornly keep going. Itâs an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it belongs there.
Bucky's frowns deepens.
Youâre younger than most people who can afford a house on this street, and pretty in a way that feels unfairâ soft, bright, effortless. Youâre 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 coupleâ fresh off their last noise complaintâ 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 doesnât sort his recycling "correctly".
He just observes, and thatâs 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.
âHi!â You call warmly, voice hopeful.
Bucky doesnât wave back. He doesnât smile, doesnât 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 itâs nothing.
Youâre just another neighbor, another disruption⊠Another reason the street wonât 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. Heâs just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him.
âOh, hi!â
Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder. Youâre standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didnât ignore you completely the first time you tried speaking to him.
He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just⊠Noise.
âIâm your new neighbor.â You say anyway, as if that wasnât 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.
âOkay.â You drawl softly, then recover quickly. âWell, nice to meet you.â
You wait another second, yet his gaze doesnât 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 itâs bad timing.
Heâs leaving for work when youâre coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching in your hair. You pause when you see him, smile like itâs reflexive.
âMorning.â
He grunts, adjusts his jacket, and walks past you without breaking stride.Â
Another time, heâs unloading groceries from his truck when youâre struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.
âShit.â 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, youâve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one, hands it to you without a word.
âThank you.â 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 donât 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, itâs like youâre waiting by the window for him to walk out, because youâre always there. Sometimes youâre early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, glancing his way.
âHey.â You greet him softly one morning, like youâre testing the word.
He doesnât answer.
âYou donât talk much.â You add, not accusatory.Â
He stiffens, jaw tightening, and drags his bin to the curb harder than necessary.
âSorry,â you rush out. âI didnât meanââ
Heâs already walking away.
That interaction bothers him more than it should.
The next time you meet there, itâs early morning, the air still crisp, and Buckyâs barely awake enough to tolerate existence. Heâs dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours, struggling with a torn bag thatâs almost spilling onto the pavement.
He stops without meaning to.
You look up when you hear him, relief lighting your face. âOh! Hiâ sorry, I think this thing hates me.â
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. âThank you! I really appreciate that.â
Bucky shrugs, already turning away.
âHave a nice day!â You call after him.
He doesnât answer, but this time, he doesnât feel as justified about it.
By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesnât take long before your name is said with affection and pride, with that tone people use when they are fond of someone.
Mrs. Reeves canât stop gushing about how you helped her carry groceries inside. The rich couple bragsâ loudlyâ 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 heâs trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard. And he grits his teeth every damn time.
âSheâs exactly what this street needed.â
Bucky clenches his jaw.
He doesnât 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 Godâ 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 hasnât ignored you a dozen times over.
It irritates him in a way he canât quite name.
Bucky is used to being despised, he knows how to live with it, justify it. But this quiet, persistent kindness⊠It doesnât fit anywhere he has known until now.
And he doesnât 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. Heâs been chasing the same problem for an hour, irritation simmering low and constant.
He doesnât look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already annoyed.
âHi.âÂ
He freezes.
Youâre 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 youâre 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.
âWhat do you want?â He asks flatly.
You donât flinch, and that surprises him.
âI justââ you hesitate, then let out a small breath. âI wanted to ask if I did something wrong.â
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.
âYou donât like me,â you continue softly. âAnd thatâs fine, you donât have to. I just⊠I wanted to know if there was a reason, since... You know, we are neighbors, and Iâd like to apologize if Iâve ever done or said something to offend you.â
His jaw tightens.
âYou didnât do anything.â He simply mutters.
You tilt your head, studying him. âThen why wonât you talk to me?â
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.
âEveryone says you like to be left alone,â you go on carefully. âI try to respect that, I really do. I just thought⊠Maybe saying hello wasnât crossing a line.â
âIt was.â He replies roughly, too quickly.
You blink, taken aback, and a hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away.
âOh,â You nod once. âOkay.â
âIâm sorry.â You then add quietly. âI didnât mean to make you uncomfortable.â
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 didnât push, didnât accuse, didnât 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 doesnât feel as satisfying as it used to.
Itâs later than he usually stays up, the house dark except for the low lamp on his nightstand. Heâs 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.
Thatâs when a light flicks on across the street.
He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.
At first, it doesnât register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. And then he realizes thatâs 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.
Youâre 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. Youâre 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 Buckyâs belly, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth.Â
He shouldnât be watching.
The thought lands fully formed, sharp and immediate.
Bucky turns away at once, like heâs 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 isnât worse than he thought, youâre holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. The sound doesnât reach him, but he knows it anyway. Heâs heard it before, that soft melody that always sounds genuine.Â
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 wonât look.
He looks anyway.
Your window is lit, youâre stretched out on the bed, laptop open again. Youâre absorbed, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.
He leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.
Itâs 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, thatâs all. Still, he doesnât 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, youâre 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 youâve forgotten something; you stretch your arms over your head when you stand, slow and unselfconscious, like youâre completely alone in the world.
When youâre 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 donât 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 donât want to miss the feeling.
You like background noise. A TV show youâve 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. Itâs a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no oneâs watching.
Itâs 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 youâre 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 youâre 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 arenât. You arenât performing, youâre 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 didnât check it merely two minutes ago. Itâs 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 itâs a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he still hasnât 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. Youâre not alone.
Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. Itâs almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesnât 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 youâre nearly naked on your sheets, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs are bare and parted, hands curled in the manâs hair and a head working furiously under your eager guide.
Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in pure pleasure.Â
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.Â
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 doesnât stop there. He finds himself watching, captive to your parade of lovers, growing jealous of the returning faces.
He tries to tell himself there isnât anything wrong with what heâs 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 youâre climbing on top of your lover of the day, breasts on full display and bouncing with a delicious rhythm. Buckyâs 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 youâd 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 heâs 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 heâs spilling over his hand with a pathetic grunt, breath shaky.
What a miserable, old man. Is this really his routine now?
Itâs 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. Itâs unreasonable, he knows that. You've been living in this town for almost two months now and youâve never exchanged any words since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little helloâs and good morningsâ.
They donât know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, twisting sideways in the chair until youâre balanced just right. They donât 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 donât 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 doesnât recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differentlyâ shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he canât 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 itâs 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 heâs already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending not to watch you wrestle with the machine. Youâre 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.
âCome on.â You mutter, huffing.
Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and annoyedâ at the mower, at himself, at the way heâs been staring too long.
He cuts his own engine and gets closer.
âThat mowerâs flooded.â He comments offhandedly.
You startle, turning fast. âOh!â
You hadnât seen him approach, thatâs obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.
âSorry,â you mumble quickly, then hesitate. âI didnât know you wereââ
âPulling it like that wonât help.â He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how abrupt he sounded.
You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked.Â
âAh.â You sigh. âI donât really know much about engines.â
He crouches beside the machine, hands moving automatically. âMost people donât.â
Thereâs a pause.Â
âYou donât have toââ You start.
âI can fix it,â he interrupts, then winces slightly, clears his throat. âIf you want.â
You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like youâre trying to read something in his face. âAre you sure? I donât want to bother you.â
Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.
âItâs fine.â 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. Heâs 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 heâs done, he stands and nods toward the handle. âTry it now.â
You pull once, and the engine starts immediately.
Your face lights up. âThank you so much!â
He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close. Or maybe not close enough.
Thereâs an awkward beat.
âUm,â You say, then smile sheepishly. âThis is kind of embarrassing, but⊠I donât actually know your name.â
His stomach drops.
âI mean,â You rush on. âEveryone just calls you Barnes, and I didnât want to assumeââ
âJames.â The word comes out before he can stop himself.
You blink. âJames.â
He nods, ears burning. âMost people call me Bucky. My friends.â
Your smile softens in a way that feels⊠Less polite. More personal.
âAlright. Well, itâs nice to finally know.â
Thereâs another pause.
âYou can call me whatever you want,â he adds, voice low, almost shy. âJames or Bucky. Doesnât matter.â
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Once he feels heat creep up his neck, he looks away first.
âThank you, Bucky.â You answer gently.
After that, it becomes a pattern.
Your car wonât 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 doesnât 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.
âMove.â He grunts.
The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.
âBucky, hi. You donât have toââ
âAlready here.â He mutters.
He fixes it fast, and the guy thanks him, claps him on the shoulder like theyâre buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down until he leaves soon after, awkwardly kissing your cheek.
You linger.
âI really appreciated it.â You muse. âYou keep saving me.â
He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. âIâm just good at fixing things.â
Sometimes itâs a loose stair on your porch. Sometimes a shelf that wonât stay level. Then it becomes a heavy box you canât lift on your own. Bucky always shows up like itâs coincidence, as if he wasnât 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 heâs been caught doing something wrong.
You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You donât hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when heâs done. You donât invite him to stay longer, you donât 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 guyâs 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.
Heâs also one of those that goes away once dawn hits. Thatâs what finally snaps something in Bucky.
Itâs 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 doesnât 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 heâs 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 preyâs jugular.
The man notices him halfway down the steps and slows. âUh⊠Morning.â He greets, forcing a half-smile that looks more like a grimace.
Bucky doesnât return it.
âYouâve been here a lot.â He grunts.
The man hesitates. âYeah, wellââ
âYou staying?â Bucky asks directly.
Thereâs nothing casual about it, nothing friendly.
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.
âYou got plans with her later?â Bucky asks, scowling.
The man frowns. âI donât see how thatâs your business.â
Buckyâs eyes harden, gritting his teeth. âIt is.â
Thereâs a pause, too long to not be uncomfortable.
The younger man swallows, awkwardly chuckling. âLook man, sheâs great,â he says, like that might help. âI justâ Iâm not looking for anything serious right now.â
Bucky takes a small step forward, enough to make Noah flinch. âThen donât come back.â
The man bristles. âYou threatening me, old man?â
Bucky leans in slightly, voice dropping. âNo. Iâm warning you. This old man sees you around here again and heâll fold you like a lawn chair, got it?â
The silence that follows is thick, charged. Noah looks past Bucky, down the empty street, then back at him.
âWasnât worth it anyway.â 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 itâs 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 heâs 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 didnât stop bouncing under the booth.
Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm down on Buckyâs 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. âYou got somewhere to be, Barnes?â
He grunted. âNo.â
Itâs 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 thereâs nothing on itâ 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 Samâs pointed remark. âYou sure youâre okay, man?â and Natashaâs knowing smirk. The drive home was fast, his hands tight on the wheel the whole way.
Itâs been a week. Seven days since heâs seen you with anyone. And the fearâ that sharp, ugly thing in his chestâ hasnât gone away. Itâs 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 didnât trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadnât even had a carâ had the nerve to force you drive him home the morning after, like some kind of favor. The memory made Buckyâs jaw tighten, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldnât have to play chauffeur for idiots who donât know what theyâve 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 heâs 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.
Heâs 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.Â
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 donât even bother taking your top off, instead you slide the straps off your shoulders and tug them down until your beautiful breasts are freed. Youâre completely bare for Bucky to admire: nipples turgid, thighs spread, and hands feeling yourself up, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening core.
âFucking hell.â 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. Youâre wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your slick around, making sure to avoid your throbbing clit.
Heâs 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 canât 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.Â
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?
Buckyâs 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 canât, 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. Youâd 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.Â
When you finally come, itâs entirely different from the previous times with your dates. Bucky doesnât think heâs 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 doesnât stop stroking yet, not when this is possibly the best orgasm heâs 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 heâs 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 fragmentsâ laughter, too much wine, more laughter, the weight of a body on yours thatâs still here.Â
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 thatâs oddly endearing.Â
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 youâre 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 isnât long, not really. And yet it feels strange, noticeable in a way you donât quite know how to explain.
You havenât 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 donât understand it.
You know dating is messy, and chemistry isnât guaranteed. And if youâre honest, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missingâ 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 youâd imagined the connection at all.
Youâd started to wonder if the problem was you.
And then thereâs Ben.
Ben is different. Not perfect, but easy. Familiar in a way that surprised you. Heâs your friendâs cousin, in town for a short holiday, and sheâd 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 wasnât wrong, youâd clicked almost instantly. Conversation flowed without effort, and for once, it hadnât felt like you were trying to be interesting enough to be chosen. Thatâs why it hurts a little more this time. Thatâs 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 heâs bracing for impact.
And in front of himâ half in, half out of a carâ is Ben, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, movements jerky and nervous. He keeps glancing over Buckyâs shoulder like heâs expecting witnesses, fumbling with his keys, nodding too fast at whatever is being said to him.
Your neighborâs mouth is a hard line, his brows drawn down, eyes dark and locked on the man like heâs pinning him in place with nothing but sheer presence.
You canât hear the words, but you donât need it to understand whatâs happening.
Ben bursts out in a short, loud laugh, too fake, then slides fully into the driverâs seat like heâs 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.
âOh, youâve got to be kidding me.â
You donât even put on shoes. You grab the front door, yank it open, and step outside barefoot, the morning breeze slightly cool against your skin.
âJames.â
He actually flinches. Bucky turns slowly, like heâs already calculating how bad this is going to be. His jaw tightens when he sees your faceâ bare, furious, eyes blazing.
âWhat was that?â You demand.
He exhales through his nose, slightly bowing his head in greeting. âMorning.â
âDonât,â you snap, stalking closer. âDo not do that. What the hell was that?â
He looks away, and that alone makes your blood boil.
âYou just scared him off,â you say incredulously. âDidnât you?â
âI talked to him.â
âIf looks could kill he would be in a fucking casket by now.â You retort.
Bucky simply shrugs. âHe got the point.â
âWhat point?â You lash out, taking a deep breath after.
His head snaps back to you, eyes flashing. âListen, I was just making you a favor.â
You laugh, sharp and loud. âA favor!? Oh please! From where Iâm standing, youâre 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?â
âI wasnât interrogating.â
âIt sure as hell looked like it.â
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.
âDo 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?â
His jaw tightens, but you press on, words spilling like a waterfall now that youâve started. âDo you have any idea how confusing you are? One minute you wonât even answer when I say hello, and the next youâre mowing my lawn, fixing my car, carrying groceries like itâs your jobââ
âI was helping.â
ââand now this?â You shriek. âWhat do you want from me, Bucky?â
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.
âI want you safe.â He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.
You scoff. âFrom what? Dating?â
âFrom them.â He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. âFrom men who donât deserve you.â
You blink astonished. âYou donât get to decide that.â
âThey take what you give them and then run,â he shoots back. âThey leave before morning like youâre something theyâre ashamed of. Like youâre disposable.â His voice lowers, growling with conviction. âYouâre not.â
You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt protectiveness, yet you refuse to back down. âThat still doesnât make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.â
âI know,â he says, stepping closer despite himself. âBut watching you give your time to guys who donât even have the decency to stayâ who donât see what theyâre getting⊠It drives me fucking insane.â
Your chest tightens, still your brows furrow. âYou donât even know them.â
âI know enough.â Bucky answers fiercely. âI know none of them are good enough for you.â
Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
âI didnât ask for... Whatever you are doing.â You mumble.
âI know.â
âThen stop deciding things for me!â You bark. âStop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to talk to me!â
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 thereâs something hot and far too dangerous curling underneath it.
His eyes drop to your mouth, then swallows.
âEvery time you bring someone home,â he starts quietly. âI tell myself itâs none of my business. Every damn time.â
âAnd yet.â You mock ironically.
âAnd yet,â he admits, exhaling harshly. âI lose my fucking mind.â
Your heart stutters. âYou donât get to be jealous.â You swallow, steading yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end. âYou donât get to act like this when youâve never given me anything back.â
His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops again at his side like itâs taking all his restraint not to touch you.
âIâm trying,â he hisses. âI swear to God, I am.â
âTrying what?â Your jaw clenches.
âTo stay away from you.â
You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. âThen why are you still standing here?â You provoke, slightly tilting your head.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Buckyâs brain is screaming at him to go away, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad ideaâ your anger, his lewd actions, the line heâs already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.
But his body doesnât 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. Heâs spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous.
And now youâre 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 everythingâ or change it beyond repair.
God, he wants you so bad.
Not gently. He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isnât just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That itâs 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 itâs instinct, like gravity finally wins. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, thumb brushing your cheek. His forehead dips to yours, breath uneven.
âTell me to stop.â His voice is rough, and thatâs 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 heâs about to make has your heart wildly pounding in your ribcage. You realize, dimly, that Bucky's been fighting this longer than you haveâ that every step heâs 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 whoâs 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 heâs 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 heâs been swallowing for months. His mouth claims yours like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he doesnât, 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 youâre 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 thereâs 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 youâre real.
âFuck.â He mutters, wrecked. Then he kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like heâs trying to memorize the feeling before it disappears, with bruising urgency, hands wandering everywhere they shouldnât like he canât 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. âYou have any idea how hard it was watching that?â
You blink, breathless.
He laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurts him. His grip tightens, grounding himself. âYou have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...â His jaw flexes. âDo things I couldnât.â
Those words make you still.
You press a hand to his chest, gently but firmly. âBucky. What do you mean?â
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.
âI watched you.â He swallows. âI didnât mean to at first. It just⊠Happened. And then I couldnât stop.â His voice drops, raw and honest. âEvery night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... When you werenât.â
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. âI know.â You admit softly.
He stills. âYouâ what?â
âI hoped you would.â Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. âEvery time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.â
Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly but not forceful; itâs 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.
âAll this time Iâve been beating myself up for it.â He pants against your lips, making you gasp as his mouth trails down your neck. âAn old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving his cock into your sweet pussy.â You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind.Â
âBut you are just as filthy as me, sweetheart. So fond of keeping your curtains wide open at night for me to see everything.âÂ
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. âAm I right?â
Youâre hooked, unable to challenge him, your fury reduced to a distant, fading hum. You donât stop him as his wandering hands end up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little.Â
âBucky.â You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. âSâSomeone is going to see.â You protest weakly.
He briefly glances around, before leading you behind your parked car in front of your house. âBetter stay quiet then.â 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.Â
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.Â
âYeah? Feels good, doesn't it?â
You tilt your hips into his hand, a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low chuckle, teasing you with expert precision.Â
âHow were they, hm sweetheart?â He mumbles against the skin of your neck, surprisingly put together as he quietly lower your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. âDid they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?â
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. âAnswer me.â
âNotânot like you.â You admit, head falling back with a gasp as his thumb works over your swollen nub, rubbing it to a steady rhythm. âOh fuck.â
âGood girl, right answer.â He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. âThat'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.â
Your breath hitches as you feel your climax frantically building, raw and electric.
âDon't be so full of yourself.â You manage, voice shaking.
âHm I've indeed a thing full just for you, doll.â 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 heâs been dealing with it, but the hardness of it has you swallowing, slightly intimidated by the large size.
Your fingers twitch where theyâre 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.Â
âWhat? Cat got your tongue now?â 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.
âQuiet or that asshole Murray will come out.â He murmurs against your mouth. âUnless you want him to see you like this.â
You canât 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.
âC'mon, baby.â He pushes, panting as your fingers keep squeezing his erection. âCome prettily around my fingers and I'll let you touch it.â
Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. âIâ Fuck!â 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.
âThis what you wanted?â 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. âNeed more.â
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.
âLift your dress.â He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bent over the windowsill in his bedroom.
âYouâre making a mess.â 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. âDon'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?âÂ
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' houseâ the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human beingâ and your lips keep parting in shameless moans.
âBet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you moaning for a grumpy, old man's dick.â He taunts, spreading your legs out as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. âSuch an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... Who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Bucky for everyone to hear.â His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the cool air as he takes a tentative lick. âI knew you'd taste fucking delicious.â
âCareful, old man.â You shoot back, breathless but so eager to see him lose control. âAt your age you can't go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... Anything canâ fuck!â
Two of his fingers penetrate your hole at once, leaving you gasping and trembling. âAh, look at you going quiet.â He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. âYou just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?â
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.
Heâs relentless, holding you right there as your hips literally hump his face, writhing against his mouth.
âTight little pussy.â 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.
âDid they fuck you raw?â He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.
âGood girl.â 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. âBut youâre gonna let me do it, right baby?â
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. âThatâs right.â He leans over you, enough to whisper in your ear. â'M gonna ruin you, pretty girl and you're gonna thank me for it. Understood?â
Once the tip breeches your hole, your back goes rigid. âBucky IâI donât think it'll fit.â You admit with wide eyes. He simply chortles, cooing as he hears your shaky exhale.
âDon't worry, sweetheart.â 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. âYou canâ shitâ you can take it.â
He eases into you slowly, each inch leaving you panting and clenching until heâs fully inside, until youâre stuffed and squirming under him. His breath hitches, forcing himself to still for a moment, letting you adjust to the burning stretch.
âLook at you.â 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. âSee? Took it just fine. You were made for me, sweetheart.â 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.Â
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.
âIt'd be enough for our neighbors to take a look outside of their window, or open their door, and theyâd catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut you are.â
You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly and not too fast.
âThey could be watching right now.â 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. âYeah? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.â
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 thereâs nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while slamming your pussy toward oblivion; itâs intense and raw, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.
âSheâs begging for it.â 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.
âYes yes yes! Right there fuck, right there!â
He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.
âGonna come Bucky, oh God, please need it so badâ fill meâ shit!â
âFucking hell.â He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you clench. âSweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I'll make you leak for daysââ
âYes yes yes, please!â 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.
âFuck fuckâ that's it, that's it, good girl. Gonna fill you up so good.â His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.
âFuck, such a pretty slut.â Bucky grits through clenched teeth, your whimpers alone sending him over the edge. âIâm coming, baby. Fuckingââ One thrust. âTake it.â 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.
âGood girl, you took me so well, sweetheart.â 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. âFinally mine.â
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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I love Legacy Weapon, I really do, and for that reason Iâve decided to rewrite the whole thing. The original will be available until I catch up story-wise. Which will take longer chapters to do, since I wanna properly build the self-insert for you guys.
I will be traumatizing (y/n) a bit more, but itâs gonna be worth it.
Iâve been thinking about this rewrite for over a month now, maybe even before the release of the last chapter.
Anyways!!! Love yâall, hopefully the first episode is up today!! đ
summary: professor barnes always said you were his best student, but he likes you even better when you're too dumb to argue back.
warnings/tags: SMUT, pwp, p in v, unprotected sex, dumbification, overstimulation, praise/degradation mix, light slapping (one cheek tap), professor/student relationship, he's condescending but sweet about it, pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart, baby, fucktoy), edging, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI
from maddie: day three of january jumble scribbles, featuring professor bucky barnes, as voted for in the poll! it's not finished yet, but it looks like a forgone conclusion (i'm sorry ari lovers, he'll get his moment to shine!!). think there might be a few other professor barnes' with this prompt today, he's really making the rounds lmfao, so hopefully you guys are enjoying him!!
word count: 431. listen. i have no excuses. i'm not strong enough to keep it short when he's this filthy. i regret nothing.
Event Masterlist | Prev | Next | Masterlist
Youâre shaking now, dumb with want. Nothing but heat, need, and those humiliating little whines that keep slipping from your open mouth every time his cock drags through your dripping folds, slow and cruel.
The thick head barely brushes your poor, swollen clit - just a fleeting kiss - but youâre so desperate it makes you cry out, hips jerking, as your eyes roll back.
A sharp little slap lands on your cheek, a condescending tap that stings just enough to jolt your eyes open.
âEyes on me when Iâm talking to you, pretty girl.â
Buckyâs 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.
âThere she is,â he rumbles, thumb finding your clit in mean, deliberate circles that make you whimper. âMy clever little thing. You were so mouthy in class today, baby. All those big words, arguing like you knew better than me.â He smiles, lazy and wolfish. âGo on, sweetheart. Letâs hear a few now.â
But his cock keeps nudging at your entrance, catching just enough to make your cunt flutter around nothing and your thoughts dissolve.
âIâI canâtââ you hiccup. âYou makeâfuckâyou make it very hard to think.â
âYou canât?â he echoes, mocking and indulgent. âBut youâre my best student, baby. Is your little pussy making you stupid already?â
He pushes in, just the tip, then pulls out again, as if to prove a point. You cry out in a needy sob.
âUh-huh, uh-huh,â 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.
âAww, donât pout sweetheart,â he coos, condescending and fond, thumbing your tears away as he bullies the head of his cock back inside. âSâokay. Brains are overrated when youâve got a pussy like this.â
You whine, glassyâeyed, 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.
âFuck, baby,â he groans, cock twitching, just inside you. âYouâre so dumb like this.â You moan around his thumb, drooling. âJust a needy little fucktoy now, huh?â
You sob again, nodding dumbly. âY-yes, sirââ
âGood fucking girl,â he growls, finally bottoming out in one long thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. âDonât worry. You donât need to think, baby. Just cry real pretty and take what your professor gives you.â
thank you for all the love on these scribbles so far!! the reblogs and comments have been much appreciated and i'm having a lot of fun with the prompts - hopefully you enjoyed today's as much as i did! if you did, please like & reblog/comment as i would be super grateful for feedback <3
husband!congressman!bucky barnes x wife!diplomat!reader
summary: you'd both agreed it was for the best. bucky's new role as congressman, yours as US ambassador in london, meant that time zones, distance, and duty had slowly, but inevitably, unravelled what had once been a passionate marriage. but a divorce would be âbad for opticsâ. so the decision was made - publicly married, privately not. it works. mostly. until bucky shows up unannounced to your embassy christmas party, finding you very cosy with your lawyer. and it turns out bucky barnes doesn't share what's his.
warnings/tags: SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, possessive!jealous!bucky, (slight?) soft dom!bucky, semi-public sex, praise kink, private separation but still together for public/PR (no cheating), overstimulation, marking/biting, come play, dirty talk, angst with a smut chaser (if 4k is considered a chaser), ft. matt murdock, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart, doll, pretty girl, good girl), reader insert no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI!
word count: 12.5k
from maddie: happy christmas eve! thank you so much for the love on my first ever fic. it was truly very appreciated and i am super grateful. (if slightly terrified that nothing i write will every be as good as that again). i totally totally underestimated how much i'd write for this fic (idk how it happens, i swear i never mean to write so much), so consequently i'm only getting 1/2 of my planned christmas-themed fics out before christmas. oops. mostly proofread (there are probably still errors).
the idea for this came from watching the latest season of the diplomat on netflix. i got super inspired by one of the episodes and thus this fic was made! congressman bucky was the perfect fit, and since it's december i made it a lil festive too. will stop yapping now.
p.s. if u r wondering what matt murdock is doing in london, so am i <3333
edit: changed confusing "open marriage" tag to "public/PR marriage but private separation", and slight wording in the fic to hopefully better represent the nature of bucky & reader's relationship - i.e. at the start of this fic, bucky & reader are privately separated but staying married for appearances. by the end? well, letâs just say itâs complicated đ
Masterlist
Londonâs winter presses like a damp second skin against the embassy windows, the kind of petty drizzle that refuses to become snow no matter how many Christmas cards pretend otherwise.
But no matter, because inside the embassy, itâs practically snowing glitter.
Embassy garlands shimmer red and gold. The ballroom lighting is warm without being indulgent. The guests are arriving in sparkling waves of government-issue Christmas cheer. And the string quartet has already begun the first set, their notes floating gentle and evergreen through the foyer.
Polished oak floors, imported pine garlands, crystal chandeliers dressed in frostlight. All of it pretty and polished and perfect, sparkling with the kind of manicured holiday charm that makes ministers nod and dignitaries relax.
Just like you.Â
Tonightâs 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 itâs meant to look effortless, all arranged to bare the elegant slope of your back like a threat.Â
A few strands have been strategically allowed to fall loose, of course, just so your perfect polish doesnât come across as unapproachable.Â
Enough edge to say Iâm young enough to still care, and enough statement to say Iâm powerful enough that I donât have to. Or at least thatâs what your stylist said.
Youâve 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 youâre supposed to, like none of this touches you, as you make his excuses, each one rehearsed until the syllables shine. âHe couldnât make the trip across the pond this timeâ, or âheâs buried under committee meetings back in D.C.â or âhe sends his warmest regards and deepest regretsâ. Just the right blend of fond and disappointed, like a woman whoâs 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, youâd told yourself. Optics.
Thatâs 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, youâre 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.Â
Now youâre just greeted as the glossy envelope for a message they actually want delivered elsewhere.Â
Which is almost funny, albeit in that bitterly ironic way, because you, of all people, canât even get him to pick up the damn phone.Â
You donât 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, isnât that what your marriage is now, too?
And on the rare occasion that you do get a heads-up, it doesnât come from him. It comes from his assistant. That bright-eyed, overly efficient, little blonde who answers his phone like sheâs guarding national security secrets and always calls you Mrs. Barnes with a certain kind of pointed sweetness that makes it clear itâs a job title sheâs planning to be promoted into.
And no, you are not wondering if heâs fucking her. Youâre not. You are not.
Itâs none of your business anymore. That was the agreement. Publicly together, privately separated. It was mutual, rational, and clean. Or at least thatâs 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 itâs better for his approval ratings if heâs still seen as the devoted husband. And yours thinks the word divorce reads as crack in the polished surface theyâve spent years selling to the world. Apparently, your marriage is the American dream.Â
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 itâs not? He can do who what he wants. You certainly are.
Which means youâre 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 attendingâŠ
That was this morningâs smug little gem. She canât even bring herself to write your husband. Or even Bucky. Itâs always Congressman Barnes, like sheâs writing to a stranger and heâs just another man in a suit. Like love was never part of it. Like you havenât kissed that mouth goodnight a thousand times. Like you havenât 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, youâre 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 wonât your pulse stop tripping?
âYour heart is racing. I could hear it from across the room.â
The breath of Mattâs voice at your side is low, warm, and intimate. He doesnât 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.Â
Itâs a skill he's perfected since he flew in 3 months ago for what shouldâve 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 heâs just another guest drifting through the conversation, entirely harmless.
You donât look at him right away. You donât 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.
âAre you spying on me, Counsellor?â you murmur without turning, keeping your eyes trained on the sea of glittering conversation ahead. As though you donât 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.
âJust keeping an ear out,â 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. âItâs hard to ignore a distress call.â
âI am not distressed,â 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, itâs 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. Heâs wearing a black suit with the silk tie you picked last week.
âYou are⊠composed under duress,â 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. âWhich is very sexy, by the way. If deeply inadvisable for long-term blood pressure.â
You purse your lips like youâre 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 canât help himself. Like heâs 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.
âMm, thank you, Dr. Murdock,â you hum lightly, taking a sip of champagne, like youâre not acutely aware of every nerve ending along your spine. âRemind me what Iâm paying you for again? Because itâs certainly not health advice.â
He doesnât miss a beat. âLegal counsel. Keeping Americans out of foreign prisons. The occasional corporate sabotage. Managing your rapidly escalating sexual frustration.â
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.
âYour retainer doesnât cover the last one,â you flatly retort, trying to hold on to the seams of your composure.
âOh,â 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. âI do that part pro bono.â
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.
âMatt,â you hiss, quiet, dangerously close to breathless.
âMadam Ambassador,â he returns, mockingly reverent.
âPeople are going to notice,â you manage, aiming for cool and missing entirely. Instead, it lands somewhere just above a whisper, too thin to carry any weight.
âNo, they wonât,â he murmurs, dipping his head just enough to make it feel intimate, almost conspiratorial. âThey donât see you the way I do.
âYou look incredible tonight, by the way,â he adds, almost lazy. âItâs extremely distracting.â
You donât look at him. âDonât start.â
âDonât worry,â he says, and his voice is a breath too close. âIâm not starting anything.â An intentional pause. âYet.â
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.
âThatâs for later,â Matt continues, still smiling, still playing innocent, still entirely unbothered about the molten situation heâs creating beneath your thighs. âWhen weâre locked in your office, and youâre bent over the deskââ Itâs 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. ââthis dress pushed up to your hips, hands flat, legs shaking. Trying so hard not to make a sound while Iââ
âMadam Ambassador!â
You nearly drop your glass.Â
Your head spins to the source of the sound as your aid appears at your side like sheâs 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.
âIâve just got word that your husband isââ
But whatever seconds of warning you were about to get arrive too late. The doors donât 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 youâd disappear. The rainâs left itâs 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 doesnât bother brushing it back; heâs too busy scanning the room.
Steel blue eyes track the crowd with practiced efficiency. Old habits, older instincts. The assassinâs gaze never really left him, just learned to wear nicer suits.
But heâs not looking at the buzz of people, heâs looking through them, searching, until finally, they find their home.
His gaze finds yours like it always does, like thereâs 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 dayâs 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.Â
But then, inevitable, his gaze drops, precise and burning. And you remember, in the same second he sees it, that Mattâs 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.Â
Instead, youâre just very suddenly aware: the low scoop of your dress, the heat of Mattâs fingers against your skin, the exact angle of Buckyâs jaw as he processes what heâs seeing, and the absolutely godawful presence of your aide standing next to you, still chattering on, blissfully oblivious to the way youâre 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 doesnât react - at least not outwardly. His face is still carefully arranged, cloaking the real him. But it doesnât reach his eyes. Oh no, theyâre 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 Mattâs touch. Like youâre guilty of something, even though this is exactly what youâd both agreed to.
Mattâs doesnât protest. But his head tilts slightly, and his mouth flickers with the ghost of something less assured than earlier.
âWere you expecting him?â he murmurs, voice barely above a breath, pitched only for you.
You might answer. 'No'. You think you say it. But youâre 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, Buckyâs crossing the room. Big, purposeful strides, no detours, like gravityâs 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 donât hear it.
And then you feel it. Buckyâs 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 heâs reacquainting himself with the feeling of you.Â
âSorry Iâm late, sweetheart,â he drawls, pressing a kiss to your cheek thatâs more claim than greeting. âDid I miss anything important?â
You smile before you even register the impulse, before your brain catches up with your face. Itâs even not performative - itâs worse. Itâs reflex, that old, honey-warm reaction buried somewhere in the marrow of you, where all the bad decisions live.Â
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 wasnât supposed to be here, and you certainly werenât waiting for him. âYou made it."
âCouldnât let you do this alone,â 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 hasnât been thoroughly updated on the terms of your separation.Â
His mouth brushes the line of your cheek with a deliberate softness. âYou look gorgeous tonight, baby.â
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 canât move. Canât speak. Canât do anything except stand frozen, wondering how the hell you ended up here, in a ballroom full of politicâs 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 youâre 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 thatâs more like a veiled assessment than an actual expression of warmth.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?â 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 hasnât 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. Itâs automatic. Bright, brittle, entirely unconvincing. The kind of laugh that would get flagged in a hostage video.
âYesâof course,â 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 âunfortunate timing issueâ. You turn to Matt, hand gesturing somewhere vaguely between them both. âThis is, uhhâŠâ
And thatâs when your brain decides to eject itself from the conversation entirely. Instead, the Rolodex of introductions spins uselessly behind your eyes:
This is Mattâno, too casualâThis is Mr. Murdockâwho is he, your high school principal?âThis is the embassyâs legal counselâsure, fine, if youâve never met the guy beforeâThis is the man currently fucking your wiâJesus Christ.
Your mouth opens. Something half-shaped and unapproved begins to form. Abort. Abort. Aborâ
âMatt Murdock, legal counsel for the embassy,â Matt introduces smoothly, mercifully stepping in before your mouth does something catastrophic. He extends his hand toward your husband like he wasnât just whispering filth against your ear five minutes ago, his smile a masterclass in lawyerly charm.
Bucky doesnât 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 heâs doing more than thinking. Heâs 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 whatâs polite, Bucky takes Mattâs hand. Firm, and a fraction too tight. Matt holds his ground, doesnât flinch, doesnât drop eye contact. And that, somehow, only makes it worse.
âBucky Barnes,â he returns at last. âIâve heard your name come up a few times.â
Matt, ever composed and gracious, nods easily. âAll good things, I hope.â
Buckyâs mouth twitches - technically a smile, if youâre being generous. âThat remains to be seen.â
You shift just enough to face Bucky, one hand ghosting across his shirt like youâre smoothing out his tie. âJames.â You warn under you breath, into his chest, just loud enough for him.Â
His eyes, those ridiculous, impossible blue eyes, cut down to you. âWhat?â He replies, pretending innocence.Â
You give him that polished, razor-thin smile youâve perfected over a decade of high-stakes diplomacy and rooms where the only language permitted was subtext.Â
âDonât,â you hiss through it, lips frozen in place, pressing the words through your clenched jaw like a trick of ventriloquism. âNot here.â
âDonât what?â he shrugs with maddening innocence, like heâs never once in his life started a conflict he didnât fully intend to finish. âIâm just talking, doll. Just acquainting myself with the man who, in my absence, has so gallantly been entertaining my wife.âÂ
And there it is. My wife.Â
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.Â
Because itâs 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.Â
Except you donât get the chance. Because James Buchanan âmy wifeâ Barnes opens his stupid mouth again.
âIâm sure Iâm not the only one curious,â he adds, that casual little lilt in his voice. âNot with the way heâs hanging around you like a lost puppy.â
Your smile collapses. Even Mattâs practiced charm falters. And thatâs when your hand lands flat against Buckyâs 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.
âOkay,â you smile so sweetly it could rot teeth quicker than Christmas candy, âI think the Congressman and I are just going to take a little moment, have a bit of a, you know, marital catch up,â you keep talking to Matt over your shoulder, flashing him a look that lands somewhere between apologetic and horrified, âIâll find you later, Matt.â
And then youâre 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 heâs all composed amusement like heâs exactly where he wants to be. Like he hasnât just detonated a perfectly groomed social event with one laced remark and a single possessive noun.
âYou cannot do that,â you snap, breath sharp through your teeth, as you throw a glare over your shoulder. âYou do not get to show up late and piss all over the conversation like a jealous husband.â
And just like that, he stops walking.Â
Which means, by default, youâre 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.Â
And Christ, heâs 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 theyâre trying to map old territory. You tell yourself itâs 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.Â
Thatâs 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 youâd been clinging to. Your brain stutters. Your pulse jumps. Because that body - your husbandâs 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.
âDidnât know I had to RSVP to my own wifeâs events,â he quips, voice all smug indifference and no apology. Like the words just slipped out of his mouth by accident, and heâs not choosing this fight on purpose. âJust in case sheâs plus-oneing with her boyfriend.â
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.Â
And it hits harder than it should. Unfair and sore. Not just a jab, but a full, winding punch to the ribs.
You donât 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 heâs 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.
âI shouldâve called,â he admits.
âYou shouldâve done a lot of things,â 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.Â
And maybe, god, maybe this is the moment. The liminal, flickering heartbeat between fury and something vulnerable. Maybe youâre both on the edge of something real. Maybeâ
âOh, thereâs my favourite couple!âÂ
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 donât 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.
âOh, just look at you two,â she coos, with the kind of warm familiarity that only comes from never actually having a real conversation with either of you. âItâs been far too long since Iâve seen you in a room together, but arenât you just luminous. Gorgeously luminous.â
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. âJames, dear, you must be keeping her happy with the way sheâs glowing.â
You smother your scoff in a polite little cough. But Bucky, damn him, doesnât miss a beat.
He smiles, a little crooked, and reaches instinctively for your waist like heâs done it every day of his life, and will do every day after this. âTrying my best, maâam.â
âOf course you are,â she says, patting his arm in that way older women do when theyâve decided youâre a particularly well-trained husband. Then her attention swivels back to you,Â
âMy husband says your James speaks about you all the time, you know.â Her smile grows indulgent, like sheâs letting you in on some private, precious detail. âHeâs all âmy wife saysâ this, âmy wife thinksâ that. Quite devoted, for a man drowning in committee meetings.â
And just like that, the air thins.Â
Your chest folds in on itself, and youâre not entirely sure if itâs your lungs or your sense of reality collapsing first. Because you hadnât 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 werenât in. Casually. Like you mattered. Like you still belonged to him in some way that wasnât just tactical optics and expertly coordinated photo ops.
Something urgent and ugly coils tight beneath your ribs. The sharp ache of hopeâs ghost. Like everything you told yourself youâd 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 Buckyâs 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 womanâs shoulder. Like he can pretend you didnât just hear that.
But you donât get to sit with any of it. Of course you donât. Because she barrels onward, entirely unaware of the existential grenade sheâs just lobbed into the centre of your fake marriage.
âAnd when,â she adds, all conspiratorial mischief as she clasps your hands again, âcan we expect a baby from you two, hmm? We canât let these genes go to waste - your children would be beautiful. Just imagine, a little diplomatic darling running around. What a legacy!â
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.
âOh, wouldnât that be something,â you reply, and you really do mean it, just not in the way sheâll take it. âBut youâll have to excuse us, because my husband and I need to compare notes before the speeches start.â
You donât wait for a response. Youâre already turning. Already seizing Buckyâs 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 doesnât leave room for interpretation.Â
You drag him, again, through the crowd, but this time thereâs 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 heâs 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 hasnât already shorted out.
This time, you donât make the mistake of heading for the first empty corridor. No. This time, itâs your office. Four walls, a lock, and a door you can slam.
The second the door clicks shut, itâs 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.
âNow, to be fair, I thinkââ
âNo, absolutely not,â you cut in, voice already high and tight, finger coming up like a weapon. âYou do not get to ânow to be fairâ me right now, Bucky.â
He blinks. Holds his hands up, palms splayed like thatâs going to stop the hurricane already building in your chest. âOkayââ
âNo. Not okay. You donât get to waltz into my event, late, might I add, and unannounced, and then start growling at my colleagues like youâre marking territory you havenât touched in months.â
âOh, Iâm the problem?â he says, and there it is, that goddamn smirk that only comes out when he knows heâs getting under your skin. âSorry, sweetheart, didnât realise my wife would be so protective over her boyfriend.â
Oh, you are one inch from throttling him.
âJesus Christ!â You seethe, glaring at the impossibly stupid man before you. Youâre pacing now, slow and sharp like a predator in heels. âCan 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 âno strings, no hard feelings.ââ
Buckyâs 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.
âIâm not jealous,â he shoots back, too quick and too defensive for a man supposedly unbothered. You scoff in utter disbelief. âIâm not.â He insists, and youâre not sure who believes it less - you or him. âBut you and your boyfriend werenât exactly subtle, and thatâs not what we agreed to.â
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.
âWe agreed to discretion,â you snap back, heat flaring. âNot fucking invisibility. And for your information, Iâve been seeing him for two months and nobodyâs noticed a thing.â
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 itâs gone as fast as it came, smoothed over by the cold anger he wears when heâs protecting something more vulnerable.Â
His voice, when it comes, is lower. More dangerous.
âI noticed,â he states. âImmediately.â
Your stomach lurches with butterflies, but you just roll your eyes, because itâs easier than admitting the way that makes your pulse trip.Â
âCongratulations, you want a medal?â You bite back, sarcasm thick enough to wade through, âYou noticed because youâre a freakish cyborg with a surveillance complex and abandonment issââ
âBecause he looked like he wanted to eat you alive!â Bucky argues, eyes flaring as he steps in, voice louder now, more petulant.
His words hit like punches but land like confessions. And heâs close. Too close. The way only Bucky can be oppressive and intoxicating at once.
âWell, he wasnât the only one in that room tonight with that look! Your wife is quite the catch, youâd know if you were ever actually around,â 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. Youâre breathing hard now. So is he. The air feels too small, the walls too close.
âYou never call,â you continue, stepping closer now, daring him to move first. âYou never check in. I find out what city youâre 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.â
âItâs her job to manage my calendar!â Bucky exclaims, exasperated.Â
âIs it also her job to make it nearly impossible for me to speak to my own husband?â The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and bitter. âOr is that just a perk?â
He stares at you now, brows drawn together, openly incredulous. âWhat the hell is that supposed to mean?â
You shrug, brittle and furious, barely hiding your hurt. âDonât you think sheâs a little young for you?â
The line is bait. He knows it. You know it is. And you also know itâs below the belt, unfair and loaded and seething with all the things youâre 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 heâs just spotted your tell. âJesus Christ. Youâre jealous.â
âI am not jealous,â you snap, too fast. âIâm pointing out your hypocrisy.â
âBullshit.â
âYouâre the one who walked in and picked a fight like you still get a sayââ
âI am your husband.â
You donât even remember how you got this close, or how you ended up with your back to the wall. But thereâs no space between your bodies now. Just heat.
âOh, now you remember? Because from where Iâm standing, it looks a lot like you left me to rot across an ocean and then got offended when I didnât wait quietly for you to come back.â
âI didnât leave you,â he snaps, the control cracking just enough to let the heat show. âYou knew what this job was. You knew what Congress would mean.â
âAnd I knew what I meant to you,â you fire back, sharper now, because something in your chest is starting to feel too tight, too close to splitting. âOr at least I did once. Before it got inconvenient.â
His jaw works. You can see the muscle jumping there, feel the tension rolling off him in waves. âYouâre the one who took the London post! You think it didnât feel like you chose your career over me?â
âBecause you told me to.â
âI told you to take the opportunity,â he corrects, voice rising now despite himself. âI didnât tell you to move your entire life three thousand miles away and replace me with the first man who pays you attention.â
That one lands. Harder than the rest.
Your chest tightens, sharp and sudden, like heâs punched straight through the ribs instead of around them. âDonât you dare reduce Matt to a placeholder,â you say, voice shaking despite your best efforts. âHe showed up when you didnât.â
âOh, he showed up, alright,â Bucky says, dark amusement curling around the edges of his voice. âReal hero. Mustâve been tough for him, swooping in while the husbandâs away, busy doing the job he was elected to do.â
âThere it is,â you whisper. You glare up at him, furious and full of something you refuse to name. Heâs so close now your lips graze when you breathe. âThatâs the one you keep coming back to. Like your job absolves you of everything else.â
âIt explains it.â
âNo,â you snap, anger flaring bright enough to burn through the hurt. âIt excuses it. To you. Not to me.â
Youâre 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 heâs resisting the urge to reach out or maybe to shove you away. Youâre not sure which would be worse.
"You think I wanted this? You think I like being Congressman Barnes?â
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.âÂ
"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.â
Your heart lurches.
Skips once, hard and ungraceful, like itâs 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 thatâs still too soft for him stumbles on it, almost falters. Almost breaks. Almost
But youâre angry, and youâre proud, and he still hasnât earnt the softness. So you weaponise the one thing you shouldnât. You push deeper. Twist the blade just to feel the sting.
âYeah?â you say, voice quieter now, sweeter too, but edged with a cruel bite. âThen maybe you shouldâve thought about that before suggesting we separate just so you could screw your assistant the second it got difficult.â
His reaction is immediate.
Buckyâs 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.
âIâm not sleeping with her,â he spits. âJesus Christ.â
You blink surprised, not by the denial, but by how wounded it sounds coming out of his mouth.
âIâve never touched her,â he bites out again, louder now, breath hot against your cheek, his body pressing in so firmly now thereâs nowhere for the anger to go but straight through you. âNot once. If you want her fired, I'll have her gone tomorrow.â
Your gaze flicks, traitorously, involuntarily, to his lips, pulled taut in anger but still so impossibly inviting. You hate yourself for it.
âOh, how gallant of you,â 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. Youâre 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.
âStop being a brat,â he warns, eyes burning as they rake over your face, your mouth, your throat. âStop using her as a shield because you donât like what youâre feeling right now.â
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.
âWhat Iâm feeling?â you bite back, breath shallow, your back flat to the wall, his presence swallowing every inch of air between you. âYou donât know what Iâm feeling.â
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.
âI know what youâre feeling,â he replies, low, slow, and devastatingly calm. âBecause itâs the same way I felt when I walked into that room and saw another man touching whatâs still mine.â
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 itâs 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 thatâs all it takes.Â
Buckyâs on you before you can even process it, crashing forward like a moth to flame, dragging your mouth to his like heâs starving for you, and swallowing the sound like itâs his to claim,.
His metal arm wraps around your waist with bruising surety, yanking you flush to him like heâs 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 thereâs 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 heâs still angry. Like heâs trying to prove a point you didnât let him make.
Because the argument doesnât 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 heâs 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 canât 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.Â
âFuck, I missed this,â he mutters against your throat between kisses, panting, like heâs not even trying to pretend itâs controlled anymore. âMissed you.â
He drags his mouth back up to your lips, tasting you again, all wet heat and tongue and desperation. Itâs messy now, slick and breathless, spit-slicked lips and the hot rasp of groans exchanged like promises you donât trust either of you to keep.
Your stomach tightens as his hands start to roam lower, trailing greedily down your sides like heâs trying to remap territory heâs 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 youâre 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.Â
And itâs already begging for it again.Â
Youâre 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 thatâs throbbing for him. But the length of your dress restricts the movement of that leg, trapping you, keeping from what you need.
âShitââ you whine, frustrated, nails digging into his shoulders as you pant against his mouth. âBuckyââ
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 itâs an addiction heâs relapsing into.
âSâokay, baby,â he murmurs against your skin, voice heavy with unbearable fondness. âIâve got you. I know what you need.â
And then heâs 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, heâs 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 doesnât care about the designer label or the tailorâs handiwork. He shoves it high around your hips until the air hits your thighs and your panties are all thatâs left between him and what he wants.
Theyâre 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 heâs the one being touched.
âFuck me,â he mutters, more breath than word, hands spreading wide over your hips, palms rough and hungry, splaying across your thighs like heâs trying to brand himself into the curve of you. âLook at you.â
You writhe under his grip, your hips canting forward without conscious thought, chasing his cock, his mouth, his hands, anything. âBuckyâpleaseââ
He doesnât 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 heâs pushing your thighs wider, nudging you open like a gift heâs 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 itâs fucking torture, the heat of it, the knowledge of whatâs coming, the way heâs just staring like he hasnât seen you like this a hundred times before.
âYou have no fucking idea,â he growls, eyes dark and locked on the mess between your thighs, âhow long Iâve been thinking about this pussy. How many fucking nights Iâve jerked off in that goddamn DC apartment, fist around my cock, thinkinâ about my wifeâs pussy. Wet. Open. Dripping for me.â
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.
âGodââ It comes out ruined, breathy, pathetic, all broken pride and pent-up hunger. You buck your hips toward him, shameless now. âBuckyâjust, please!â
He smirks then, dark and satisfied, looking up at you from between your legs, âWell,â he drawls, âsince you asked so nicely, sweetheart.â
And then thereâs 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 heâs 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.
âAlways so fuckinâ sweet for me,â he rumbles, the words pressed directly to your soaked pussy, more vibration than voice, and you gasp at the way it hits. âKnew youâd still taste the same. Knew this pretty little cunt would remember me.â
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.
âShitâBuckyâfuckââ
Youâre barely coherent, hips rocking helplessly, fisting his hair tighter, grounding yourself in the slick mess heâs making of you. He groans again, louder this time, grinding his face deeper between your legs like heâs 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 youâre 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 arenât dignified. Theyâre messy, breathless, broken little noises you canât seem to stop, each one punched loose by another flick of his tongue, another hum of satisfaction against your clit.Â
âBuckyââ you whine, voice thin and wrecked, already shaking. âPleaseâitâsâIââ
You donât even know what youâre asking for. Less. More. Mercy. Ruin.
âOh, you poor thing,â he purrs, voice hot against your folds. âYour boyfriend not takinâ care of you right? Leavinâ my wife all wet and aching like this?â His tongue presses firm and slow, possessive, making you gasp. âSheâs weeping for me, baby. Guess I gotta do everything myself.â
Your whole body arches, trembling, legs wrapped around his neck like youâre 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
âBe a good girl for me,â he whispers, licking your clit in tight, insistent circles, his voice dripping filth and possession. âLet your husband have whatâs his.â
Your orgasm hits like a snapped wire.Â
You shatter with a strangled sob, âBuckyâoh my godââ, the orgasm hitting like itâs 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 itâs 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 canât control.
His mouth eventually drags off you with a wet, obscene sound, as he exhales hot across your cunt one last time. You canât even speak. Youâre just gasping, fucked-out and twitching and wrecked.
You barely register the movement until heâs 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.Â
His mouth catches yours in a kiss thatâs filthy, tongue sliding against yours so you can taste yourself on him. Itâs 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 heâs 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.
âEasy,â he murmurs against your lips, but thereâs 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. âStay open for me, pretty girl. Just like that. Thatâs my girl.â
Youâre 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.
âFuck,â you whimper, breathless. âFuck, Buckyâpleaseââ
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.
âBuckyâ!â you gasp, palms catching against the polished wood. More papers scatter. Something glass rolls and shatters on the floor. You donât 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.
âFuckinâ Christ,â he mutters behind you, rough and ruined. âLook at this pussy. Still dripping for me.â
You whimper, high and wrecked, pushing your ass back against him, greedy for pressure, for friction, for him.
Behind you, thereâs 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 doesnât 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 youâre 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.
âUhâuh,â he murmurs immediately, one hand snapping to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he stills you. âEasy.â
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.
âGoddamn,â he breathes, âYou miss this cock that bad, baby?â
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. âNeed your husbandâs cock, huh? Your pretty lawyer not fillinâ you up right?â
Your answer comes out as a wrecked, wordless moan, your head dropping, your body rocking back against him like itâs the only thing keeping you upright. You canât even form a denial, canât 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.
âCome on, pretty girlâ he murmurs, possessive and coaxing all at once, thumb digging into your hip. âIf my wife wants her husbandâs cock, then she can ask for it.â
You sob, the frustration sharp and humiliating. âBuckyâpleaseâpleaseâI need your cock. I need my husbandâpleaseââ
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 heâs 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.
âOhâfuckââ 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.
âJesus Christ,â he grits through his teeth, watching himself disappear into you. âYouâre still so fucking tight babyâfuckâthis pussy missed me, huh?â
And then hips snap forward, the last few inches slamming in until heâs 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 bodyâs trying to pull him deeper even when thereâs nowhere left for him to go.
âListen to you,â he hisses, tone dark and filthy, thrusting just once, shallow and firm, enough to make you jolt. âYou hear that, sweetheart? Thatâs my girl. My pretty wife. Cryinâ for her husbandâs cock.â
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.Â
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, youâre gone. Helpless. Shaking. Crying out his name like itâs 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 itâs 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 heâs 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 thatâs almost worship.
God, heâs beautiful. You could cry just looking at him. You might, if you weren't already.
Itâs 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 youâre too far gone, fingers scrabbling against empty air like thatâll be enough to bridge the chasm between you.
âBuckyâŠâ Itâs 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.
âYeah, baby, I know,â 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.
âYou're perfect, sweetheart,â he murmurs, voice thick with praise. âMy pretty wife, all fucked-out and still wantinâ more.â
You can only nod, breathless and wrecked, tears still spilling down your cheeks, and the sound you make is nothing short of ruined.Â
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 donât 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.
âGod,â he breathes against your neck, the sound vibrating straight into your bones. âFeel you squeezinâ me. Youâre right there, baby. I can feel it.â
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.
âCanâtâcanât think,â you manage, the words falling apart as soon as they leave your mouth. âOh my godâBucky, pleaseâI canât thinkâjust wannaâwannaââ
âWanna what?â 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. âSay it, sweetheart. Use that pretty little voice.â
Your words tumble out in a broken rush, babbled and needy, breath catching on every syllable. âWanna comeâwanna feel you come inside meâneed itâneed it so badâneed youââ
He laughs, deep and pleased, the sound ripped from his chest as he rolls his hips again. âYeah?â he murmurs. âYou want me to fill this tight little pussy up? Let it all leak out so everyone sees what I did to you?â
Youâre 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 itâs begging just as hard as you are.
âShit, baby,â he groans, thrusts picking up again, deeper, harder, bruising in the way that makes your vision go white at the edges. âMaybe I should put a baby in you like that ambassador said, huh?â
Your breath catches sharply, a needy little sob ripping out of you as his words sink in.
ââCause you wear that diamond so fuckinâ pretty, sweetheart,â he continues, voice filthy and reverent all at once, mouth pressed to your ear. âBut itâs not enough. Iâm should fill you up right now. Fuck a baby into you. Make damn sure they all know who you belong to.â
Your response is incoherent. Barely a stream of whines and broken sounds, hips pushing back desperately to meet his thrusts, to take everything heâs giving you and more.
âThatâs right,â he groans, snapping his hips into you hard now, claiming, punishing, every thrust landing deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs. âShouldâve done this months ago. Fuckinâ knocked you up and had you round and swollen at this party.â
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.
âYou gonna take it all for me?â he growls, voice breaking as his own control starts to fracture. âGonna keep it inside like a good little wife, let it take, let me mark you from the inside out?â
You gasp, voice cracking completely as the edge hits you. âYoursâmâyours, Buckyââ
Thatâs 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.Â
And all you can feel is the throb between your legs and Buckyâs cock softening inside you, still twitching.Â
Behind you, Buckyâs 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.
âGood girlâŠâ he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear like a secret. âTook me so well. So fuckinâ good for me. Such a perfect little wife.â
You whimper, barely more than breath, and his hand slides slow over your belly, holding you there like youâll float away otherwise.Â
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.Â
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.
âShhh, sweet girl,â 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. âI know, baby. You didnât want to let me go, huh?â
Your only answer is a shuddering moan as his warm breath ghosts across your bare, messy cunt. You twitch, whimpering again, as you feel Buckyâs come sliding slow between your thighs in wet little trails.
He hums, pleased, like a man admiring his masterpiece.
âLook at that,â he murmurs, voice far too soft for the words he's saying. âFuckinâ wasting it. All that come, and youâre leaking alreadyâŠâ
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.
âBuckyââ you gasp as his thumb presses firm, spreading you open again.
âEasy,â 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. âI know, sweetheart, I know. Itâs alright. Gotta keep it where it belongs, yeah? Thatâs it. Good girl.â
Your fingers curl on the desk, lower lip trembling as your thighs clench with every slow, squelching drag of his thumb.
âHope your lawyer likes his pussy sloppy,â Bucky murmurs after a moment as his thumb slips free, his hand dragging one last slow stroke up your inner thigh. âBecause if he wants you tonight, heâs gonna have to settle for leftovers.â
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 heâd left behind. His palm stays there, rubbing soft over the sting, possessive as ever.
âD'you think heâll thank me for the appetiser, baby?â He teases, amusement curling around every word. âMy good little wife. Serving up seconds.â
i make no apologies for the utter filth the last quarter ended up being.
thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please like & especially reblog/comment, as i would be super grateful for feedback <3
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warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), size kink, dom!Bucky, oral sex (f & m receiving), teabagging, breeding kink, creampie, overstimulation, praise kink, jealousy of a plastic plant, mutual pining, kitchen sex, doorway sex, neighborly temptation, holiday filth under the mistletoe, and one very chaotic child who unknowingly sets the plot on fire
summary: You didnât expect anything from tonightânot beyond cookies, cocoa, and maybe a warm smile from your impossibly handsome neighbor. But the moment Bucky sees you under the mistletoe, something changes, and youâre swept into a Christmas moment that starts with a kiss and ends with far less innocence.
authors note: this fic is dedicated to my very good friend @superbassbuck. paul, i have looked up to you and your writing long before we knew one another. everyday it is a fever dream to me that i actually am privileged enough to talk to you. your creativity and passion inspire me every single day and i hope this fic brings you even an ounce of the amount of joy your writing brings others! merry christmas my love, i wish you the nastiest dilf!bucky to come upon you and deliver the best teabagging of your life this holiday season đ€đ€
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The first snow of December was really leaning into the drama.
Big, lazy flakes drifted under the streetlamps, swirling past the glowing wire reindeer on Mrs. Hargroveâs lawn and the slightly crooked candy cane lights lining Bucky Barnesâ driveway. The whole cul-de-sac looked like it had been dusted in powdered sugar and wrapped in warm white LEDs.
You stood on his porch clutching a tin of still-warm Christmas cookies and your own nerves.
This was for Violet, you told yourself. Totally, completely, one hundred percent for Violet.
The same Violet whoâd stood at the mailbox last week and announced to the entire street that âDaddy burns the bottoms of all the Christmas cookies. Itâs tragic.â
Youâd 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 whoâd 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 heâd put up ânoncompliantâ decorations; really, they just wanted excuses to loiter by his driveway when he carried heavy things.
Youâd tried very hard not to stare when heâd 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 itâbroad 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 youâd interrupted him mid-puttering.
âHey, neighbor.â His smile was slow and easy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. âYou out here spreading Christmas cheer?â
Your breath puffed white between you. âSomething like that,â you said. âViolet mentioned your tragic cookie situation.â
He groaned. âDid she?â
You held up the tin. âI come bearing reinforcements.â
His face softened. âYou didnât have to do that,â he said, stepping back and swinging the door wide. âBut I am absolutely not turning down free cookies. Câmon in before you freeze.â
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.
âCOOKIE FAIRY?â Violet barreled in from the couch, socks sliding on the hardwood. She slammed into your middle, tiny arms wrapping around your waist. âYou did it!â
âHi, bug,â you laughed, juggling the tin to hug her one-armed. âI brought some. Think you can help me eat them?â
âYes.â She grabbed the tin with both hands like it was a sacred relic. âDad, look! Theyâre in a real tin and everything.â
âNothing but the best for my favorite elf,â you said.
âI thought I was your favorite elf,â Bucky muttered.
Violet gave him a look. âYouâre Santa. Obviously.â
He pressed a hand to his heart. âUpgraded. Iâll take it.â
He glanced back at you, eyes warm. âKitchen?â
âLead the way.â 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 lotâsteadying 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.
âWAIT!â
You froze. Buckyâs hand tightened slightly on your back. âVi?â
âYou canât go under yet!â 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. âGotta put this up.â 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. âCâmere, trouble.â
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.
âNow you canât go under without kissing,â she declared when he set her down. âItâs the rules.â
Heat shot straight to your face. You suddenly became incredibly aware of exactly where you were standing.
Right under it.
Buckyâs gaze went up to the mistletoe, then down to you, then away so fast you almost heard his vertebrae crack.
âVi, we talked about weaponized mistletoe,â he said weakly. âYou canât just⊠ambush people.â
âItâs Christmas.â She shrugged, unbothered. âAnyway, you never kiss anyone, Daddy. It was getting bored.â 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. âUh. Sorry. Sheâs been on a holiday rom-com binge.â
âItâs okay.â You forced a laugh, looking up at the plastic berries. âItâs cute.â
âYeah, thatâs what my blood pressure says.â
He stepped carefully through the doorway, avoiding brushing the mistletoe with his shoulder like it was booby-trapped. You followedâdefinitely not staring at how his shirt stretched across his backâducking just slightly.
The kitchen was warm and bright, counter already scattered with Violet's craft debris. Sheâd opened the tin and arranged a dozen cookies on the Santa plate, humming to herself.
âThose snowmen have seen some things,â Bucky remarked, leaning against the counter.
âDonât be mean, theyâre sensitive,â you said. âBesides, you try piping frosting with cold fingers.â
âI never said I could do better.â He reached for one, broke it in half, steam curling from the center. âOh, thatâsâŠdoll. Youâre going to ruin store-bought for her.â
âGood,â Violet said through a mouthful. âThey taste like sadness.â
You laughed, the tension easing. The next half hour blurred into something easy and goldenâcoffee 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 triedâand failedâto get more sprinkles than cookie onto her reindeer brownie.
Eventually she yawned mid-ramble, blinking slow.
âThere it is,â Bucky said softly. âThe crash.â
âNo,â she argued reflexively, rubbing at her eyes. âI wanna watch the Grinch.â
âYou can watch the Grinch tomorrow. Right now, itâs bedtime for elves.â He wiped frosting off her chin with his thumb, kissed her forehead. âGo brush your teeth. Iâll be up in five.â
She slid off the chair, clutching another cookie. âCan I say goodnight to the cookie fairy first?â
âOf course,â you said, heart squeezing as she hugged you again. âSleep well, kiddo.â
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. âIâm gonna go do battle with the bedtime routine,â he said. âIf you wanna crash on the couch, Iâll walk you home when Iâm done.â
âI can walk myself,â you said automatically, warmth flooding you anyway. âBut Iâll stick around. You know. In case you need backup against the Grinch.â
He smirked. âPretty sure youâre the reason sheâs asking for a puppy and a pony now, but okay, you can be backup.â
He hesitated, then brushed his fingers over your elbow, just once. âHey,â he added, voice quieter. âThank you. For this. Sheâs gonna be talking about âcookie fairy nightâ until June.â
Your chest ached. âYouâre welcome.â
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 thinkingâstacked 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 youâd 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 Buckyâs 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.
âVictory,â Bucky murmured. âThe elf has fallen.â
You turned. He was at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, henley rumpled, hair even messier than before.
âHow many stories?â you asked.
âThree. And a song. And a solemn vow to make gingerbread houses tomorrow that could withstand a hurricane.â He padded down the stairs, eyes on you. âYou stillââ
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.
âLook at that,â you said lightly, your heart hammering loud enough you were sure he could hear it. âAmbushed again.â
He blew out a breath, something like a laugh, something like a curse. âYeah. Seems to be a recurring theme tonight.â
He started to skirt wide, like he had before.
Recklessness surged up under your ribs.
âAww,â you said, letting your mouth curl into a slow smile. âIs the big brave single dad scared of a little Christmas tradition?â
He stilled.
Slowly, very slowly, his head turned back toward you.
âCareful,â 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. âYou keep tempting an old man like thatâŠâ
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 wasnât blocking your path so much as caging you there, his chest nearly brushing yours, his scent all around you.
ââŠheâs gonna forget heâs supposed to be the responsible one,â he finished, eyes gone dark.
Your pulse fluttered against your throat. âSince when do old men look like you?â you managed.
He huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it wasnât so strained. âYou think I donât notice you?â he asked, low. âYou think I havenât seen the way you look at me? The way you always just happen to have leftovers, or spare coffee, orââ his mouth twitched ââemergency cookies?â
Heat crawled up your neck. âMaybe Iâm just a nice neighbor.â
âYouâre a lot of things,â he said. âNice. Smart. Way too good to be stuck in my kitchen letting my kid con you into crafts. And youâre driving me insane.â
Your breath caught. âBuckyââ
âIâve been trying real hard to leave this alone,â he went on, like a confession he couldnât stop now. âYouâre younger. You got your whole life ahead of you. You didnât sign up for a package deal with a cranky old man and a seven-year-old who thinks glitter is a personality trait.â
âFirst of all,â you said, voice stronger than you felt, âyouâre not old. Youâre justâŠwell-marinated.â
His brow shot up.
âSecond,â you went on, heart pounding, âyou and Violet are kind of my favorite people on this street. And I donât bring homemade cookies to people I donât want to impress, you know.â
There. Out in the air, trembling but solid.
Something helpless and hungry flashed across his face.
âSay that again,â he murmured.
You swallowed. âYouâre my favorite,â you whispered. âBoth of you. I like being here. I like being with you.â
He sucked in a sharp breath.
âJesus Christ,â he muttered.
Then he was kissing you.
It wasnât careful this time. It wasnât 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.
âBucky,â you gasped into his mouth when he finally broke for air.
âBeen wanting to do that since you brought us that lasagna in October,â he said against your lips, words roughened. âYou know that? Walked back into the kitchen, saw the note you left for Vi, and thought, âWell. Iâm fucked.ââ
You laughed, dazed. âIt was just lasagna.â
âYeah, well, you didnât see the handwriting.â He kissed you again, softer this time, thumb brushing your cheekbone. âTell me to stop,â he murmured. âIf you want me to, you say it once and we forget this ever happened. Iâll go back to being your neighbor with the tragic cookies.â
You looked up at him, at the worry buried under the heat in his eyes, and any nerves youâd had burned away.
âI donât want you to stop,â you said. âI want you.â
Everything in him seemed to exhale at once.
âGood,â he breathed. âThatâs real good, doll.â
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.
âLook at you,â he murmured, mouth against your pulse. âAlready rubbing all over me. So needy.â
âThatâs your fault,â you shot back, breathless. âYou and your stupid henley.â
He chuckled, teeth scraping lightly against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. âStupid, huh?â
âDeeply offensive,â you confirmed, rolling your hips down against his thigh, chasing friction.
He groaned, low and rough, hand flexing on your hip. âKeep doing that and Iâm gonna end up fucking you right here in the doorway like a teenager.â
Your brain shorted out on the word fucking.
âWh-what if I want that?â you managed.
That pulled his head up, his eyes snapping to yours.
âYou have no idea what youâre asking for,â he said, voice gone dangerous-soft.
âI really, really do,â you insisted, fingers curling in his shirt. âIâve hadâŠa lot of time to think about it.â
He swore under his breath in a language you didnât know, something that sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.
âKitchen,â he decided, like the word hurt. âFirst. If I take you against this frame Iâm gonna put your head through the drywall, and then Iâll have to explain that to my landlord.â
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.
âLast chance to back out,â he said, searching your face.
You wrapped your legs around his hips and tugged him in. âYouâre wasting valuable mistletoe time, Barnes.â
His answering grin was quick and wicked. âGod, youâre gonna be trouble.â
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.
âToo many clothes,â 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.
âFuck,â he breathed, taking you in, pupils blown. âYouâre so pretty.â
You shifted, suddenly self-conscious and aroused in equal measure, feeling the slick heat between your thighs.
âYou gonna just stare at me?â you tried to tease, voice wobbling, âorââ
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 heâd been memorizing you in dreams, slow and deliberate. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.
âOh my god,â you gasped, fingers flying to his hair. âBuckyââ
âTaste so good, doll,â he murmured between licks. âBeen wonderingâŠfuckâŠbeen wondering about this for months.â
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 thisâunhurried, 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.
âPlease,â you whined, not sure what you were begging for. More. Less. Everything.
âIâve got you,â he soothed, one hand sliding up to your stomach, keeping you pinned. âLet go for me, sweetheart.â
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.
âGood?â he asked, voice rough, a little smug.
You laughed weakly. âKind of wanna start a religion.â
âBlasphemy,â he said, grinning as he rose. âWeâre strictly a Christmas operation here.â
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.
âFuck,â he rasped. âYouâre gonna kill me.â
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.
âYouâve been walking around the neighborhood like that?â you blurted.
He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking once, slow. Even in his palm he looked bigâthick and long, veins standing out along the shaft, the head already damp.
Your mouth watered.
âJesus,â you whispered. âThatâsâŠthatâs not standard issue.â
He laughed, breathless. âIâll put that on my next dating profile. âNot standard issue.ââ
âYou better not have a dating profile,â you muttered, fingers circling his wrist, urging him closer.
âYouâre bossy when youâre turned on,â he noted, stepping back into the space between your thighs. âGonna remember that.â
The head of his cock nudged your entrance and everything in you went tight.
âWait,â you managed, one hand on his chest. âCondomââ
His eyes flicked to yours, serious cutting through the haze.
âIâm clean,â you said quickly. âI get tested regularly. And Iâm on the pill. I justâŠyou saidâŠâ
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. âI meant it,â he said hoarsely. âBut Iâm not making that call for you. You sure, doll? You wanna feel me?â
You nodded, heart in your mouth. âI want all of you,â you whispered. âInside.â
His jaw tightened, something like awe flickering across his face.
âFuck.â
He adjusted his grip, the blunt head pressing more firmly. âDeep breath,â he murmured.
You sucked in air, fingers digging into his shoulders.
The first push burned.
Not in a bad way, justâstretching. 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.
âChrist,â he gritted. âSo tight. You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how good youâre gripping me?â
You whimpered, biting your lip. âYouâreâŠyouâre big.â
âWe can stop,â he said immediately, every muscle taut with control. âSay the word, doll. I pull out, we go back to cookies and Christmas movies like this neverââ
âDonât you dare,â you snapped, then winced when it came out too loud.
His eyes blazed.
âThought so,â 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.
âOh my god,â you breathed. âYouâreâŠyouâre in my lungs.â
âNot quite the anatomy lesson Iâd give,â he rasped, forehead pressed to yours as he fought for control, âbut I appreciate the imagery.â
You flexed experimentally around him and he groaned, head dipping to your shoulder.
âDonât do that,â he warned. âOr this is gonna be a very short show.â
You smiled, dizzy. âKinda nice knowing I have that power.â
He lifted his head, eyes hot. âYou have no idea how much power youâve got over me, doll.â
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 youâd have bruises tomorrow. The counter creaked faintly under you.
âYou okay?â he asked through gritted teeth.
âSo good,â you managed. âYou feelâŠhuge.â
Pride flared bright in his eyes. âThat right?â He shifted, angle changing, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made a strangled sound tear from your chest. âThere it is.â
Every drag of his cock now rubbed against that spot, the sensation toe-curling, your whole body clenching around him.
âLook at you,â he murmured, watching your face. âTaking all of me. Such a good girl.â
Heat rolled through you at the words. You hadnât realized how much you wanted that praise until he gave it to you.
âLike that, huh?â he said, reading you easily. âMy good girl. Sitting on my cock in my kitchen like you were made for it.â
Your fingers curled tight in his shirt. âIâBuckyââ
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.
âYou feel this?â he murmured against your lips, hips snapping. âFeel how deep I am? Iâm right up against your cervix, sweetheart. Right where I need to be to fill you up.â
Your eyes rolled, the words slicing straight through what was left of your restraint. âPlease,â you gasped. âPlease, Buckââ
âYeah?â 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. âYou feel that, doll? Thatâs me, right here. Stuffing this tight little pussy full.â
It was filthy and insane and you loved every second.
âGonna come inside you,â he gritted. âGonna 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. Youâre gonna lie in bed and feel me still there.â
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.
âTell me you want it,â he demanded, voice harsh. âSay it, doll. Say you want me to breed this pretty little cunt.â
Shame and arousal and something like longing tangled deliciously in your chest.
âI want it,â you choked out. âI want you toâŠto breed me. Want you to fill me up. Please, Bucky.â
His entire body jolted like youâd shocked him.
âFuck,â he groaned. âYouâre gonna be the death of me.â
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.
âJesusâshitâkeep squeezing me like that, dollââ
He buried himself deep with a final, brutal snap of his hips, grinding against you as he spilled inside. You felt itâhot pulses of cum flooding you, filling you so full you swore you could feel each warm wave.
âFuck,â he gasped into your neck, shuddering hard. âOh, fuck.â
You clung to him, riding out the aftershocks together, the world narrowing to shared panting and the wild thud of your hearts.
He didnât 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.
âStill okay?â he murmured after a minute, lips brushing your cheek.
You turned your head, catching his mouth in a soft, lazy kiss. âYeah,â you breathed. âMore than okay.â
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.
Buckyâs eyes dropped, watching his cum trickle out of you. His jaw flexed.
âThatâsâŠâ His throat worked. âThatâs all mine.â
Heat flared in your cheeks. âI mean, biologicallyâŠâ
âDonât ruin my moment,â 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. âJesus.â
âYouâre making it worse,â you pointed out shakily.
âThatâs the idea,â he muttered, clearly not talking about your comfort.
Your pulse kicked when you saw the way he was looking at youâlike heâd never seen anything hotter.
âYou, uhâŠyou have that look again,â you ventured.
He dragged his gaze up. âWhat look is that?â
âLike you wanna do something stupid.â
He huffed a laugh, stepping back so you could breathe. âI already did something stupid.â
âPretty sure we both did something very smart,â you countered.
His mouth curved. âYou keep saying things like that, and Iâm gonna forget Iâm supposed to let you walk home tonight.â
Your stomach flipped.
He grabbed a dish towel, dampened a corner with warm water, then stepped between your legs again, slower now. âCan IâŠ?â
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 againâfor 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.
âEasy,â he teased. âYou sure you donât want me to just carry you home? Less risk of you face-planting in the snow.â
âThatâd be hard to explain to Mrs. Hargrove,â you said, words muffled in his shirt. âNo, Iâm fine. JustâŠgonna feel that tomorrow.â
âGood,â he said, entirely too satisfied.
You pulled back to sock him lightly in the chest. âYouâre so smug.â
âCan you blame me?â His grin was crooked and boyish. âI just had the prettiest girl on the block come undone on my cock in my kitchen. Under mistletoe. Iâm basically a Christmas legend now.â
You rolled your eyes, but your heart did an embarrassing little swoop at âmy.â
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.
âYou know,â you said, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt, âwe technically only fulfilled half the mistletoe obligation.â
His brows pulled together. âPretty sure we overshot the obligation, doll.â
âMm-mm.â You shook your head, lips tipping up. âEverybody does the classic âkiss under the mistletoe.â But I was thinkingâŠâ
You trailed off, deliberately letting your eyes drop to the obvious bulge reappearing in his jeans.
His breath hitched.
âThereâs another way toâŠuhâŠhonor the tradition,â you said sweetly.
His eyes darkened, the air between you thickening all over again. âYou are going to be the end of me.â
âYou already said that.â You slid your hand down his chest, fingers grazing lower, testing. He was getting hard again faster than youâd expected. That did wicked, thirsty things to you. âConsider this my Christmas contribution to the cause.â
He stared at you for a long second, something like worship and pure filth battling in his expression.
âKitchen,â he rasped. âDoor. Now.â
Your pulse spiked. âYes, sir.â
His nostrils flared.
âFuck,â he muttered. âYou have no idea what that does to me.â
He laced your fingers together and led you back toward the archway. The mistletoe swung gently above, almost innocent.
âOn your knees,â he said quietly, stopping just under it, voice like velvet over gravel. âRight here.â
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. âYou good?â he asked, some of the gravel smoothing into concern. âWe can stop. I donât needââ
âI want to,â you said, cutting him off. âI want to taste you too.â
Something hot flared in his eyes.
âOpen,â 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.
âLook at that,â he muttered, almost to himself. âCanât even get through cleanup without wanting you again.â
âNot complaining,â you said, a little breathless.
He smiled, dark and fond. âYouâre so good to me, sweetheart.â
He stepped closer, thighs bracketing your shoulders, until his cock hovered just a few inches from your mouth.
âHands behind your back,â 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.
âPretty,â he murmured, thumb stroking your jaw. âYou look so pretty like that. All submissive. All mine.â
He brought his cock closer, the head brushing your lips, smearing pre-cum. âTaste,â he said.
You darted your tongue out, licking a stripe along the underside. He hissed through his teeth, hand flying to your hair.
âFuck.â
You took him into your mouth, as much as you could, jaw stretching. He was a lotâthick and heavy, crowding your tongue. You relaxed your throat, breathing through your nose, letting him slide deeper.
âJesus,â he groaned, grip tightening in your hair. âThatâs it. Take it, doll. Take it for me.â
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking, tongue swirling, experimenting, listening for every sound he made. You couldnât get all of him inside, not even close, but the way his cock throbbed against your tongue told you he didnât 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.
âGotta pace myself,â he managed, breathing ragged. âWant to enjoy this.â
âYou donât have to be gentle,â you said when he let you breathe, voice rough.
His eyes flashed. âCareful, doll.â
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.
âTongue out,â he said softly. âLemme rest you properly under this mistletoe.â
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.
âFuck,â he breathed. âThatâs it. Hold still.â
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. âJesus fucking Christ.â
You sucked gently, dragging one into your mouth, tongue swirling. He groaned, his thighs tensing beside your head, fingers flexing in your hair.
âYou like that?â you asked when he let you breathe again, voice wrecked, eyes shining.
He stared down at you like he couldnât quite comprehend you, like youâd just done some impossible magic trick.
âYeah,â he said hoarsely. âYeah, I like that.â
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. âLook 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.â
You moaned around him, the praise turning liquid in your veins.
âYouâre driving me out of my fucking mind,â he rasped. âYou know that? Gonna have to repaint this frame because every time I walk through it Iâm gonna remember you right here on your knees, looking up at me.â
You glanced up through your lashes, cheeks flushed, drool starting to slick your chin. The way he looked down at youâwild, tender, possessiveâmade your stomach flip.
He let his balls rest against your tongue again, heavy and full. âHold them for me,â he murmured. âYeah, just like that.â
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.
âFuck, doll,â he groaned. âI could come just looking at you like this.â
Your hands twitched behind your back. You wanted to touch him, to trace every muscle, to feel the way he shook. But the restraintâknowing he had you like this, knowing you were letting himâmade everything hum.
He pulled out again, letting his balls roll off your tongue. You sucked in air, drool shining on your lips.
âHands,â he said abruptly. âGimme one.â
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.
âSqueeze,â he instructed. You did. He hissed. âGood. Look at that. Youâre a natural.â
You leaned in, tongue laving over his balls as your hand worked his shaft, the double stimulation making him curse.
âSo fucking good to me,â he panted. âOn 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? Youâre never getting rid of me now.â
Good, you thought, dizzy and turned on beyond reason. Thatâs the point.
His breathing stuttered, hips twitching.
âOpen,â he said suddenly, pulling your hand away. âMouth wide.â
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.
âSuch. A good. Girl,â he gritted, voice broken, as he slid back into your mouth.
He didnât fuck your throat, not reallyâjust 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.
âIâm close,â he warned, voice wrecked. âGonna come, doll. You gonna take it for me? You gonna swallow like a good girl?â
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.
âFuck,â he groaned. âSay âahâ for me.â
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.
âHoly shit,â he whispered. âDo it again. Let me see your tongue.â
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.
âFuck,â he said helplessly. âMarry me.â
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.
âEasy,â he soothed. âJesus. Câmere.â
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.
âYou okay?â he asked for what felt like the tenth time that night, eyes scanning your face.
You nodded, dazed and happy. âIâmâyeah. Iâm really okay.â
He laughed softly, forehead dropping to yours. âGood. Because Iâm gonna be thinking about that every time I walk under this doorway for the rest of my life.â
You glanced up at the mistletoe. âGuess Violet did us a favor.â
His expression shifted, some of the heat melting into fondness. âSheâs never hearing about this particular tradition,â he said firmly.
âAbsolutely not.â You snorted. âThis is strictly adults-only mistletoe usage.â
He gave you one more lingering kiss, then smoothed your sweater where it had ridden up. âAll right,â he sighed. âBefore I do something even dumber, I should probably get you home.â
âDumber than this?â you teased.
He flashed you that crooked grin. âYou have no idea whatâs on my list, doll.â
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.
âText me when youâre in bed,â he said. âSo I know you didnât slip and crack your head on the tub or something.â
âIâm very coordinated, thank you,â you lied. âButâŠyeah. I will.â
He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering along your jaw. âYou good? Really?â
You nodded, throat tight in the best way. âReally.â
He brushed his lips over yours, gentle and sweet and so at odds with the filthy things heâd just done to you that your heart squeezed.
âGoodnight, cookie fairy,â he murmured.
âGoodnight, Santa.â
You slipped inside, leaning back against the door as it shut, your pulse thudding in your ears. You could still feel everythingâhis weight on your tongue, his cum warm in your belly, the deep, ache-sweet fullness low in your body where heâd 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: elfâs 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? iâm gonna have to avoid those at family gatherings now
You: we can christen the rest of the house later, itâs fine.
Another pause, longer this time.
Bucky: i meant what i said earlier. pancakes tomorrow. and a date. likeâŠon purpose, not just you rescuing my cooking.
Warmth flooded your chest.
You: iâll bring syrup. and maybe more cookies. strictly for violet ofc.
Bucky: careful, doll. you keep tempting an old man like that and youâre 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.
wow, anon, are you flirting with me? i'm ngl this is a pretty funny way of doing it because i sure read this in an authoritative tone <3 either way i enjoyed it so thank you
"quit it with the whining," bucky's metal hand gripped your hip hard, holding you in place as he drove into you from behind.
"butâit's too much," you sobbed, your fingers clutching against the headboard.
"too much?" he let out a laugh, his hips snapping harder, faster. "you think i give a fuck? you wanted this. you begged for it. now you're gonna take it."
his flesh hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. "all that pretty little noise you were makin' before. now you're just my quiet, messy little thing, aren't you?"
"bucky, pleaseâ"
"please what?" he snarled, his pace turning brutal, punishing. "please stop? or please don't? 'cause your tight little cunt's tellin' a different story, sweetheart. it's beggin' for it."
"that's it," he grunted on your neck. "take it. take every fuckin' inch. you're nothin' but a warm, wet hole for me to use. my own personal cocksleeve. now come for me. do it."
a final thrust and you shattered, a scream on your lips as you came apart around him. he followed with a moan, spilling into you with a few last thrusts.
he collapsed over you for a moment, both of you breathing ragged. he pulled out, and you whimpered at the loss.
he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. "see? all that whining for nothin'. you loved every second of it, you filthy girl."
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