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Love language : physical affection. Bucky Barnes x Reader
Bucky Barnes x Reader
Synopsis : You were one of those who love physical contact. That was your love language. So when Bucky arrives at the compound, the Avengers are surprised to see that you actually keep your hands for yourself and even more when Bucky is almost the one to ask for it.
Warnings : cuties, jealousy (from myself toward them), love love love, kind of slooooow burn, friends to lovers, long a** one shot.
When Bucky arrived at the compound, the first thing he did, without even realizing it, was assess everyone.
It was automatic. A reflex carved into him after decades of survival.
Steve didnât need analyzing. He was familiar. Safe. A constant in a world that had changed too much.
He knew Sam was already getting on his nerves, no need to check twice.
The others, though⊠they were different.
And then there was you.
It didnât take long for Bucky to notice something about you. Something subtle, but persistent.
You needed contact.
Not in an obvious, overwhelming way. You werenât clinging or invasive. It was quieter than that, instinctive. You leaned into people when you laughed, rested your head on someoneâs shoulder during movie nights, brushed against others without even thinking about it.
And the strange part?
No one seemed to mind.
Natasha would casually move closer to you, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tony didnât even react when you rested your head against him, just kept talking or watching whatever was on screen. Steve had simply shrugged when Bucky pointed it out.
âIt grounds her,â he had said.
Bucky didnât understand that.
Not at first.
He had spent seventy years learning the opposite, that touch meant pain, control, punishment. That it was something to fear, to avoid, to endure.
Even now, in a place that was supposed to be safe, he didnât like it. Not really.
And yetâŠ
You understood.
That was the part that unsettled him the most.
Because you never touched him.
Not once.
You never brushed against him in passing, never stood too close, never reached for him the way you did with the others. And it wasnât out of fear, he would have recognized that instantly.
It was respect.
You moved around him like someone who knew exactly where the invisible boundaries were. Like someone who understood what it meant to have your body used against you. Like someone who knew that trust wasnât given, it was earned, slowly.
So you didnât push.
You just⊠existed near him.
And you smiled.
Every time he walked into a room, your eyes would find him, and youâd give him that same soft, genuine smile. Never forced. Never hesitant. Just⊠kind.
At first, he didnât know what to do with it.
Sometimes he ignored it, not because you had done anything wrong, but because he didnât understand it. Kindness without an agenda felt foreign. Suspicious, almost.
But you never stopped.
And slowly, something shifted.
After a while, he started nodding back. Small, almost imperceptible acknowledgments.
Then, eventually, a faint smile.
Barely there.
But real.
The first time you touched him, it wasnât intentional.
It happened on an ordinary evening, during dinner.
The compound was loud, everyone gathered in the dining room, conversations overlapping. You had slipped into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, enjoying the brief quiet.
You thought you were alone.
Lost in your thoughts, you turned around with your glass and walked straight into him.
The impact was solid enough to make you stumble slightly.
âOh my God,â you blurted out, startled. âIâm so sorry, I didnât see you.â
Your hand came up instinctively to steady yourself and landed on his metal arm.
You didnât even notice.
To you, it was nothing. A natural reaction. Normal.
Bucky, on the other hand, went completely still.
âDonât worry,â he said after a beat, his voice quieter than usual. âI wasnât very loud either.â
You smiled, a little sheepish, apologizing once more before heading back to the dining room, leaving him alone in the kitchen.
He didnât move.
Not right away.
His gaze dropped to where your hand had been, like he could still feel the imprint of it.
It hadnât hurt.
It hadnât felt wrong.
You hadnât hesitated. Hadnât flinched. Hadnât treated it like something to be careful of.
You had just⊠touched him.
Like there was nothing to fear.
And the strangest part?
It didnât bother him.
Not even a little.
That was when things started to change.
At first, it was subtle enough that neither of you noticed.
You leaned closer when you didnât hear him properly instead of asking him to repeat himself. Your arms would brush during movie nights, and neither of you pulled away. It just⊠happened. Naturally.
Comfortably.
Every morning, you made coffee for everyone and at some point, you had learned exactly how he liked his.
He noticed that.
Of course he did.
The first time your fingers brushed when you handed him his cup, he almost pulled away.
The second time, he didnât.
And then, sometimes⊠it lingered.
Just for a second longer than necessary.
Always by âaccident.â
Bucky didnât know what to make of it.
Didnât know what he was feeling.
Something unfamiliar. Something that didnât fit into any category he understood.
And you, you were completely oblivious.
But the others ?
Oh, they noticed.
They noticed everything.
âTwenty bucks says they kiss within a month.â
âForty-five says she hugs him without thinking first.â
âHundred says theyâre a couple by the end of the year.â
The bets had started quietly. Casually.
But they were very real.
It was October.
And things were only just getting started.
You and Bucky began learning about each other without ever sitting down and deciding to. It happened in fragments, in instincts, in the kind of details most people overlooked.
He noticed the small sigh that slipped past your lips whenever things started to feel like too much, the kind you tried to hide so no one would make a big deal out of it. He noticed it every single time.
Just like you noticed the way his expression shifted when the noise around him got overwhelming, how his brows would knit together slightly, the crease between them deepening as if the world itself pressed too loudly against him.
You learned the way he scanned every room the moment he walked into it, his gaze instinctively flicking toward exits, corners, anything that could become a threat. And he noticed that you did the exact same thing, just more discreetly.
There were other things, too. Smaller, almost ridiculous details. The way your tongue slipped out slightly when you were focused on something. The way his jaw tightened when he was irritated but chose not to say anything. None of it was ever pointed out. None of it needed to be. It settled between you naturally, like a language only the two of you spoke.
By November, something had changed again, something quieter, but heavier in meaning. Bucky felt safe around you. Not just comfortable. Not just at ease. Safe. It was a feeling he hadnât allowed himself to experience in a very long time, and even now, he didnât fully understand it. But it was there, undeniable.
One night, Tony decided to throw what he called a âsmall party,â which, in reality, meant loud music shaking the walls, voices overlapping until they became indistinguishable, and an energy that buzzed too intensely to ignore. Most of the team was drunk, laughter spilling too loudly, movements less controlled. The kind of chaos that filled every corner of the room.
You and Bucky stood apart from it, without ever explicitly deciding to.
You didnât drink, you never really liked it. And Bucky couldnât. So the two of you ended up sitting across from each other, not really interacting with the others, not really interacting with each other either. Just⊠existing in the same space, both too deep in your own thoughts to pretend you were enjoying the party.
Bucky hated environments like this. Ever since HYDRA, loud, unpredictable spaces had a way of putting his entire body on edge, like something bad was just waiting to happen. And you, your day had drained you completely. Every sound felt sharper than it should have, every burst of laughter just a little too loud. You stayed anyway, out of politeness more than anything else, but it was wearing you down.
Then it happened.
A loud bang echoed from the other side of the room.
It was sudden. Violent in the way it cut through everything else.
Both of you flinched instantly, your bodies reacting before your minds had time to process it. Your heads turned toward the noise, hearts jumping in your chests. It didnât take long to realize it was just Tony and Thor, caught in some ridiculous competition that had clearly escalated too far.
Nothing dangerous.
But the damage was already done.
You let out a slow, controlled sigh, trying to steady yourself, trying to push the tension back down where no one would notice. Across from you, Buckyâs brows were drawn together, his expression tight in that familiar way you had come to recognize.
Your eyes met.
And in that moment, everything was said without a single word.
You tilted your head slightly toward the stairs, the gesture subtle, almost invisible to anyone else. A silent question.
Do you want to get out of here ?
Bucky didnât hesitate. He gave the smallest nod.
You both stood at the same time, as if it had been planned, moving quietly through the room without drawing attention. No one stopped you. No one even seemed to notice you leaving.
With each step toward the stairs, the noise dulled, the pressure easing just enough to let you breathe again.
When you reached your room, you opened the door without thinking, stepping inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. But behind you, Bucky paused.
It was brief. Almost unnoticeable.
But you saw it.
And, like always, you didnât push. You didnât rush him, didnât turn around to question it. You simply continued moving, giving him the space to decide for himself.
You crossed the room and opened the balcony door, stepping outside into the cool night air. Your hands rested lightly against the railing as you exhaled, this time without trying to hide it. The quiet wrapped around you, soft and immediate, like a shield against everything you had just left behind.
For a second, you were alone.
Then you heard the door.
Bucky stepped out beside you, the hesitation gone, replaced by something steadier. The tension in his shoulders eased almost instantly as the silence settled in.
He had chosen to follow you.
To trust you.
And from that night on, it became something unspoken between you.
A habit. A reflex.
Across crowded rooms, your eyes would find each other, and a simple glance would be enough. Sometimes a small nod. Sometimes, one of you would lean in just slightly, voice low enough that no one else could hear.
âWanna get out of here ?â
And sometimes, it was Bucky who said it first.
But every time, without fail, you left together.
Trust didnât come all at once. It never did with him. It was built slowly, piece by piece, in silence more than in words.
At some point, he had stopped tensing when you leaned closer during movie nights. Then, one evening, when exhaustion got the better of you and your head slowly tipped onto his shoulder, he didnât move away.
He had gone still at first.
Not stiff. Not panicked.
Just⊠aware.
Aware of your weight against him, of your steady breathing as sleep pulled you under, of how natural it felt despite everything in him that used to reject contact.
And then, after a moment, he let himself relax.
He didnât shift. Didnât wake you up. Didnât even acknowledge it out loud.
He just stayed.
Another time, in a crowded hallway, your shoulders brushed as people moved around you too quickly, too closely. Buckyâs body reacted before his mind did. His hand hovered near your lower back, not quite touching, but close enough to guide you if needed. Close enough to shield you from anyone getting too close.
Protective. Instinctive.
He didnât even realize he was doing it at first.
And you didnât comment on it.
That was the thing between you, nothing was ever forced into the open before it was ready. You both let things exist as they were, without questioning them too much.
It was⊠natural.
So natural, in fact, that neither of you really noticed how much things had changed.
But others did.
Steve was the first one to say something.
It happened one afternoon, quiet and uneventful. Bucky had just come back from training, his movements still carrying that residual tension that never fully left him. You were in the common area, sitting on the couch with a book in your hands, your posture relaxed in a way that always seemed to soften the space around you.
You looked up when Bucky walked in.
And you smiled.
That same soft, genuine smile you always gave him.
Bucky paused for just a second, barely noticeable, before nodding back, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he moved further into the room.
Steve had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with quiet attention.
He waited until you looked back down at your book before speaking.
âHe seems less on edge when youâre around.â
His voice was calm, observational, but there was something warmer beneath it.
You glanced up at him, slightly caught off guard.
Steveâs gaze shifted briefly toward Bucky, who was now moving around the kitchen, quieter than usual, more at ease than he had been earlier.
âIâm glad he has someone to trust other than me,â Steve added.
There was no jealousy in his tone. No hesitation.
Just relief.
Because for the first time in a long time, Bucky wasnât carrying everything alone anymore.
By the very end of December, nothing had officially happened.
You hadnât kissed. You hadnât hugged, not really, not in the way people would define it. And if anyone had asked, you werenât together.
But you were close.
Closer than either of you realized.
Without noticing when it started, you leaned on Bucky more than you did on anyone else. You were still yourself, you still walked side by side with Natasha, still leaned into others during conversations, still laughed the same way.
But something had shifted.
Your head didnât find Tonyâs shoulder anymore during movie nights.
It found Buckyâs.
In crowded rooms, your hand reached for his arm without thinking, fingers curling lightly around his sleeve as if it had always belonged there. It wasnât desperate, not even conscious, it was instinctive. Grounding.
And he never pulled away.
Not once.
Bucky, in his own way, mirrored you.
Every time he entered a room, his eyes searched for you first. It became automatic, something he did before even realizing it. And once he found you, something in him settled.
Like he could finally breathe properly.
In crowded spaces, his hand no longer hovered near your lower back.
It rested there.
Light. Careful. Always giving you the option to move away.
But guiding you nonetheless.
Protecting you.
Trust, for him, had always been the hardest thing to give.
And yet, one night, you found him in the kitchen, long after everyone else had gone to sleep.
The lights were dim. The compound was silent.
He was standing there, leaning slightly against the counter, his posture tense in a way that told you everything before he even spoke.
You didnât ask too many questions.
You never did.
You just stayed.
And somehow, that was enough.
Because that night, he told you.
Not everything. Not all at once. But enough.
Enough about the nightmares. About the things that still haunted him when he closed his eyes. About the memories that didnât feel like memories, but like something still happening, over and over again.
It wasnât easy for him.
You could hear it in the pauses, see it in the way his jaw tightened, feel it in the way his voice sometimes dropped too low.
But he trusted you with it.
And you didnât try to fix it.
You didnât interrupt.
You didnât look at him with pity.
You just listened.
And when the silence came back, heavy but not uncomfortable, you stayed right there beside him.
That was enough.
It became⊠normal, after that.
In the mornings, it wasnât unusual for someone from the team to walk into the living room and find the two of you asleep together.
You, curled slightly toward him, your head resting on his lap.
Him, slouched back against the couch, one hand absentmindedly tangled in your hair, like even in his sleep he needed to make sure you were still there.
Both of you completely at peace.
It was a quiet kind of closeness. One that didnât need labels or explanations.
And Steve had been right.
Bucky was calmer around you.
The constant tension in his shoulders had eased, the sharp edge in his gaze softened. He wasnât as quick to withdraw, not as guarded as he used to be.
But what no one had really expected, was that it went both ways.
Because somehow, in the same quiet, unspoken way, Bucky soothed you, too.
Tony, like every year, had organized New Yearâs Eve at the compound.
The living room was overflowing, music blasting, people talking over each other, laughing, dancing, clinking glasses. Strangers mixed with old friends, investors, acquaintances Tony barely remembered inviting. It was too much, too fast, too loud. The kind of chaos that usually would have sent both you and Bucky slipping away within the first hour.
But this time, you stayed.
Not out of obligation, but because you actually wanted to.
You wanted to spend the night with your friends, to feel part of it instead of watching it from the outside. And instead of leaving the moment things became overwhelming, you and Bucky found a rhythm. Small breaks. Quiet pauses. Youâd drift into the kitchen for a few minutes of silence, or step out onto the balcony to breathe in the cold air, letting the noise fade just enough to reset. Then youâd return like nothing had happened.
Bucky stayed close the entire night.
Not suffocating. Never that.
Just⊠there.
Sometimes heâd drift off to talk to Steve, a few steps away, but he always came back to your side without needing to be called. Like it was instinct now. Like you were the anchor he didnât realize heâd been searching for.
At one point, he tilted his head toward the stairs, a silent suggestion, familiar by now.
You looked at him and smiled, shaking your head.
No.
He rolled his eyes dramatically in response, exaggerated enough to make you laugh under your breath. But there was no real frustration in it. His face was relaxed, his shoulders loose in a way that wouldâve been unthinkable months ago.
Then the music shifted.
A song you loved came on, immediately recognizable, immediately yours.
Your face lit up before you even realized it, a wide, unfiltered smile spreading across your lips. It was the kind of expression that made everything around you feel softer just by existing.
Bucky noticed instantly.
Of course he did.
He followed your gaze toward the speakers, then back to you. And something in his expression shifted, not a full smile yet, but the beginning of one. Something warm, faintly amused, almost fond.
Before he could say anything, you were already standing in front of him.
Holding your hand out.
âWanna dance ?â
You werenât shy about it. Not hesitant. Just bright-eyed, smiling like the night itself belonged to you.
He blinked once.
Then again.
âNo,â he said immediately, because of course he did.
You leaned in slightly, widening your eyes.
âPleaseeeee, Buck.â
That was new too.
Buck.
Something about the nickname alone almost broke his resistance.
He tried to look unimpressed, he really did, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite him. His gaze dropped to your hand, then back to your face.
You were still waiting. Still smiling. Completely unbothered by his hesitation.
With a long-suffering sigh that fooled absolutely no one, he finally slipped his metal hand into yours.
The moment your fingers closed around his, something in him eased.
He didnât even think about it.
Didnât think about his arm. Didnât think about the crowd. Didnât think about anything except the fact that you were already pulling him forward.
You led him into the middle of the room where people were dancing, laughter and music blending into a steady pulse. You turned to face him, your hands finding their place naturally at the back of his neck, while his settled carefully at your waist, steady, grounding.
Something from The Beatles filled the room, loud and familiar, wrapping around everything like warmth.
You started to sway first.
Bucky followed.
At least, thatâs what he told himself.
At first, he kept his expression carefully neutral, like he was only doing this because you had asked. But the longer you stayed there, smiling up at him, moving with the rhythm without hesitation, the more that act started to slip.
Especially when you laughed.
Especially when you pulled him just a little closer.
He made a point of acting annoyed every time you tried to make him move more, every time you encouraged him like this was some kind of performance. But the truth was in the way his grip stayed steady, in the way he didnât step back even once.
And in the way he started to enjoy it.
It reminded him of something distant. Faded. A version of himself that used to exist before everything changed, before HYDRA, before silence, before he forgot what it felt like to be just a man in a room instead of a weapon in survival mode.
Dancing with Steve, back in a time that felt almost like someone elseâs life.
Except this time was different.
Because this time, he wasnât looking over his shoulder.
He wasnât waiting for something to go wrong.
He was just here.
With you.
At some point, he spun you once.
Then again.
And again.
You laughed every time, louder each round, until he was laughing too, quiet at first, then more freely, like something had finally cracked open inside him.
The two of you collided lightly into an older couple at one point, earning a sharp complaint that neither of you fully heard through your laughter.
And for once, neither of you really cared.
Because for a moment, just one long, fleeting moment, the world wasnât heavy.
It was just music.
Just movement. Just you and him.
âCome on, people! The countdown has begun!â Tonyâs voice cut through the music, booming over the crowd as he waved his arms dramatically from somewhere near the center of the living room.
Ten minutes to midnight.
The energy in the compound shifted instantly, louder, brighter, more chaotic. People cheered, laughed, rushed to refill glasses, gather closer together, ready to welcome the new year as if it meant something different from all the others.
You and Bucky lingered for a few more minutes, still caught in the afterglow of dancing. The music had shifted into something less familiar, less alive, and you wrinkled your nose slightly at it like it had personally offended you.
Without much thought, you grabbed Buckyâs hand again and tugged him toward the kitchen.
He followed without resistance.
Not because you pulled hard, but because he let you.
The kitchen was quieter, though not completely. The muffled sound of the countdown and distant music still reached the walls, but it was softer here. Manageable. Breathable.
Seven minutes.
You reached the counter first, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold water, drinking almost immediately like you had forgotten how long youâd been moving, laughing, existing in the noise.
Bucky stayed by the doorway for a moment, watching you.
Just watching.
When you finally set the glass down and leaned back against the counter, you were facing him now. He had stepped further inside without you noticing, but still kept a bit of space between you, comfortable, familiar.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
It wasnât awkward.
It never was anymore.
Just quiet.
Then you broke it gently.
âAre you having a good night ?â you asked, voice softer now, like the question belonged in this quieter space.
Bucky tilted his head slightly, as if considering it far more seriously than necessary.
Then, with a lazy shrug and that familiar half-smirk tugging at his mouth, he answered:
âWorst night of my life.â
It came out dry. Teasing. Perfectly timed.
But his eyes gave him away.
Because there was no bite in it. No edge. Only warmth, hidden carefully under the joke, like something too honest to be spoken plainly.
What he meant was something entirely different.
Best night of my life.
But that stayed where it always did, behind his teeth, unspoken, safe.
You rolled your eyes immediately, a smile spreading across your face anyway, effortless and familiar. Like youâd learned how to read him without needing anything more than a tone, a glance, a pause.
âLiar,â you muttered, but there was no real accusation in it.
Only fondness.
Buckyâs smile softened just a little more as he leaned back against the counter, watching you like you were the quietest part of the entire night, and somehow the most important.
Outside the kitchen, the countdown kept building.
But in here, time felt slower. Quieter.
Like it was waiting for something too.
Five minutes.
âYou know⊠Iâm glad you ended up here,â you said softly, your voice honest in the way it always was when you werenât trying to hide anything.
Buckyâs gaze lifted to you immediately, like the words had pulled him out of whatever quiet space heâd been standing in.
âYeah ?â
âYeah.â You nodded once, gentle. âYou keep me sane.â
Something in his expression softened, so slight it couldâve been missed if someone wasnât looking for it.
âWell,â he replied after a beat, voice low, almost careful, âIâm glad, too.â
You blinked once, a little surprised by how quickly he answered.
âYeah ?â you asked again, quieter this time.
âYeah.â He mirrored you, a faint hint of amusement in his tone. âYou keep me out of my head.â
The honesty of it settled between you instantly, simple, unguarded, heavier than either of you treated it.
Your gaze dropped to your glass, suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat, like it had decided to make itself known at the worst possible moment. Your face felt warmer than it shouldâve, and you didnât quite understand why.
So you stayed quiet.
Three minutes.
âMaybe we should go back before the countdown ends,â you murmured eventually, breaking the silence gently.
Bucky nodded without hesitation, pushing off the doorway. âYeah.â
You walked side by side back into the living room.
The atmosphere had shifted completely. The lights were lower now, replaced by neon glows and scattered reflections bouncing off glasses and windows. Everyone had gathered in the main space, bodies packed closer together, anticipation buzzing through the air like electricity.
One minute.
People were already counting loudly, voices overlapping in messy unison. Some were laughing, some were shouting, some were already turning toward the people they cared about most.
You and Bucky stayed slightly apart from the center, not fully stepping into the crowd. Not quite retreating either. Just⊠existing on the edge of it together, like you always seemed to do without planning it.
Fifteen seconds.
Someone bumped into you from behind while pushing toward the center. Instinctively, you stumbled forward slightly.
Buckyâs hand was on your back before you even registered the movement.
Steady. Immediate.
Grounding.
And just like that, your breath caught.
Because it wasnât just contact.
It was him.
Ten seconds.
He felt it too.
You could tell by the way his hand stayed there a second longer than necessary, not pulling away, not adjusting. Just⊠present. Anchoring you in place like heâd done so many times before without thinking about it.
Five seconds.
Your eyes lifted.
His were already on you.
It wasnât loud in your head anymore. Not the room. Not the countdown. Just him.
You didnât need words.
Not now.
Three.
His gaze flickered, just briefly, to your lips.
Then back to your eyes.
Two.
Your breath hitched, subtle but real. Your hand shifted slightly at your side like you were trying to decide what to do with it.
One.
His hand on your back tightened, not pulling you, just holding you closer without force.
âHappy New Year!â the room erupted.
The sound hit all at once, cheers, laughter, shouting, glasses clinking, kissing, the world exploding into celebration.
But you barely heard it.
Because in that exact moment, you leaned in.
Slow enough that it wasnât taken from you. Confident enough that it wasnât uncertain.
Bucky met you halfway without hesitation.
His lips were warm against yours, steady, certain, like something that had been waiting far too long to finally happen. There was no rush, no chaos in it. Just everything you had both been saying without words for months finally collapsing into something real.
When you pulled back slightly, it was only enough to breathe.
Your foreheads almost brushed, your eyes still half-lidded, soft with something neither of you bothered naming yet.
âHappy New Year, Buck,â you whispered.
His mouth curved faintly, breath warm against yours.
âHappy New Year.â
And then, like restraint had finally run out completely, Bucky kissed you again.
This time deeper.
Less careful.
His hand slid fully to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was any space left between you. Your fingers immediately caught in his hair, holding him there just as firmly, like you had been waiting just as long as he had.
The noise of the world didnât matter anymore.
Not the countdown.
Not the crowd.
Not anything except you and Bucky, finally understanding that your relationship hadn't been even close to friendship for a long time.
after months of dealing with hate being targeted towards me and my friends, i can no longer bite my tongue and just hope that, through remaining silent on a specific topic, it will go away and fade to dust.
i and many others were hesitant post about this on tumblr, out of a genuine desire to not bring unnecessary issues onto the platform. but, at this point, it seems everyone has something to say about us, despite knowing quite literally 5% of the story and not seeing a single ounce of proof of the claims being made against us. so, since everyone else is allowed to speak, now it's our turn.
back in november, when my friends and i began to receive hate, two writers took it upon themselves to create a groupchat with a few other people, in which they discussed agreeing with the hateful asks we were receiving. this agreement quickly turned into them drafting possible hate to send to us. as though drafting hate to send was not enough, these writers even had the audacity to comfort some of us in our DMS about the hate we were receiving.
(context for the screenshots: 1 of the members of the hate groupchat confirming it's existence to me)
(context for the screenshots: 1) the creator of the groupchat sending me comfort for the hate i had received only hours before creating the hate groupchat. 2) a portion of me confronting them about the groupchat. 3) them admiting to the existence of that groupchat. there are many more messages to this conversation, these are only brief sections.)
(context for the screenshot: an exchange between me and the member of the hate groupchat who leaked and screenshared the groupchat to someone else in bwa)
so no, bwa did not create a groupchat to send hate to anyone, someone created a groupchat to send hate to us. and no, bwa did not send death threats to other writers, death threats were sent to us. we have shared countless screenshots in the past depicting the disgusting things that were being sent to our inboxes, and were then mocked by people for âplaying the victimâ. it is downright evil that the things people have done to us has somehow been spun into this lie where we are now the perpetrators.
i understand that to most of you this doesn't matter, that this is not important. and i agree, i really do. but this whole ordeal has reached a point well beyond us being slandered by people who simply don't like us. since november, i have watched my friends be put through incredibly distressing situations. death threats, rape threats, homophobia and racism are just a few of the things that have been sent into our inboxes and/or directed towards us through anonymous blogs. some people have deactivated, some people have received hate for simply daring to interact with us, some people have abandoned tumblr as a whole, and now we have been made aware that lies are being spread... and all of this is happening over fanfiction.
i'm aware that, in posting this, it's not going to change much. those who believe the vile, baseless, receiptless claims that have been made against myself and others will continue to do so. if anything, they will feel an even stronger sense of hatred. i don't expect people to care about this matter, because it's ultimately a lot more fun to be outraged at a group of strangers than it is to feel an ounce of sympathy for them.
i am not posting this for drama. if i wanted drama, i would have posted about this and tagged those involved the moment this all began back in november. i am posting this because 5 months of constant harassment is now bordering on stalker behaviour and, quite frankly, i no longer feel it's my job to "keep the peace" for the sake of not upsetting anyone.
being quiet has done nothing: we have continued to receive hate, and other writers are comfortably twisting the truth and accusing us of doing the vile things they did to us. this situation has extended beyond just "bwa", the entire community is now riddled with other tumblr users being spoken about horrifically.
everyone needs to lock in and remember that we are all here for the same reason: fanfiction. fanfiction is not a competition, it's not a race we all need to win. it's literally just a hobby. why are we treating it like it is a matter of life and death?
i donât really know how to end this post. i have so much more to say and share, yet i do not want to bring more harm to people, even if they themselves have carelessly hurt so many others. so, iâll end it by saying this: names have been kept hidden in the screenshots out of the scarcely remaining respect i have for the people who made that groupchat and out of hope everyone can just move on, once and for all.
tw!! death/suicide threats. if you've read this and are unaware of the extent of the hate myself and others have received (and are now wrongfully being accused of doing), this is a post i made addressing it back in november. this is nothing new.
hey hyde! ive never really talked to you before but i want you to know that bitches be bitches and you and the rest of bwa def dont deserve this. I cant entirely explain it but people see writers on here get popular and hate it cause they cant be themđđ its pathetic and laughable honestly
I went through something similar many moons ago when i was first on tumblr and had to completely block and deactivate my first account because of it. i got death threats after death threat for simply liking a oneshot i thought was tuff. and the group of writers i was friends with started making fun of another member for wanting to write about a specific kink (so valid of her, she was the sweetest person ever #imissher) and they blasted it everywhere. it was kinda insane but it was clear as day they were jealous. they acted like a bunch of immature tweensđ
the fat chuds sending you hateful messages and death threats need to get a life, its pathetic and sad and i know i dont know you much hyde (wish i didđ„đ„) but youre cool and youre awesome and you got that dog in you. thank you for speaking up about this, the hate that circulated rarely gets talked about and its extremely toxic being in this fandom sometimes when people cant shut the fuck up and just read some fucking fics
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
HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) â BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT
SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating â much less touching with a ten foot pole â is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you canât help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.
WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.
You never wouldâve stopped by Natasha and Steveâs apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.
He always loiters whenever heâs bored â which is almost always â because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Buckyâs either in the kitchen cooking with food that isnât his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show youâve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.
Granted, you interrupt them too, but thatâs because you get invited along with Natashaâs other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.
Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because heâs always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when youâre stopping by, and beats you here first.
Your eyes instantly roll when heâs the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that heâs grown used to seeing. Buckyâs leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.
Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natashaâs sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Buckyâs all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. Itâs almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.
Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.
"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.
You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.
His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.
Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.
When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.
"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.
You respond by doing it again.
"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."
His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.
Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.
Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.
All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?
You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.
"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."
If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.
Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.
When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.
"ânderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."
"Nâ!"
Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."
When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.
"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."
"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.
Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.
She doesn't hear you. Of course.
"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ringâ"
"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Owâ Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"
Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do isâ
"What the fuck?"
"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freakâ"
"I am freaking."
"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.
"Absolutely not."
"I didn't even pitch it to you."
"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."
Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.
But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."
"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.
"I didn't think I needed to?"
Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.
Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?
"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."
You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.
"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.
Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.
"It could be fun."
"Are you kidding?"
"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."
"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."
This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you â he went in for a hug on New Year's â you panicked and knocked him into the bar.
"Haven't pushed me away yet."
Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.
So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.
"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"
Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"
Deadpan stare.
He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"
Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.
"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"
"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."
The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.
Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking â no, begging â for your help, you know it's truthful.
You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.
He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him chatting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other girl who looks him up and down on the street to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?
Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.
"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"
It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.
And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."
You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.
But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family â and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about â really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.
So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.
"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.
Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.
"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."
He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."
You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.
Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.
"I want Alpine."
Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."
"You just said whatever I wanted."
His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."
Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."
"Gotta practice somehow."
"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.
Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"
You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.
"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.
But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.
"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Justâ Fuckâ Wait a second."
God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.
Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.
Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.
"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."
You quirk a brow.
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."
For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.
The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.
You sigh deeply.
"Three," you counter-argue.
"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."
You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."
He still hasn't let go of your wrist.
"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.
And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Siâ
"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.
As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.
Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.
Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.
When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.
The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.
Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.
The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.
But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.
Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.
(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)
Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.
"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"
Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.
Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.
"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."
She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.
"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."
You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.
"Oh, did he?"
Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.
"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that youâre becoming a young man."
He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.
"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.
You shove that assumption way, way, way down.
Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."
Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"
You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.
His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."
If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.
"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?
Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.
"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.â
Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. Sheâs unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume itâs detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasnât breathed in what feels like a minute.
The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.
The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.
"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."
Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.
Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?
But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.
"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.
Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)
"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."
You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"
Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.
"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."
Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.
His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.
You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?
Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.
When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.
"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.
And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.
Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.
Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.
Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.
And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.
You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?
Frankly, you canât even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. Heâs never spoken highly of the man, and youâve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet youâre no idiot, you can assume itâs nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell thereâs a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his fatherâs approval, his fatherâs love, his fatherâs respect. You canât necessarily blame him for that. You donât understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesnât feel like heâs enough just because his father thinks so.
"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"
Bucky's lips twitch just barely.
"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."
"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."
You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"
"Theâ Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"
Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.
"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."
"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.
(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)
He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."
"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented andâ"
"There you are!"
An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.
Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that'sâ
"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."
Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.
"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."
You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.
Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.
"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.
Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."
"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.
Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.
"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.
Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.
Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).
"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.
Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.
After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.
No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.
A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.
"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."
He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.
But you're an adult. At least you try to be.
So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."
His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.
Then, Bucky does something you never expect.
The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.
He justâ Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the beltâ
Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.
You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.
You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."
"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."
Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.
You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?
"Pardon?" You ask calmly.
Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.
"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."
Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.
Doesn't seem like it, though.
But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.
"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."
The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.
"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.
"You think that's you?"
Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.
She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."
Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."
The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.
"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."
Your brow quirks.
"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.
Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.
Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.
"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."
Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.
Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.
Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.
"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to proveâ"
Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.
He bites cautiously. "You alright?"
You quirk a brow. "Peachy."
Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one â not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.
"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"
"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."
His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.
"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"
Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."
God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.
No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.
His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.
"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."
Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.
Bucky rides that high all night.
Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.
"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."
You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.
His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.
"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.
God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.
Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.
"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."
The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.
But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.
Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like sheâs about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you donât think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if itâs an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.
âItâs so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,â she says earnestly. âItâs heartwarming to know sheâs making you better.â
Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. Theyâre simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion youâre feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if thatâs a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isnât true.
He isnâtâŠbeing real. Heâs being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. Heâs acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe heâs capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. Thatâs all. Nothing more.
But whyâd Margaret say again?
You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe heâs this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?
You know youâre here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. Youâre here as his friend, as a favor, thatâs all. Thereâs nothing more you need to do than what youâve already been doing.
But just because he has a supposed âgirlfriendâ doesnât make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe thatâs the case.
All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.
But you do.
Fuck. You notice.
And your heart just⊠breaks.
How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesnât do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?
Donât say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.
âYes, honey,â his cousin Gemma pipes up. âHaving such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.â
Fuck. Donât say anything. Not your place.
Margaret hums in agreement. âYouâre on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!â
She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.
But it only breaks the dam.
God damn it.
âActually,â you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. âIf anyone should be getting praise, itâs Bucky.â
Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.
But you brush him off, because what? Youâre not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They donât even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think heâs not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone whoâs more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?
You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, heâs your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and heâs one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.
Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.
"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.
Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.
âIâm sure you werenât implying that heâs less of a person when single,â you add pointedly. Then, âRight?â
The stammering is immediate.
âNo!â Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. âOf course not. James, thatâs not what we meant at all. We justââ
âThatâs good,â you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you donât even know like that. âI just wanted to make sure.â
âOf course,â Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. âWe love you, James, we just want you to be happy.â
And Bucky?
His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.
"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."
Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"
You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.
Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.
"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"
He takes a beat. Registering your words.
Then, he nods. "Read my mind."
You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.
"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.
Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.
It's... achingly comfortable.
God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.
The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.
"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."
You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."
He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.
"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."
"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."
His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."
"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."
"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."
"Bucky."
"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."
"Do you ever think before you speak?"
"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.
You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.
But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.
...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.
When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.
"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"
The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.
But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."
When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for â as you've done so many times in the past.
This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.
...And Bucky fucking freezes.
Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.
He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?
The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.
It makes you stifle a grin.
"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"
You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.
Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.
"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"
You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.
You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.
His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.
There's an odd sense of pride â perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw â that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?
And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.
Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"
"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.
"Debatable."
"Is it?"
"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."
"For show," you add pointedly.
Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.
God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."
Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.
Your brows pinch slightly.
"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."
It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"
His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."
"Do I?"
"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."
...You do.
You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?
You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.
You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now â this very moment â a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?
"You're thinking about it."
Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.
"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.
He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"
"Bucky."
"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every roomâ"
"You're insufferable."
His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"
Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."
"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."
"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."
"Hot."
"Bucky."
"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."
You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?
Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.
Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling forâ
God, you can't even say it. Falling forâ
"Bucky!"
The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?
"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"
Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."
"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."
While Bucky â quite reluctantly â recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.
And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.
When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.
Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When itâs all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more sâmores are eaten, more drinks are opened.
The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.
Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.
Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.
It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.
Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.
But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.
Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.
"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."
A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.
Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.
A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.
You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.
"I wanna swim."
Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"
Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."
His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).
But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.
A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"
Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.
"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.
Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.
"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."
His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.
After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.
You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.
The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.
However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.
"Aghâ"
You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.
Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.
"You're evil for that."
You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."
Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.
"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.
Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"
His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"
"I'd say so."
"Yeah. For you."
"What would you consider it?"
He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."
âOh?â
âYeah. One may say euro-stepping.â
"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."
Then you kiss him.
And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.
Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.
"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."
"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.
"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can'tâ You can't just say that."
Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.
"I can't?"
"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."
You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation youâll shove him off, but you donât. You fucking donât. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.
Now itâs your turn to curse.
âFuck.â You shift your hips against his once more. âOf course youâd have a big dick.â
Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, heâs just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing heâs just a man. (A man who has been practically celibate the past year when he realized this feeling towards you was going nowhere, but nonetheless just a man.)
âMakes up for being an asshole,â is all heâs able to get out.
You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.
âYouâre not an asshole,â you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. âNot actually.â
âCareful, baby,â he warns. âItâs starting to sound as if you like me or something.â
âI can totally swim away if you want me toââ
âNope.â His hands are iron grip. âNot a chance. Youâre stuck with me.â
You scoff. âIâm never being nice to you again.â
Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. Itâs delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.
âI can live with that,â he says simply, as if itâs certain as law.
Thatâs when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.
How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair thatâs fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.
It isnât until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.
âArghâ What the fuck!â
Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.
âEasy,â he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. âAll this big, bad talk and youâre scared of a fish.â
You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.
âThat wasnât a fish,â you defend instantly, hating the way heâs still literally laughing at you. âThat was⊠It was a three tailed shark, or something.â
Buckyâs footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that heâs not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are â him, too â hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.
His words are slow and calculated. âA three tailed shark?â
You groan, annoyed heâs not moving. âOr something.â
ââŠOr something. Donât sharks have fins? Not tails?â
His tone makes it sound like heâs on the verge of barking out laughter.
"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"
"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."
"Bucky."
"It's worse than I thought."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Just like any other day."
When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.
As you gather his clothing as well â even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face â you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.
"Waitâ fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."
Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.
Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.
Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.
"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.
He hums low. "Am I?"
"Clearly."
"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"
God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Never with you."
He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).
Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next roomâ
...To where you're not alone.
You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.
Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.
"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."
Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."
His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.
All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that â at the end of the day â the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.
The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."
"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."
"Can we notâ Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"
A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.
But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.
"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."
Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.
"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."
Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.
But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.
Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.
His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows betterâ"
"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"
"That's notâ"
Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.
"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."
You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.
But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.
"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."
Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet â too quiet â as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.
When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.
"You wanna shower?"
Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.
He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."
You frown.
...No. That's not what you're thinking.
You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.
But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.
So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.
Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.
Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.
The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.
"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"
"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."
"...So, no?"
Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."
You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.
His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."
You blink stupidly.
"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I justâ I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind youâ I don't evenâ Sorry. I don't know anymore."
Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.
God, why isn't he saying anything?
You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."
Bucky's still quiet for a moment.
Then, "Will you c'mere?"
At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.
You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.
And you just... hug him.
Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.
The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.
You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.
The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."
"Okay."
"I think you're more upset about it than I am."
You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."
Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."
"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.
All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.
It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.
You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.
"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."
His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.
You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.
"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."
Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.
Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.
"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.
Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."
"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"
With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."
Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.
(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)
He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."
"Bucky."
He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.
You ask anyway. "What happened?"
"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."
Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.
"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."
The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could sheâ? When you wereâ Did she evenâ? And then she has the audacity to try and get you backâ"
"Easy." A playful warning.
"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."
He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."
The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.
You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.
Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.
"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."
"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're notâ Uhâ Are we notâ Like, you know..."
Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.
"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. ââŠwhat?â
But heâs connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what youâre referring to, and Buckyâs too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.
The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what youâre asking for. But heâs never made things easy for you â why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something heâs been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then heâll have you every single way you want him.
You groan irritably. âYouâre really gonna make me say it?â
âYup.â Prick.
âThis should be considered a form of medieval torture.â
âWhatâs torture is every second youâre delaying the inevitable.â
You roll your eyes even though you know he canât see it. âFor you.â
The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. âWho knew Iâd get cracked in my childhood bedroom.â
âSeriously? Can you not phrase it like that?â
His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.
âSorry,â he says, completely unapologetic. âWho knew that youâd get cracked in my childhood bedroom.â
âBucky.â
He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.
You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.
But it isnât until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly â yet loud to you all the same because heâs right there by your earlobe â your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.
âTell me to stop,â Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.
Your response is immediate. âDonât.â
With one swift guidance, youâre suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Buckyâs hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that youâre both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely â just barely â connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isnât until youâre ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.
Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.
It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if youâre not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.
You answer before he can put the request into words. âOff.â
Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. âBossy.â
âOh, Iâm sorry.â Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. âWould you rather me be quiet and complicit?â
His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.
âNo,â he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.
Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure thatâs almost embarrassing to admit. Itâs hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature itâs supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.
You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, youâve lost control of your motor and speech functions.
Christ, itâs humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, heâs bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.
This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.
When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if itâs stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.
âOh my god.â His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. âAll this for me, sweet girl?â
Your face flushes. âBucky.â
Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh thatâs music to his ears.
Heâs in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. âKnew you liked me.â
âShut up.â
Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.
âI think you should be a little nicer to the guy whoâs about to eat you out.â
You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. âI think you shouldââ
You donât finish. He doesnât let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.
And it works, because hoâ holy fuâ fuckâ
Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue thatâs hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, youâre trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that heâs too good at giving, and heâs only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if itâs done something to personally offend you.
A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way youâre breathily moaning curses and his name as if theyâre mantras spilling from your lips. Itâs a beautiful sound, one heâs thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.
He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesnât miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.
The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria thatâs blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.
âBucky,â you babble clumsily. âFuckâ Right thâ Fuck, Iâm closeââ
A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as heâs been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and itâs such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.
Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.
The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more â after youâve already come â and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.
You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.
It isnât until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.
âI need you,â you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. âCâmere.â
âWanna give you another,â Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.
You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. âWanna feel you.â
âFuck,â he whines. Whines. âI need aâ need a minute.â
âPlease,â you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. âI want your cock. Please, Bucky.â
His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan â literally.
âGod, youâre killing me.â Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. âWant you too, baby. I justâ I needâ I canâtââ
Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing overâ
You gasp.
Brushing over the prominent wet spot.
The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesnât entirely collapse on you, but given the way heâs melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.
He came from eating you out. You hadnâtâ You didnât even need to touch him. And heâs still hard.
So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.
âAll this for me, sweet boy?â You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.
Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesnât say anything. He canât. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you donât stab him with it.
You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).
âLie back,â you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.
Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.
âYou gonna take care of me, baby?â His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.
You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. Itâs dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly â achingly slow â jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.
God, heâs big. You donât need the light to know that.
Buckyâs hand grabs your wrist. âI donât⊠I donât have condoms here.â
You continue your movements. ââM safe. Itâs okay.â
You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.
The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Buckyâs hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you justâŠrub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)
âYou feel like a fucking dream,â Bucky sighs. âTaste like one. Smell like one.â
Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.
âShit,â he curses. âShit. Give me a second.â
âGonna come from just the tip?â
âShit. Maybe.â
You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly â at his pace â lowers your body onto him until heâs buried to the hilt, and youâve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.
Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Buckyâs hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.
âBreathe,â he muses gently.
You let out a breath you didnât realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how heâs undoubtedly the biggest dick youâve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But itâs delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that heâs ruined you for anyone else.
His fingers brush hair away from your face. âYou okay?â
You nod against his hand. âFeel so full.â
âDo you want me to come immediately?â
His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how heâs still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.
âWanna make you feel good,â you mumble incoherently, drunk with pleasure.
But he understands you all the same. âYou are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.â
You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesnât stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.
âGood girl, thatâs it,â he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. âTake what you need.â
So you do.
Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs donât do much to help you in your movements, but Buckyâs hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.
Youâre a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that youâve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.
It isnât until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.
âThis what you needed, hm?â Buckyâs voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. âSomeone to fuck you nice?â
âWhâWho said you fâfuck me nice?â Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. âNo one sâsaid that.â
The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. âMe giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.â
God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How itâs practically making you see stars already when it hasnât even climaxed?
âYouâYouâre not.â
âOh?â Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. âIâm not?â
Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. âBucky, whyâdâ Donât stopâ Pleaseâ I needââ
âNeed what, sweet girl?â Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. âI told you to take it, so take it.â
Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, itâs aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you canât do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and youâre hands are shaking.
A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesnât even sound like you, so wrecked. âFâFuck, baby, I need it, Iâm closeââ
âThought you said I wasnât giving you one?â
Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.
But heâs not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.
âJust say you need me, sweet girl.â His voice is laced with honey cadence.
You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.
âI need you.â You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. âIâm yours.â
That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that heâs just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.
âFuckââ Buckyâs voice is desperate. âHow are youâ? When Iâ? Holyâ Such aâ a sweet fuckâ fuckingââ
You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.
You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.
Buckyâs movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.
His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.
âYou okay?â His voice is gravelly.
You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but donât quite have your speech functions back completely yet.
Bucky makes a noise thatâs a mix between a laugh and a sigh. âYou did so well for me.â
You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.
âThank you.â
Did he justâ
Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. âDid youââ Your voice is hoarse. âDid you just thank me?â
âMhm,â he murmurs, completely unashamed. âHad to.â
âFor sleeping with you?â
âNo. For letting me sleep with you.â
You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because⊠no. Thereâs no way he actuallyâ he hasnât been plotting on you, right? No, thereâs genuinely no way. Youâve been friends. Just friends. Youâve never thought about him with his shirt off or what heâs like with other girls or if heâs ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a carâ
âWhyâre you so surprised?â Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).
Now youâre sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. Heâs being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that youâve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.
But you are surprised. Youâve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. Heâs teased, youâve swore, heâs riled you up, youâve shoved him, but youâve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. Itâs notâ Youâve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because itâs never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.
All this thinking and you realize heâs waiting for an answer.
âUh,â you say immediately, unsure of where to start. âWell, I donât know. Weâre friends.â
âIâm literally inside you right now.â
You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. âIdiot. Not counting right now.â
Bucky hums, biding you to continue.
Thank god itâs dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.
âI justââ You find yourself saying. âIâm not your type.â
âWhat?â He asks incredulously. âWho told you that?â
You tilt your head to the side, confused. âUh, every girl Iâve ever seen you with ever?â
âDo you have any idea how long Iâve been waiting for you?â
You freeze. âHuh?â
His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. âWhy do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?â
Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.
âWhy do you think I crash girlâs night and come to your apartment unprompted?â
Your left cheek.
âHow come I live to rile you up?â
Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.
His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time⊠All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, heâs been⊠into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?
Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?
âUhââ Your voice is coarse. âWhâ Youâre into me?â
âTook you long enough.â
Your head is spinning. âLike, as of recent?â
Bucky snorts. âAs of a year ago, more like.â
âYouââ Youâre trying to wrap your head around this. âOkay. A yearâ Okay.â
âTake your time.â
âNo, yeah.â You clear your throat. âTotally. Thanks.â
Buckyâs other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. âWant me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?â His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if heâs finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.
âFunny,â you deadpan. âI think youâre wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.â
His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. âSuch a sweet girl.â Another kiss. âAlways looking out for my best interests,â he mumbles against your lips.
All this time, all this talk, all come to realize youâre still inside him.
It makes your heart flutter. âUhââ Suddenly youâre fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. Itâs a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you canât quite pinpoint. Youâve neverâŠbeen treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.
Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.
At your silence, he hums. âI know itâs a lot. Iâm a lot. But Iâm yours. Whenever you want me, Iâll be here.â
Your heart skips. âI think IâŠâ
The words escape you.
Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. âYou think what, sweet girl?â
âYouâre really gonna make me say it?â
âObviously.â
You groan, but thereâs no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead itâs one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But youâre here. With him. And somehow youâve never felt more reassured.
âI think Iâve been yours,â you say with no shroud of dignity left. âEven though I want to kill you half the time.â
Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. âIâll take it.â
It isnât much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if youâre a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.
Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. He kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.
You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that youâre complaining. At all.
âEasy,â Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. âSleep.â
ââM not tired.â Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.
His hands splay against your back under his shirt. âSure.â
Your nose nudges his vocal cord. âI think youâre just keen to praying on my downfall,â you say laced with sleep.
âTry reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe Iâll believe you.â
âShut up,â you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. âYou love me.â
A pause.
Then, quietly. âYeah.â His voice is certain. âI probably do.â
Youâre asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you canât explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, heâs a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time heâs in your presence. But heâs real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isnât.
And heâs solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that youâll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasnât felt in a really long time.
And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure heâs inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesnât have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.
Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug thatâs nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.
âYou canât leave!â She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Buckyâs car as you throw your bags in the backseat. âWinnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.â
âRight, honey,â Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. âWeâre going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. Weâd love your input.â
"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.
Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnieâs head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Buckyâs bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.
And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesnât look back. Only onward.
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warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Buckyâs in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 8.6k
part one - part three: coming soon
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, itâs getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when youâre starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contractâŠ
sammy speaks: part two is here!! I donât think Iâve written this many words since my 1D fanfic days lol. good news is Iâm on vacation now so the writing will be flowing! I wouldnât mind an ask or prompt about these two either đ hope you enjoy lovelies
December arrives suddenly. With it comes your winter break.
You spend most of it staying up late, indulging in mindless scrolls and shitty TV, and sleeping in until the afternoon. Itâs lazy, self-serving and irresponsible, but itâs healing something childlike within you that hasnât gotten attention since your mom passed.
Bucky understands this, but it doesnât mean he likes it.
âIâm giving my brain a break,â you tell him for the third time, phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder as you make a fresh cup of coffee at four in the afternoon.
âYouâre becoming nocturnal,â Bucky replies sternly on the other end.
âWhatâs wrong with that?â
âSunlightâs good for a person.â
âIâm looking at sunlight right now.â
âSunset,â he corrects. Sure enough, the light is fading quickly, street lamps powering on outside of your window. Damn daylight savings.
âOh, whatever,â you dismiss. âItâs not like itâs forever â I promise Iâll go back to a normal personâs sleep schedule after the new year.â
âI donât like waiting around all day to hear from you.â
Your heart skips a beat in your chest. âIâm sorry,â you say, gentler. âI donât mean to keep you waiting.â
âI know,â he sighs, resigned. âItâs just boring without you.â
You bite your lip, an idea blooming in your brain. âYou know whatâs not boring?â
âWhat?â
âMalibu.â
He exhales, long and deep, dragging it out.
âAlright,â he relents. âFine. But when we get back, youâre gonna start going to bed at a normal time like a well-adjusted person. Iâm tired of eating lunch alone.â
âOk, grandpa. I promise.â
He picks you up an hour later when youâre still zipping up your suitcase, dressed like a Tom Ford ad with a cashmere scarf and designer pea coat draped over him, face appropriately disgruntled but eyes bright with adventure as he holds the car door open for you. By six, youâre buckled into the seat next to him on the private jet. By midnight, youâre touching down at Santa Monica Airport.
Sun, sand and ocean breeze occupy your next forty-eight hours. Buckyâs house in Malibu boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Pacific, a waterfall pool set to the perfect temperature, and a large back deck to soak in the sun while eating breakfast. Bucky scrolls the morning news on his phone, shades on and shirt unbuttoned to his naval, while you sip mimosas and try not to stare.
Thatâs a difficult ask when youâre finally getting an unobstructed view of the chest hair that teased you so long ago.
The first day, you hop in his vintage convertible and drive up the coast to his sprawling vineyard. He gives you a tour of the grounds while you catch a buzz taste testing all the wines heâs made. Youâre flushed and giggling by the time you head back, and Buckyâs smile seems like a permanent fixture on his face. Dinner is a seafood feast at a small restaurant right off the beach, where the owner welcomes Bucky like a son and calls you stunning at least five times. The night ends with a glass of wine in front of the moonlit ocean, curled up on a blanket with oversized sweatshirts to block the wind. Whispers back and forth about childhood dreams and failed first kisses; favorite books and most embarrassing moments. You feel light as a feather by the time you float off to bed, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine settling deep in your chest.
The next day, Bucky rouses you from your sleep before the sunâs fully up, claiming you âneed the practiceâ and muttering that itâs already 9 in the morning back home when you prove difficult to move from the guest bed. When youâre finally up, the two of you walk the beach with the rest of the early risers, sipping travel mugs of extra strong coffee and making fun of runners who stumble through the sand.
The oceanâs coming alive at this time of day, and for a few minutes, the two of you stop to watch it do its thing. Waves crash, shells tumble. Not far from the coast, dolphins jump through the air, chasing fish and playing.
Itâs the calmest your mind and heart have been in ages, and the feeling makes you smile, face tipped up toward the sun. When Bucky reaches for your hand, you thread your fingers through his and squeeze.
Later, you take a dip in the pool while Bucky makes a work call. The sun beats down on your skin relentlessly like itâs never heard of winter. Youâre starting to doze on your floating lounge chair when you hear a small splash, and waves lap at your skin. You push your sunglasses up and look around.
Bucky breaks through the water at the other end of the pool. You blink at him.
When he spots you, a wicked smile crosses his face. Before you can say a word, heâs ducked under again and streaking towards you like a shark.
âBuckyââ
Youâre tossed overboard, the sound of Buckyâs laughter the last thing you hear before you hit the water. Heâs still laughing when you emerge, drenched and in disbelief. You answer his laugh with a sharp splash right to the face, scowling. His smile turns evil after he shakes the water from his eyes.
âDonât start something you canât finish, sweetheart.â
You splash him again because he fucking deserves it. Then he lunges.
You shriek, making a break for the edge of the pool, but heâs got you by the ankle before you even touch the wall. He yanks, sending you spiraling underwater again.
Youâre sputtering when you come up, but itâs game on now. You throw yourself at him, hands pressing down on his shoulders to give him a taste of his own medicine, but heâs immovable to your touch. Wasting no time, he grabs you by the waist and tosses you several feet across the water. You launch another attack when his headâs turned, coming up from behind and wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him down with you. He goes willingly this time, but his hands maneuver you easily so that youâre thrown over his shoulder when you break the surface. You writhe and wrestle him to let you go, but heâs got an unbreakable grip across your legs; he carries you through the shallow end while you whine about unfairness, fists beating at his back. He crosses the deck quickly and suddenly, youâre airborne.
Until you smack the water in the deep end.
You gasp for air when you come up. âYouâre a fucking bully,â you cough, throat raw from the unprecedented amount of water you inhaled. âYou win.â
âYou started it,â Bucky lifts his hands helplessly. Then, without warning, he gives you his best smile before cannonballing directly next to you. You scream as another wave of water brings you under.
You have half a mind to shove him back down when he reemerges, but his unbridled laughter is possibly one of the greatest sounds youâve ever heard in your entire life. You greedily take in the arch of his neck as he throws his head back, and the way his nose scrunches in delight.
After he accepts your white flag, he helps you to the wall, a hand on your back pushing you gently. He hoists himself out first, and suddenly the water in your nose isnât the only thing making it difficult for you to breathe.
Rivulets trail down his broad back, emphasizing the isolated muscles used to push himself up. Theyâre large, but sharp, clearly built by hours spent in the gym. When he turns around to offer you a hand, you canât look him in the eye. The front of him is downright obscene, a replica of any Greek sculpture you can think of. And with his hair slicked back, swim trunks clinging to his muscular thighs, and the chest hair on full displayâ the chest hairâ
He lifts you one-handed out of the water. You scurry away before you can make a bad decision â like lick the water from his chest.
Dinner is sushi on a private deck with the stars shining down on you. Heâs placed his jacket around your shoulders, the scent of his cologne and something innately him smothering you in the best way possible. Buckyâs chatty tonight, talking about work, talking about the vineyard, talking about old friends from college. You only absorb every other word, too busy sneaking lingering glances when heâs not looking.
His posture is more relaxed than youâve ever seen it, and his phone â his usual stressor â is nowhere in sight. The ocean breeze ruffles his hair but he doesnât bother to fix it. When he meets your eyes, he offers a smile that says heâs right where he wants to be. Like he could do this for the rest of his life.
But all good things must come to an end eventually.
New York is a tundra wasteland when you return. Your timing was impeccable because you just missed the biggest snowstorm of the season. Buckyâs grumbling about the cold the minute you step onto the tarmac, drawing the collar of his coat around his ears despite the car idling thirty feet away.
The drive into the city goes by too quickly. Malibu fades more into a memory with each mile you put between you and the plane.
You think you must be sleep-deprived and jet lagged, because when Bucky presses a parting kiss to your forehead once youâre in front of your building, tears spring to your eyes. Youâre out of the car before he can get a chance to see them.
But as soon as you step foot in your apartment, youâre missing the warmth of California, the beautiful Malibu home, the smell of the ocean, and Bucky by your side. Itâs not exhaustion that brought the tears â itâs longing. Heavy, irrational, unfiltered longing.
You force yourself to take a nap anyway.
Eventually, the holidays are here, and Bucky gets into the spirit by sparing no expense.
Two days before Christmas, he rents out the entire top floor restaurant of a skyscraper and presents you with a solid gold, heart-shaped locket in the middle of the quiet, candlelit room. Itâs vintage, itâs supposedly priceless, and itâs everything you never knew you wanted but now canât live without. Youâre stumbling over your thank yous as he helps you put it on. His fingers are warm and confident as he hooks the clasp, and trail down your neck unintentionally as you turn, giving you goosebumps.
âBeautiful,â he says quietly. Your skin flushes and your heart soars. Thatâs all you need to hear. You canât help but touch it repeatedly throughout the night, and Bucky notices, hiding his smile behind his drink.
Heâs over the top with giddiness when you give him his gift. A vinyl for his collection, a one-of-a-kind collectorâs album of his favorite band that took weeks to track down. And itâs something you purchased with your own meager savings â you know you didnât have to, but it means something to you to have given back even a minuscule fraction of what heâs given you.
Later that night, when youâre getting ready for bed at your own apartment, you take the locket off and unclasp it.
It pops open easily, revealing two empty frames.
Despite the incredible night, your heart canât help but sink.
You donât know what you were expecting â Buckyâs hardly the type to put a photo of himself in a locket, he barely looks in the mirror in the morning. But something inside of you was obviously hoping for it. A small sign of possession. Of claiming this relationship, no matter how it started or what itâs defined as.
You set the locket gently on your bedside table. You fall asleep looking at it, mind sifting through whatâs real and whatâs imagined.
Christmas day is a quiet event with an estranged aunt that makes the effort to keep family in your life. Itâs an awkward affair, with stilted small talk and pauses long enough to make you sweat, but you donât have the heart to tell her no each time she comes around.
Buckyâs unusually silent throughout the day, nothing from him except a text in the morning wishing you a merry Christmas. Itâs a strange feeling for you when most of your day is spent in contact with him. Youâre not sure where he is, or if heâs with family, or if he has any. Somehow, you havenât asked, and he hasnât volunteered that information yet.
But as the day goes on and you still havenât heard from him, the curiosity is starting to burn you alive.
Or is it jealousy? Jealousy for whoeverâs taking up all his time, time thatâs normally dedicated solely to you?
Youâre probably being overdramatic, but this feels like the first taste of what your life would be like without him, and itâs turning you inside out. Your usual detachment tendencies are nowhere to be found, instead making room for a frantic need to confirm his existence. You have to battle with the urge to call him three different times before your aunt gives you a stiff hug and heads out.
Once itâs just you and Lucky, the silence is a bitter enabler. Youâre ringing him before you know it.
He picks up just before it goes to voicemail. âHey,â he answers, voice hushed.
âHi,â you say. âMerry Christmas.â
âMerry Christmas, sweetheart. Howâs your aunt?â
âSheâs good. She made cookies and then we ate them in silence while watching Rudolph.â
He chuckles. âSounds like a heartwarming Christmas tradition.â
âI know. Sheâs trying, at least. She just left, actuallyâŠhowâs your Christmas?â
âItâs good.â
Thereâs a pause as you wait for him to say more, but he doesnât.
âGood,â you croak. âI-Iâm glad. I was afraid youâd spend it in the office.â
âEven I know when to take a day off, unlike some of us.â
Your smile is automatic as you recall the conversation from months ago. âHey, some of us didnât have a choice.â
âI know,â his chest rumbles, âbut now you do.â
âI donât have a job, Bucky.â
âSo you can take as many days off as you want.â
You giggle. âI donât think it works like that.â
âIt works whatever way you want it to, dollââ He cuts off when a voice in the background calls his name. A womanâs voice. High and lilting, musical. Your blood runs cold, like youâve been dropped into the Hudson. âHey, listen, I gotta go,â Bucky says, low and rushed. âBut Iâll call you first thing tomorrow, okay? Weâll do something. Donât sleep in.â
Your mouthâs open to reply but heâs already hung up. You stare at your phone until the screen goes black. Lucky jumps off the couch next to you, disappearing into the other room and leaving you to deal with your new fears alone.
Bucky makes good on his promise to call you the next morning. In a strange twist of events, you wake up early, probably because you were tossing and turning all night after the abrupt end to your call.
âHey, doll,â he says cheerfully.
âHey,â you breathe, praying you hide the hint of relief in your tone.
âFeel like ice skating today?â
Famous last words.
Much later, when your feet are numb from loss of circulation and the cold, and youâve tired of grumbling at Bucky about how effortless he is at skating, you stare down over the city from his penthouse windows. He has the fireplace lit, Christmas tree lights on, a Bing Crosby carol playing on the vinyl; your hands are wrapped around a hot tea, its steam warming your face. Itâs peaceful and serene.
Bucky falls into place beside you on silent feet.
âWhatcha thinking about?â
Your mind conjures up the phone call, the womanâs voice on Buckyâs end.
You smile. âThat I missed my calling as a figure skater.â
Buckyâs laugh is low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine and makes you shiver.
âI was thinking the same thing. You couldâve had a gold medal by now.â
âA dream deferred.â
Itâs quiet for a moment. Bucky reaches for you, pulling you closer by the hip. You can smell his cologne again, and it momentarily deprives you of all other senses.
âI had fun today,â he tells you. âSkating was my favorite thing to do as a kid. I couldnât tell you the last time I went.â
You hum and look up at him. âWhat made you think of it, then?â
âI donât know,â Bucky says slowly, taking a sip of tea. âI guess I was feeling nostalgic.â He meets your eyes. âThank you for coming with me.â
âThank you for taking me. It was surprisingly fun to embarrass myself in front of all those people.â
He scoffs. âYou were a lot better than you think. You just need practice.â
âSure. But letâs save that for next year when thereâs a better chance that people donât remember me.â
âWhatever you say, doll.â He pauses. âWhat are you doing for New Years?â
You blink. âOh, uh â nothing, I guess.â
His head tilts. âUp for another fancy party?â
Five days later, youâre draped in silk and diamonds, hair done and skin glowing. Buckyâs hand is dragging lazily up and down your back as he listens to a board memberâs hypothetical on splitting shares. You barely hear a word heâs saying.
When the man walks away, Bucky leans in. âHaving a holiday work party on an actual holiday is already dickish, but talking about work at the holiday work party? Unbelievable.â
âThe nerve of him,â you whisper back. He sends you a wink before leading you to the other side of the room.
Before the end of the night, Bucky gives a speech to the partygoers. He thanks everyone for coming before humbly acknowledging the company having another record-breaking year. Cheers erupt all around; everywhere you look, people are smiling at him with respect and admiration. Bucky calls out a few people in particular for exemplary performance, then reminds everyone to arrange for rides home before cracking a joke about who will be the first one in HRâs office after tonight.
Heâs charming, heâs magnetic, heâs impossible to look away from. And when he steps off stage and heads directly for you, your heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest.
During the countdown to midnight, Bucky has you pressed against his side, eyes twinkling as they take in the room. Meanwhile, youâre barely breathing, desperately wondering if Bucky will respect the age-old tradition of a kiss to ring in the new year. Just as the clock hits twelve, and you turn your face to his, Bucky leans down and brushes his lips to your forehead. Gentle, steady.
And not at all what you wanted.
âHappy New Year, honey.â
You exhale softly. âHappy New Year, Bucky.â
It takes everything in you to keep those floodgates right where they are.
After the partyâs ended, you agree to go back to Buckyâs. Heâs rubbing the marks of your heels from your feet while you recap the night, massaging the stiffness out of them; youâre bundled up in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he wears the same.
âThank you for coming with me tonight,â he says.
âOf course. It was a really beautiful party.â
âAgreed. Iâm looking forward to signing off on that bill on Monday.â
You laugh. âYou know, your employees really love you. I could see it on their faces.â
Bucky shrugs, but his ears go pink. âTheyâre good people.â
âI think youâre good people.â
âYouâre not so bad yourself,â he says with a smile. You attempt to push his chest with your foot, but he holds your ankle steady, eyes twinkling with mischief.
âI also think you donât give yourself enough credit,â you continue softly, voice lowering. âYou work hard, you fight for things thatâll make the company better, and you care so much. These people see it. Theyâre lucky to have you and they know it. I know I am.â
His hands pause. When his eyes find yours, theyâre wide, vulnerable. âThank you,â he whispers.
You shoot him a shy smile. âYouâre welcome.â
Your phone lights up just then, an alert from your cat camera detecting movement. But Buckyâs gaze is drawn to the time.
âChrist,â he swears, âitâs already three. Think itâs time for bed.â
You follow him toward the bedrooms, fighting off yawns; he turns to you in front of his door, sleepy smile already stretched across his face. âGoodnight, sweetheart,â he murmurs, turning the handle.
A thought occurs to you. A very selfish thought.
âBucky?â you blurt out.
He turns.
âYeah?â
âCan I, uh â can I sleepâŠin your bed? With you?â
Buckyâs silent, eyes blinking. You feel the heat creep up your neck and more words rush out of your mouth in response. Youâre looking everywhere but at him.
âJust for tonight, I â um, I just mean, itâs a holiday and, you know, you spend holidays with peopleâŠYou totally donât have to say yes, oh my God, I probably crossed a lineââ
âSweetheart.â
Bucky holds the door to his room open, standing aside to allow you to pass. Your mouth opens and closes without a sound, but you scamper by him when he raises an eyebrow. The lights are off, the bed made; you unfold it together, like youâve done this before a million times, and slide under the sheets.
Lying down, you face each other, eyes dancing over the otherâs features softly illuminated by the lights of the city through the window; thereâs only a few inches of space between you â it feels too close yet not close enough at the same time.
âThank you,â you whisper to him. A soft smile flits across his face. Wordlessly, he reaches out and curls two fingers around yours, then his eyes flutter shut.
âSleep tight, sweetheart.â
You watch his breathing slow, getting comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like this, youâre free to stare. You drink him in, every inch you can see, from the strands of hair falling in his face to the outlines of his legs underneath the sheets. You wish you could see all of him, every freckle, every line, every angle, so you can greedily commit it to memory. So you can be one of the lucky few to have known Bucky Barnes so intimately.
It isnât lust, it isnât want âitâs something much deeper than that. Something much more devastating.
Youâre eventually lulled to sleep by the pulse in his wrist beating against yours.
January is cold and brutal. February is no better. March finally brings a taste of the sun, but youâre too busy buried up to your neck in school that you hardly step outside to savor it, unless Buckyâs there to drag you out the door.
With finals on the horizon, sometimes you have to make the hard decision to decline Buckyâs invites to dinner, or a show, or another charity gala. The guilt and pressure cut so deep after you say no that you burst into tears as soon as you get off the phone with him.
To his credit, Bucky doesnât push â heâs your number one champion for you getting your degree â but in your weakest moments, when a headache throbs at your temple and youâve gone cross-eyed from staring at a screen all day, you think about the womanâs voice on Buckyâs phone. Itâs like your brain is punishing you for overworking it day in and day out, pushing nasty propaganda about losing him to a faceless woman as you try to fall asleep.
Dark circles under your eyes become a constant. You live off of electrolytes, coffee and takeout that Bucky has delivered to your apartment. Youâre too tired to even doomscroll when you allow yourself a five minute break. Itâs a very isolated existence.
Bucky comes by when he can, bearing groceries and ibuprofen and looking larger than life in your little one bedroom flat.
When heâs with you, he shows absolutely no signs of there being another woman in his life, patiently listening to your complaints about thesis formatting and unproved data formulas, gently making you eat after youâve paced a ditch into your floorboards, holding you close on the couch until your body finally relaxes.
But your brain is a vengeful motherfucker. It torments you for choosing school over Bucky in between writing papers and compiling research. It convinces you that heâs faking every sweet word of encouragement that he gives you. It blends your reality until you believe that heâs cozied up at dinner with someone new, working his effortless charm on your replacement while you sit at home in the dark with your textbooks.
Unsurprisingly, you reach a breaking point.
Now, a sane person would pick up the phone and talk to him about it. But youâve been entertaining a mild psychosis for days, brought on by stress and fatigue and pathetic amounts of yearning, so â naturally â you decide to show up at his home.
Itâs half past midnight when you stumble out of the elevator into his dark penthouse. You bump into a side table as you struggle to find the light switch, sending it to the floor with a crash that could wake the dead, i.e., Bucky. Sure enough, you hear his bedroom door open and the sound of feet rounding the corner. The light flips on.
âWhat the fuck?â
Heâs wearing nothing except his briefs, hair mussed from sleep but eyes wide and alert. He looks like heâs seeing a ghost. You certainly look the part â your clothes are soaked through from the rain, your teeth chattering and lips blue.
âH-hey,â you say weakly.
He says nothing, a tense moment passing between the two of you, before he crosses the room and pulls you into his chest.
âWhatâs wrong?â he demands. âAre you okay?â He pushes you back to scan you from head to toe. Your fingers curl around his forearms.
âN-no, Iâm f-fine. Just c-c-cold.â
He yanks you back into his hold, arms like pythons around your waist and shoulders.
âWhat are you doing here?â he breathes against your hair. âI thought you were asleep.â
Your sigh brushes against his collarbone; your body is melting against his already. âI t-tried, butâŠI m-missed you.â
Bucky stills, just for a second. Then his arms pull even tighter around you.
âI missed you, too.â
âIâm sorry I woke you up,â you whisper.
âDonât apologize. Iâm glad youâre here.â He lifts his cheek from your head, taking in your wet clothes. âDid you â did you walk here?â
You have the grace to look guilty.
âFuck,â he hisses, leaning down to meet your eye, âdonât ever do that again. I donât want you walking around the city alone at this time of night â either call Bob or call an uber and charge it to my card. You donât walk. Do you hear me?â
The tone of his voice is new and startling to your already-vulnerable psyche. Tears spill over before you can stop them. He exhales deeply, hands coming up to cup your face.
âIâm sorry,â he says, softer. âI shouldnât have said it like that. You justâŠscared me.â
âIâm fine,â you repeat, sniffling.
âSays the woman who walked God knows how far in the pouring rain at midnight.â His eyes search your face. âWhatâs going on?â
Your lip trembles. âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
âShhh. Tell me whatâs wrong,â he urges, and all of the ugly thoughts rear their heads inside your brain.
âIt â itâs stupidâŠâ
âIt canât be if you came all this way. Just tell me.â
He waits in silence for you to answer. You struggle to find the words, sifting through scraps of explanations while your head and your heart duke it out.
ââŠI guess I wasâŠafraid,â you mumble, unable to hold his gaze.
âAfraid of what, sweetheart?â His thumbs brush your cheekbones soothingly.
âOfâŠlosing you.â
He frowns. âWhat do you mean?â
You take a sharp, rattling breath. âI keep saying no to doing things with you because Iâm so worried about school, and I â I havenât made any effort at all to make up for it. Weâve barely seen each other in weeks â I didnât realize until now how much Iâve been pushing you a-away. It made me scared that youâd see that I was choosing school over you andâŠy-youâd get tired of me, or want someone elseâŠâ
For the longest minute of your life, he says nothing. You watch as a thousand different emotions cross his face, from anger to sadness to relief. He settles on a blend of happy and pained, jaw clenching but eyes calm as ever. Bucky brings you closer, leaning his forehead against yours.
âSweetheart, youâre not losing me.â He speaks softly, melodically. âI told you a long time ago that I wanted you to be able to focus on what matters to you, and I meant it. Iâm so damn proud of what youâre doing, it makes every second Iâm not with you worth it.â
He tilts your head up so that you meet his gaze. Itâs warm, tender, almost pleading.
âAnd I could never get tired of you, even if we go days, or weeks, or months without seeing each other. You bring so much joy to my life just by being in it. Just by being you. Why would I ever want anyone else?â
In the back of your mind, you know youâre sobbing, but you donât care. A hundred pound weight has been lifted off your chest and you think you might float to the ceiling if you werenât wrapped up in Buckyâs arms. Whimpering, you bury your face into his chest, clutching at him with all your might. Buckyâs hands spread across your back, pressing you closer.
âThank you,â you whisper against his skin. His lips brush your hair in a soft kiss.
The other floodgate cracks open, as inevitable as the sun rises. This time, you donât fight it â you push the door all the way open, standing aside to let the oncoming rush of feelings flood your heart after theyâve been locked away for so long. It hurts, but itâs a good kind of hurt. Especially when Buckyâs holding you through it.
He only pulls away once your tears have turned into the occasional hiccup. âCome on,â he says gently, âletâs get you warmed up.â
He steers you into his bathroom, turning on the shower and placing a hoodie and boxers next to the sink. He leaves you to it, and you spend a good amount of time scrubbing at your face and regaining feeling in your limbs.
When you open the bathroom door, drowning in his clothes and smelling like his soap, heâs waiting for you, dressed in a hoodie of his own. A tiny part of you mourns the loss of seeing his skin. He helps you climb into his bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as you settle against the pillows. He flicks the light off before sliding in beside you, shuffling over until his cold toes touch yours, and his hand slides down your wrist and grabs your arm, pulling you in to close the distance between you.
A faint noise escapes you as you tuck your head against his shoulder. Youâve never been this close to him before â it feels like coming home after a long time away.
Youâre drifting off in minutes, Buckyâs arm a comforting weight around your waist. Your dreams start sweetly when you hear his voice saying, âIâm all yours, sweetheart.â
When you receive the email that late April morning, youâre lying in Buckyâs bed scrolling on your phone. Even though Bucky left for work hours ago, you have a habit of drawing out your mornings from the comfort of his king mattress. As soon as you get the notification, your heart stops. You shoot up quickly, opening the email with shaky fingers, and read.
On behalf of the faculty and administration, we extend our sincere congratulations on the successful completion of your Masterâs degree in Business Analytics.
This message serves as official confirmation that your degree has been conferred. Your academic achievement reflects a high level of dedication, discipline, and commitment to your field of studyâŠ
You scream before erupting into a fit of laughter, scrambling out from under the covers to jump on the bed until your legs give out. You fucking did it.
Breathless, you collapse onto the bed, immediately dialing Bucky. He picks up in one ring.
âYour ears mustâve been burning âcause Iâve got a bone to pick with you, doll, you took all the covers from me last night arouââ
âBucky. I did it. I got the email.â
Silence for the length of a heartbeat. Then, with a smile in his voice, âThatâs my girl. Congratulations, sweetheart, I always knew youâd do it.â
âThank you, Bucky â I-I couldnât have done it without you.â
âNah, that was all you, smarty pants.â
You giggle, smushing your face into the pillow to hide your blush.
âIt doesnât feel real,â you muse, blowing hair from your eyes. âIâm not sure if Iâm supposed to feel different or what.â
âThatâs because you need to celebrate. You worked so hard for this, your brain isnât out of school mode yet. You need to show yourself that you earned it. Thatâs when it will sink in.â
Your smile grows. âI like the way you think, Barnes. What do you think our odds are of getting into Minetta tonight?â
Thereâs a pause on his end, the sound of his keyboard the only thing you hear.
âActually, I was thinking of something a little further away than Minetta.â
You know that tone. You sit up straight.
âBucky. What are you planning?â
Youâve never seen water so blue in your entire life. Not even the beaches of Positano hold a candle to the sea surrounding the Maldives.
Bucky offers you a hand as you step out of the car. You take it gratefully, squeezing tightly just to make sure heâs real, that all of this is real.
âWelcome to One&Only Reethi Rah, Mr. Barnes. Weâre so happy you could join us here.â
Bucky pulls you close, an arm slung over your shoulders, as the guide takes you across the grounds and to the docks where several large huts are built over the turquoise water. He shows you to the door of yours and Buckyâs villa, prattling off the agenda Buckyâs already set with the staff. You just barely register the words âsnorkelingâ and âprivate dinnerâ while you wander. Itâs a long structure with an open concept, you can just see the end of the bed past the dining table; all of the walls are windows that are open to let in the breeze; on the far end, a large sundeck faces the ocean.
Bucky speaks with the guide while you weave in and out of the rooms. Two bathrooms, a small kitchen, a pool, and one bed. A small smile stretches across your face as your fingers brush over the comforter.
âWhat do you think?â
You turn, finding Bucky leaning against the wall across from you. Your smile grows and you let out a squeal, scrambling up and over the bed in your hurry to wrap your arms around him.
He smiles back, crushing you to him. âIâve never heard that sound from you before. Iâm guessing you like it?â
âBucky â I love it. This place is a dream!â
âGlad you think so. Not a bad spot to celebrate getting your Masterâs, huh?â
You laugh. âWay better than Minetta.â
The celebrations start with â of all things â a nap, because the twenty-four hours of traveling catch up to you once the adrenaline wears off. You stretch out on the bed next to Bucky, his hand carding through your hair, feet dangling over the edge, the sound of the ocean lulling you to sleep.
You feel like youâve just closed your eyes when he nudges you awake. His hairâs all over the place in the most endearing way possible, so you reach up and muss it up even more; he grabs your wrist and holds it tight, warning you that youâll be swimming in the ocean sooner than you think if you keep it up.
The sunâs just kissing the horizon when you head toward the beach, where another member of the resort staff escorts you to a private table set up for dinner. You sit through six courses of the freshest seafood and sweetest fruit youâve ever had, sipping Bellinis while you and Bucky talk about nothing and everything at once.
At the end of the meal, after you canât eat another bite of the desert, he pulls out a small black velvet box. Inside is a pair of earrings of your birthstone, shined till they gleam. You give him an earful for buying these when heâs already brought you here, but he smiles through it until your chastising turns into an endless stream of gratitude.
The next morning begins with a huge breakfast spread out on the sundeck, where Bucky insists on sunscreen first thing. You laugh at him for his responsible antics, but when you take turns putting it on each otherâs backs, his big hands touching parts of you he hasnât touched before, you canât think of a more beautiful invention than sunscreen.
Bucky looks like Godâs gift to women lounging next to you in the sun chair, sipping coffee and eating berries in a linen shirt he doesnât bother to button, like itâs his birthright, like he was made to do it. Youâre thankful for the heavy tint on your sunglasses concealing your wandering gaze.
Later, the two of you set off on a private yacht tour of the islands. You sit leaning against him on the front of the ship, pointing out dolphins that flip through the air and waving at passing boaters. With the roar of the wind and the motor, Bucky has to lean down and speak directly into your ear so you can hear him, and every time his lips brush your skin, youâre melting further and further into him.
You know youâre not being as subtle as youâd like â a small voice in your head wonders if he notices.
Dinner is back at the villa, where a private chef prepares choice cuts of steak and lobsters the size of your arm. The chef is entertaining, cracking jokes and flipping knives, and as you laugh through his horrible impression of Gordon Ramsay, you catch Bucky watching you from the corner of your eye.
He smiles shyly when he sees heâs caught, but he doesnât look away. You feel a flush of warmth drag down your spine, limbs tingling in anticipation of something you donât know the name of.
That night, youâre facing each other in bed, heads propped up by elbows so that you can reminisce on the day. Youâre raving about the miles of rainbow coral you saw when Bucky reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger longer than necessary, much longer than appropriate, and it takes everything you have to keep going like his touch didnât just send your heart into a frenzy. You take note of his half-lidded gaze locked onto your face â it could be from exhaustion, or it could be from something else.
You try not to let your mind spiral into the possibilities.
But when he has you cuddled close to his chest, just like every other night, you can hear his heart pounding through his thin t-shirt.
The rest of your week in paradise is a balance of dream-like activities and tension-filled moments. One minute youâre snorkeling, the next, Buckyâs undoing the back strap of your bikini and retying it with slow, concentrated precision. One minute youâre learning how to sail, the next, Bucky has you laid out on his chest, every inch of you on him as you take a nap in the sun.
You tell yourself that this is just Vacation Bucky, that nothingâs changed for him when it comes to what this arrangement is.
But his eyes follow you everywhere, he follows you everywhere, a hand lingering near your skin at all times.
Itâs enough to make a rational person snap. And you do.
Youâre getting ready for dinner after hours spent in the ocean. Buckyâs already cleaned up, now rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear while youâve slipped into the connecting bathroom. You absentmindedly slide the door shut behind you, and it doesnât quite connect with the frame; instead, a sliver of space is left open, just enough that, when you reach to close it all the way, you can see Bucky moving about the room.
The idea arrives unbidden, and it makes your stomach swoop low. Do it, the devil on your shoulder urges. The angel on the other shoulder stays silent.
You wait until heâs directly lined up with the crack in the door, then you turn your back to him.
âHey, Buck?â
âYeah?â
âRemind me what weâre doing for dinner again.â Thereâs a brief pause.
âWeâre heading inland,â Bucky says. You think he sounds like heâs directly behind you.
Wasting no time, you take the ties of your bikini bottoms and pull them loose â they crumple to the floor.
âDo you know what theyâre serving?â
Then you turn to the side, reaching up to untie the knot at the back of your neck; slowly, your bikini top slinks down your torso, exposing your breasts to the warm, night air.
You want to look â you really, really want to look â but you know you canât. You canât risk what comes after catching him looking. And what if heâs not looking? What if heâs done the decent thing, like the decent man he is, and walked away? Youâre not sure how youâd be able to shoulder that feeling for the rest of the trip, not when youâre bartering your firstborn to the higher powers above for him to be looking.
You realize that Bucky hasnât said anything.
âBucky?â you call out, reaching to undo the last of the ties, and the bikini top lands on the bottoms, leaving you completely naked before the crack in the door.
âYeah,â you hear. Low, rough, distracted.
Donât fucking lookâ
âThe food,â you reply, forcing an amused smile. âDo you know what it is? I donât think I could eat another tartar with a gun to my head.â
Thereâs a pause before he speaks, sounding further away. âYouâll be fine.â
His words sound final; you think you hear the slide of the door leading out to the water. You bite your lip before turning for the shower. The boldness you were feeling before is quickly shrinking into nothing, leaving you with an empty feeling in your stomach and a knot of guilt in your chest.
Back in the room, Bucky nowhere in sight, you sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your chest, damp hair clinging to your skin.
âFucking idiotâ you whisper to yourself. You think you might actually be insane. Or tremendously stupid. Or both. Who tries to seduce their best friend, their supportive, respectful, gorgeous best friend, with a fucking strip tease?
The words are like a knife to your chest as you sit with them. Itâs the first time youâve acknowledged Bucky being your best friend, and itâs right after going down in history as the shittiest friend ever.
âŠbut are you?
Your mind replays every crooked smile heâs sent you, every dirty joke heâs laughed at, every hug and cuddle and forehead kiss, every second of this damn trip. Youâre analyzing all of it frame by frame in pursuit of a sign that he wants more.
Because you sure as hell do.
Itâs no question that things have changed completely for you, as devastating as a religious reckoning. You want him. You love him. Youâre fucking head over heels for him.
But until you get that sign. The sign that he wants more, too. You canât tell him. Not without risking everything â and youâd rather die with your love a secret than destroy what you have with him now by saying it out loud. Yet another tragedy to add on to your already pitiful life.
Buckyâs out on the deck when you emerge from the bathroom, wearing a flowy white linen dress that allows your skin to breathe.
âHey,â you call out, voice on the wobbly side, heart fluttering nervously. âYou ready?â
He turns from staring out at the ocean. When his eyes land on you, he stills.
âWhat?â you canât help but ask as the silence stretches. âShould I change?â
He shakes his head, taking a step toward you. âPlease donât. You lookâŠyou look like an angel.â
The new compliment sinks deep into your heart, making you blush. Your answering smile is shy. âThanks, BuckâŠso, are we going or what?â
The dinner is beautiful, no surprise there; you, Bucky, and a few other guests sit in a treehouse-like structure while aproned servers bring around plates of local dishes that melt on your tongue and introduce you to flavors you could only dream of. Thereâs live music in the corner of the room, a light breeze that cools your skin, and the ambiance is the perfect mix of cozy and seductive.
Meanwhile, Buckyâs giving an Oscar-worthy performance of everything being perfectly fine and normal. He smiles at you over his drink and lets his hand wander over your back. He laughs at the serverâs joke and encourages you to get a second desert. He seems calm. Content. Happy.
But his eyes are dark and distracted. You catch him staring off into the distance more than once. And when you say his name to brink him back, his gaze burns into yours like a brand.
Back in the villa, the two of you get ready for bed quickly, the day getting the better of you both. Youâre fighting through a fifth yawn when you finally collapse on top of the bed, spreading out over the covers in a small tank top and matching shorts to fight off the heat of the night. Behind you, Bucky emerges from the bathroom; the sound of his footsteps stop suddenly near the end of the bed, where youâre on full display to whoever passes by. They start up again before you can turn and look, and then Buckyâs pulling back the covers and sliding into bed.
âBudge over, doll,â he murmurs, stretching out his legs beneath the sheets. You sigh and roll over and off the bed so you can join him. He reaches over to turn off the light, and then itâs just the two of you and the moonâs reflection on the ocean.
âItâs so pretty,â you whisper. âI donât think I could ever get tired of this.â
âMe neither,â he says. You turn on your side to look at him, a hand propping up your head.
âWhatâs been your favorite part?â
A faint smile flickers across his face. âThe eel.â
You laugh. âOh, Iâm so glad you found my fear so entertaining.â
âIâve never seen anyone swim that fast.â
âA moray eel crossed right in front of us and youâre saying you didnât almost shit yourself?â
He shrugs before flipping onto his side. âThey donât bother you if you donât bother them.â
âIâll be sure to remember that for next time.â
âAnd maybe next time you wonât push me toward it while youâre trying to get away.â
You cover your face with your hand. âOkay, that was shitty of me, I admit it.â
âJust shitty?â he repeats. âYou were sacrificing me to save yourself! I started questioning everything I thought I knew about you.â
Your jaw drops open. âThatâs not fair! Iâd love to see what youâd do to me if a big fat spider crawled up the bed.â Bucky shudders for effect. âAnd what happened to âthey donât bother you if you donât bother themâ?â
âTheyâre territorial, doll â you pushed me into his reef.â
âAnd he didnât do anything because he could sense your hippie-dippy, ârespect the ocean, it respects you backâ manifesto. Point is, youâre fine.â
âYeah, physically. Emotionally? Iâll never recover.â
âDrama queen.â You shove at his shoulder to push him out of the bed.
Quick as a whip, he seizes your wrist and pushes you back. You canât help but laugh as your plan backfires, his strength overtaking yours by a long shot. He rolls you closer to the edge of the bed, restraining your other wrist easily. You push back with all your might, slipping one wrist from his grasp and pushing at his chest, locking your leg around his to keep you anchored. Your giggles and his huffs of laughter fill the room as you struggle to push each other out of the bed.
And then something shifts, like a light switch turning off; Buckyâs eyes, bright with laughter, turn darker, steadier. His breath hitches.
âAlright, thatâs enough,â he murmurs, voice rough. With no effort at all, he grabs both wrists in one hand. His other hand grips your bare knee, unhooking it from around his thigh and placing it on the mattress.
Shocked, you slide your leg down beside the other, your skin burning where his hand touched. He keeps your wrists.
âWhatâs wrong?â you ask.
He says nothing, breathing deep as he stares at your hands. You shake them in his hold. âBucky.â
He sighs softly, just a push of air from his lungs like heâs come to a decision but hates the choice he made.
âI need you to stay there, sweetheart.â
You gape at him. âWhat? Did I â did I hurt you?â
âNo, you didnât hurt me.â
âBuckyââ you start, inching closer, but he pins your wrists to the mattress, pressing firmly to make a point.
âPlease.â
You watch with wide eyes as he slowly turns from his side to his stomach, resettling into the mattress with a fleeting wince.
Is he�
He canât meet your gaze, and thereâs a flush to his neck that wasnât there before, that you suspect is not from the heat. His hand over your wrists tightens imperceptibly. You stay silent until he has no choice but to look at you, and all you see is blown pupils.
He is.
You nod and he releases you, but you canât look away from him. Not when he looks like this. Not when heâs the most vulnerable heâs ever been in front of you.
âItâs okay,â you whisper.
He makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, but he doesnât move.
Eventually, his breathing levels out and so does yours â you hadnât realized it had picked up when he held your hands down. The waves crash again and again, a tropical white noise to chip away at the tension.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice screams at you that this is it, this is your moment to let him know exactly how you feel.
You think about crossing that symbolic six inches of space between you and kissing him. You think about touching him softly until he relaxes for you, until he welcomes you over to him. You think about forcing him over and straddling him before he can say a word.
What stops you is the look on his face. He isnât embarrassed, like you expected â heâs disappointed, remorseful, pained, like he violated your trust as his friend and decided itâs unforgivable.
It makes your gut sink, remembering the bait you dangled before him earlier. A conflicting mix of emotions crowd your heart, vying for priority, the biggest battle between sweet satisfaction, and crushing guilt.
You canât do it. Not like this. Not when he looks so broken over it. You take a deep breath, strands of hair floating into your face.
Without a word, and giving you all the time in the world to stop him, Bucky reaches over and tucks the pieces carefully behind your ear. Your eyes flutter shut.
âSleep tight, sweetheart,â he whispers.
Your lips part. Your eyes open. Heâs staring at you.
âYou too, Buck.â
sammy speaks again: thank you for reading! I appreciate all the love I got from part one so much, it meant the absolute world to me. itâs a privilege just to be able to share my silly little stories with others đ€ last part coming soon!
You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaperâonly to discover itâs a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldnât be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine || Part Ten
SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogersâ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that youâre in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brotherâs best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.
WORD COUNT. 38.2K
WARNINGS. college au, brotherâs best friend trope, MDNI, fluff, slowish burn, angst, inexperienced reader, smut, virginity loss, oral (f and m receiving), vaginal fingering, nipple play, protected pnv, more to be added.
PARTS. Chapter 1 â teach me Chapter 2 â please me Chapter 3 â love me
NOTES. Steve is going to haunt the narrative like the wife who dies at the start of a film. You can imagine reader as Steveâs adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions.
STATUS. COMPLETED
my masterlist!
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You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaperâonly to discover itâs a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldnât be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine || Part Ten
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HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) â BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT
SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating â much less touching with a ten foot pole â is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you canât help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.
WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.
You never wouldâve stopped by Natasha and Steveâs apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.
He always loiters whenever heâs bored â which is almost always â because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Buckyâs either in the kitchen cooking with food that isnât his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show youâve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.
Granted, you interrupt them too, but thatâs because you get invited along with Natashaâs other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.
Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because heâs always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when youâre stopping by, and beats you here first.
Your eyes instantly roll when heâs the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that heâs grown used to seeing. Buckyâs leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.
Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natashaâs sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Buckyâs all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. Itâs almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.
Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.
"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.
You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.
His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.
Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.
When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.
"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.
You respond by doing it again.
"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."
His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.
Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.
Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.
All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?
You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.
"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."
If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.
Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.
When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.
"ânderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."
"Nâ!"
Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."
When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.
"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."
"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.
Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.
She doesn't hear you. Of course.
"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ringâ"
"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Owâ Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"
Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do isâ
"What the fuck?"
"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freakâ"
"I am freaking."
"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.
"Absolutely not."
"I didn't even pitch it to you."
"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."
Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.
But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."
"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.
"I didn't think I needed to?"
Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.
Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?
"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."
You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.
"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.
Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.
"It could be fun."
"Are you kidding?"
"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."
"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."
This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you â he went in for a hug on New Year's â you panicked and knocked him into the bar.
"Haven't pushed me away yet."
Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.
So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.
"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"
Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"
Deadpan stare.
He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"
Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.
"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"
"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."
The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.
Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking â no, begging â for your help, you know it's truthful.
You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.
He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him chatting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other girl who looks him up and down on the street to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?
Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.
"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"
It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.
And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."
You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.
But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family â and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about â really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.
So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.
"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.
Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.
"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."
He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."
You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.
Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.
"I want Alpine."
Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."
"You just said whatever I wanted."
His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."
Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."
"Gotta practice somehow."
"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.
Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"
You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.
"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.
But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.
"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Justâ Fuckâ Wait a second."
God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.
Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.
Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.
"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."
You quirk a brow.
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."
For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.
The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.
You sigh deeply.
"Three," you counter-argue.
"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."
You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."
He still hasn't let go of your wrist.
"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.
And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Siâ
"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.
As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.
Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.
Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.
When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.
The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.
Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.
The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.
But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.
Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.
(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)
Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.
"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"
Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.
Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.
"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."
She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.
"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."
You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.
"Oh, did he?"
Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.
"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that youâre becoming a young man."
He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.
"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.
You shove that assumption way, way, way down.
Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."
Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"
You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.
His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."
If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.
"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?
Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.
"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.â
Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. Sheâs unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume itâs detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasnât breathed in what feels like a minute.
The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.
The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.
"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."
Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.
Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?
But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.
"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.
Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)
"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."
You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"
Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.
"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."
Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.
His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.
You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?
Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.
When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.
"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.
And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.
Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.
Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.
Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.
And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.
You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?
Frankly, you canât even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. Heâs never spoken highly of the man, and youâve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet youâre no idiot, you can assume itâs nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell thereâs a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his fatherâs approval, his fatherâs love, his fatherâs respect. You canât necessarily blame him for that. You donât understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesnât feel like heâs enough just because his father thinks so.
"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"
Bucky's lips twitch just barely.
"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."
"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."
You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"
"Theâ Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"
Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.
"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."
"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.
(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)
He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."
"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented andâ"
"There you are!"
An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.
Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that'sâ
"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."
Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.
"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."
You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.
Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.
"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.
Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."
"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.
Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.
"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.
Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.
Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).
"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.
Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.
After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.
No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.
A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.
"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."
He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.
But you're an adult. At least you try to be.
So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."
His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.
Then, Bucky does something you never expect.
The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.
He justâ Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the beltâ
Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.
You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.
You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."
"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."
Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.
You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?
"Pardon?" You ask calmly.
Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.
"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."
Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.
Doesn't seem like it, though.
But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.
"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."
The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.
"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.
"You think that's you?"
Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.
She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."
Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."
The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.
"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."
Your brow quirks.
"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.
Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.
Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.
"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."
Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.
Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.
Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.
"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to proveâ"
Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.
He bites cautiously. "You alright?"
You quirk a brow. "Peachy."
Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one â not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.
"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"
"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."
His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.
"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"
Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."
God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.
No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.
His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.
"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."
Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.
Bucky rides that high all night.
Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.
"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."
You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.
His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.
"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.
God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.
Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.
"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."
The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.
But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.
Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like sheâs about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you donât think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if itâs an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.
âItâs so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,â she says earnestly. âItâs heartwarming to know sheâs making you better.â
Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. Theyâre simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion youâre feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if thatâs a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isnât true.
He isnâtâŠbeing real. Heâs being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. Heâs acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe heâs capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. Thatâs all. Nothing more.
But whyâd Margaret say again?
You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe heâs this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?
You know youâre here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. Youâre here as his friend, as a favor, thatâs all. Thereâs nothing more you need to do than what youâve already been doing.
But just because he has a supposed âgirlfriendâ doesnât make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe thatâs the case.
All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.
But you do.
Fuck. You notice.
And your heart just⊠breaks.
How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesnât do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?
Donât say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.
âYes, honey,â his cousin Gemma pipes up. âHaving such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.â
Fuck. Donât say anything. Not your place.
Margaret hums in agreement. âYouâre on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!â
She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.
But it only breaks the dam.
God damn it.
âActually,â you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. âIf anyone should be getting praise, itâs Bucky.â
Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.
But you brush him off, because what? Youâre not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They donât even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think heâs not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone whoâs more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?
You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, heâs your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and heâs one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.
Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.
"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.
Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.
âIâm sure you werenât implying that heâs less of a person when single,â you add pointedly. Then, âRight?â
The stammering is immediate.
âNo!â Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. âOf course not. James, thatâs not what we meant at all. We justââ
âThatâs good,â you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you donât even know like that. âI just wanted to make sure.â
âOf course,â Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. âWe love you, James, we just want you to be happy.â
And Bucky?
His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.
"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."
Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"
You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.
Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.
"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"
He takes a beat. Registering your words.
Then, he nods. "Read my mind."
You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.
"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.
Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.
It's... achingly comfortable.
God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.
The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.
"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."
You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."
He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.
"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."
"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."
His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."
"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."
"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."
"Bucky."
"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."
"Do you ever think before you speak?"
"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.
You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.
But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.
...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.
When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.
"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"
The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.
But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."
When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for â as you've done so many times in the past.
This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.
...And Bucky fucking freezes.
Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.
He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?
The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.
It makes you stifle a grin.
"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"
You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.
Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.
"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"
You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.
You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.
His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.
There's an odd sense of pride â perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw â that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?
And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.
Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"
"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.
"Debatable."
"Is it?"
"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."
"For show," you add pointedly.
Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.
God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."
Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.
Your brows pinch slightly.
"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."
It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"
His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."
"Do I?"
"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."
...You do.
You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?
You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.
You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now â this very moment â a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?
"You're thinking about it."
Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.
"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.
He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"
"Bucky."
"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every roomâ"
"You're insufferable."
His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"
Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."
"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."
"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."
"Hot."
"Bucky."
"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."
You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?
Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.
Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling forâ
God, you can't even say it. Falling forâ
"Bucky!"
The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?
"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"
Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."
"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."
While Bucky â quite reluctantly â recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.
And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.
When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.
Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When itâs all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more sâmores are eaten, more drinks are opened.
The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.
Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.
Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.
It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.
Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.
But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.
Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.
"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."
A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.
Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.
A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.
You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.
"I wanna swim."
Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"
Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."
His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).
But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.
A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"
Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.
"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.
Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.
"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."
His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.
After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.
You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.
The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.
However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.
"Aghâ"
You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.
Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.
"You're evil for that."
You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."
Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.
"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.
Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"
His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"
"I'd say so."
"Yeah. For you."
"What would you consider it?"
He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."
âOh?â
âYeah. One may say euro-stepping.â
"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."
Then you kiss him.
And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.
Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.
"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."
"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.
"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can'tâ You can't just say that."
Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.
"I can't?"
"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."
You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation youâll shove him off, but you donât. You fucking donât. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.
Now itâs your turn to curse.
âFuck.â You shift your hips against his once more. âOf course youâd have a big dick.â
Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, heâs just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing heâs just a man. (A man who has been practically celibate the past year when he realized this feeling towards you was going nowhere, but nonetheless just a man.)
âMakes up for being an asshole,â is all heâs able to get out.
You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.
âYouâre not an asshole,â you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. âNot actually.â
âCareful, baby,â he warns. âItâs starting to sound as if you like me or something.â
âI can totally swim away if you want me toââ
âNope.â His hands are iron grip. âNot a chance. Youâre stuck with me.â
You scoff. âIâm never being nice to you again.â
Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. Itâs delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.
âI can live with that,â he says simply, as if itâs certain as law.
Thatâs when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.
How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair thatâs fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.
It isnât until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.
âArghâ What the fuck!â
Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.
âEasy,â he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. âAll this big, bad talk and youâre scared of a fish.â
You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.
âThat wasnât a fish,â you defend instantly, hating the way heâs still literally laughing at you. âThat was⊠It was a three tailed shark, or something.â
Buckyâs footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that heâs not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are â him, too â hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.
His words are slow and calculated. âA three tailed shark?â
You groan, annoyed heâs not moving. âOr something.â
ââŠOr something. Donât sharks have fins? Not tails?â
His tone makes it sound like heâs on the verge of barking out laughter.
"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"
"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."
"Bucky."
"It's worse than I thought."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Just like any other day."
When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.
As you gather his clothing as well â even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face â you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.
"Waitâ fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."
Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.
Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.
Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.
"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.
He hums low. "Am I?"
"Clearly."
"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"
God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Never with you."
He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).
Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next roomâ
...To where you're not alone.
You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.
Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.
"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."
Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."
His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.
All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that â at the end of the day â the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.
The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."
"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."
"Can we notâ Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"
A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.
But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.
"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."
Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.
"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."
Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.
But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.
Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.
His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows betterâ"
"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"
"That's notâ"
Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.
"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."
You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.
But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.
"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."
Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet â too quiet â as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.
When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.
"You wanna shower?"
Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.
He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."
You frown.
...No. That's not what you're thinking.
You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.
But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.
So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.
Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.
Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.
The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.
"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"
"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."
"...So, no?"
Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."
You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.
His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."
You blink stupidly.
"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I justâ I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind youâ I don't evenâ Sorry. I don't know anymore."
Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.
God, why isn't he saying anything?
You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."
Bucky's still quiet for a moment.
Then, "Will you c'mere?"
At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.
You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.
And you just... hug him.
Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.
The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.
You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.
The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."
"Okay."
"I think you're more upset about it than I am."
You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."
Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."
"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.
All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.
It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.
You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.
"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."
His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.
You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.
"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."
Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.
Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.
"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.
Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."
"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"
With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."
Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.
(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)
He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."
"Bucky."
He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.
You ask anyway. "What happened?"
"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."
Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.
"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."
The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could sheâ? When you wereâ Did she evenâ? And then she has the audacity to try and get you backâ"
"Easy." A playful warning.
"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."
He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."
The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.
You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.
Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.
"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."
"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're notâ Uhâ Are we notâ Like, you know..."
Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.
"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. ââŠwhat?â
But heâs connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what youâre referring to, and Buckyâs too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.
The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what youâre asking for. But heâs never made things easy for you â why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something heâs been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then heâll have you every single way you want him.
You groan irritably. âYouâre really gonna make me say it?â
âYup.â Prick.
âThis should be considered a form of medieval torture.â
âWhatâs torture is every second youâre delaying the inevitable.â
You roll your eyes even though you know he canât see it. âFor you.â
The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. âWho knew Iâd get cracked in my childhood bedroom.â
âSeriously? Can you not phrase it like that?â
His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.
âSorry,â he says, completely unapologetic. âWho knew that youâd get cracked in my childhood bedroom.â
âBucky.â
He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.
You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.
But it isnât until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly â yet loud to you all the same because heâs right there by your earlobe â your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.
âTell me to stop,â Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.
Your response is immediate. âDonât.â
With one swift guidance, youâre suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Buckyâs hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that youâre both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely â just barely â connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isnât until youâre ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.
Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.
It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if youâre not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.
You answer before he can put the request into words. âOff.â
Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. âBossy.â
âOh, Iâm sorry.â Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. âWould you rather me be quiet and complicit?â
His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.
âNo,â he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.
Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure thatâs almost embarrassing to admit. Itâs hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature itâs supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.
You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, youâve lost control of your motor and speech functions.
Christ, itâs humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, heâs bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.
This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.
When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if itâs stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.
âOh my god.â His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. âAll this for me, sweet girl?â
Your face flushes. âBucky.â
Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh thatâs music to his ears.
Heâs in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. âKnew you liked me.â
âShut up.â
Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.
âI think you should be a little nicer to the guy whoâs about to eat you out.â
You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. âI think you shouldââ
You donât finish. He doesnât let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.
And it works, because hoâ holy fuâ fuckâ
Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue thatâs hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, youâre trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that heâs too good at giving, and heâs only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if itâs done something to personally offend you.
A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way youâre breathily moaning curses and his name as if theyâre mantras spilling from your lips. Itâs a beautiful sound, one heâs thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.
He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesnât miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.
The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria thatâs blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.
âBucky,â you babble clumsily. âFuckâ Right thâ Fuck, Iâm closeââ
A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as heâs been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and itâs such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.
Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.
The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more â after youâve already come â and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.
You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.
It isnât until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.
âI need you,â you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. âCâmere.â
âWanna give you another,â Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.
You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. âWanna feel you.â
âFuck,â he whines. Whines. âI need aâ need a minute.â
âPlease,â you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. âI want your cock. Please, Bucky.â
His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan â literally.
âGod, youâre killing me.â Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. âWant you too, baby. I justâ I needâ I canâtââ
Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing overâ
You gasp.
Brushing over the prominent wet spot.
The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesnât entirely collapse on you, but given the way heâs melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.
He came from eating you out. You hadnâtâ You didnât even need to touch him. And heâs still hard.
So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.
âAll this for me, sweet boy?â You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.
Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesnât say anything. He canât. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you donât stab him with it.
You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).
âLie back,â you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.
Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.
âYou gonna take care of me, baby?â His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.
You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. Itâs dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly â achingly slow â jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.
God, heâs big. You donât need the light to know that.
Buckyâs hand grabs your wrist. âI donât⊠I donât have condoms here.â
You continue your movements. ââM safe. Itâs okay.â
You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.
The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Buckyâs hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you justâŠrub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)
âYou feel like a fucking dream,â Bucky sighs. âTaste like one. Smell like one.â
Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.
âShit,â he curses. âShit. Give me a second.â
âGonna come from just the tip?â
âShit. Maybe.â
You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly â at his pace â lowers your body onto him until heâs buried to the hilt, and youâve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.
Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Buckyâs hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.
âBreathe,â he muses gently.
You let out a breath you didnât realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how heâs undoubtedly the biggest dick youâve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But itâs delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that heâs ruined you for anyone else.
His fingers brush hair away from your face. âYou okay?â
You nod against his hand. âFeel so full.â
âDo you want me to come immediately?â
His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how heâs still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.
âWanna make you feel good,â you mumble incoherently, drunk with pleasure.
But he understands you all the same. âYou are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.â
You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesnât stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.
âGood girl, thatâs it,â he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. âTake what you need.â
So you do.
Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs donât do much to help you in your movements, but Buckyâs hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.
Youâre a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that youâve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.
It isnât until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.
âThis what you needed, hm?â Buckyâs voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. âSomeone to fuck you nice?â
âWhâWho said you fâfuck me nice?â Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. âNo one sâsaid that.â
The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. âMe giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.â
God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How itâs practically making you see stars already when it hasnât even climaxed?
âYouâYouâre not.â
âOh?â Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. âIâm not?â
Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. âBucky, whyâdâ Donât stopâ Pleaseâ I needââ
âNeed what, sweet girl?â Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. âI told you to take it, so take it.â
Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, itâs aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you canât do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and youâre hands are shaking.
A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesnât even sound like you, so wrecked. âFâFuck, baby, I need it, Iâm closeââ
âThought you said I wasnât giving you one?â
Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.
But heâs not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.
âJust say you need me, sweet girl.â His voice is laced with honey cadence.
You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.
âI need you.â You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. âIâm yours.â
That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that heâs just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.
âFuckââ Buckyâs voice is desperate. âHow are youâ? When Iâ? Holyâ Such aâ a sweet fuckâ fuckingââ
You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.
You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.
Buckyâs movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.
His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.
âYou okay?â His voice is gravelly.
You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but donât quite have your speech functions back completely yet.
Bucky makes a noise thatâs a mix between a laugh and a sigh. âYou did so well for me.â
You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.
âThank you.â
Did he justâ
Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. âDid youââ Your voice is hoarse. âDid you just thank me?â
âMhm,â he murmurs, completely unashamed. âHad to.â
âFor sleeping with you?â
âNo. For letting me sleep with you.â
You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because⊠no. Thereâs no way he actuallyâ he hasnât been plotting on you, right? No, thereâs genuinely no way. Youâve been friends. Just friends. Youâve never thought about him with his shirt off or what heâs like with other girls or if heâs ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a carâ
âWhyâre you so surprised?â Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).
Now youâre sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. Heâs being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that youâve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.
But you are surprised. Youâve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. Heâs teased, youâve swore, heâs riled you up, youâve shoved him, but youâve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. Itâs notâ Youâve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because itâs never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.
All this thinking and you realize heâs waiting for an answer.
âUh,â you say immediately, unsure of where to start. âWell, I donât know. Weâre friends.â
âIâm literally inside you right now.â
You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. âIdiot. Not counting right now.â
Bucky hums, biding you to continue.
Thank god itâs dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.
âI justââ You find yourself saying. âIâm not your type.â
âWhat?â He asks incredulously. âWho told you that?â
You tilt your head to the side, confused. âUh, every girl Iâve ever seen you with ever?â
âDo you have any idea how long Iâve been waiting for you?â
You freeze. âHuh?â
His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. âWhy do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?â
Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.
âWhy do you think I crash girlâs night and come to your apartment unprompted?â
Your left cheek.
âHow come I live to rile you up?â
Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.
His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time⊠All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, heâs been⊠into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?
Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?
âUhââ Your voice is coarse. âWhâ Youâre into me?â
âTook you long enough.â
Your head is spinning. âLike, as of recent?â
Bucky snorts. âAs of a year ago, more like.â
âYouââ Youâre trying to wrap your head around this. âOkay. A yearâ Okay.â
âTake your time.â
âNo, yeah.â You clear your throat. âTotally. Thanks.â
Buckyâs other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. âWant me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?â His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if heâs finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.
âFunny,â you deadpan. âI think youâre wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.â
His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. âSuch a sweet girl.â Another kiss. âAlways looking out for my best interests,â he mumbles against your lips.
All this time, all this talk, all come to realize youâre still inside him.
It makes your heart flutter. âUhââ Suddenly youâre fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. Itâs a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you canât quite pinpoint. Youâve neverâŠbeen treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.
Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.
At your silence, he hums. âI know itâs a lot. Iâm a lot. But Iâm yours. Whenever you want me, Iâll be here.â
Your heart skips. âI think IâŠâ
The words escape you.
Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. âYou think what, sweet girl?â
âYouâre really gonna make me say it?â
âObviously.â
You groan, but thereâs no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead itâs one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But youâre here. With him. And somehow youâve never felt more reassured.
âI think Iâve been yours,â you say with no shroud of dignity left. âEven though I want to kill you half the time.â
Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. âIâll take it.â
It isnât much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if youâre a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.
Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. He kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.
You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that youâre complaining. At all.
âEasy,â Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. âSleep.â
ââM not tired.â Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.
His hands splay against your back under his shirt. âSure.â
Your nose nudges his vocal cord. âI think youâre just keen to praying on my downfall,â you say laced with sleep.
âTry reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe Iâll believe you.â
âShut up,â you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. âYou love me.â
A pause.
Then, quietly. âYeah.â His voice is certain. âI probably do.â
Youâre asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you canât explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, heâs a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time heâs in your presence. But heâs real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isnât.
And heâs solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that youâll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasnât felt in a really long time.
And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure heâs inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesnât have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.
Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug thatâs nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.
âYou canât leave!â She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Buckyâs car as you throw your bags in the backseat. âWinnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.â
âRight, honey,â Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. âWeâre going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. Weâd love your input.â
"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.
Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnieâs head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Buckyâs bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.
And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesnât look back. Only onward.
summary: You are the kindhearted third grade teacher who brings baked goods to the local fire station every Saturday. Bucky, the retired vet only eats the things he makes. Until one day he eats one of your pastries.
word count: 19.0k+
pairing: firefighter!bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: thank you to that big, beefy firefighter i saw at walmart with my mom that inspired this fic. you will not be forgottenđ«Ąalso, GO LISTEN TO MADISON BEER OR I WILL HEX YOU!!!
edit: this fic has been done since i think november, and it's finally being released from it's cages! enjoy :)
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, firefighter!bucky, teacher!reader, teacher!wanda, firefighter steve, sam, natasha, and joaquĂn, fluff, slow burn - once again, I LIVE AND DIE SLOW BURN. IF I DON'T THEN AM I REALLY ME??, reader bakes, grumpy!bucky, grumpy x sunshine, touch starved!bucky, bucky is soft only for you
The fire station always smells faintly of coffee, soap, and smoke. Not the harsh, burnt kind that clings to memories, but the faint ghost of long days and habitâpeople who spend their lives surrounded by heat, yet somehow still manage to make the place feel cold. Youâve been bringing desserts here every Saturday for almost six months now, and every single time, itâs the same: JoaquĂn greets you like sunshine just walked through the door, Natasha waves from wherever sheâs buried in paperwork, and then thereâs Buckyâsitting at the far corner table, stainless steel mug in hand, watching the world with that low, unamused scowl that never quite reaches his eyes.
You set the covered tray down on the counter, the tin still warm through the towel you wrapped it in, and start unpacking the brownies you stayed up too late baking. Youâd told yourself you werenât doing it for him, but youâd still checked three times that they werenât too sweet. He never eats anything you bring, not once, but you keep hoping. Not because you need him to like your dessertsâbut because every week you see the smallest shift in his shoulders when you arrive, like the world gets a fraction lighter for him, even if heâd never admit it.
Samâs the first one over, of course. âIf these are anything like last weekâs lemon bars, Iâm declaring you honorary station chef,â he says, already stealing one. You laugh, shaking your head, sliding the foil aside. The sound makes Bucky glance up from his coffee. Just a glanceâbarely half a secondâbut it catches you. His gaze is steady, unreadable, the color of blue steel and morning smoke. You smile at him out of habit, soft and polite. He looks away like he didnât see you at all.
You tell yourself you imagined itâthe way his jaw moved like he was fighting back a smile. Maybe you want to imagine it. Maybe thatâs why you keep coming back, tray after tray.
The station is quieter today, a rare lazy Saturday afternoon. Someoneâs got the radio humming low, a classic rock station playing something worn and comfortable. You pour coffee for whoeverâs around and settle by the counter, chatting with Sam about the upcoming charity event for the school. The talk is light, easyâexactly the kind of thing you love about this place. Then you catch Buckyâs reflection in the glass cabinet door across the room; heâs watching the tray.
Itâs subtle, barely there, but his eyes linger. Not on youâon the food. You hold your breath, pretending not to notice, but Sam does notice. You can tell because he suddenly stops talking mid-sentence, and his grin grows almost mischievous. âHey, Buck,â he says casually, âyou sure you donât want to try one? These got your name written all over them.â
âDonât trust other peopleâs cooking,â comes the same gruff answer, quiet but final. You donât miss the faint flush at the top of his ears though, and itâs enough to make something warm unfurl in your chest.
âSuit yourself,â Sam shrugs, but when he turns back to you, his eyes sparkle. You both know that was progress.
After a while, you find yourself leaning against the counter beside the coffee pot. Buckyâs still there, half in shadow, flipping through a newspaper that hasnât been printed in years. You donât try to talk to himâyouâve learned not to force conversation. Instead, you slide one brownie from the tray and wrap it in a napkin, setting it on the table near him without a word. Itâs not an offering, not really, just a quiet, small gesture.
Youâre halfway through cleaning up when you hear the softest soundâa fork scraping across foil. You look up without meaning to. Buckyâs still reading, still silent, but the brownieâs gone from the napkin. His shoulders are looser now, the tiniest bit of tension drained from his posture, and you swear, just for a second, his lips twitch like the start of a smile.
You donât say anything. You just pack up the empty containers and hum under your breath, the tune quiet and content. The song fades into the murmur of the radio, into the hum of the refrigerator, into the rhythm of a place that, for all its noise and steel, suddenly feels a little softer around the edges.
When you finally head toward the door, Sam calls after you. âSee you next week, sunshine!â You grin and wave. You expect Bucky to ignore youâhe usually does, but as you step outside, his voice follows, low and gruff.
âThanks for the⊠whatever that was.â
You turn, surprise flickering through you. âBrownies,â you say, smiling. âAnd youâre welcome.â
He nods once, barely meeting your eyes, and then goes back to pretending he didnât say anything at all. But you see itâthe faintest smudge of chocolate on the corner of his thumb.
And maybe, just maybe, next Saturday, youâll make something just for him.
By the next Saturday, youâve talked yourself out of caring. You told yourself you wouldnât overthink itâthat the brownie probably just looked good, that he mightâve been hungry, that it didnât mean anything. But when you catch yourself checking the oven timer more times than necessary while your new batch of blondies bakes, you already know youâre lying to yourself.
You tell yourself youâre doing it for everyone. For Sam, whoâll inhale anything with sugar; for JoaquĂn, who always pretends to ration his desserts but ends up sneaking seconds; and for Natasha, whoâs too polite to take one until you practically shove the container toward her. Youâre doing it because you like baking, because the kids at school drive you to the edge by Friday, and this has become your calm. But somewhere in the middle of folding in the white chocolate chips, you add a pinch more brown sugar, just in case someone else decides to try one again.
The air outside carries that quiet, late-autumn chill that makes the world feel still. When you step into the station, the warmth hits instantlyâcoffee brewing, the faint scent of detergent and pine cleaner. You hear laughter before you even see anyone. Samâs voice, low and teasing, followed by Steveâs steady calm trying to reel him in.
âMorning, teacher,â Sam greets as soon as he spots you, grinning like always. âYouâre about to save our Saturday again, I hope.â
You hold up the container. âBlondies. And I brought apple muffins too, for breakfast since you people apparently eat nothing but caffeine.â
Natasha snorts from the couch. âThatâs an exaggeration. Sometimes we eat protein bars.â
You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen easily. You catch a glimpse of Bucky at the back table, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug that looks practically welded to his hand. He doesnât speak, but you feel his attention like static in the airâmuted, cautious, curious. You smile at him and keep moving, setting out plates, napkins, and paper cups. He watches every motion, pretending he isnât.
Steve ambles closer, taking a muffin and murmuring his thanks, and then, as heâs biting into it, says casually, âBucky told me your brownies were good.â
You nearly drop the lid. âHe what?â
Steveâs eyes crinkle in quiet amusement. âHe didnât say it exactly like that, but Iâve known the man long enough to translate. You made an impression.â
You glance over again, Buckyâs pretending to read something on his phone, and thereâs no chance he canât hear you, but the faint color on his ears tells you he absolutely can. You bite back a smile, warmth blooming under your ribs.
Itâs a calm day again, paperwork and banter, the radio humming. JoaquĂnâs sitting at the kitchen table fiddling with some gadget; Natashaâs nursing a mug of coffee while half-listening to Samâs story about a neighborhood dog that keeps chasing their truck down the street. You take the seat beside her, listening, laughing, and slowly you notice the smallest thingâBucky doesnât leave. The last few weeks, heâd always disappear to the garage or the supply room when the noise started. But today, he lingers.
He doesnât say much, just throws Sam a deadpan look when the man starts exaggerating, or mutters a dry comment that makes Steve choke on his drink. And somehow, those tiny, reluctant pieces of his personality make you grin more than you mean to.
Eventually, when the laughter quiets and the others drift toward chores or calls, you find yourself cleaning up the kitchen. You hum a little tune under your breath as you stack plates and rinse cups. The sound feels at home here now, tucked under the low buzz of fluorescent light.
Behind you, thereâs a shuffle of movement. âYou donât have to clean all that,â Bucky says, voice low but clear enough to make you turn. Heâs standing a few feet away, drying his hands on a towel, expression unreadable but not cold.
You smile, shaking your head. âI donât mind. I made the mess.â
He hesitates, then steps closer. âYou make a mess every week.â
The words might sound gruff, but his tone isnât sharp. Itâs teasing in the smallest, clumsiest way, like heâs trying it on for size. You laugh quietly. âYou keep inviting me back.â
âThatâs Sam.â
âI donât remember him being the one who ate a brownie last week.â
That earns you a lookâone brow slightly raised, the hint of embarrassment tightening his jaw. He doesnât deny it. He just exhales through his nose and mutters, âyou caught that, huh?â
You shrug lightly, rinsing another cup. âIt was hard to miss.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. You can hear the creak of the building settling, the hum of the fridge, the soft tap of his mug setting down beside the sink. And then, unexpectedly, he starts helping. Drying dishes beside you, movements neat, efficient. You glance up, and for a moment, the light hits his face just rightâsoft edges, tired eyes that look less guarded, mouth relaxed. âYou bake every week?â he asks.
You nod, setting another cup in the rack. âUsually. Itâs how I unwind after teaching. My kids are⊠a lot. Itâs nice to do something that doesnât talk back.â
He huffs out a short laughâbarely a sound, but genuine. âCanât argue with that.â
The air between you shifts. Not heavy, not awkward, just quiet and comfortable. When you reach for the towel heâs holding, your fingers brush his. Itâs nothingâjust the lightest contactâbut his hand goes completely still. You feel it immediately, the static between skin and skin. He doesnât pull back right away, his eyes flick up to yours, and for half a heartbeat, neither of you move.
Then you take the towel, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders straighten again. âThanks,â you say softly.
He nods once. âSure.â
When you finish, he walks you to the door. Itâs unnecessary, but he does it anyway, holding the door open with a quiet sort of courtesy that feels almost shy. You turn back before stepping out, smiling at him again. âSee you next Saturday?â
He leans against the frame, eyes flicking to your container. âYou bring those blondies again, maybe.â Itâs the closest thing to a smile youâve seen on him yet.
And as you step out into the crisp afternoon air, the thought sticks with you the whole walk homeâthat maybe this time, youâre not the only one waiting for Saturday.
The third Saturday starts gray and cool, the kind of morning that feels like itâs been steeped in fog. You pull your sweater tighter around your arms as you balance two containers in your handsâone with your usual dessert, the other with something new. Youâd made cinnamon rolls this time, because Sam had mentioned missing his momâs recipe, and because youâd caught yourself wondering if Bucky liked cinnamon. Youâre not sure why that thought stuck with you all week, but it did.
When you walk into the station, the smell of coffee is already there to greet you, warm and grounding. The radio hums somewhere in the background, and you can hear Samâs voice echoing down the hallâloud, teasing, familiar. You smile before you even see them. âMorning, sunshine!â Sam calls, appearing around the corner. âTell me you brought somethinâ good.â
âAlways do,â you say, lifting the containers. âCinnamon rolls and some kind of experiment involving brown butter and chocolate chips. No guarantees.â
âBrown butterâs never a mistake,â Natasha says from the couch, flipping a page of her magazine. She glances up, offers one of her rare, knowing smiles. âGood morning.â
âMorning,â you echo, setting the boxes down on the counter.
Steveâs at the stove making another pot of coffeeâhe always makes the second one too strongâand JoaquĂn is balancing on a chair trying to fix the overhead light again. Buckyâs there too, sitting at the table near the back, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against the wood as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up once when you arrive, just once, then goes right back to whatever he was doing.
You pretend not to notice, but you do.
You start plating the cinnamon rolls, their warm scent filling the kitchen. Sam is the first to steal one, no surprise there. JoaquĂn jumps down from the chair, swiping his own before Sam can hog them all, and Steve gives you that gentle, polite âthank youâ that always makes you feel like you brought something meaningful instead of just sugar and flour. Natasha takes one, tooâeventuallyâand hums quietly after the first bite, which feels like a glowing five-star review coming from her.
Bucky doesnât move. He never does, not right away. But heâs watching.
You can feel it in the way his gaze lingers just past you, pretending to be indifferent but landing too often on the tray. You could call him out on it, tease him the way Sam would, but you donât. Instead, you just slide one of the rolls onto a small plate and set it at the corner of the table near him, like always. He glances at it, then at you. âWhatâs the trick this time?â he asks, voice low, almost cautious.
âBrown butter in the icing,â you say, smiling a little. âAnd extra cinnamon.â
He studies the plate for a moment, then his fingers curl around the fork. He doesnât say anything, doesnât make a show of itâjust cuts off a piece and takes a bite. The world doesnât stop, the room doesnât go silent, but you swear you feel it. Like something subtle and quiet shifting.
He chews slowly, expression unreadable, and thenâbarely, almost imperceptiblyâhis mouth twitches.
You keep your smile to yourself, pretending to busy your hands with cleaning up a bit of icing from the counter. Natasha sees it though, the faint curve of your lips, and you catch her smirk from across the room.
âGood?â you ask, when you canât take the silence anymore.
Buckyâs gaze flicks up to yours. âNot bad.â Itâs the gruffest possible compliment, but it makes your heart skip anyway. He finishes the rest without another word, and when heâs done, he stands, rinses his plate, and sets it neatly in the drying rack. Youâre pretty sure thatâs the closest thing to a thank you youâre ever going to get, but then he hesitates by the door, mug in hand. âYou teach third grade, right?â he asks suddenly, eyes still on the floor.
You blink, caught off guard. âYeah. I do.â
He nods once, still not looking at you. âThatâs⊠brave.â
You laugh, startled. âBrave?â
He looks up then, just a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. âI couldnât handle that many eight-year-olds. One of âem would start talkinâ back, and Iâd lose my job before lunch.â
âOccupational hazard,â you say, grinning. âYou get used to it.â
âI donât think I would.â
Thereâs a hint of amusement in his voice now, something warmer threading through the usual gravel. He takes a sip of his coffee, leans against the counter, and you realize this is the first time youâve actually seen him stay in a conversation. Not just endure it, stay.
The others drift in and out of the kitchen as the day stretches lazily on. JoaquĂn heads out to run errands, Natasha disappears into the office, and Steve starts sorting some equipment by the back door. Samâs napping on the couch, his snores filling the otherwise calm space. And still, Buckyâs there.
You watch the way he relaxes as he talks, his voice softening, hands moving just slightly when he describes something. He still avoids too much eye contact, still glances down often, but his walls are lower today. You can feel it.
Eventually, Steve calls something from across the room about checking a delivery in the garage, and Bucky pushes his chair back with a low grunt. You gather your empty mug, standing too. When he reaches to take it from you, your fingers brush for a second, not even a full secondâbut long enough.
His touch is rough, calloused, but careful. You notice the way his hand pauses, the faint inhale that catches in his chest. Itâs nothing, really, just contact, but itâs the first real one, and you both feel it. He clears his throat softly, taking the mug from you like itâs fragile. âGot it.â
You murmur thanks and smileâgentle, easy. âSee you next week?â
âYeah,â he says, almost before he can stop himself. Then, quieter, âbring those rolls again.â
You walk out of the station with that small sentence echoing in your head. It shouldnât feel like anything. But it does. It feels like the first crack in the armor. And when you glance back through the door before leaving, you catch him watching you go, a faint, unguarded look in his eyes that tells you exactly what you hopedâit wasnât just about the food anymore.
You wake early the next Saturday with a kind of energy you pretend is just normal weekend motivation, but you know better. You replay that momentâbring those rolls againâmore times than youâd ever admit. You tell yourself not to romanticize it, not to interpret it like something bigger, but your hands are already moving before youâre even fully awake, kneading dough, rolling butter and cinnamon into spirals, letting the house fill with that warm, sweet smell that feels like comfort itself.
These rolls arenât for the whole station this time. Theyâre for him.
You still make a second dessert, because you donât want anyone calling him out, not yet. Sam would tease him into hiding, and Natasha would smirk and Bucky would retreat behind a wall so fast youâd never climb over it again. So you make blondies for the groupâeasy, reliable, a crowd favorite, and definitely not something Bucky also likedâand you pack the cinnamon rolls in a smaller container, frosting separate so they wonât get soggy. Bucky deserves them really good, better than the first time. You donât want to mess up the first thing he actually asked you for.
When you walk into the station, a wave of warmth and familiar noise greets you immediately. The TV is on, Sam and JoaquĂn are arguing about who should get credit for winning last weekâs pool game, and Natasha is leaning back in her chair looking like she has already judged both of them twice before breakfast. Steveâs by the coffee machine again, heâs always by the coffee machine.
They all greet you, except Bucky. Heâs thereâbut he doesnât look up right away. Heâs sitting at the table cleaning his gloves, movements precise, meticulous. You set the blondies on the main counter first, letting Sam pounce like he always does. Natasha takes one too, slow and deliberate. You laugh with them, talk lightly, and the dynamic is familiar and effortless.
But thereâs a second moment happening under that. You move to Buckyâs table. He finally looks up when you stop in front of him, eyebrows lifting just slightlyânot irritated, not cautious, but expectant.
You set the smaller container down in front of him. You donât open it, you just slide it across the table gently, giving him space to choose. He glances at the way itâs packagedâdifferent container than the blondiesâlike he knows immediately.
âThese are the rolls,â you say softly.
He holds your gaze for a slow, solid second, then he closes his cleaning kit, pushes it aside, and pulls the container toward him. He opens it with careful fingers, like he wants to savor this. You hand him the small jar of frosting without even thinking and he takes that too, almost gently. âYou made extra icing,â he says, tone unreadable.
âYou asked for them again,â you answer, smiling. âFelt right to get it perfect.â
He doesnât comment on that. But he coats the top of one roll and takes a bite, in front of everyone this time. No hiding, no pretending. The room keeps going around you, Sam still talking, JoaquĂn still pretending heâs above stealing another blondie, Natasha sipping her coffeeâbut it feels like time pauses around that single bite.
Bucky closes his eyes just barely for half a heartbeat. Then he exhales like that first taste knocked some weight off his ribs. âThis isâŠâ he starts, then stops. You wait, heart thudding quietly against your ribs. He tries again, voice lower. âItâs really good.â
You donât tease him. You donât downplay it. âThank you,â you say. âIâm glad you like them.â
He eats another bite before speaking again. âYou didnât have to make these just for me.â
Thereâs no accusation in it. Just quiet, vulnerable acknowledgement. You soften a little, leaning a hand on the back of the chair across from him. âYou asked me to. That was enough.â
His throat works like he wants to say something elseâlike he wants to say a dozen thingsâbut instead he just nods. Then he gestures at the seat beside him with the smallest tilt of his head, like an invitation. You sit next to him easily, not making a big deal of it, and he doesnât move away. His knee stays close to yours, his arm resting comfortably where it is instead of shifting away to protect some kind of invisible line.
The others absolutely notice. Steve glances once over the rim of his mug, faint amusement playing at the edge of his mouth. Sam looks confused for a second, then like heâs silently screaming in victory. JoaquĂn smirks, nudging Natasha, who simply lifts an eyebrow like she called this three Saturdays ago.
But they donât say anything out loud, they let him have this moment.
You and Bucky sit there together, legs nearly touching, sharing quiet conversation while he eats something you made, openly, without hesitation, like a small ritual that belongs only to the two of you.
It starts with the smallest things. It isnât cinematic. It isnât some dramatic shift. Itâs quiet. Itâs domestic. Itâs the kind of change that sneaks up on both of you without either realizing it until itâs already inside the ribcage, forcing breath to come different.
You start noticing it because he sits closer now, not directly next to you every time, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. When you speak, he leans in slightly like the world between you is somehow always shorter than it appears. His attention isnât lazy anymoreâitâs tuned in, like heâs cataloguing you the way he does storms and weather patterns he trusts from decades of instinct. He doesnât look away when you talk now. He actually listens.
And for Bucky, the noticing becomes almost unbearable in a way thatâs brand new.
The first time it happens, you donât even think about it. You were reaching behind him for the sugar jar in the station kitchenette because it somehow always ends up behind his mug, and your fingers brush briefly over his forearm. Just a soft, passing graze of your fingertips to warm skin through fabric. Nothing intentional, nothing suggestive, but Bucky goes still like something hit him point blank. The sensation lingers under his skin like heat that wonât dissipate. He stands there after youâve already moved away, hand flexing unconsciously at his side, eyes a little distant.
That touch lives rent-free in his head all week.
He tries to ignore it, pretend it meant nothing, pretend it didnât short-circuit something in him to feel such uncomplicated, gentle contact for no reason beyond necessity. He tries to move on, but itâs the only thing he thinks about when heâs lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time someone touched him without expectation, without noise, without motive. The memory of your fingers feels soft enough to unspool him.
By the next Saturday, something shifts in how he moves around you. Itâs small, almost invisible, but you feel it.
When you hand him a container lid, his fingers brush yours intentionally this time. Barely. Just enough that you feel the ghost of contact. When you walk past him in the hallway, he steps a little closer so your shoulders graze. When you sit beside him at the table with your coffee, his knee rests against yours for a breath too long before shifting like heâs convincing himself it was an accident.
You donât call attention to it. You just quietly validate it by not pulling away. And that choice⊠that tiny, shared permission⊠is how the fixation begins.
One afternoon, youâre leaning in to show Natasha a little video clip your student sent you of their class hamster âlearning math,â which is basically the hamster running across number tiles. Youâre laughing, shoulder slightly turned, and Bucky stands behind you to look over your shoulder. His handâhesitant yet pulled by instinctâsettles lightly on your upper arm to balance himself for just a moment.
It should be nothing, it should be casual, it should be something people donât think twice about. Except Bucky feels everything about it. The softness of your cardigan, the warmth beneath it, the way you didnât flinch or stiffen or look uncomfortable. You just kept laughing with Natasha, leaning back into the space without even thinking.
He withdraws a second later, but he spends the next hour replaying that single point of contact in his head like a song loop. Sam tries to get him into a debate about which action movie trilogy is superior, and Bucky answers all wrong because heâs barely registered actual words. Steve gives him a suspicious side-eye when he zones out while cleaning equipment.
He is a grown man knocked absolutely senseless by a hand on an arm. You donât see that happening inside him, but you feel the aftereffects slowly appear. He starts finding reasons to stand beside you rather than across. When passing you utensils or napkins or tupperware, his fingers linger those fractions longer than needed. When you take a seat at the table, he takes the chair next to yours without hesitation now, casual like itâs obvious thatâs where he belongs.
And every single touch is feather light, polite, testing, non-assuming, but dripping with meaning. He never demands, he never grabs, he never rushes. He just lets himself slowly relearn the language of contact.
The station doesnât tease him about it. Somehow, collective unspoken agreement settles that nobody should scare him back inside his armor. Not when heâs finally stepping out piece by piece. Natasha catches a few moments between you two, her eyes sharper than anyone elseâs, but she simply smirks to herself because she sees the blessing of quiet healing when itâs right in front of her.
And you⊠you find yourself anticipating those small touches as much as he does. You donât chase them, you donât force them, you just gently meet them halfway every time he reaches.
And in the slow, silent corners of the station, where coffee steam curls in the low kitchen light and cinnamon and sugar linger in the air from last weekâs rolls, you watch a man rediscover something he hasnât allowed himself to want in years, the simple luxury of being touched without fear.
And Bucky learnsâone soft brush of skin at a timeâthat he wants more.
The next two Saturdays become this quiet study of small proximityâlike the space between you is its own gravity field and Buckyâs learning the pull of it in real time. It never happens in big gestures, never anything dramatic that would make the guys at the station crack jokes or ruin the fragile pace the two of you have found.
One Saturday you bring blueberry crumble bars. Natasha eats two, Sam tries to pick at the entire tray before Steve smacks his hand away like a disappointed parent. And Bucky sits next to you like that is the most natural place in the world to sit.
He doesnât even think about choosing another chair anymore. His body makes the decision before his mind can get in the way. His arm rests on the back of your chairânot wrapped around you, but behind you.
He doesnât even seem aware heâs doing it until halfway through your story about one of your students making up a conspiracy theory about why pencils exist, which was unhinged and adorable and your favorite thing all week, and then you see him slowly realize how close he actually is.
He should move, he knows he should move, but he doesnât.
You feel the warmth of him at your back, the way his presence curls lightly around your spine like a secret he forgot to keep hidden. You donât call it out, you donât flinch or shy away. You just stay exactly where you areâand you watch the moment he realizes youâre not pulling from him. His shoulders settle like a slow exhale.
Later, when Steve asks you to grab something from the supply closet, Bucky follows without thinking. He insists he needs to get new gloves too, though youâre almost positive every glove in that closet is alphabetized by size and condition like his personal religion. But heâs there, standing behind you as you reach for the plastic bin on the second shelf. You stretch a little further and lose your balance by just a degreeânot even enough to cause chaosâjust enough for your feet to shift.
Bucky catches your elbow. Not a reflex of panic, but a reflex of instinct. His palm slides warm and steady around the bend of your arm, fingers wrapping gently just above your wrist, grounding you with more tenderness than pressure. The touch is nothing more than supportâbut the gentleness in it makes your breath catch mid-inhale. âYou good?â he asks, voice low.
âYeah,â you say, turning toward him slightly with the bin held against your chest. Your arm is still in his hand. âJust misjudged how far back they shoved this.â
He doesnât drop your arm right away. His thumb shiftsâjust onceâin a tiny, unconscious sweep. Itâs barely movement, but it feels like a full sentence. And Bucky looks like he realizes in that exact millisecond that heâs gotten used to touching you. That he wants more of it.
He clears his throat and drops his hand, stepping back a respectable amountâbut the air between you stays charged. You donât push it, you just smile at him and head back out into the kitchen like nothing monumental happened, even though both of you are now thinking about nothing but that touch.
When you leave that evening, Bucky walks you to the door again. He always does now. No one calls attention to it. Itâs just routine. Your routine. At the door, you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and his hand rises automaticallyâlike heâs going to take it from youâlike heâs ready to help you carry it without thinkingâbut he catches himself halfway and lets his hand fall back down. Itâs so small. So ordinary. So charged. You give a soft smile, almost teasing, but not quite. âSee you next week?â
Thereâs no hesitation anymore. âYeah,â he says, eyes warm in a way thatâs new, edges less sharp. âIâll save you a seat.â
You donât know if he realizes how much more intimate that sounds compared to anything else youâve sharedâbut you leave with that sentence echoing through you the entire walk home.
By the next Saturday, Bucky starts waiting for the sound of your footsteps before youâve even parked your car outside. He doesnât tell anyone that, of courseâhe sits at the kitchen table with his mug like always, pretending heâs been there all morning, pretending he doesnât check the clock every five minutes. Sam catches him glancing toward the door once and smirks, but he doesnât say a word. No one does anymore. The teasing stopped the moment they realized something was happening quietly between the two of youâsomething delicate and steady that didnât need noise.
You always come in the same way: soft knock on the frame, a smile first, your voice warm with that teacher-bright tone that seems to filter out the stationâs gray edges. The kitchen fills with you as soon as you enter, like you bring your own weather with you. Today, your hair smells faintly like sugar and butter, and Bucky feels that scent settle somewhere low and calm inside him.
He greets you now, which still surprises you a little every time. âHey,â he says, voice still rough but softer around the vowels. He stands up when you walk inânot because he means to, but because it feels wrong to stay seated while youâre carrying something heavy. You hold up your containers and he reaches automatically, taking them from your hands before you can protest. The brush of fingers is so casual now that neither of you pause, but the quiet electricity is still there, pulsing underneath everything.
âGot your favorite,â you tell him, pointing to the smaller container. âCinnamon rolls. The others get the cookies this time.â
He gives a small nod, lips twitching at the corner. âYou really donât have toââ
âYou said to bring them again,â you interrupt, teasing. âYou canât take it back now.â
âDidnât say I was takinâ it back,â he mutters, and you catch the faintest ghost of a smile. Itâs there and gone in an instant, but itâs real.
You unload the cookies while Bucky takes the rolls to the far counter. He doesnât let anyone else near them until youâve had your share. Sam groans dramatically when he notices. âOh, so the rolls are exclusive now? Is that it?â Sam says, eyeing the container like heâs preparing for a heist.
âYeah,â Bucky says simply, not even looking up. âThey are.â
The room falls into a stunned silence for half a beat before Sam bursts out laughing, shaking his head. Natasha smirks from her corner with a knowing hum, and Steve hides his grin behind his coffee mug. Youâre half-laughing, half-embarrassed, warmth spreading through your chest like sunlight. Bucky doesnât even seem embarrassed about claiming themâor youâin that small, quiet way. He just sits down, pulls the lid off, and starts spreading frosting over one like itâs his ritual.
When you join him at the table, he slides the second roll toward you without looking, like itâs already decided. âMade sure I saved you one before Wilson tried to steal it.â
You take it with a small laugh. âThank you.â
The rest of the morning unfolds gently, the rhythm familiar now. You all linger in the kitchen longer than necessary, talking about nothing importantâschool stories, local events, the fair coming up in a few weeks. Natasha mentions volunteering for the kidsâ safety booth, and Bucky glances up when you say youâll be helping there too. He doesnât comment, but you see the flicker in his eyesâinterest, curiosity, something softer you canât quite name yet.
After a while, Sam and Steve head out to check equipment, and JoaquĂn leaves to run errands, leaving just you, Bucky, and Natasha in the kitchen. She excuses herself after a few minutes, mumbling something about needing peace before the chaos returns. That leaves the two of you alone at the table, the low hum of the fridge filling the quiet between sentences.
You start to stand to wash a few dishes, but Buckyâs hand finds your forearm before you can move. Itâs the lightest touchâbarely thereâbut his thumb brushes once against your sleeve. âLeave it,â he says. âYou cooked. Iâll clean.â
You freeze for half a second, not at the words, but at how naturally he touched you. He doesnât even seem to realize heâs done it until you look at him. His fingers stay there a second longer than they need to, warm and steady, before he lets go and reaches for the plates instead. You sit back down, quiet, watching him.
Heâs methodical when he cleansâcareful and exact. You catch the way he hums softly under his breath, a habit youâve never heard from him before. Itâs low and tuneless, but peaceful. When he turns to grab a towel, you stand and move beside him to help, not saying anything. The two of you move around each other easily, unspoken choreography. At one point, your hand reaches for the same mug heâs drying, and your fingers brush again. He doesnât freeze this time; he looks at you instead, his eyes flicking up, blue and tired and open.
âThanks,â you murmur, taking the mug.
âAnytime,â he says quietly.
You finish cleaning in silence, but itâs comfortableâthe kind of silence that feels shared rather than empty. When you finally pack up to leave, heâs leaning against the counter again, towel slung over his shoulder, hair a little damp from running his wet hands through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. âYou always bring something,â he says, almost like heâs thinking out loud. âEven when youâve got a long week. Even when you look tired.â
You shrug, smiling a little. âItâs my way of winding down. And you all appreciate it. Mostly Sam,â you add with a laugh.
He huffs a laugh too, short but genuine. âI appreciate it more than I say.â
That catches you off guard, but you meet his eyes and see that he means it, completely. âI know,â you say softly. âI can tell.â
He nods once, then takes a breath like heâs going to add something else but decides against it. Instead, he steps closer and opens the door for you. You pass him on the way out, the scent of soap and cinnamon filling the small space between you. He doesnât move right away. The side of his arm brushes yours, just a whisper of contact, but the simplicity of it makes the moment feel big. âSee you next Saturday?â you ask, tilting your head slightly toward him.
His mouth quirks, barely a smile but enough to feel like one. âYeah. Wouldnât miss it.â
As you walk away, he lingers by the doorway for a moment, watching you until you turn the corner. When youâre gone, he looks back at the kitchenâthe empty mugs, the faint traces of cinnamon on the counter, the chair you always sit inâand for the first time in a long while, he realizes the week ahead feels like the wait between good things instead of the grind toward the next shift.
Saturday used to be just another day in the rotation. Now it feels like the only one that matters.
You show up to the station one Saturday and the kitchen is already⊠set up. Someone went and made space on the counter, like theyâd been expecting you and your containers. Someone laid out the cutting board, the butter knife, the napkins. Someone rinsed out the carafe and made a fresh batch of coffee thirty minutes before you arrived, just to make sure it would be hot when you walked in.
Itâs Bucky. Obviously.
He pretends he didnât. Pretends thatâs just how the kitchen always is. But Sam catches your eye and mouths you did this to him the moment Bucky walks away to grab mugs.
You hide your smile in your sleeve.
When you open your container today, you notice Bucky doesnât wait. He doesnât hang back like he needs to âpretend to think about it.â He comes to the counter first. He claims his plate first. He doesnât bother letting anyone else investigate what you brought before he does. He scoops icing and spreads it over his cinnamon roll with the same careful concentration youâve come to adoreâlike food is a language too, and slow is how he honors it.
No flashy commentary. No teasing. Just soft ownership. He bites in, eyes shuttering, jaw going slack for a millisecond before he pulls it back under control. You see his shoulders drop a fraction, like sweetness somehow releases tension in his spine. And then⊠he actually speaks before anyone else does. âThese are even better than last week.â
Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, Natasha quietly grins behind her cup like she just saw a planet finally rotate into alignment, and Steve pretends heâs not impressed, but he looks away to hide the way heâs smiling too hard.
And you just stand there, your heart doing something absurd, gentle, and painfully tender in your chest. Because he didnât say it begrudgingly. He didnât say it like he was forced or pushed, he offered praiseâvolunteer level, willingly.
You hand him a fork but he doesnât take it the regular way anymore. He takes it from your fingers directly, brushing skin intentionally this time. That subtle slide of his fingertip across yours is deliberate. It lingers a half beat longer than necessary. He could easily avoid contact but he chooses not to.
You sit beside him with your own roll, and for a good twenty minutes the room just fills with quiet chatter and slow chewing and contentment. It feels absurdly domestic, like a messy little chosen weekend breakfast you donât want to end. He doesnât fidget. He doesnât armor himself from the world. He doesnât isolate from the noise of his friends. He sits with youâlike this is where he fits.
At one point youâre telling him a story about a field trip your class is taking to the petting zoo and how youâre worried about one particular child trying to smuggle out a goat. He listens, leaning his chin into his palm, eyes on you the entire time like nothing else competes for his attention. Every few sentences he makes these tiny reactionsâlips pursing when you mention chaos, eyes softening when you describe their excitement, a quiet huff laugh when you mention bribes in the form of stickers.
Itâs this subtle emotional matching that sneaks up on you.
He isnât just listening.
Heâs attuning.
When your plates are empty, he takes them from you automatically to rinse and dry. You donât even have to ask. You donât even have to offer. Thatâs just the role he takes now, unspoken. You cook. He cleans. Itâs the smallest domestic ecosystem that somehow feels like the most intimate thing youâve ever built with someone.
On your way out hours later, Steve and JoaquĂn are arguing about grill season, Natashaâs flipping through her paper, and Sam is half-dozing on the couch. Itâs loud but warm. Familiar but safe.
Bucky walks you out like always.
And this time, when you turn to say goodbye, he doesnât hover awkwardly or shove his hands into his pockets to protect himself. He stands a little closer and his eyes find yours without darting away. And in that space between breath and reason, his fingers catch the strap of your bag gentlyâjust hooking it in place as if helping settle it on your shoulder is second nature now. Itâs nothing dramatic. It doesnât send shockwaves. Itâs just⊠soft. âYou drive safe, alright?â he says, quiet but earnest.
You nod once, smiling. âI will.â
He lets his fingers slide away slowly. Not rushed. Not nervous. Because somewhere between cinnamon and quiet mornings, youâve become part of his weekend. Youâve become the only break in his routine he actually looks forward to.
And when the door closes behind you, the entire station sees the way he lets out a breath like holding himself together took effort he didnât want to spend anymore. Sam doesnât tease, Natasha doesnât smirk, and Steve just claps him once on the shoulder on his way past.
Bucky doesnât say it out loud, but everyone knows. Saturday is no longer just the day he endures. It has become the day he lives for.
By the time the school fair starts creeping closer on your calendar, youâve gotten comfortable in the routine. Saturdays are Bucky days now. Theyâre warm and easy and slow in a way that feels almost sacredâlike everything else in the week exists just to lead toward them. You donât say this out loud to anyone, obviously, not even Wanda, even though she definitely sees something changing. She sees it before you are ready to claim it.
Itâs Wednesday afternoon and youâre both in your classroom after dismissal. Wanda is perched on your desk, sipping from her tea, grading spelling tests and occasionally laughing under her breath at some of the answers. Youâre organizing your materials for the spring fair games, sorting little giveaway bags, taping up the poster that says âFOLLOW THE FOOTPRINTS FOR PRIZESââall glitter marker and 3rd grade chaos charm.
You think about the fair and immediately think about Bucky.
It pops into your head so naturally that it catches you off guard. Before, it wouldâve felt like a stretch⊠like worlds couldnât possibly overlap. But now, your worlds have already started to bleed into each other. He knows about your classroom, he knows your kidsâ nicknames, he knows your habit of stress-baking. And more importantly, he listens. Thatâs the part you canât let go of. The part where this man, who trusts almost nothing outside his own hands, trusts you.
Wanda glances over and catches that particular expression on your faceâthat soft internal conflict hovering at the edges of possibility. âYouâre thinking about something,â she says knowingly.
You blink. âWhat makes you say that?â
âYouâve been staring at the same sticker sheet for two full minutes,â she says with a little smirk. âAnd you only do that when youâre overthinking something.â
You look down and yeah, you are literally holding the same sheet of star stickers, frozen mid-air like your brain has been suspended in amber. You try to look casual, not suspicious. âI was just thinking⊠maybe I should ask someone to come. You know. Just for moral support. Itâs going to be chaos andââ
Wanda doesnât even let you finish. âYou should invite Bucky.â
You inhale sharply. âI didnât say it was Bucky.â
âYou didnât need to.â She laughs softly, finishing her tea before setting the mug down. âEvery time you talk about him you smile like someone just lit a candle inside you.â
You open your mouth to deny it, but she raises an eyebrow. The kind of eyebrow that says donât insult both of us by pretending. You sigh then, leaning back against the wall beside the glitter poster. âItâs different with him,â you admit quietly. âI donât⊠want to push him. Heâs slow. Heâs careful with everything.â
âAnd you already match him there,â Wanda says gently. âYouâre not rushing him. Youâre just⊠letting something grow.â
You chew your lip for a moment. âDo you think heâd even want to go? Itâs a school event. Loud kids, small town noise, crowds.â
âMaybe thatâs exactly the kind of trust bridge this kind of thing needs,â she counters, eyes soft. âItâs safe, itâs you. And he likes spending time with you, he lights up on Saturdays. Iâve literally seen it happen.â You flush, warm, because hearing it aloud makes your chest ache in a good way. Wanda leans closer, lowering her voice like this is a secret spell sheâs whispering just for you. âInvite him out of his world⊠and into yours.â
You look down at your glitter poster again, the little stars catching the classroom lights. You imagine him here, awkward but warm, secretly charmed by the kids, maybe helping you hold things or laughing at their terrible knock-knock jokes. You imagine his hand brushing your wrist as he hands you a prize bag. You imagine just⊠existing with him outside stainless steel tables and cinnamon rolls.
And suddenly it doesnât feel impossible. It feels⊠right. You exhale, steadying your voice. âOkay,â you say quietly. âIâll ask him on Saturday.â
Wanda smiles like she already knew you were going to say that. She reaches for her grading stack again, finalizing her last test. âGood. Because I think he needs to see that he belongs somewhere outside that station. And I think he deserves to see where you shine.â
You donât say anything for a moment. You let those words sink deep. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you staple more posters and prep game bins, your heart feels different. Lighter. Braver. The idea of inviting him doesnât feel terrifying anymore.
It feels hopeful. It feels like the next natural step in the slow burn youâve been building togetherâone cinnamon roll at a time.
Saturday comes, and you spend the morning trying not to overthink the invitation. Itâs ridiculous, reallyâyouâve spent months in the same room with Bucky, talking, laughing, baking, brushing hands and pretending itâs casual. Youâve built a rhythm. But this feels different. Asking him to the fair means stepping out of that familiar bubble. It means letting your two worlds touch. It means giving him a window into the life you built before he was part of it.
You bake early to keep yourself busy. Chocolate chip muffins this timeâsimple, comforting, impossible to mess up. You tell yourself youâll just see how the day goes. If it feels right, youâll ask. If not, no harm done. But even as you think it, youâre already choosing which words to use, rehearsing them under your breath while the muffins rise.
The station hums like always when you walk inâlow music, the sound of someone sweeping, laughter echoing from the common room. Youâre met with the same warmth thatâs become ritual, the same voices calling your name, the same easy energy that makes you feel like you belong.
But Buckyâs the first person you see. Heâs standing at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour. Heâs cookingâactually cookingâsomething in a skillet. The sight freezes you in place for a second. Itâs not because heâs cooking, though thatâs impressive enough, but because itâs the first time youâve ever seen him share that space the way you do. âMorning,â he says, glancing up from the pan. His voice is rougher than usual, but softer somehow. âYouâre early.â
âSo are you,â you tease, smiling. âDidnât peg you as the Saturday morning pancake type.â
He smirks faintly. âIâm not, but Samâs been bragging about his cooking all week, so I thought Iâd remind him what good actually tastes like.â
From the table, Sam yells, âyouâre using my recipe!â
Buckyâs smirk grows. âAnd somehow still making it better.â
You laugh, moving to set down your container of muffins. He looks at it, then at you, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. âThose for us?â
âAlways,â you say. âFigured you might need something to go with your⊠culinary competition.â
He takes one of the muffins without hesitation. Itâs something youâll never stop noticingâthat small act of trust, how it still feels like a quiet miracle each time. He breaks it in half, steam curling up, and nods in quiet approval. âGood,â he says simply, like itâs law.
You help with the dishes while he finishes cooking, falling into that easy rhythm again. You hand him a towel, he hands you a spatula, the two of you brushing against each other in that familiar, subtle orbit youâve built. Every accidental touch feels intentional now. Every small space between you feels electric.
When everyone sits down to eat, you slide into the chair beside him automatically. Itâs become your seat; no one questions it. Bucky makes a show of setting your plate in front of you first, then his own. You catch Natasha watching him, her smirk small and secret, and you fight the urge to hide your smile behind your fork.
The conversation flows as it always doesâbanter, teasing, casual updates. You wait for the right moment, the right lull in the noise. When Steve gets up to grab more coffee and Sam starts talking about a neighborhood dog that wonât stop following their truck, you finally look toward Bucky. âHey,â you say quietly, just enough for him to hear over the chatter.
He glances at you, eyes steady. âYeah?â
âSo, my schoolâs having its spring fair next weekend,â you start, picking at your napkin. âItâs kind of a big thing for the kids. Games, food, chaosâgood chaos. I usually work one of the booths, but itâs a lot of running around.â
He listens closely, nodding a little. You can tell heâs trying to picture it.
You take a breath, deciding to just jump. âI was thinking⊠maybe you could come? You donât have to stay long, I just thought you might like to see it. Wandaâs volunteering tooâyouâd like her, sheâs great.â
Buckyâs brow furrows slightly. âYou want me to come to a school event?â
Thereâs no teasing in itâjust genuine surprise, a soft disbelief that someone would want him there. âI do,â you say simply. âYouâre good with people, even if you think youâre not. And I think youâd enjoy it. Plus, youâve heard about these kids for months, feels only fair you meet the legends.â
His mouth curves, small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up at you. âYou really want me there?â
âYeah,â you say softly. âI do.â
He studies you for a long moment, like heâs trying to make sure this isnât pity or obligation. When he finally nods, itâs slow, thoughtful. âAlright,â he says. âIf youâre sure, Iâll come.â
You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. âGood. Iâll save you some cotton candy.â
He huffs out a quiet laugh. âNot sure I trust fairground food.â
âThen Iâll bring snacks,â you counter easily. âMy snacks. You trust those.â
His eyes linger on you, and something flickers thereâsomething softer, something that looks dangerously close to fond. âYeah,â he says quietly. âI do.â
The rest of the day passes like it always does, filled with chatter and work and the easy rhythm of routine. But beneath it, something new hums. You can feel it every time he looks at you, every time his hand brushes yours as you move around the kitchen.
And later, when you leave, he walks you to your car like he always does. The afternoon sun is soft on the pavement, the world unhurried. You turn to him before getting in, hand resting lightly on the door. âThanks for saying yes,â you say quietly.
He shrugs, but his voice is warm when he answers. âCouldnât let the kids down, could I?â
You grin. âOr me?â
He doesnât answer right away, just gives a small, almost shy smile. âYeah,â he says finally. âOr you.â
When you drive away, you see him still standing there in the rearview mirror, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like heâs still watching you go. And as you turn the corner, your chest feels full in a way thatâs new and familiar all at once.
Heâs coming into your world next week.
The fair day dawns bright and loud, the kind of spring morning that feels like sugar in the airâkidsâ laughter already echoing down the main street, vendors setting up booths, music floating from the community speakers. The smell of kettle corn and fried dough hangs over the whole town like a promise. You arrive early, wearing one of the school T-shirts with your name on the back, arms already full of poster boards and tickets. Itâs chaos, and you love it.
You help Wanda set up the game boothâring toss, bean bags, a giant jar of jellybeans for kids to guess at. Sheâs wearing sunglasses, sipping tea, looking like she owns the place, and occasionally humming in amusement every time a student runs up to greet you like youâre a celebrity. âThey worship you,â she says, adjusting the rings on her table. âYou know that, right?â
âTheyâre eight,â you laugh. âThey worship whoever gives them stickers and sugar.â
Still, the affection warms you. You love your kids, the energy, the noise, the chaos. But as the crowd thickens, a part of you canât stop flicking toward the street, scanning faces as if youâre expecting someoneâhoping, really. Wanda catches the motion. âYouâre looking for him,â she says without even pretending itâs a question.
You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. âHe said heâd come. He doesnât have to, though. I wouldnât blame him ifââ
Wanda interrupts you with a small smile. âHeâll come. Heâs a quiet one, not a liar.â
You try not to overanalyze it, you focus on your booth, the crowd, the small joys of the morning. You laugh with your students, cheer when they win prizes, and help clean up spilled lemonade. Itâs easy to get lost in the noise, the blur of color and movement.
And thenâthere he is.
You donât see him approach right away. You feel him first, a subtle shift in the air behind you, the quiet weight of someone standing close but not too close. You turn, and Buckyâs there at the edge of the booth, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding a small brown paper bag. Heâs dressed differently than usualâstill simple, still him, but softer somehow. Jeans, a plain gray henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sunlight catches in his hair, a faint breeze teasing it.
You freeze for a beat, because something about seeing him here, in your world, out of uniform and duty, hits deeper than you expected. âYou came,â you manage finally, voice caught between surprise and warmth.
He gives a small, lopsided smile. âTold you I would.â He holds up the paper bag. âBrought backup snacks, just in case fair foodâs as bad as I think it is.â
You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you too easily. âYou really didnât trust my cotton candy plan?â
âDidnât say I donât trust you,â he counters, and the way he says itâsteady, quiet, completely earnestâmakes your chest tighten.
Wanda materializes beside you like smoke, smiling at Bucky with that curious teacherâs-eye look she gives to every new person she meets. âSo youâre the infamous firefighter,â she says, extending her hand. âSheâs told me about you.â
Bucky shakes her hand politely, shooting you a look thatâs equal parts suspicion and amusement. âAll good things, I hope.â
âMostly,â Wanda says, smiling. âYouâre taller than I pictured.â
He huffs a soft laugh. âI get that a lot.â
You glare at her playfully, but she just waves and says, âIâll go check the dunk tank before the kids decide to flood it early,â before wandering off.
The two of you stand there, momentarily caught between laughter and quiet. Around you, the fair buzzesâkids running past, someone yelling about funnel cake, the smell of caramel apples thick in the air. But somehow, it feels like itâs just the two of you. âWant me to show you around?â you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
âYeah,â he says softly. âLead the way.â
You walk through the fair together. He doesnât talk much at firstâhe doesnât need to. He listens, hands in his pockets, occasionally making some dry comment that makes you laugh. You take him past the art booths, where your studentsâ projects hang in rows of color, and he stops in front of one labeled with your name. Itâs a collage your class madeâa field of handprints in paint, each signed by a child, surrounded by cut-out letters that spell The Best Teacher Ever! Itâs uneven and smudged and perfect.
Bucky studies it longer than you expect him to, a faint softness pulling at his mouth. âThey really love you,â he says quietly.
You shrug, embarrassed. âTheyâre good kids.â
He glances down at you, something thoughtful in his eyes. âYouâre good with them,â he says simply. âIt shows.â
The compliment lands heavier than he probably intended. It isnât the wordsâitâs the way he says them, steady and sincere, like itâs not even a question, like itâs a fact.
You move on, showing him everythingâyour favorite stall for handmade candles, the game where the kids always cheat, the bake sale Wanda and the PTA moms are running. At one point, you find yourself next to him in front of the cotton candy machine, and you laugh as a gust of wind blows sugar threads into your hair. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes them away.
The touch is brief, featherlight, but his fingers linger at your temple for half a second before dropping. His breath catches. Yours does too. âYouâve got, uh,â he mutters, clearing his throat. âSugar in your hair.â
âTragic,â you say, your voice a little too soft.
âCatastrophic,â he agrees, mouth twitching.
You both laugh, a little shy, a little stunned, and move on. But the touch stays, and it hangs there like a memory neither of you wants to disturb.
Later, as the afternoon fades and the crowd begins to thin, you sit on the curb with a paper cup of lemonade, your knees almost touching. The air smells like sun and sugar and pavement. You donât talk much, you donât have to, the silence feels full instead of empty.
âYou were right,â Bucky says finally, nodding toward the fairgrounds. âWasnât so bad.â
You smile at him, eyes squinting against the last bit of light. âTold you.â
He looks at you thenânot the quick glances he used to give, not the cautious observation from behind a wall, but openly, with quiet awe. Like heâs finally seeing how you look in your own world. Surrounded by color, laughter, tiny sticky hands tugging your sleeves, your voice still warm even after hours of talking.
For Bucky, something settles deep in his chest that he canât name. Itâs not attractionâheâs already been living in that. Itâs something deeper, more domestic. Itâs the feeling of home.
You notice the look but donât name it either. You just smile back, soft and unguarded. âThanks for coming,â you say quietly. âIt meant a lot.â
He shrugs, but thereâs no deflection in it this time. âAnytime,â he says, voice low. âI liked seeing your world.â
You sit there a little longer, until the lights start flickering on and the first stars slip out behind the clouds. And when you finally stand to leave, he offers his handânot out of obligation, not because itâs polite, but because itâs instinct now. You take it without hesitation. His palm is warm, steady, a little calloused. You hold on just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
And when you walk back through the fairgrounds, side by side, your hands brush again and again until they finally stay that way. Fingers linked loosely, not claiming, not rushing. Just⊠together.
The crowd hums around you, the night growing soft, and Bucky realizes something simple and terrifying all at once:
He doesnât just like your Saturdays anymore.
He likes you everywhere.
He starts showing up in small ways outside Saturdays. Youâll be in your classroom after school prepping next weekâs math centers and there will be a knock at the door. You look up and heâs leaning in the doorway, one hand tucked in his jacket, holding a thermos of coffee like itâs the most casual thing in the world. He pretends heâs dropping it off because Steve accidentally made too much at the stationânot because he just wanted to see you.
But the second he steps into your room and sees your kidsâ artwork taped to the walls and your desk covered in glitter glue and fidget toys and half laminated name tags, he looks around like heâs inside something he never imagined existed: harmless chaos. âYou deal with this every day?â he murmurs, stunned but not mocking, eyes darting around like heâs trying to translate children in their natural terrain.
âAnd willingly,â you tease, passing him a marker so he has something to do with his hands before he overloads. âSome people like adrenaline. I like sticker negotiations and âplease stop licking the bookâ diplomacy.â
He huffs out that tiny almost laugh he doesâthe one at the edge of softnessâand helps you hang up a few more student drawings without saying anything else. And itâs the way he stands next to you, shoulder brushing yours every so often, that tells you he didnât come here because of extra coffee at the station at all. He came because he wanted to be here. Because being near you doesnât drain himâit restores something.
He starts noticing when youâre tired now, too. Not in a pitying wayâhe doesnât talk to you like you need fixing. He just quietly slides a container of his meal prep toward you when you mention skipping lunch. He brings extra apples one day and tosses one to you without even looking up from the newspaper. He casually hands you his jacket when you shiver taking trash out to the dumpster behind the station, acting like itâs not a big deal while his eyes track you the entire way back inside.
And you start to see how much he craves small, steady connectionâeven if he doesnât know how to ask for it. When you walk beside him now, he reaches for your arm lightlyânot tight, not possessive, just guiding. When you laugh, he leans in closer, almost subconsciously. When you hand him a napkin or utensil or anything at all, he always touches your fingers first before taking it from you. Like contact is becoming a language.
Sam notices before you do. One afternoon at the station, you reach across the table to pass Bucky a spoon and his hand slides along yours like muscle memory, like instinct, and Sam chokes mid swallow until Steve kicks his ankle under the table with military precision. Natasha doesnât say a wordâshe watches with narrowed amusement like she always knew this was exactly where the slow burn was heading.
And Bucky? He just keeps doing it. Little touches. Little claims disguised as casual nothing gestures. He doesnât call attention to them and neither do you. You just lean in gently, matching his pace, letting him guide in the small quiet ways heâs comfortable with.
The first time you walk outside together after a long Saturday shift and the night air settles cool against your skin, he reaches out and hooks his hand lightly behind your elbowâbarely pressure at allâbut you can feel how deliberate it is. You can feel that he wanted that contact. That he wanted you closer. âYou okay?â you ask softly, turning toward him.
He takes a slow breath before answering, looking almost surprised at himself. âYeah.â His voice is quiet, steady-sincere. âJust⊠making sure you donât get lost on the sidewalk.â
The excuse is thin. Laughable. Ridiculous. And when you look up at him with that sunshine softness he pretends doesnât undo him, he tries to scowl and fails. You donât call him out, you donât burst his cover. You just lean closer and bump your shoulder into his gently. âGuess Iâm lucky youâre here to keep me on track,â you say.
And he breathes in slow like your words went somewhere deeper than lungs. Because thatâs the part thatâs melting him the most. Not the baking, not the quiet weekends, not the familiar routine. Itâs the fact that when he reaches for youâhowever small, however hesitantâyou reach back without fear. And that kind of safety is something he hasnât let himself want in a very, very long time.
The kids were wild because itâs almost spring break, you spilled half your coffee down your front before first bell, and someone tried to feed the classroom fish a Cheez-It. Upstairs chaos and glitter. But you got luckyâthis week the lunch schedule shifted because of standardized testing, so you have a full, rare, unheard-of long lunch break. Wanda gives you a lazy little smirk and a sing-song âuse it wiselyâ before disappearing to the teacherâs lounge.
Youâre sitting at your desk when you hear the soft knock on your door. You donât even look up at firstâexpecting a student who forgot a water bottle or who needs a pencil sharpened even though class ended twenty minutes ago.
Then his voice fills the doorway, that calm, low, gravelly voice that already lives in your body now. âYou free?â
You look up so fast your neck might actually crack. Bucky stands just inside the threshold, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other holding his helmet. A motorcycle helmet. He looks like the kind of trouble thatâs good for a soul no matter how you try to reason yourself out of it. You blink at the helmet, then at him. âWhat are you doing here?â
He shrugs, like itâs the most normal thing in the world that a stoic firefighter has just casually appeared in your classroom like he belongs there. âNatasha said you had a long lunch today. Thought Iâd steal you.â
You stare for a second and itâs embarrassing how warm your face gets. âSteal me?â
âBorrow,â he corrects, pushing off the doorframe and stepping deeper into the room. His eyes scan the chaosâmarkers everywhere, spelling posters half laminated, glitter flakes stuck to the tile floor, handprint art drying on the window sills. He takes it all in like he always does, curiosity softening him around the edges. âLunch?â
âYeah,â you breathe out, still a little startled. âYeah, Iâm free.â
He walks toward your desk slowly, eyes holding yours the entire time. âI brought the bike,â he says, lifting the helmet slightly so the light catches on the visor. âHope youâre not scared of motorcycles.â
You donât even hesitate. âIâm not.â
Something flickers across his face thenâsomething predatory but soft, like he just discovered a shared secret before itâs spoken. He holds out the helmet. You step around your desk and take it from him, fingers brushing over his as you do. His hand lingers against yours a second longerâsmall, steady contactâand your pulse kicks up instantly. âYou ready?â he asks, voice lower now. Warmer.
You grab your sweater, turn off your overhead lights, and slip out the door beside him. He rests his hand at the small of your back as you exit the building, guiding you gentlyânot pushy, not claiming, but protective in a way that feels instinctive and natural.
The bike is parked right outside the staff lot. Sleek, black, and intimidating in a beautiful way. You put the helmet on and he adjusts the strap for youâcareful thumbs brushing your jawline as he tightens it. His fingers tremble just slightly, barely there. âTrust me?â he asks.
You donât look away. âYeah. I do.â
The answer lands between you like something more binding than a promise.
He swings on first and you climb behind him, your hands hovering awkwardly for a half second before he reaches back and taps your thigh. âHold on,â he says quietly. You slide your arms around his waist, fitting against his back, cheek brushing between his shoulder blades. His muscles go taut, breath catching like that single contact might overload him. Then he settles, breathing you in slowly.
And then youâre moving.
The wind hits your body, the speed curling around your legs, your arms tightening instinctively around him, your cheek pressing into the soft worn cotton of his shirt. You feel the rumble of the bike beneath you, the warmth of his torso under your palms, the faint scent of woodsmoke and soap and something inherently him. It feels like flying through something youâve been waiting for without knowing it.
He takes you to a small diner on the edge of townâquiet, low key, with mismatched mugs and the best grilled cheese on the planet. He orders for both of you, gently nudging your knee under the table like heâs testing another version of contact heâs still learning he can have.
You talk about the fair again. You talk about his last call where nothing big happened and how Sam nearly got into a verbal duel with a neighborhood terrier. You tell him about a kid in your class who keeps trying to prove he can talk to worms. He listens like heâs cataloguing every detail, like your words are safely being stacked and labeled inside him.
When the check comes, you try to grab it but he gives you a look that says donât. You let him. And when you climb back onto the bike, he doesnât need to say hold on this timeâyou just do, arms sliding around him naturally.
The ride back is slower. Heâs not showing off this timeâheâs savoring the closeness. Back at the school parking lot, he helps unbuckle your helmet, fingers brushing your cheek, eyes locked on yours like the world shrank to three inches of space between you.
âThat was nice,â you say quietly.
He nods, voice low and certain. âYeah, we should do that again sometime.â A beat. âNot just Saturday.â
You feel it settle warm in your chestâthis gentle shift into something that looks and feels dangerously real. You smile. âIâd like that.â
He steps back reluctantly, like he doesnât actually want to put space back between you yet. But he does. Slowly. Respectfully. He tilts his head toward the school doors. âGo teach the tiny chaos gremlins,â he says, almost smiling. âIâll see you this weekend.â
You watch him leave on the bike, wind whipping his hair as he pulls away. And as he disappears down the street, you press your palm to your sternum and realize something with bone-deep certainty, he didnât steal you from school for lunch. He brought you into his world and let himself into yours again. And these small worlds are starting to not feel so separate anymore.
He doesnât tell Sam, or Steve, or anyone really. But little shifts start to happen when youâre not around. One day he shows up to the station with a different creamer in his bagâone heâd seen you use in your coffee at the diner. He puts it in the fridge under the guise of âsomeone left it at the store cheapâ but Sam wasnât born yesterday.
Another day, he spends an hour quietly fixing the hinge on the supply cabinet at your classroom when he stops by after a runânot because it was broken in any way that mattered functionally, but because you were frustrated with how it squealed every time you opened it. He doesnât tell you until you open it and it swings smoothly and youâre staring at him, dumbfounded.
âOh,â he says, shrugging like he didnât just spend his entire break doing it. âJust needed tightening.â
You start realizing he shows up when you need someone without you ever asking. And he doesnât make a spectacle of solving problems. He doesnât announce his presence or his help like some kind of performative hero thing, he just does it. And that quiet reliability begins to sink into you in a way that feels deeper than just comfort.
One afternoon after school, youâre sitting on the floor of your classroom grading math quizzes. Wanda is stapling a bulletin board. Youâre telling her about the lunch day with Buckyâthe motorcycle, the dinerâand youâre trying to say it calmly, rationally, like itâs not burning itself into your skin in the fondest way possible. Wanda just smiles a little, shaking her head as she aligns the border at the corner of the board. âYouâre already in it,â she says.
âAlready in what?â you ask, though your pulse spikes because you know. You absolutely know.
âThe middle of it,â Wanda says. âWhatever this is with him. Youâre already there.â
You want to deflect. Or joke. Or hide behind sarcasm. But instead, you sit back on your palms, expression softening. Thereâs no dramatic âaha moment.â Itâs just the quiet acknowledgment that sheâs right. Youâre already in it.
Later that week, Bucky ends up at the station kitchen with Steve late at nightâquiet, low music humming through the empty room. He sits with a mug between his hands, thumb brushing the rim in slow thought. Steve washing out a pot stops and just regards him for a moment. âYou really like her,â Steve says suddenly, not unkind, just observant.
Bucky doesnât look up right away. He stares down at the mug like it holds the answer. He doesnât smirk. He doesnât deflect. He doesnât growl his way out of it. He just breathes once through his nose and lets the truth exist between them. âYeah,â he says quietly. âI do.â
Steve smiles faintly, shaking his head. âI havenât seen you this relaxed with anyone in years.â
âItâs different,â Bucky says, still not meeting his eyes. âSheâs⊠soft. And steady. Doesnât push. Doesnât expect anything from me I canât give.â
Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed. âSheâs good for you.â
Buckyâs jaw works for a second. He finally looks up, blue eyes tired and open. âI think I want to be good for her too.â
Steve doesnât tease him for it. He doesnât smirk or make a comment about feelings. He just nods once. âThen let it happen. Donât think your way out of it.â
Bucky sits there long after Steve heads to bedâhands cupped around warm ceramic, staring into nothingârealizing there was no wall left to pretend to hide behind. Because somewhere between cinnamon rolls and motorcycle rides and tiny classroom repairs⊠he already stepped out of it.
And on the other side of town, you lay in bed later that night under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, re-reading your lesson plan, unable to fight the quiet smile that keeps pulling at your mouth every time you remember how he looked at you today. How he stood closer. How he listened with that focus of his like you were the only thing he wanted to absorb in the room.
This isnât an almost-crush anymore. This isnât âsomethingâs maybe happening.â This is real. This is slow and gentle and certain. And both of youâwithout ever saying it out loudâfinally understand it.
One Saturday morning at the station, youâre helping Sam chop fruit for some post-cleaning brunch and Bucky walks in, hair still wet from his shower. You smell the cedar shampoo on him before he even speaks. Without hesitating, he comes to stand beside you at the counter, close enough that his arm presses firmly against your side. He doesnât move away. Doesnât pretend he didnât notice. His shoulder stays flush with yours while you slice strawberries, like touching you is now his default starting point instead of a privilege that surprises him.
Sam glances at the way your bodies align and mutters something dramatic about âthe universe shiftingâ before Bucky casually kicks his shin under the island counter, not even looking up from the fruit bowl. Sam hobbles away laughing to himself and Natasha smirks from the corner because sheâs been waiting for this exact evolution.
Later, when you and Bucky take a break outside, youâre leaning against the front of the firetruck, sipping iced tea from a plastic cup. The early spring sun is warm against your skin. Bucky stands closeâclose enough that when the breeze hits, your sleeve brushes his forearm. He doesnât shift away like he used to; instead, he rests his hand lightly against the small of your back.
Your breath catchesânot because you werenât expecting it, but because it feels so wonderfully normal. Instinctive. You donât even look at his hand; you just lean gently into the contact, letting your body melt into that simple warmth like it belongs. âYou got any plans later?â he asks, voice rough from the cool air.
âJust grading and laundry,â you answer. âNot exciting.â
He hums, thumb stroking the back waistband seam of your jeans in a small unconscious arc. âI could come by after shift. Fix that shelf you said was wobbly. We could order something in.â
You turn your head toward him, heart thudding slow and heavy. âIâd like that.â
He nods, eyes soft. No tease, no guard, just quiet meaning sitting heavy in the air between you. When you part ways later, his fingers trail gently along your wrist before letting go. Itâs not accidental. Itâs not subtle. And the feeling stays in your skin the entire drive home.
A few days later, it happens againâthis time in your classroom when he stops by with coffee. Youâre busy sorting folders and he leans against your desk, watching with that soft, observant attention heâs only ever given you. When you reach for the stack beside him, his hand covers yours and he holds it thereânot just a brush of fingertips, but a slow, deliberate press. âTake a break,â he murmurs.
You look up at him, pulse fluttering under his palm. You donât pull away and he doesnât either. The stare lasts longer than it ever hasâno one darting their eyes away this time. He lifts your hand slightly, thumb brushing small circles into your skin, almost reverent in how gentle it is. Like heâs memorizing the shape of you by touch alone.
And then, one night after dinner at your placeâheâs fixing that shelf just like he said he wouldâyou end up sitting on the floor organizing books and he ends up sitting beside you. The shelf is done, but neither of you move. His knees are bent, long legs stretched out in front of him, and your hip leans against his thigh where you sit shoulder to shoulder.
At one point, you shift to reach for a new stack of books⊠and he catches your hand again. But this time he doesnât release it. This time his fingers slide slowly, intentionally between yours, interlacing like itâs the most natural progression in the world. Both of you freezeânot in panic or shockâbut in sudden, quiet awareness.
The world goes gentle around the edges. His thumb strokes the inside of your hand again, slow and almost absent-minded like this is something heâs been wanting to do for weeks. You watch his eyes drop to your joined hands before lifting back to yoursâopen, calm, quiet.
No one speaks first because this moment doesnât need narration. It is already declaration. Your head tilts slightly into his shoulder, and he exhales slow against your hairâlike every tension he used as armor for years is starting to melt.
This isnât guiding. This isnât accidental. This isnât helping. This is wanting. And for the first time, Bucky isnât afraid to show that he wants you.
Itâs a Tuesday. The school is hosting a district-wide teacher workshop, and youâre surrounded by colleagues you only see a few times a year. Thereâs a lunch spread in the libraryâhalf sandwiches, fruit, and cookies that look far better than they taste. Bucky had texted you that morning to tell you he was swinging by later with a container of stew, âreal food,â he called it, so youâre in good spirits.
Thatâs when Adamâthe new P.E. teacherâwalks in. Heâs all easy smiles and too much cologne, with that comfortable charm that gets him volunteered for every fundraiser and assembly. You know him in passing; heâs nice enough, good with the kids, harmless in the way men who havenât been hurt often are. He waves when he sees you and walks right over.
You chat politelyâjust small talk about class schedules, the fair last month, his new after-school soccer program. Itâs perfectly innocent. But when he leans closer to joke about your third graders and the âmystery glitter epidemic,â his hand brushes your elbow in a way thatâs friendly but too familiar. You donât think twice about it, laughing it off.
Except thatâs the exact moment Bucky walks into the library.
You spot him over Adamâs shoulder instantlyâdark jacket, thermos in one hand, that quiet confidence he wears like second nature. He was supposed to wait in your room, but of course he found you first. He always does. His expression is unreadable at first, all neutral and calm, but then his gaze dips to where Adamâs hand lingers near your arm before you move away.
Itâs barely a flickerâa tightening of his jaw, a small stillness in his bodyâbut you feel it. You know him well enough now to recognize the quiet current under the surface.
You excuse yourself from Adam politely and cross the room to meet Bucky halfway. His eyes soften as soon as youâre close, like the act of you coming to him defuses whatever sparked that flash of heat in his chest. âHey,â you say gently, smiling. âYou found me.â
He nods, voice low. âYeah. Library wasnât hard to guess.â
You glance down at the thermos and laugh. âYou brought lunch.â
âStew,â he says simply. âDidnât want you living off whatever those are.â He nods toward the sad sandwiches, and you grin.
âYouâre my hero.â
He tries to hide the faintest twitch of a smile, but itâs there. The jealousy isnât ugly in himâitâs quiet, protective, edged in something vulnerable. You see it in the way he stands slightly closer to you than usual, the way his hand finds the small of your back while you walk toward an empty table, a small gesture that says youâre mine, right? without words.
You sit together, sharing his stew from the same thermos, and the world narrows until itâs just you and him. He doesnât bring up Adam, doesnât say a word about what he saw, but itâs in the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you the spoon, lingering a little longer than necessary. Itâs in the way he looks at you when you laugh, softer now, calmer.
âThanks for this,â you say, blowing on your spoon. âIâd be starving without you.â
âCanât have that,â he mutters.
The silence after that isnât awkwardâitâs thick with unspoken things. You can practically feel what heâs thinking. Later, when the workshop ends and youâre walking him out to the parking lot, you bump his arm lightly. âYou okay?â you ask.
He glances at you, startled by the question. âWhy wouldnât I be?â
âYouâve been quiet.â
He exhales through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck. âJust⊠didnât like seeing that guy touch you, thatâs all.â
You stop walking, blinking up at him. His tone isnât sharpâitâs hesitant, almost sheepish, as if heâs embarrassed by his own honesty. You step a little closer, voice gentle. âIt wasnât anything. Heâs just friendly.â
âI know.â He shrugs, half-smiling but not looking at you. âStill. Didnât like it.â
You study him for a momentâthis big, careful man whoâs spent years keeping everything locked up tightâand your heart squeezes. You reach out, curling your fingers around his wrist until his hand relaxes in yours. âYou can tell me stuff like that,â you say softly. âYou donât have to swallow it.â
His gaze lifts slowly to meet yours. âYou donât think itâs⊠too much?â
You shake your head. âI think itâs kind of sweet, actually.â
That earns a small, reluctant grin from himâhalf relief, half self-deprecation. He looks down at your joined hands, turning them slightly so his palm faces up and your fingers slide together more naturally. âGuess Iâm bad at playing it cool,â he admits.
You smile. âI like you better when youâre not trying to.â
Something warm flickers in his eyes at that, something unguarded and bright. He squeezes your hand once, firm and sure, and you both start walking again. And later that evening, when he drops you off at home, he doesnât just walk you to the door. He hesitates there, hand still in yours, thumb tracing your skin like heâs memorizing it. âJust so you know,â he says, voice quiet but steady, âIâm not going anywhere. Even if thereâs a line of guys waiting to bring you sandwiches.â
You laugh, soft and easy, leaning into him slightly. âI think Iâll stick with the guy who brings real food.â
That earns you his real smileâthe one that breaks slow and a little shy before it settles into something sure. He bends just enough to press a light kiss to your forehead, lingering there for one heartbeat longer than he should. And when he pulls back, his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. âGood. âCause I donât plan on sharing.â
Itâs not possessive, not sharp. Itâs gentle, warm, threaded with affection thatâs been waiting months to breathe. And as you stand there with his hand still holding yours and the faint smell of stew and smoke between you, you realize something simple and certainâBucky Barnes may not know how to be loud about his feelings, but when he loves, he does it with his whole, careful, deliberate heart.
His place is small, warm, and lived-in in a way that feels startlingly intimate without being messy. You notice instantly that the kitchen is the heart. Sharp knives hung neatly, cast iron pans seasoned black from years of use, spice jars lined and labeled by hand.
He hands you a wine glass the moment you shrug your coat off and hangs your cardigan himselfâcasual, like heâs always done that. The steady domesticness of it hits you like a soft weight in the chest.
âWhatâre we making?â you ask, leaning against his counter, watching the way he moves around his kitchen.
âSomething simple,â he says, pulling out vegetables like itâs second nature. âRoasted chicken thighs, potatoes, salad. Nothing fancy.â Then a tiny ghost of a smirk. âDonât wanna scar you with my seasoning ratio math first round.â
You laugh, take a sip of the wine, and step beside him. âYou seriously think Iâd be scared?â
âYou saw Sam try to replicate my marinade,â he says dryly. âIt traumatized him.â
Cooking together becomes its own language. When he hands you ingredients, his fingers linger along yours instinctively. When you reach for a bowl beside him, his arm brushes yours and he doesnât pull away. You chop alongside him at the butcher block and thereâs something about the quiet, rhythmic slide of the knife and the way he nudges your hip lightly with his own that feels almost like dancing.
He moves around you with this ease that tells you he memorized your presence alreadyâadjusting without thinking, making space for your elbows, brushing his knuckles against your arm occasionally as if grounding himself. The silence isnât empty. Itâs that warm kind that fills the walls with comfort.
Halfway through seasoning the chicken, you catch him watching you. Not intensely like he does sometimes when he studies you⊠but soft. Affection written plain across his face. He realizes heâs staring and blinks, looking down like heâs embarrassed, but you reach out and touch his wrist gently.
You donât say anything. You donât need to.
When the food goes into the oven, he pours you both fresh wine and you settle on the couch while the kitchen timer ticks quietly in the background. The moment you sit down, he hesitates only a second before sitting beside youânot at the other end like he mightâve weeks ago. He sits close. Knee against your thigh. Shoulder brushing yours.
The TV hums some sitcom rerun neither of you actually watch. You talk about small thingsâyour terrible indoor plant survival rate, his disdain for store bought marinades, a kid from your class who insisted Jupiter is a portal to a toy dimension. He listens, relaxed and open, eyes slipping lower and lower the longer you talk.
Then, not suddenly but naturally, he lets his head rest against the back of the couch closer to you. Heâs angled toward you, body soft, guard down. His hair brushes your shoulder and you feel this tugâthis impulse that youâve been resisting for months.
You lift your hand and brush a stray strand behind his ear and he goes still immediately. You pause. âOkay?â
He swallows once, nods once, slow. âMore than okay.â
So you let your fingers slowly slide through his hairâsoft, deliberate, carding through it gently. He exhales like it pulled breath from somewhere deep inside his sternum. His eyes flutter shut, jaw slackening, posture melting deeper into the couch as if his body doesnât remember how to hold tension with you touching him like this.
He leans into your touch. Not subtly. Fully. His head tips closer to your shoulder, his hand finds your knee lightlyâjust resting there, warm and steady. Thereâs this magnetic, quiet honesty in the way he seeks contact now. Heâs not shy about wanting more time in your hands. âThis feels⊠good,â he murmurs, voice rough with something vulnerable, something unused. âHavenât had someone touch me like that in⊠I donât even know.â
You slow your fingers slightly, cupping the back of his head gently. âI like doing it,â you whisper. âYou can ask for this anytime.â
His hand tightens a fraction on your knee. He turns his head a little toward youânot kissing you, not rushing anythingâbut close enough that you feel his breath soft against your collarbone. And when he opens his eyes again, the softness in them is so intense it makes your heart stutter.
The oven timer breaks the momentâbut even when he stands to go check the food, he does it reluctantly, like heâs leaving something warm and important behind on that couch.
Dinner is cozy and quiet and shared from the same side of the table like that closeness is the new normal. And afterwards, when he walks you to the door and helps you into your coat, his fingers slide up your arms, gentle and warm and slowâlike heâs memorizing the shape of you again before you step away. âYou coming by Saturday?â he asks softly, thumb brushing your wrist one last time before he lets go.
You nod, leaning a little closer because you donât want to leave that softness behind yet. âI wouldnât miss it.â
He opens the door, but before you step out, he brushed his knuckles lightly across your cheek. The smallest gesture. But it feels like he just placed something inside your ribs thatâs going to keep burning all week until you see him again.
The station usually rotates who does the big supply run for the weekâmostly because Sam buys random snacks he wants, Steve buys everything organic like a betrayed suburban mom, JoaquĂn buys the weird cereal no adult should ever want, and Bucky considers grocery ingredients sacred resources not to be compromised by chaos.
This week, Sam insisted it was a âteam building group outingâ and for reasons unknown to humanity⊠they all agreed. And you ended up coming along because Natasha texted you casually that morning: bring Bucky snacks and come entertain me, I donât want to shop with these idiots alone.
You show up to the station first, in soft jeans and a sweater that Bucky immediately notices because he looks up from tying his boots and does a slow blink like his brain took a picture of you before he remembered to breathe. He doesnât say anythingâhe just gives a barely-there smile and murmurs, âhey,â like the word feels different when itâs directed at you.
The grocery store is busy the way Saturday late morning always isâfamilies, couples, old women with coupon binders, teenagers attempting independence with energy drinks and frozen pizza.
Natasha pairs off with JoaquĂn because she doesnât trust him not to buy âexperimental spicy cerealâ and Steve and Sam argue over protein shakes. Which leaves you and Bucky in produce.
Youâre holding the list Sam scribbled and reading out loud, âtwo bags spinach, bell peppers, potatoes, berries, sourdoughââ Heâs already grabbing things methodically, moving with quiet focus. And you follow along beside him, gently teasing him about being aggressively efficient. âYou plan grocery trips like tactical missions,â you comment, watching him inspect potatoes like they might carry classified intel.
âBad produce ruins meals,â he says simply, shrugging as he rolls a potato in his palm. âCanât risk it.â
You laugh, shaking your head. âYouâre such a snob.â
His eyes flick toward yours and warm slightly. âYou like that Iâm picky with food.â Your heart does that absurd jump again. Because heâs rightâyou absolutely do.
At one point, you reach up to grab something from a higher shelf, coffee beans that Sam wrote three underlines under, and Bucky steps behind you automaticallyânot hovering, not crowdingâbut close enough you feel his presence like a shield. His hand settles briefly at your waist as if steadying you. Just a moment. But long enough for warmth to spread through your body.
You donât rush away from the contact this time, you lean back slightly into it, and he doesnât pull his hand away as fast as he used to. Instead, he lets it linger. His thumb brushes, deliberately gentle, like a silent word.
When you turn toward him again thereâs something new in his faceâsoft certainty. You move further down the aisle together, the list half done, and somewhere between yogurt and granola bars, a toddler in a dinosaur hoodie barrels past you both and nearly knocks into you. Buckyâs reflex is instantâhe reaches out, steadying your elbow, guiding you smoothly aside before the tiny chaos tornado continues screeching toward frozen waffles.
You laugh, a little breathless. âWow. Good reflex.â
He hums, unconsciously stroking your arm once before letting go. âYears of dealing with Sam.â
You start walking again, your fingers brushing his at your side. And this time when they touch⊠he turns his hand palm-up.
Offering.
Not an accident, not a hesitant brush disguised as movement. He wants you to take it.
And you do.
You slide your fingers into his slowly, threading them together, palm against palm, skin warm and certain. His grip tightensânot forceful, but firm. Intentional. Claiming in the quietest, softest way. He looks down briefly, as if memorizing the sight of your hands together, then looks forward again like heâs grounding himself in this moment.
Thereâs no panic in his breathing. No tension in his shoulders. Just that gentle steadiness heâs slowly letting himself have with you.
And he doesnât let go the entire rest of the store trip.
Not while you check out. Not while you help load groceries in the cart. Not even when Sam comes back and does a double take so dramatic Steve smacks him in the back of the head and says, âdonât scare it, let it happen naturally.â
Natasha doesnât even react. She just gives you this tiny knowing smirk when she sees your joined hands like sheâs been waiting for this exact beat for weeks. When you all walk out of the store, Bucky carries the heavier bags and keeps your hand in his free one like itâs just what his body does now. Like this is a new base state.
When you get to the cars, before anyone else climbs in, he shifts closer, thumb brushing along your knuckles as the morning sun warms the pavement between you. âThat alright?â he asks quietly, nodding toward your hand in his. âThis?â
You squeeze his hand once, soft and certain. âYeah. More than alright.â
And the look he gives you thenâopen, relieved, a little overwhelmed and entirely devotedâtells you everything you need to know, hand holding wasnât a milestone for him. It was him choosing you openly, without fear.
Itâs late, the stationâs been busier than usual that week, and Buckyâs more tired than youâve ever seen him. Youâd stopped by with dinnerâhomemade soup, still warm in the containerâand stayed to help clean up after the teamâs shift meal. The others trickled out one by one, voices fading upstairs or into the night until it was just you and him left in the kitchen.
The lights are low, humming quiet. The sink runs with a steady rhythm while he dries a pan, towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Youâre leaning against the counter beside him, sipping tea from one of the chipped mugs they all use. Itâs comfortable, easy silenceâthe kind that fills up a room instead of emptying it.
He glances sideways at you occasionally, eyes softer than the dim light should allow. âYou didnât have to stay,â he says finally, setting the pan on the rack.
You shrug, smiling into your cup. âDidnât want you cleaning up alone.â
He hums in quiet agreement, folds the towel carefully. âYou always stay.â
âGuess I do,â you murmur. âYou mind?â
Bucky turns toward you then, leaning against the counter with his hip, one arm resting loosely over the edge. âNo,â he says. Then, after a beat, âI think Iâve started counting on it.â
The air thickensânot heavy, but aware. You set your mug down, fingers curling around the edge of the counter to keep them busy. Heâs close enough that you can feel the heat off him, the faint smell of cedar and smoke that always clings to him. Your heart beats a little too loud for the quiet in the room.
His gaze drops brieflyâto your hands, then to your mouthâand thatâs when something in your chest breaks open. He doesnât move closer yet, but you feel the intent in him. The restraint, the quiet question thatâs been there for months.
You donât answer with words. You step forward, just a fraction, until youâre standing directly in front of him. His hand, resting on the counter, twitches once. His throat works in a slow swallow. âBucky,â you whisper, voice barely carrying.
âYeah?â he answers, the word soft and hoarse, like itâs dragged up from somewhere deep.
âI think Iâve started counting on it too.â
For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The air feels like itâs holding its breath with you. Then his hand liftsâhesitant but deliberateâfingers brushing along your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. Itâs reverent, almost uncertain. You can feel him trembling faintly, not from nerves but from the sheer weight of wanting and the fear of breaking the moment.
You lean into his touch, just enough to let him know itâs okay.
Thatâs all it takes.
He leans forward, slow, eyes flicking between your eyes and lips until the space between you collapses. The first touch of his mouth is so soft it barely registers as a kissâmore like an exhale, a testing of pressure, a question whispered against your skin. He starts to pull back, unsure, but you chase him forward, catching his bottom lip between yours and answering the question he didnât dare ask.
The second kiss isnât hesitant.
Itâs slow, yes, but sureâlike something heâs been building toward for months. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck. Your hands find his shirt, gripping lightly at his chest as if to steady yourself against the quiet, dizzying rush of it all. He tastes faintly like coffee and something darker, something entirely him. He kisses like he touchesâgentle but grounding, all patience and careful strength.
When he finally pulls back, he doesnât move far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. You stay like that, neither of you ready to break the fragile stillness. Heâs the first to speak, voice low and rough at the edges. âBeen wantinâ to do that for a while.â
You smile, still breathless. âYeah,â you whisper. âI know.â
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating where his chest meets yours. His thumb traces a slow path along your jaw, memorizing. âDidnât think Iâd get here. Not really.â
You pull back just enough to meet his eyesâthose tired, storm-blue eyes that have softened into something that feels like home. âYouâre here now,â you say softly. âThatâs what matters.â
He nods once, eyes still locked on yours, and you can see the truth settle into him. Whatever walls heâs spent years holding up, theyâve finally stopped being barriers between you. Now theyâre just backgroundâthe ruins of something that doesnât need rebuilding because what youâre creating together is better.
He leans in again, kissing you slower this time, longer, his hand splayed against your back, anchoring you both in that quiet, golden kind of certainty that doesnât need words. And when you finally part, the clock ticks softly in the background, the world outside the station hushed and distant.
He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, voice barely more than a whisper. âI want this. I want you.â
You nod, heart full enough to hurt. âThen youâve got me.â
He doesnât say thank you, he doesnât need to. He just smilesâsmall, real, a little dazedâand presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling you gently against his chest.
And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself simply exist in the quiet peace of being held.
One Year Later
The first thing Bucky notices when he wakes is the space beside him. Itâs warm but empty, the sheets folded back, the soft indentation still in the pillow where youâd been. His hand finds that spot instinctively, fingers brushing over the cotton like maybe youâd only just left. He breathes in onceâslow, easyâand the faint smell of something buttery and sweet reaches him before he even opens his eyes.
He knows where you are. He always does on Saturdays.
The clock on the nightstand reads a little past seven, sunlight already spilling through the curtains in pale ribbons. He stretches, lazy and slow, rubbing at the back of his neck before swinging his legs off the bed. The floorboards creak softly under his bare feet as he stands, tugging on the flannel pants he left draped over the chair last night. The air smells like sugar and pastry, something faintly tart beneath itâraspberry, he realizesâas he heads down the short hallway toward the kitchen.
Youâre there, exactly where he expected, standing at the counter in one of his old shirts, with the sleeves rolled up. The radio hums softly from the windowsill, some old song you probably found in one of those âweekend morningâ playlists you love. The kitchen is alive with the sound of itâmetal trays clinking, the gentle hum of the oven, your quiet hum matching the music as you drizzle chocolate over neat, golden pastries cooling on a wire rack.
He stops in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame. For a long moment, he doesnât say anything. He just watches you, watches the way your body moves so easily in this space that used to be only his. The way the light catches on your hair and the corner of your smile when you hum along to the song. The way this apartment smells like home now, like you.
âSmells dangerous,â he finally says, voice still gravelly from sleep.
You turn, eyes lighting up instantly when you see him. âYouâre up.â
âCouldnât sleep through that.â He gestures toward the pastries, walking over until heâs close enough to rest a hand on the small of your back. âYouâre making the station spoiled.â
âThey asked for raspberry this time,â you say, grinning up at him. âAnd I couldnât say no.â
âYou never do.â His thumb brushes along your spine, slow and absent, a quiet kind of affection thatâs become as natural as breathing.
You lift one of the pastries carefully from the tray, holding it toward him. âQuality control,â you offer.
He leans in to take it but stops halfway, eyes glinting as he murmurs, âyou sure this isnât bribery?â
âMaybe a little,â you admit.
He huffs a laugh, low and warm, and takes a bite. The pastry flakes against his lips, sweet and tart, the chocolate melting just enough to coat his tongue. âYeah,â he says after a moment, voice thoughtful. âThatâll do.â
You roll your eyes, laughing softly as you turn back to the tray. âHigh praise, chef.â
Bucky steps closer behind you, hands sliding around your waist until his chest presses lightly against your back. You let yourself lean into him, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours as he rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like sleep and warmth, and his voice when he speaks next is soft enough that it feels like part of the morning air. âYou gonna take all these to the guys?â
You nod. âMost of them. I promised Natasha a box but I thought Iâd save a couple for us.â
He hums approvingly, lips brushing against your temple. âGood plan. JoaquĂnâll inhale his before you even park.â
You laugh quietly, shaking your head. âThatâs why I make extras.â
For a while, neither of you speak. The oven ticks as it cools, the radio shifts to another song, and his hands stay splayed comfortably against your stomach, fingers tracing small, slow circles through the fabric of his shirt that youâre wearing. When you finally turn in his arms, your palms slide up his chest until they rest against his shoulders.
He looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, the kind of soft he only ever gets with you. You rise onto your toes and kiss himânothing rushed or desperate, just the familiar, grounding kind of kiss that feels like a language you both invented together. When you pull back, he follows slightly, just enough that your noses brush. âMorning,â you whisper.
âMorning,â he echoes, voice low, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. âYou got flour on your face.â
You laugh, rubbing at your cheek. âDo I?â
He leans in and kisses the spot instead, the faintest graze of lips against skin. âGot it,â he murmurs.
You shake your head, grinning, and reach up to ruffle his hairâsomething you do every time he gets too serious. He catches your wrist gently before you pull away, turning your palm so he can press a kiss into the center of it. Then he lets go, stepping back just enough to look around the kitchen. âNeed help packing these?â
âYeah, actually,â you say, reaching for the containers. âIf you can box up the ones for the guys, Iâll do Natâs.â
He nods, already moving toward the counter. âYou sure you trust me not to eat âem?â
âIâll count them before we leave,â you tease, bumping his hip with yours.
He chuckles, grabbing a pastry anyway and taking another bite before you can protest. âYou didnât count this one,â he says around a mouthful.
You swat at him with the edge of a towel and he laughsâreally laughs, the sound filling the whole apartment until it feels like the walls themselves are smiling. Itâs easy, this life with him. Easy in the way mornings like this feel endless. The light through the window. The smell of raspberries and coffee. His hand brushing yours as you both reach for the same pastry box.
When everythingâs packed and youâre slipping your shoes on by the door, he comes up behind you again, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin resting in the crook of your neck. âYou sure you donât wanna stay here?â he asks softly. âWe could keep the raspberry ones hostage.â
You tilt your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. âTempting,â you say. âBut I already promised. And besidesââ you turn, smiling up at him, ââI like bringing them something sweet.â
He smirks, kissing your forehead before letting go. âYeah. Theyâre lucky to have you.â
You pick up the pastry box, glancing back at him. âYou ready?â
âAlways,â he says, and means it. He takes the keys from the counter, holds the door open for you, and when you step out into the hallway, he reaches for your hand without even thinkingâhis fingers finding yours like they always do.
And as the door closes behind you both, the scent of raspberry and sugar lingers in the air, curling softly through the quiet apartment thatâs no longer just his, and never will be again.
summary: you have totally inappropriate feelings for your older coach, teasing him every practice brings some thrill in your dull college life. Riling him up is your favourite pastime now, you can't help it! Coach Barnes' reactions are just so fun... especially when he gets jealous. The best part though, is when he puts you in your place.
warning: 18+ nsfw mdni! smut, dubcon, slight jealousy, age gap, oral (m!receiving), raw sex wrap it before you tap it pls, creampie, slight nipple play, p in v, slight brat taming, pwp (well i guess slight plot), dirty talk, kind of public sex, nearly getting caught so exhibitionism kink sorta?, pet names : brat, sweetheart, baby, slut, whore
word count: 4.9k
a/n: i miss coach Barnes so much, due to @/superbassbuck's forty-love! I actually yearn for him. This is my first time writing smut so im sorry if it sucks! :) but i hope you enjoy this!
College has been boring for you lately, nothing exciting would ever happen. Parties were fun for a while until it felt repetitive, the boys werenât really your type either. Surprise surprise college boys donât know how to fuck a girl properly, disappointing sizes and they could barely last two minutes.
That is until you had the brilliant idea to try out for the cheerleading team. Being a cheerleader had its perks, immediate popularity, catching the attention of the football team.. oh and of course getting ruined by your hot older coach basically every other day.
Youâre not quite sure how it first started. The first time you attended cheer practice your eyes immediately zeroed in on the much older man blowing a whistle. He was devilishly handsome and you were immediately hooked. That tight shirt was basically a second skin that hugged his broad shoulders and muscles, god those pecs were basically greeting you as he walked towards you with a polite smileÂ
âHello, youâre the new recruit right? Iâm Coach Barnes.. nice to meet you sweetheart, go put your stuff by the bench and start warming up.â That deep voice caused a sliver of heat to crawl down your stomach. The two of you shook hands and you, his big ones engulfed yours. Your thoughts drifted to imagine how they would look all over your body, those thick fingers could do so muchâ noâ stopâ thatâs literally your coach! You shouldnât have these untamed fantasies... although, your thighs seem to betray you, rubbing against each other - which he noticed, of course.
There seemed to be a crackling tension every time during practice, the way coach Barnes would help you stretch. His hands hold your waist with a firm grip whenever you seem to be off balance; you could feel the warmth of his palms even through your uniform. The first few times you thought you were simply imagining it, how his fingers linger on your legs longer than necessary, how his hands trail up your thighs and even dip under the edge of your mini cheerleading skirt that was borderline inappropriate.Â
You were sure it was one-sided. There was no way in hell your cheerleading coach would reciprocate the same dirty desires whenever he was in the same room as you. That all changed one afternoon. During warm up, you were up and bending over to stretch your legs and back - what you didnât expect was a hand giving your waist a small squeeze.
Tilting your head back, you found your coach standing right behind you, and before any words could escape your lips he pulled your body back. You felt it.Â
Everyone else was too distracted to notice; it seemed innocent enough for a coach to help someone stretch, if it wasn't for the thick bulge pressing against your ass. âJust keep stretching..â he murmured loud enough for the two of you to hear, maybe it was the way he said it, or because of how inappropriate this was with everyone around, but it had your pussy clenching around nothing as you stayed still.
Slowly he began rocking back and forth, causing very slight friction between the two of you. You could feel it throb even through the layers of fabric. You tried to push your hips back for more. He wasnât letting you. Coach Barnes held onto your waist still, preventing you from moving an inch. This made you whine softly, careful not to attract unwanted attention - Your little fit made him preen to having this control over you.Â
Once it was time to actually start cheer practice, the both of you had to pull away. You immediately straightened up knowing your panties were soaked and clinging to your pussy lips. However, you were more focused on the string of precum that seemed to connect the wet spot coating coach Barnesâ shorts and your skirt, which settled right on top of his obvious erection.
Thankfully his shorts today were black, so no one would notice if they didnât pay close attention. Watching him adjust his pants made you chuckle. He raised an eyebrow seeing your reaction. âYou think it's funny? Fuckinâ brat,â he muttered out, his jaw clenched as he walked away to go rally up the other girls.
From that moment on, you decided to make it your personal mission to mess with your dear olâ coach, walking into the practice room with your skirt pulled higher than usual. Everytime you bend down just a little it would expose your plump ass, paired with your lacy panties just to rile him up even more. At the corner of your eye you could catch his stare; hungry eyes that trace the curves of your body from bottom to top.
Teasing him did come with its consequences. Turns out it was fairly easy getting coach Barnes to snap. While everyone was practicing their flips and poses, you were on the side doing a scale pose. You effortlessly pulled your leg up, hitting that âHigh-Vâ motion. Whilst balancing, you were counting every second until you hit your limit, legs trembling and breath laboured.
The countdown was interrupted when you felt a steady hand holding your thigh, pushing your legs further apart to form a straighter split.Â
Coach Barnes stood behind you, his wide solid chest pressed against your back as he leaned his head close to your neck. His salt and pepper beard scratched against your neck as he whispered into your ear. âFocus, look straight and hold the pose.â He knew what he was doing and he could see the effect it had on you, the stimulation from his hand sliding closer to your core, giving small squeezes, the overall warmth of his body pressed up behind you⊠god you were struggling to keep it together.Â
After a few moments he moved his hand up, hooking his finger under the waistband and gently stretching it, testing the elastic. He grinned, pulling on the band back far enough before letting go. The fabric snapped back, hit your skin with a smack. The sudden feeling made your knees buckle - thankfully your coach was there to keep your balance.Â
âTsk tsk tsk.. seems like youâre not concentrating today⊠and why is that sweetheart?â he purrs, not letting you have a breather as his fingers glide against your clothed pussy.
âAlready so wet, fuck- look at you⊠Better stay quiet, you hear me? Wouldnât want any of the other girls to catch you like this, hm?â You let out a soft whimper before nodding, biting your bottom lip to keep the noises from escaping.Â
The pleasure you felt from the simple friction was enough to get you close. You let out a shaky breath, panting. âCoach.. Iâm closeâ godâ please donât stopâ. Here's where the consequences came.Â
âYou think this is a game? All this time youâve been giving me a show, prancing around basically half naked...I had to go home and fuck my fist everytime cause of you. I think you need a little punishment, brat,â he snarls. His finger pushed down, prodding at your entrance through your underwear before completely pulling away.
You were at the very edge and the sudden loss of contact had your pussy throbbing for more, letting out a small whine as you tried to look like you werenât about to cum in front of everyone a few seconds ago. He grinned in satisfaction seeing how distraught you were before walking to the center to start the cheer session as usual.Â
In a hazy blur, practice was finally over. You were packing your things, already thinking about how you were going to go home and imagine your hands were his, gently sliding across the sensitive parts of your cunt.. Suddenly, coach Barnes blew his whistle, gaining everyoneâs attention. The team gathered around him to listen to his announcements. âGood job everyone, I will see you for the game this Friday. But I do have to speak with you,â he points at you, before continuing. âStay back, we have things to discuss.. everyone else is dismissed.â
Once everyone had left, coach Barnes gestured for you to follow him. You entered the room and closed the door behind you. Now it was just the two of you.. there was a heat that coiled below your stomach at the possible things that could happen right now. He beckoned you with his finger. You immediately obeyed, now standing right in front of him. He leaned down and hooked your chin up,your lips inches from touching.Â
âYou seemed distracted today.. that wonât do. I think a little punishment is needed.â You tried to catch his lips for a kiss. He immediately pulled away, just for you to be out of reach. âUse your words, what does the little slut want?â His words had sent a jolt of pleasure straight down to your core. Your eyes flickered down to the massive bulge straining his shorts, and you salivated.Â
Your hand rested on the bulge, rubbing it slightly. âThis.. I want this, coach pleaseâ I need it- I need it so bad- I need you.â Your words satisfied him. He placed a hand on the waistband of his shorts.Â
âOn your knees.â The command immediately had you kneeling, positioning yourself face level with his throbbing erection.Â
He pulled down his shorts and boxers, his cock now resting on your face. God it was so heavy. You could smell the precum leaking from his tipâ how was he this big⊠Your shaky breath fanned his cock, making it twitch. Instinctually you reach out, wanting to touch his girth- but he gently swatted your hand away. Wrapping his hand around his thick cock, he slapped it against your face a few times before rubbing it all over your face.Â
 You began pleading âPlease, pleaseââÂ
He cuts you off by shoving his cock into your mouth. âThere we go.. is that better? This is what you wanted, right?â He coos, holding your head still. Hearing your muffled replies he started to push it all the way in, until your lips were touching his base. Coach Barnes let out a groan, âShitâ youâre so warm..I knew this pretty little mouth would feel goodâ You gagged, his tip was hitting the very back of your throat.
One of his hands was on your face while the other fisted your hair, he roughly began rocking his cock into your mouth, using your mouth like a toyâ not that you mind. You preferred being manhandled, having them do the work for you. Your whole body felt hot with need as he continued to use your mouth and all you could do was let out muffled moans. The vibrations sent pleasure down his length.Â
Drool and saliva was dripping down your chin, but you were too busy being dizzy from your coachâs cock to care. You could feel it twitching inside. He was close. Your tongue started lapping at the underside of him. His thrusts became sloppy as he mumbled curses. You could see coach Barnesâ face morphing into one of intense pleasure. With a final thrust he plunged his cock all the way in. His cock pulsed as hot spurts of cum filled your mouth which you happily swallowed.Â
Slowly he pulled out of your mouth, taking a moment to look at your tear-streaked, ruined makeup. He pulled you upright and cupped your face.Â
âYou swallowed it all? Good girl,â he smiled. You nod, as his hand moved down to your waist, gently curled around it. Right as you were coming down from your high, leaning into his touch, his hand left you again to lay a firm smack against your ass.
âSeems like youâve learned your lesson for today, better be in top shape for friday yeah? Youâre dismissed.â
Youâve been distracted for the past few days, whenever you tried to focus on anything the scent, feel and taste of his cock would cloud your mind. The girls locker room was busy with everyone touching up their makeup and rehearsing the cheer routine that they were performing soon.
Maybe after tonight's game you could get rewarded by coach Barnes, the thought had you thrumming with excitement as you all got onto the field.
The cheer performance went just as planned, perfect flips and formation. You havenât missed a beatâ well until you caught a glance of him by the bleachers with a proud smile, your chest squeezed at the sight and maybe it made you a bit distracted because you stumbled the last turn. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment as you quickly recovered with the ending pose, fortunately it couldnât have been that noticeable as the crowd cheered.Â
Soon all of you settled back to the bleachers to let the football teams continue their match. Coach Barnes praised the girls for their hard work tonight. He gave each of the girls either a high five or a ruffle on the head, however when it was your turn he instead patted your back before sliding his hand down and giving that ass a firm squeeze, which caused you to let out a soft gasp.
It seems like a bad night for the rival football team as they lost, the college students all cheered but the opposing players started to falter and never recovered. You were confident the reason was due to getting distracted by the cleavage shown from the low cut of your cheer tops, why else did they start staggering after half time which was coincidentally right after the routine.Â
Post-game celebrations were the best part of the night, the gymnasium was prepped with food and drinks. These were exclusive to the jocks and cheerleaders, hosted by both coaches.
While sipping on some drink, you saw Elliot who was the co captain talking with his friends. Without thinking much you walked up to him, âHey Elliot! I havenât seen you since that party, congrats on the win tonight!â you congratulated him.
Elliot was delighted to see you, he immediately grabbed you by the waist and picked you up; With ease, he spun you around while smiling, âThank you.. Iâm sure it's because of the killer routine you guys did today. It had them tripping over themselves on the field. Which I meanâ c'mon who wouldnât be?âÂ
Elliotâs words were just harmless flirting in your head, you giggled as he finally set you back down. His hands lingered around your waist for a moment longer than needed before letting go, sometimes sneaking back as the two of you caught up.
You were oblivious to the specific someone that had eavesdropped and watched the whole interaction from the side. Coach Barnes was being chatted up by the other football coach about how well his boys played tonight or somethingâ he wasnât paying attention.Â
Seeing how the jock had his hands on your body, it made a surge of irritation go through coach Barnesâ chest, his grip tightening on the plastic cup in his hand. The nerve of Elliot to touch you so freely⊠Not that you seemed to mind. The conversation between the two coaches soon ended as he excused himself, discarding the half crushed cup before walking towards you.
âSorry to cut in, Harding, but I need this little missy to help me with something.â Coach Barnes spoke, giving Elliot a firm look and interrupting the conversation between the two of you, placing a hand on your shoulder. Elliot was too much of a coward to say no, so begrudgingly all he could do was nod and walk away.
Your stomach did a small swirl as coach Barnes had dragged you out of the gymnasium, already imagining where things were leading to. He took a turn heading for the girls locker room, once inside he made sure that it was just the two of you, alone.Â
âYou needed me for something, coach..? Iâd love to help in any way I can..â you lowered your voice, hands trailing up his chest feeling his hard pecs. Instead of teasing back, he clicked his tongue and grabbed both your wrists before backing you up against the lockers, pinning your hands by the sides of your head.
âSo.. Harding eh? You let anyone put their hands on you?â he growled, eyes narrowing at you in jealousy. You hadn't expected such a reaction from coach Barnes, you opened your mouth wanting to explain the misunderstanding that had formed however you paused⊠Why not have some fun?Â
You let out an amused huff and tilted your head to the side, âIs there a problem coach? Donât tell me youâre jealous⊠aw.â a retort escaped your lips, the thrill of testing the older manâs limit sent a jolt of pleasure down to your cunt.Â
The way his face scrunched up in annoyance was satisfying, as expected, the result of poking the bear would be thrilling. Coach Barnes smashed his lips against yours, âHe would never be able to satisfy this pretty little thing.â He murmured while his hands let go of yours, one of them trailing down and going under your skirt, a finger pressing against the clothed clit.
The little gasp you let out was practically a plea to keep going, âYou need a more experienced man, not some flimsy college boy⊠or do I need to prove it to you?â pulling your underwear to the side he played with your bare pussy.
All you could do was whimper as your hips bucked to get his fingers closer to the heat that's building in you, âOh? Whatâs this⊠dripping already? Tsk tsk tsk⊠Whoâs this pussy wet for huh?â He chides, shaking his head in mock disappointment, your usual bratty self unraveled and what was left was a begging mess of nerves want and need.
âY-youâŠâ your voice was no louder than a breath, embarrassed to admit how wet you were for him. Coach Barnes heard your response and his lips curled into a wolfish grin, âI couldnât catch that, one more time⊠you know the things I wanna hear.â His tease had your cheeks flushing as you bit your bottom lip.Â
âYou made me wet, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear god!ââ You cut yourself off with a moan as his fingers pinched your little button. He could feel your sweet juices soak his hand, slowly he slipped two fingers in breaching that tight dripping hole. Your walls immediately clenched around his thick digits making coach Barnes groan at the feeling, god you were so warm and wet⊠not to mention the loud squelching noises had unraveled something in him.Â
His thumb started to rub circles around your clit while the other two fingers kept pumping in and out. You let out little moans and whines, trying to swallow it down so no one passing by outside could hear how good your own coach was making you feel. He noticed and pushed the two fingers deeper inside before curling them, his fingers reaching that spongy area which made you cry out his name seeing stars.Â
âGod!â Coach Barnes!ââÂ
âSo fucking needy, does my little slut want to come?â You nod desperately for him, his fingers began pumping faster helping you to chase that high. He could feel you trembling against him, drenching his whole hand. âCome for me, câmon.â Those three words had pushed her over the edge, your eyes rolled back and your mouth formed an O shape. Your whole body was shaking, pussy clenching hard on his fingers as you came.Â
As he pulled out his slick covered fingers out of your pussy, some of your cum had leaked down and dripped onto the floor. He brought his fingers up to his lips, licking them clean. The sight was intoxicating, your coach who was knuckles deep inside you just moments ago, was now sucking his fingers while groaning. âFuck, I knew this pussy would be sweet.â
There was no snapping back, no retorts or teasing, what was left of you now was a pliant and leaking mess whoâs in need of a cock to fill that pussy up.
Impatiently, he started pulling his shorts down as if the fabric was burning him. His cock sprang free, the head red with how hard he had been precum leaking from his tip. Seeing his cock again after being deprived of it these few days was like a drug. You were ready to drop down and please him but he reached out and kept a firm grip on your waist while his other hand began stroking his hard length.
âNo baby, my cock wants a taste of that little pussy too.â He turned you around, making you bend over with your cheek and hands pressing against the lockers for support. Coach Barnesâ rubbed his cock against your wet folds, it would have been embarrassing how fast your slick coated his cock if it wasnât for the feverish feeling overtaking you.
âFuck⊠look at you,â the way he said it, he wasnât talking to you but your pussy. He pressed his swollen tip against your entrance, the feeling of just how thick his head was made you squirm with excitement. As his cock breached your tight heat, you could feel every ridge and vein stretching out your walls.
Holy shit, he was huge.Â
The burn from the stretch was both painful and delicious, you gasped as he kept thrusting deeper not letting you accommodate his long and girthy size. Coach Barnes stilled and groaned once his full length was inside of you, allowing you to finally breathe. You felt his balls slap against your already sensitive clit making you squirm and push back your hips needing to feel more.
âOh God!â Coach Barnes, you're so big!âÂ
Your desperate little act and whine turned him on even more, not wasting anymore time he started to rock his hips into you relentlessly. âNo other college boy can fuck you this good huh? Youâre such a fucking slut.â He slammed his hips harder making you whimper, âI know what this pussy needs, a thick experienced cock from a real man. How does it feel to actually be filled up hm?â Â
You couldnât think straight, your body trembling from being pounded by coach Barnes however you knew better than to not respond when he was talking to you. âGoodâ feel goodâ oh!â, though it seemed like your words werenât enough for him as his hand leaned down to pinch your hot and raw clit. âWhat? Didnât catch that, use your words slut.â he snarled, pausing his thrusts to get your attention.
The sudden lack of pleasure made you whine, he squished both your cheeks with one hand tilting your head back to look at him. His eyes bored into yours waiting, âPlease coach Barnes⊠your cock is my favourite!â I need it so bad fuckâ itâs so good, so fucking big!â Satisfied he let go of your face and pulled his hips back until only the tip was inside before slamming the whole length inside in one rough thrust, burying himself to the hilt of your warmth.Â
âThats right, Iâm glad you know your place baby.âÂ
The locker room was filled with sounds of skin slapping bouncing off the thin walls, your loud moans was a dead giveaway that someone's pussy was getting ruined inside there. Not to mention the room completely smelled like sex and sweat.Â
His thrusts were getting sloppy, your walls were clenching tighter, not wanting to let go as the two of you were chasing the high that was so close. At the very peak of ecstasy suddenly coach Barnes heard footsteps walking down the hallway, getting closer to the locker room. He covered your mouth with his hand, suddenly well aware the two of them would be the first thing anyone walking in sees.Â
Coach Barnes stilled and whispered into your ear in a hushed tone, "someone's coming, we have to move.â which made you huff and whine, not wanting to stop fucking. âRelax, I bet theyâre just walking past⊠no one would come in hereâ just continue pleasee!â you arched your back to get some friction going. Not dealing with your whining he quickly pulled out and hauled you over his shoulder like a potato sack, the only available area to hide in is the showers.Â
The footsteps were getting louder, and so was your heartbeat as he made sure nothing was left behind and went into one of the shower cubicles locking the door once inside. You were squirming and throwing a fit while he did all this, ready to tell coach Barnes he was being paranoid but you went silent the moment you heard the doors open.Â
âHello? Is someone there?â
You recognised this voice, it was the cheer captain Alice. Oh fuck. The panic was rising up but your coach knew how to handle it, he motioned for you to answer as he turned the shower head water on. Fortunately the cubicle was big enough that the water didn't hit either of you. Taking a deep breath you gulped, âUh..â yes! It's me sorry I was just taking a shower you know how it is, I didn't wanna go back all sweaty.âÂ
Alice calmed down hearing a familiar voice and chatted up a conversation with you, thinking you were taking a shower. For a while coach Barnesâ shoulders relaxed knowing they werenât caught, but as you continued the conversation with the cheer captain he couldnât help but admire you. Skirt hitched up showing that pretty ass, panties shoved down and slick leaking down your inner thighs.
God what a sight, his half hard cock began to throb and get rock hard for you once more. Deciding to have a little fun after the things you put him through, he positioned himself behind you again, hands on your waist and gave you a little heads up by nudging his aching tip against your hole.Â
Tilting your head back you looked terrified, wide eyed and shook your head no at him even if a tiny part loved the thrill and possibility of getting caught. Even if your face hid that fact, your body definitely didnât because you were already gripping onto his tip. Seeing how your pussy practically was begging for his cock, coach Barnesâ lips curled up into a grin making you bend over properly before sliding his length inside with ease while you were in the middle of responding to Alice.Â
âYeah I think we did great toâ NIGHT!â You tried covering up the moan with clearing your throat after.Â
âLook at you⊠she could catch us any moment but thatâs what fun isnât it?â Oh you definitely like that, look at her sucking me in, godâ youâre such a whore.â he whispered, leaning forward and sucking on your neck.Â
It was honestly a miracle for Alice to not notice the subtle sound of skin against skin, how you were failing to even pay attention and answer with how distracted coach Barnes had you. Thank god Alice was called by her friends, she got her bag and quickly ended the conversation leaving the locker room. The moment you heard the door open and shut, all the moans and whimpers that you pushed down escaped.
Your true self unraveled fully, some bratty cheerleader who turned into nothing but a filthy slut at the sight of your coachâs cock. As he rocked his hips into you at a merciless pace, the water couldnât hide the sounds anymore. He used his free hand to pull your top up showing your tits at full display bouncing back and forth.Â
No bra, of course.Â
âYou always walk around like this? Theyâre begging for attention.â He clicked his tongue in a mock scolding tone as his pointer finger began playing with your hardened nipples, flicking at them, pinching and twisting. The unexpected touches caused jolts of pleasure straight down to your throbbing core, at this point all you were babbling nonsense as the heat was getting closer to exploding.Â
âIâm gonna cum!â oh my god yes yes yesâ please donât stop!â
It seemed like you learned who you belonged to so he continued to drill into you giving you that release you longed for, as your body spasmed multiple times your thighs were trembling from the immense pleasure. He watched as you came for the second time today, your release making your walls grip around his cock even tighter. You were barely hanging on to sentience as coach Barnes continued to pump into you, after a few thrusts he grunted and buried himself to the brim.Â
âTake it allâ gonna fill you up fuck!ââ He cummed inside of you, hot and thick white spurts filling you up completely. Both of you were a panting mess, you could barely stand without his hands holding you upright. After catching his breath, coach Barnes slowly pulled out of you.Â
âMy little slut made such a mess hm? Now what should you say?â
âThank⊠thank you, coach.âÂ
âIâm hoping to see you every week after practice?â He chuckled, pulling your panties up and fixing your top. You could only afford to nod dumbly, knowing your cheerleading coach had ruined your pussy and got you addicted to his cock. No other guy could ever compete, youâd forever come running back to coach Barnes to satisfy your needs and he was happy to do so.
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Pairing: DARK!Bucky x Shield!Reader
Word count: 5.3k
Warnings: NONCON/DUBCON turned stockholm syndrome of sorts, bad depiction of PTSD, suicidal ideation at the end (but in my head reader is being dramatic in a Taylor Swift kinda way), mentions of violence, Soldat gets soft?, smut, p in v, oral (m receiving, mentions of f receiving), fingers in mouth, cowgirl, mating press, mention of masturbation (f receiving), mention of Steve x reader, Soldat being jealous, me thinking I'm funny, melancholy, dacryphilia, nicknames (pretty girl, asset)
Summary: You were never the same after the first night the Soldat visited you.
+fran: there's way too many references to science, ttpd, and the wuthering heights soundtrack. recommended listen: down bad by taylor swift. dt: @iamthatonefangirl for being soldatâs biggest fan.
read part 1 here
Morning light painted your ceiling gold; the air was warm, the city outside hummed with its usual indifference. It was normal. Almost too normal.Â
Nothing was out of place, except a smudge of grey on your white duvet from his boots, an ache between your thighs, and cum stains on your sheets.Â
Even your tear stained cheeks were wiped with a warm cloth before he snuck out like he was nothing but a shadow in the back of your mind.Â
Your lashes were sticky from sleeping with watery eyes and your head felt heavy like it did when you overdid the wine.Â
You knew it wasn't the wine though.
It was him.
It was the lack of oxygen and the burdensome shame the sheer memory of his lips on your body and the weight of his cock in you brought. Each step out of bed and into the bathroom hurt, and you almost didn't recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror.
The bags under your eyes proved sleep wasn't restful, the rat's nest on your head made you remember how his fingers wove right through it while he tugged your head back to find more space to mark your neck.
Speaking of which, the shades of red and purple scattered across your neck and chest, all the way down your hipbones and inner thighs, would've made whoever works at Pantone jealous.Â
You traced each mark slowly, memories of their genesis flooding your brain. Each time he kissed, sucked, and bit on the skin of your body as if that would be the only proof of his existence.Â
The shower temperature was borderline concerning. As if you could boil and scrub the scent of kevlar and cum away if you tried hard enough. You washed your hair, the scent of bergamot and sandalwood of your shampoo calmed your nerves a little.
You stood under the water until it turned cold.Â
Padding to your closet after drying out, you picked a pair of black leggings, black sports bra, a matching athletic jacket to go over and while socks.
The loud noise of the blowdrier wasn't enough to drown out his voice that was still echoing in your head.Â
You remember how you fought â and you remember the exact moment your body stopped resisting. The exact moment you begged. The exact moment you said please like it was the only word you knew.
You shouldnât have liked it.
You know that.
But your hips had lifted into his hands, desperate. Your mouth had opened for his tongue without thinking. Your thighs had locked around him like you never wanted him to leave.
And worst of all â the part that made your eyes sting with confused tears â is that even now, remembering all of itâŠ
Your body reacted all over again.
A slow warmth spreads through your stomach, your breath growing shallow, your nipples tighten against the fabric of your sports bra, and it takes every bit of energy you have to finish drying your hair.
The distraction starts small. Easy to hide, at first.
You show up late to breakfast and blame it on oversleeping, even though you were up before most people, sitting on the edge of your bed with the sheets still crumpled beneath you, trying to convince yourself it didnât happen the way it did.
Your coffee goes cold in your hand. Sam cracks a joke that everyone laughs at â except you. You force a smile when he nudges your shoulder and ask him to repeat it. Youâre sure itâs the third time youâve done that this morning.
By 10 a.m., Nat starts noticing.
She leaned against the gym doorframe while you tried and failed to focus on the punching bag in front of you. Youâve hit it five times in ten minutes. You're sweating for no reason. Your gloves hanging loose around your wrists.
âOkay,â she drawls, arms crossed, âwho crawled into your head and forgot to leave?â
You glance at her. Shrug. âWhat do you mean?â
Nat tilts her head and gives you the most unimpressed look a human face is capable of. âYouâve spaced out in every room youâve been in today."
You blink at her. Swallow. âWeird dream.â
She perks up immediately. âOh? That kind of weird?â
You fumble with your gloves. âNoâwell. I donât know. Doesnât matter.â
Nat grins like a shark. âYouâre blushing.â
âI am not.â
âOh, you definitely are.â She leans in, voice dropping, teasing. âWas he hot?"
Conversation flows and as she walks away, calling over her shoulder that maybe you should get laid for real, just to even out your energy, you stare down at your bruised knuckles and think about how easy it is to lie when the truth sounds insane.
He was back on the rooftop.
Same place. Same time.
But this time, you werenât the same.
You moved differently now, softer, slower. Like your body didnât quite trust itself. Like the air in your apartment had grown heavier, thicker â saturated with something you couldnât name but could feel. And he could feel it too. All the way across the street, down the barrel of a scope he no longer needed.
You werenât wearing much â you never did after a shower. Just a thin shirt and sleep shorts. Legs bare. But you werenât humming tonight. Werenât swaying around your room the way you used to. The lightness in your step was gone.
When you finally stepped out onto the balcony, it made something in his chest hitch. Like seeing a bird that used to sing now just perch in silence.
You leaned against the railing with your wine in one hand, your free arm crossing over your stomach like you needed to hold yourself together. And for a moment â just a moment â you looked out over the skyline andâŠ
You looked up.
Right where he was. Across the way. High up and still in the shadows. Motionless. Mute.
Your eyes scanned the rooftops. You didnât squint. Didnât linger.
But you were looking. Not aimlessly, either.
You were looking for him.
And it sent a wave of something cold and electric through his body, like the aftershock of a touch that lingered too long.
He just watched the girl on the balcony wrapped in candlelight and confusion, wearing bruises on her soul and pretending not to miss the man who gave them to her.
Obsession was inefficient. Deviation was dangerous.
The Soldat watched you for three days before the hairs on the back of your neck stood up at his presence again.
He came in as he did last time, through the balcony, quiet footsteps not matching his sheer stature. You were watching TV in the living room this time.Â
Well, the television was on and you were staring at it. The movie was supposed to be interesting, some thriller Nat wouldn't shut up about.
All you could think of it was that the main character was way too naive for her own good, almost wanting to be prey to a charming monster who couldn't wait to get his fangs into her and shred her to pieces.Â
The bottle of wine sat open on your coffee table since that night, almost mocking you. As if you stared at it long enough, whatever happened would cease to have existed.
You felt like you were floating in your own life, unaware of the figure lurking in the shadows of your apartment, approaching the couch carefully, like he was getting ready to ambush you.Â
And he was.Â
A hand wrapped in front of your mouth and an arm around your waist, and as if flailing around would do anything, you tried to fight. Again.Â
Failing.Â
Again.Â
After he had you in his grip, he wasn't so quiet with his footsteps, walking back and dragging you to your room. You caught a glimpse of his reflection and for some traitorous reason, your tummy flipped. In a not bad way.Â
"Missed you, sweet girl."Â Damn the timbre of his voice. Damn the way his chest vibrated through the kevlar. Damn the path said vibrations were taking from your back to your core, igniting heat at their destination.Â
It became almost routine.
The way he'd grab at you and leave handprints all over your body, to a degree you hated yourself for liking, for indulging in, for craving.Â
Hated that you felt heat lick behind your ribs when you felt you weren't alone at night, how your thighs clenched together when the heat of his body was on your back, and how you felt any and all resolve melting away the second his hands were on you.Â
No one connected the dots on the Soldat becoming more irritable on the occasion you were away on a mission with Steve when he went inside your apartment.
It wasn't common knowledge that even if you were out, he'd come in and take in every little detail of your home that made it yours.
He'd nuzzle his face into the cashmere scarf hanging in your closet, sniffed your perfume, laid his tired body on your bed and remembered every filthy word he wrung from you on those very sheets.Â
Thirty five days of this back and forth was when he first saw a new side of you. Thirty five days being all it took for you to stop fighting against the dark parts of yourself that craved whatever he was willing to give.Â
He spent four days away from you, unable to see you, cleaning up some HYDRA mess that shouldn't have been made anyway.
You felt hunger. Settling low in your stomach, heavy, dangerous, and alive. Alive like you hadn't felt in a long time. Alive like how he made you feel in that first night and every single night since.
Your limbs feel like theyâve been unstitched and put back together wrong.
He came back after some douchebag tried to flirt with you in line to get a coffee. That man was missing now. Unrelated. Probably.Â
When he tried the handle, though, the balcony door was locked again, and he chuckled to himself, wondering why on earth you had started doing that again.Â
It was the same story this time, you were distracted putting lotion on your legs, naked, this time it smelled like peonies and something soft, like clean laundry and bath bubbles. He was quiet, approaching you from behind until you decided to go off script.
"Where were you?"
Oh? You mean⊠you missed him?
"You didn't show up for days."Â
You did. You missed him.
Your voice was small but firm, like you were verbally pouting, and that made something vaguely resembling a smile bloom on his lips.Â
You still refused to run and look at him, acting like the Soldat showing up to your apartment was another mundane thing, another routine, a chore to be checked off your list and that lit the fire of challenge inside of him.Â
You moved the leg that was propped on the bed back to the floor to walk into your bathroom, but he caught your wrist and turned you around, grabbing your face in one hand and forcing you to look at him.Â
You tried to look annoyed, roll your eyes and huff like he was a pesky little fly, like you were a petulant brat.Â
Silence hung heavy between you two, thick, loaded, much like everything else about him. Your skin gleamed softly as the bathroom and your bedside lamp lights bounced off of the freshly moisturized patch all over you.
Weeks ago, you'd be clawing at his face for him to get away.
Tonight, being in a thong in front of his very kevlar clad self made your body itch to be touched.Â
âYou thought I wouldnât come back?â he asked, tilting his head as if he already knew the answer.Â
You huffed again, shifting on your feet. "You didn't come." Your eyes shifted down like the admittion immediately shamed you, and he tugged you lightly to make you look at him again.Â
"You waited for me?" It was almost like he didn't believe anyone would, like he didn't force himself into your life and called it good when whatever twisted part of your brain played along with it.Â
"Youâre predictable.â
That earned you a real reaction â not anger, not dominance â just a subtle narrowing of his eyes, like youâd poked something interesting.
âPredictable?â he echoed.
âYou disappear,â you said, ticking it off on your fingers. âYou come back. You act like nothing happened. Rinse. Repeat.â
Taunting a super soldier who was a foot taller and about 50% heavier than you was a bold move, he thought. Almost like you were doing reverse psychology on a mentally unstable weapon to get it to give you what you wanted.Â
And if it wasn't for the way your nipples hardened, and the smell of your slick he could sense, he might've fallen for the whole stern act.Â
He took an extra second to look at you, and pulled your face towards him, making your stand on your tip toes as he leaned down to kiss you. Too softly for him at first, almost like he missed you too.
The Winter Soldier had no such terms for his feelings, though.Â
Thereâs a moment where your brain tries to split itself in two.
Heat licks up your spine before you can stop it, shame and want tangled so tightly you canât pry them apart. You squeeze your thighs together instinctively, and the ache that follows makes a soft, broken sound escape your throat.
Your hands grabbed at his arms to stabilize yourself, as his tongue pushed inside your mouth like it was marking his territory, again.Â
He had no ceremony, really. No⊠decorum.
His free hand went to the back of your neck, keeping you in place and forcing you to be impossibly close. His other hand mapped you, like the very first night.Â
Cold metal fingers dragged from your jaw to your neck, your breast, flicking a nipple between his fingers and making you moan into his mouth. Next, it travelled lower onto your stomach, making goosebumps appear at the change in temperature.Â
And last, it found its way into your panties, playing with the hot slick mess drooling out of your cunt. You gasped into his mouth when the cold metal brushed your clit, and he took a couple steps, turning you so he faced your bed and you had your back to it.Â
He smirked against your mouth when he felt you pull him slightly, pulling away from his lips and sitting yourself on the bed, hands moving to his belt.
As you fumbled with the metal and fabric, your eyes never left his. A mixture of lust and despair overflowing from your gaze as his metal hand cradled your face, thumb tracing your lip.
As he tugged it down ever so slightly, you opened your mouth, another silent admission of just how metaphorically on your knees you were. As you felt the weight of his thumb on your tongue, your ears perked up at the sound of a metal buckle being undone.Â
You sucked the digit into your mouth, metallic tang on your tastebuds, as you tugged fabric down just enough so his cock would spring free. Thick, hard, mouth-wateringly big.Â
"Missed my cock that much, mmm, pretty girl?" Fuck him and his smugness.Â
You ignored him, just turned your face away to get his thumb out of your mouth and leaned in, pooling the saliva on your tongue and licking him from base to tip, closing your lips around the head.
He groaned from deep in his chest at the velvety feel of you once again, like it pained him just as much to note have come sooner.Â
His hand found itself tangled in your hair, keeping an iron grip on it while he let you find you rhythm, bobbing your head up and down his length using your hand to stroke what you couldn't fit.
You took him deeper each time, wet noises from your mouth louder until you gagged around the base of him, only to do it again. Your nails dug into his thighs, pulling him in deeper, and he reveled in the fact that he didn't have to force you into anything anymore.Â
Though it was fun while it lasted.Â
He pulled you off of him with a pop, nudging himself forward on your bed on his knees while you backed yourself up until you were laid down completely.
His lips were on your neck, then your jaw, as his hand pulled your panties down a bit and went back to its rightful place between your legs, playing with your folds like he liked seeing you suffer, just a little bit.Â
You whined at him, bucking your hips forward in an effort to get more, and he bit your jaw lightly in response. He took his hand away, and pulled your panties completely off, flinging them to some corner of the room you didn't care for at the moment.Â
He slotted himself between your open thighs and rubbed his length up and down the wetness dripping from you, making you moan at the feeling, "PleaseâŠ"
It was breathy and faint, as you tried weakly to push him off.
You had a look in your face that screamed desperation, a dark, humiliating longing that wonât die no matter how hard you try to smother it. "Can't stop, angel. You know that." As he notched the tip of him in your entrance, you shook your head.
"Let me be on top⊠pleaseâŠ"Â
The Soldat was⊠surprised, to say the least.
He didn't know if that's something he'd enjoy, to be perfectly honest. Every single other time he'd been with you was about him being in control, and you being at his mercy, so when confusion flashed across his face, you spoke up again.Â
"Wanna make you feel good." Oh, the sweet nectar of your voice did him in then, slowly laying himself back into your pillows while he pulled you on top of him.
The image was almost⊠funny.
This big scary super spy assassin, dressed in all black and kevlar with smudged camouflage paint around his eyes, contrasting with the soft comforter of your bed, a pastel color some would say is off white and some would call it a very soft pink, with his massive cock out, leaking and wet, just allowing you to please him.
It was the first time he'd heard you let out something that sounded like a soft giggle mixed with a moan, as you settled open on top of him, grinding your pussy onto the length of him.Â
As your body searched for purchase still on this realm, you realized you were fucking tired of touching kevlar, every single time.Â
Your hands reached for the leather straps on the top of his suit, and his grabbed your wrists at a speed that made you think you did something really wrong.Â
Your hips stilled and a beat of silence followed, just heavy breathing to be heard. As his eyes stared at you, nonverbally scolding, you spoke again.Â
"Please?" When he hesitated, you continued. "Let your pretty girl see youâŠ"
Another beat of hesitation, and then he slowly released your wrists, letting his hands fall to his sides, while you worked at the buckles and straps slowly.Â
You helped him shrug it off once it was undone, and your heart twisted at the same time your pussy did.Â
Lines of carved muscle all through his torso, perfectly sculped by years of torture and hard work, a physique that would make Michelangelo proud, thinking David came to life.Â
Your eyes fell upon the scars on his shoulder, where metal and skin meshed. It looked like he clawed at it, trying to get it off multiple times, only for it to not work or for the arm to be put back in place.Â
Before you could question anything, though, his hands were on your body again, dragging you from the trance back to present time where you were on top of him.Â
"Posmotri na menya."Â Look at me.
And you did. And for the first time since this whole thing started, the look in his eyes felt almost human. Vulnerable.
Your hands cradled his face, and you kissed him, your hips resuming their movements, dragging yourself back and forth over his length, getting him wet in your arousal.Â
His hands rested on your hips until one of them urged you up slightly, so the other could notch the tip of his length at your entrance, him groaning and you gasping into his mouth as you sank down on him.Â
The sting of this stretch just never got old, it didn't matter how many times he had you, or in which position (though on all fours it was specially breathtaking), it always felt like you were unbearably full of him, surrounded by him, overwhelmed with the sheer space he took in your life in just this.Â
As he bottomed out, his flesh hand rested on your face, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. It was almost⊠tender.Â
You opened you eyes to see him staring right into yours, gaze hazy with lust, and you began to move on top of him.Â
You turned your face to nuzzle into his palm, closing your eyes and inhaling the faint scent of gunpowder and CLP that no amount of soap would get rid of.
You lifted you hips and sank back down slowly, little gasps and moans you tried not to let out, coming out anyway.
âI donât like it when youâre gone.â The words came out muffled against his hand, his thumb tracing your lip again.Â
"Mne ne khochetsya tebya pokidat'."Â I don't like leaving you.
It was almost not there, the wet sounds from where your bodies joined were louder than his words, but you heard it. You understood it.Â
His hand dropped a little lower, resting around your neck, using his grip to control the pace, slowly bringing you to the edge and keeping you there until you felt like it had been hours, not letting you go over it just yet.Â
"Ya ne khochu, chtoby ty ischezla." I don't want you to disappear. "Fuckâ please, please let meâ oh!"
It was overwhelming. He was overwhelming. His other hand kneaded your breast, tweaking the nipple, then going lower and gripping your waist like you'd run away from him.Â
He leaned forward, tilting your face up so he'd have space to kiss, and nip at your exposed neck.Â
The new angle let you rub your clit against his pubic bone and the patch of coarse hair there, sending electric shocks through your spine as he sucked and kissed the side of your neck, your chest, and your jaw.Â
"You feel so good you make me forget everything else." You rutted harder against him, whining for more.Â
More of him. More of this.
As you clenched around him once again, he groaned into you, the vibration bouncing off of your skin, and his arm wrapped around you, hand gripping you waist and flipping you over to where you laid on your soft bed now, and he was the one rutting into you.Â
His left hand held your wrists above your head, pressing them hard into the mattress as he used the same arm to hold himself up by the elbow, driving in and out of you with such force you actually got scooted up the bed a couple of inches.
His right hand reached down and hooked your leg onto his elbow, coming back up again to rest against your pulse point.Â
"G'nna cumâ fuck, insideâ" His words were clipped, strained.Â
You nodded as best as you could, floating in a sea of pleasure as the knot in your stomach grew tighter and tighter. "Please, yes, yes, yeâ oh God!" the grind of his hips against your clit when he was pushing in and out of you, combined with the feel of being restrained under him and his mouth all over you was enough to have you contracting around him as your orgasm washed over you.Â
Wave after wave of pleasure hit you over and over again as he thrusted faster, harder, trying to reach his own pleasure, groaning into your neck as he bit a nice mark on there when he spilled into you.Â
He thrusted a few more times to ride it out, the obscene squelch of his cock pushing cum inside of you making your pussy pulse around him, wanting to go again.Â
As his thrusts slowed slowed, the only thing that could be heard in your room was your breathing. You looked up at the ceiling trying to find words in your poorly oxygenated brain, a knock on the front door burst your imaginary bubble.Â
"You okay in there?" Fucking Steve and being a good friend.Â
Every muscle in his body goes still, predator-instinct snapping into place.Â
You scramble off the bed, grabbing the first hoodie you can find and yanking it over your head. It swallows you whole, fabric brushing over fresh marks you havenât even looked at yet. Sleep shorts follow, barely tugged into place as you run a hand through your hair in a useless attempt to look normal.
You yank the door open just a crack at first.
Steve stands there in sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, hair slightly mussed, eyes scanning your face immediately like heâs assessing damage.
You lean casually against the doorframe, forcing your pulse to slow. âIâm fine.â
He doesnât buy it. âYou sure? I heard something.â
You shrug. âDropped something.â
His eyes flick past you, instinctively checking the apartment. You subtly shift to block his view further. âYou look flushed,â he says carefully. "And sweaty."
You blink at him. âSteve.â
He tilts his head. âWhat?â
You sigh dramatically, rubbing your temple like heâs inconvenienced you instead of potentially saving your life.
âI was in the middle of getting myself off.â The silence that follows was louder than any screams the soldat might've tried to muffle at first. âLike. Fully committed. Lights low. Door locked. Very enthusiastic.â
His ears go red first. Then his neck. Then his entire face. âOh.â
You fold your arms. âYeah. Oh.â
âI didnâtâ I meanâ I was justââ He gestures vaguely at you, at the hallway, at existence. âChecking in.â
âWell,â you deadpan, âmission accomplished.â
He coughs, looking anywhere but at you now. The ceiling suddenly becomes fascinating. The floor tile. A microscopic crack in the wall. He nods too many times.
âI canâ you can get back toâ that.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou donât want to supervise?â You open the door slightly more knowing THE Captain America would never.Â
The Soldat, however, heard that on his way out of your window, and made a mental note to make it painful if he ever had the mission to take out Rogers.Â
His head snaps down so fast youâre surprised he doesnât get whiplash. âNope. Absolutely not.â
Thereâs a beat and you almost think it's funny when he misses running into the door frame by half an inch trying to speed walk away from your apartment door.Â
Once you locked the door again, you realized he'd left, and it all felt cold again.Â
The air feels wrong before he even touches the balcony.
He lands in silence, boots barely whispering against the concrete, body low out of instinct. The rhythm is off. The hum beneath the quiet isnât yours.
Your curtains are drawn tighter than usual, but the light is still on. He can see the faint shift of your shadow moving inside. Youâre home. Alone.
Thereâs a frequency he doesnât recognize â thin, high, artificial. Not your television. Not your laptop. Something else.
Bugged.
He doesnât test the lock. Doesnât try to disarm anything. He steps back instead, scanning the exterior wall with his eyes alone.
Sloppy placement.
He steps backward into shadow, withdrawing from the door entirely. Inside, he hears your footsteps cross the living room. Soft. Unhurried. A faint hum of a tune you had stuck in your head. The sound hits him in the chest in a way he refuses to examine.
If this were a trap, this would be how it looked. Routine. Familiar. Lure him in.
So he retreats, and in the next few days he observes you from a distance. Always there like a shadow you can feel but never see, never be sure if he's actually there or if he's a figment of your imagination.Â
He watches you move through the apartment. You check your phone. Toss it aside. Pace once. Twice. Then sit on the edge of your bed and stare at nothing.
Watches you pathetically try to get yourself off like before, except this time it doesn't work, since he's Pavlov-ed your twisted little mind into needing him for it.Â
Thereâs a sharpness to your movements at first â determination. Stubborn pride. Like you're trying to prove something to yourself. Then there's defeat, and frustrated tears he wishes he could lick.
He even caught you being more and more reckless in missions, having to step in and save you, but leaving before anyone, inclusing you, realizes its not your luck, its him.Â
He tells himself this is tactical, asset preservation. Containment.
If someone else planted those bugs, then you are a vulnerability, and vulnerabilities must be controlled.
The apartment feels larger without him.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
The balcony door stays locked now, not because youâre afraid of him coming in â but because youâre afraid he wonât.
You catch yourself listening for the soft shift of weight on the railing. For the almost-imperceptible click of the door handle. For that drop in air pressure that always came a second before his hands did.
It never happens.
Sleep turns shallow and mean. You wake up reaching for a warmth that isnât there. You stand in the kitchen too long staring at nothing. You snap at Sam over nothing. You glare at Steve when he asks if youâre okay.
Youâre irritable in the way a wound gets irritated â raw, exposed, angry at being touched.
Nat doesnât say anything at first, just watches the way you push harder in training. The way you donât pull your punches anymore. The way you volunteer for front positions on missions that used to make you strategic.
You stop waiting for backup.
You clear rooms first.
You draw fire on purpose.
Deep in a little twisted part of your brain, there's hope, stupidity, or⊠love? Screaming at you "If Iâm in danger, heâll come." It's not a conscious or rational thought, but rational left you months ago.Â
Every time you take a hit that shouldâve been fatal â every time you walk away from something you shouldnât have â his jaw tightens a fraction more.
It lasts about three weeks, and then someone notices you have a very diligent guardian angel. And suddendly, he's in the wiping chair again.Â
By the time you reach the causeway, youâre running on fumes and denial.
The wind is sharp, cutting across open asphalt and abandoned cars like knives. Steve is ahead of you. Nat and Sam are flanking. And when you catch ocean blue eyes staring at you from behind a muzzle much too familiar, they're empty.
It's not familiar to him. You're a stranger. A mission. An obstacle he needs to neutralize.Â
pairing: demon posing as a tattoo artist!steve rogers x tattooed!female reader (number and type of tattoos aren't specified but it's more than two)
summary: new york city tattoo parlors have a tradition of offering special deals on friday the 13th, but when you decide to try out a new shop in brooklyn, you get much more than you paid forâand end up selling your soul to a charming demon.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, monsterfucking, dubcon because magic, sex pollen elements, nonconsensual bonding, soul bonds, demon tricks, bdsm (no safe word but with check-ins), choking, sadism/masochism, pain play, very brief blood play, nipple torture, pussy spanking, face slapping, rough body play, finger sucking, dacryphilia, fingering (f receiving), degradation kink, master kink, praise kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart, plaything), begging, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, biting, marking, cockwarming, aftercare, happy ending
word count: 14.5k
a/n: here's my first halloween fic for 2024! i came up with the idea on friday the 13th last month and liked it for a halloween idea so here we are! this is the fic i was talking about in my poll here, which helped me decide to make steve a demon, but i'm not great at world-building/magic-building so if the magic doesn't make sense, i'm sorry! i just wanted to write some sex pollen-y tattoo artist smut and it turned into a whole thing. this fic really got away from me đŹ whoops. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! âĄâĄ
halloween fics masterlist
The first time you heard the storyâthe urban legend whispered around New York City tattoo parlorsâyou were getting your second tattoo. You were young, but not so naive, and yet, when the woman named Wanda Maximoff told you the tale in her vaguely Eastern European accent, a chill raced down your spine.Â
It went like this: There was a young person who wanted to get a tattoo, and they were lured into an unfamiliar shop on Friday the 13th by the special deals they were offering. (Where the shop was located in the city varied based on who was telling the story, but Wanda had said it was a small parlor tucked into an alley in the Bowery.)
The person in the story didnât know the shop or the artist, but they were so enthralled by the artistâs beauty and work that they made the hasty decision to get a tattoo of a symbol they didnât understand. It was the last decision theyâd ever make, because by the time the tattoo was done, theyâd been unknowingly enslaved to a dark forceâhaving sold their soul to a demon.
When Wanda had finished the story, her piercing green eyes stared at you long and hard, her mouth twisted to the side as if she was stopping herself from saying more than she should. There was a warning in her expression you didnât understand, and you hadnât been able to stop the fear that burrowed into your heart. For a secondâjust a secondâyouâd believed the strange, witchy woman.Â
Then youâd scoffed, laughing away your fear, and insisted the story mustâve been started by a grumpy old tattoo artist who was tired of the influx of customers on Friday the 13th. It was well known that most New York City tattoo shops had special deals every Friday the 13th, and you asserted the story was just supposed to frighten away naive tattoo novices whoâd get something impulsively and regret it later.Â
Wanda had pressed her lips together, an inscrutable look on her face, but only nodded once before returning her focus to your tattoo. In the silence that had followed, youâd been left alone with your thoughts, and you mulled over the story, repeating your rationalizations to yourself until you believed them.Â
But a sliver of fear and intrigue remained for the rest of your session and when you were done, you were relieved to leave Wanda and her creepy story behind. Something like thatâaccidentally selling your soul to a demon when getting a tattooâdidnât happen in real life, and it certainly wouldnât happen to you.Â
Thatâs what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until, of course, it did happen to you.
Over the years, you heard the story repeated time and time again in countless tattoo shops across the city, and the fear youâd felt listening to Wanda recount her version of the tall tale transformed into curiosity, then a dark kind of delight. It wasnât something you wanted to push away, but to hold close to your heart, to cherish.
As you got older, you found yourself telling the story to younger folks when you crossed paths with someone who hadnât heard it. And every time you told the story, you found yourself unconsciously replicating Wandaâs Eastern European accent, making the story as scary as you could.Â
Each time you saw apprehension in the eyes of those you told the tale to, something inside you unfurled and grew stronger. Youâd smirk when the tattoo novices scurried away, some leaving whatever shop you were in entirely, and a shiver would race down your spine, so much like the fear youâd felt when you first heard the story, but it was no longer that. It was a quiver of devilish mirth.Â
You told yourself it was normal, how much fun you had scaring off the younger folks in the tattoo shops you frequented, laughing along with the artists you knew so well. You told yourself you were just taking part in tradition by repeating the story. You told yourself there wasnât a darkness in your heart that was wakened by the story, and craved something you didnât quite understand.
Thatâs what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until you walked into Hell and your entire life changed.
Hell was the new tattoo shop that had opened in Brooklyn at the start of October, though youâd been hearing talk of it for months before then. Youâd been curious about it, and the fact that none of your friends or any of the artists you frequented knew much about it made it all the more intriguing. They didnât know who owned the shop or who was working there, and you were desperate to find out.
It wasnât a conscious decision you remembered making, but late in the afternoon on Friday the 13th, you took the subway to Brooklyn, getting off at the stop closest to Hell.Â
The day was brisk, the chill of autumn clinging to the air even as the sun shone brightly above the city. You wore a thick sweater, a skirt and some tights with your most comfortable boots to make the trek deep into Brooklyn, and you were glad for it. It was a longer walk than youâd been expecting, but pleasant enough while the sun was high.
By the time you made it to the shop, though, the sun was dipping low behind the brownstones of the nearby neighborhood and your cheeks were chilled from the crisp autumn breeze. It was a relief to see the red neon sign for Hell, and you skipped quickly down the last block to push through the door of the nondescript exterior.
You were met by a rush of artificial heat that made you smile, pleased by the respite from the frigid autumn air, which swirled around your ankles as the door closed behind you. The warmth of the parlor kissed your cheeks and thawed through your icy fingertips while you looked around.Â
You were surprised to find that Hell was unexpectedly inviting.Â
Inside, the tattoo shop was decorated in dark colors that fit the theme: inky blacks, vivid reds, luminous yellows and burnt oranges. But, though it couldâve been dreary, Hell looked alive and lived-in, with cozy black leather sofas in the waiting area, and artwork decorating much of the wall space. When you looked closer, you saw that many of the pieces depicted creatures of the dark.Â
As you studied the artwork, you noticed a theme: Demons cavorting with human women, specifically fucking human women. You felt a tingle of something bloom between your thighs. The art was salacious and wicked, and yet, you didnât feel disturbed by any of the imagery, only intrigued. Even a little bit aroused.Â
A clearing throat pulled your attention away from the art and to the redheaded woman standing behind the counter. She asked if you needed help.Â
As you approached, you noticed she was beautiful, and had a cold smile on her face, her green eyes watching you in a way that unsettled you. It took you a long moment to realize her gaze reminded you of Wanda, even though the women looked nothing alike. But you felt uneasy as you walked up to the counter.
Your smile was tentative as you inquired if the shop had any Friday the 13th deals, adding that it was tradition, just in case the woman was new to the city.
Her green eyes raked over your face in an obviously assessing look, and you felt like your heart and soul were being judged. You nearly huffed a laugh at the thought, because it was so ludicrous, but managed to keep still and remain expressionless while the woman stared at you.
After a moment, she smiled again and the expression was friendlier, like she was greeting an old friend. She introduced herself as Natasha Romanoff and apologized because all but one of the artists had gone home for the day since their appointments were done and they didnât get too many walk-ins, being a new shop and all.
Just then, a man stepped behind the counter as if appearing out of nowhereâthough, at the time, you rationalized that youâd simply been staring so intently at Natasha, you hadnât noticed his approach. Without missing a beat, Natasha introduced the man as Steve Rogers, the owner of Hell and the only artist still around on that Friday the 13th.
âWhat willing sacrifice do we have here, Nat?â Steve asked, sidling up to the counter and pressing his hands on top to lean toward you.Â
The first thing you noticed where his eyesâsuch a pure, beautiful blue that they looked like the perfect, endless sky. But as your gaze wandered over his face, you realized his eyes werenât his only gorgeous feature. He had a strong brow that gave way to silky blond hair; a straight, sloping nose that led down to a pair of plump, pink lips with just enough of a cupidâs bow, that you wanted to lick it.Â
A rush of warmth filled your cheeks at the thought and you dropped your eyes to Steveâs broad shoulders, pausing to admire the way they filled out his simple black t-shirt. His thick biceps were covered in stunningly intricate tattoos, all done in dark ink that contrasted with his pale skin. They extended down to his hands, still planted flat on the counter.Â
As far as you could see, there was only a small space of bare, unadorned skin at the base of Steveâs throatâall the rest of him seemed to be covered in tattoos that snaked beneath his t-shirt. You wondered idly if his tattoos covered his whole body, eyes trailing down to the black jeans he wore, and quickly shoved the thought aside.Â
Raising your gaze back to Steveâs face, you hoped your expression wasnât giving away your thoughts, but the charming grin that spread across the hot tattoo artistâs face made you think he had an idea you were checking him out. And he liked it.Â
âOr should I say,â Steve went on in a slightly lower, more rumbly voice, leaning further across the counter with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He was close enough that you got a hint of his cologneâleather and firewoodâand you couldnât help the way your body reacted, warming and tingling and yearning for him. âWhat sweet thing do we have coming to barter their soul for some new ink?â He winked at you, all charm, and you nearly swooned.
âI-I was just asking if you had any Friday the 13th deals,â you stammered, unsure how to act under the blinding light of Steveâs charm. Youâd known and talked to your fair share of attractive tattoo artists in your life, but Steve was on another level. He was hot and alluring in a way you couldnât put into words, which was how you found yourself blurting, âItâs tradition.â
Steveâs grin hitched higher, and he stared at you a second longer before ducking down behind the counter to rifle through the shelves.Â
âWell, Iâm not one to turn my back on the old ways,â he said, lifting his head to catch your eye. He gave you a look that made your knees weak, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on you, before returning to his task.
Finally, he seemed to find what heâd been looking for and stood up, brandishing a piece of paper on which some simple tattoo designs were sketched. It looked like any other sheet of designs youâd see in any other tattoo shop, and you didnât think anything of it, turning your attention back to Steveâs handsome face.
âWe didnât have anything planned,â he explained, crossing his arms and leaning down on the counter.Â
The position made him slightly shorter than you, while emphasizing the expanse of his shoulders and the thick mucles of his biceps and the veins of his forearms. It was only because his hand pointed to the paper, pulling your attention away from his big body, that you remembered he was telling you something.Â
âBut if you pick from these, Iâll charge you $113âhowâs that sound?â He raised his eyes to yours, and you noticed how long his eyelashes were.Â
For a long moment, you just stared at Steve, your mouth slightly parted while you admired his beautiful face. You had the urge again to lick his cupidâs bow, and your body warmed pleasantly as you imagined doing exactly that. Sitting in Steveâs lap and licking him all overâŠ
With effort, you managed to pull yourself from the tattoo artistâs spell, shaking your head to clear it while you processed what heâd said. The price heâd named was a typical deal for New York City, even with the Friday the 13th discount, so you nodded absently.Â
âThat sounds good,â you muttered, bending over the counter to look at the sheet of paper he was still pointing to. Even his hands were attractive, with skulls tattooed on the backs and other symbols you didnât recognize decorating his knuckles. You couldnât help but think his hands would make a pretty necklace if they were wrapped around your throatâŠ
Shaking your head again, you furrowed your brow and forced yourself to focus on the paper with all the designs. There was some cute Halloween-themed stuff, like black cats, witch hats, ghosts and the like. There were also some stylized numbers, like 666, and a couple pentagram designs along with other symbols you recognized.
But the one that caught your attention was something youâd never seen before. It was made up of exquisitely delicate curving lines that formed what loosely looked like an infinity symbol. There were some twists to the design that made it look harsher, more archaic.
âWhatâs this?â you asked, pointing to the design that called to you and looking up at Steve. Your breath caught in your throat when you met his gaze, and your voice sounded awed as you went on. âIâve never seen anything like it.â
A secretive, conspiratorial smirk tugged at the corners of Steveâs lips and he leaned in a little closer, his scent invading your senses and his breath ghosting over your cheek.Â
âItâs a design of my own making,â he said, his voice pitched low and intimate as he looked at you in a way that made warmth curl around your heart and trickle down to settle low in your belly. âItâs specialâwhy, do you like it?â
It took a tremendous amount of effort to pull your gaze away from Steveâs, but you forced yourself to look back down at the paper, your finger tracing the sweeping curves and the sharp points of the design.Â
âI do,â you said slowly, thinking about where on your body it might look nice. There was a spot on your ankle where you felt it would look good, like an anklet. But before you could get too attached to the design, you lifted your gaze, giving Steve a serious look. âItâs not a tribal symbol, or any kind of cultural appropriation, right?â
Steve placed a hand over his heart, like he was making a vow, and said, âI promise itâs not from any culture of man.âÂ
His strange answer piqued your curiosity, but you brushed your questions aside. Later, youâd understand his odd turn of phrase, but in the moment, you chalked it up to Steve playing into the theme of his shop. You figured anyone who named their tattoo parlor Hell would be a little peculiar, and you didnât think it was a bad thing. Especially when he was so hot.
Looking back down at the paper, you let your eyes trail over the looping design a few times, feeling yourself sinking intoâŠsomething. A thrilling shiver raced down your spine, a mix of delight and terror that you found intoxicating and you had to shake yourself to remember where you were and what you were doing.
Raising your eyes to Steve, you told him you wanted the design, and once the words were past your lips, you felt a sense of rightness. You werenât the type of person to get tattoos impulsively, but this one was calling to you, and you didnât want to pass up the opportunity to get a tattoo from the hot shop owner.Â
Besides, when in HellâŠ
Steve slid the paper off the counter and stood up straight, his eyes going sharp as he looked between you and the design. You got the same sense you had with Natasha, that Steve was judging your heart and soul and determining whether you were deserving of the design youâd chosen. You found yourself hoping desperately that he decided you were.
After a moment, an impish smirk pulled at Steveâs mouth before his expression shifted fluidly into one of theatrical uncertainty.
âI donât know,â he said slowly, drawing out the tension of the moment and stroking his jaw like he was thinking. âI was hoping to save this design for someone special.â His blue eyes pinned you with a searching look, a charming smirk on his lips. âAre you special, sweetheart?â
Steveâs charm was turned all the way up, and you felt flustered under the weight of it. Not to mention that the way the pet name rolled off his tongue made you want to do anything he asked. Twisting your fingers self-consciously, you ducked your head a little.Â
âWell, IâI donât know,â you admitted, but for some reason, your thoughts strayed to the dark pleasure you sometimes felt when you frightened others with scary stories. Did that make you special, or just a little bit depraved? You didnât know, but you hoped it was both, and that both were equally appealing to Steve.
The tattoo artist leaned back down on the counter, the veins of his forearms bulging from his skin as he crossed his arms. Since heâd ducked down, he could easily catch your lowered gaze.
âTell me, pretty girl,â he purred softly, his tone inviting you to lean in. So you did.Â
A soft smile curled your lips when you smelled his cologne, and you relaxed a little while he kept talking in that alluringly deep voice of his.Â
âWhere would you like my design on your body?âÂ
A shiver of desire thrummed beneath your skin at the implication of Steveâs words. There was something so enticing about the way heâd phrased his questionâhis design on your body. It called to the darkness buried deep in your heart, and you began to suspect he somehow knew you were a little depraved. Like him.Â
Steve held your gaze for a long moment, and you thought you saw something shift in the depths of his blue eyes, like a shadow passing in front of the sun. But it was gone just as quickly, and you questioned whether your eyes were playing tricks on you.Â
Shaking yourself free of your strange thoughts, you finally managed an answer. âMy ankle.â But it seemed your mouth had a mind of its own, because you found yourself flirting with the hot tattoo shop owner, a smirk curving your lips as you went on. âDo you think my ankle would be worthy of your design, sir?â you asked with feigned innocence.
As you watched for Steveâs reaction, you were rewarded with the sight of his eyes darkening, his pupils blowing wide like he greatly enjoyed the fact that you were flirting with him. His mouth spread into a hungry grin and he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully while he considered you, finally coming to a decision.
âMm, I think your ankle is the perfect place for my design, sweet girl,â he rumbled, smiling to himself like heâd made a joke only he understood. Then his fingers were trailing lightly along the line of your jaw, distracting you with the tingling warmth they left in their wake as he stood up. âIâm going to enjoy this very much,â he murmured enigmatically before pulling away.
Your mind was too frazzled by his touch and how bereft you felt without it to wonder over his words. Besides, he was already calling for Natasha, who emerged from the back of the shop to help you through the rest of the intake process. It was only then that you realized sheâd left you and Steve alone at the counter a while ago.Â
She slid smoothly in front of you with that friendly smile of hers while Steve retreated into the back to begin setting up. Natasha walked you through all the paperwork, none of which was new to you. That was why you felt comfortable not fully reading the fine print.Â
You shouldâve read the fine print.Â
Once everything was signed, Natasha led you into the back and showed you where to stow your purse. She pointed to the privacy screen where you could take off your tights and boots, then helped you into the tattoo chair at Steveâs station.Â
When you were settled, Natasha bid you and Steve a good night and grabbed her own things before leaving out the back door. It was a little abrupt and you were left feeling confused.
You asked Steve if the shop was closing for the nightâit seemed a little early, especially for a Friday. And he explained that heâd decided to close the shop early since they had no more appointments and were unlikely to get any other walk-ins.Â
For a moment, you fretted over keeping him late, but he waved away your concerns.Â
âThereâs no where Iâd rather be than tattooing my design on you, pretty thing,â Steve murmured charmingly while he pulled on some black latex gloves.Â
The earnestness in his voice soothed your anxiety and you relaxed back into the black leather chair, your legs propped on the footrest while Steve created a stencil of his design. Soon, the two of you were so engaged in a discussion about where exactly on your ankle to place the tattoo that you forgot you were alone with the handsome owner of Hell.Â
After trying a few things, you decided to have the beautiful design lay across the front of your ankle, the sides wrapping around to the back so itâd look like a permanent adornment. You smiled when Steve complimented the placement youâd chosen and felt heat suffuse your cheeks at his praise.Â
It all felt mostly familiar to you, someone whoâd gotten a fair amount of tattoos in your life. But what you hadnât been prepared for was the way Steveâs hands would feel on your body, the smoothness of the latex belying the warmth of his skin as he curled his fingers around the back of your leg to pull your foot onto his lap.Â
Warmth cascaded from the top of your head down through the rest of your body in a gentle, tingling shower, settling heavily between your legs. You pressed your thighs tight together, both to stave off the ache that was building there and to make sure you didnât accidentally flash the hot tattoo artist.
You werenât looking at Steveâs face, your gaze tracing the dark black ink decorating his skin and curling beneath the cotton of his shirt, but you thought you saw something flicker over his expression as he took in your reaction to his touch. You almost thought you saw dark shadows creeping into his gaze, blotting out his blue irises and making him lookâŠdemonic.Â
But when you flicked your gaze up to his, his eyes were a normal, glittering blue. You gave him a small smile and internally shook yourself, chalking up the moment to a trick of the light.
It was dim in the back room, with only a few warm lights positioned in Steveâs corner of the space. Natasha had closed up the rest of the shop, leaving you and Steve alone in the space, which was separated from the front by a wall and a doorway covered in a thick, maroon curtain.Â
The walls of the shop were painted black and covered in more of the same artwork youâd seen in the waiting area. The main difference was all the tattoo equipment and the floor that was a bare dark wood, instead of the burnt orange carpet that covered much of the front room.Â
Hell was dark, eerie and intimate, and you suspected the atmosphere must be getting to you, that was the only thing that explained what youâd seen in Steveâs eyes. Yes, that must be it, you told yourself, settling into the chair and letting Steve get to work.
The buzzing of his tattoo needle filled the silence and you prepared yourself for the pain that you knew was coming. Little did you know just how much pleasure youâd feel that night as well.
Nothing about the tattoo process seemed amiss until more than halfway through, when you began to feel a strange kind of tingling in your ankle where Steve worked, the sensation slowly creeping up your leg. It settled heavily between your thighs, making your core ache with a yearning emptiness as your slit leaked wetness into your panties.
It wasnât painful, the tingling feeling, but it was unnerving, like it didnât belong to you, and you couldnât understand where it was coming from.Â
âUh-uhm, Steve?â you started, a hint of a whine in your voice, though it was mostly drowned out by the concern you felt. You sat up straight, forcing yourself to ignore the urge to rock your hips and grind yourself against the leather seat of the chair. âCan we take a break? I feelâŠweird.â
âOf course, sweetheart,â Steve purred, instantly pulling the needle away from your skin and wiping away blood and excess ink with a small towel. After heâd deposited the tattoo gun and cloth on his station, he turned back to you, blue eyes filled with concern as he removed his gloves. âYou ok?â he asked, his warm hands massaging the back of your leg that was still draped in his lap.
The urge to moan at the feel of his bare hands on your skin was almost undeniable. It felt so good to have his strong fingers kneading your muscle and you flopped back into the chair, pressing your lips together to stifle the sound of pleasure that wanted to slip free. But you couldnât stop the way your hips squirmed, your body aching for somethingâŠÂ
âI think so,â you said, finally answering Steveâs question with a tremulous smile. You still felt the odd sensation pulsing up your leg and slipping between your thighs, prompting a delicious throbbing in your core, but forced yourself to ask, âThereâs nothing strange in the ink, right? Something I could be allergic to?âÂ
An allergy was the only explanation you could come up with, even though it didnât really make sense. Youâd gotten plenty of tattoos, surely you wouldâve had an allergic reaction years ago if that had been a possibility. And the way you felt wasnât like any allergic reaction youâd ever heard of.Â
You looked at Steve with wide, imploring eyes, hoping he could make sense of what you were feeling.
He shook his head, his fingers working higher to knead the muscle of your calf, nearly pulling a moan from your lips that wouldâve drowned out his answer.
âI promise the ingredients are all-natural,â he said, his tone earnest and reassuring. âThereâs nothing that would cause an allergic reaction.â
Your head fell back against the leather chair, missing the way Steveâs mouth curved into a devious smirk, and tried to gather your thoughts. The strange tingling sensation had calmed, you thought, having been replaced by the feeling of warmth that Steveâs touch inspired.Â
Shaking yourself lightly, you told yourself it mustâve just been the tattoo needle hitting a nerve or something. Youâd never had that feeling before with any of your other tattoos, but it mustâve been something to do with Steveâs method. It hadnât been painful, so it didnât mean something was wrong. It was fine. You told yourself you would be fine.
âOk,â you said softly on a sigh, letting yourself sink into the comforting massage of Steveâs fingers. Your body felt a little heavy, a throbbing desire pulsing in your core, but suspected it had more to do with the hot tattoo artistâs fingers than anything else.
Blinking your eyes open, you met Steveâs steady, patient gaze.Â
âWe can keep going,â you said, giving him a smile that you hoped looked brave.
You mustâve succeeded, because Steveâs mouth curved into a pleased grin and his hand slid higher up your leg and settled on your thigh just above your knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze. His big palm on your bare skin sent a riot of sensation through your body, and when he squeezed you, you felt a mirroring clench of your inner muscles, your body aching to be filled.
âThatâs my girl,â Steve murmured affectionately, his blue eyes glimmering with so much proud satisfaction that you felt your face heat and you ducked your head to hide a giddy grin.Â
Steve gave your thigh one last squeeze before pulling away to put on a new pair of gloves and refill his tattoo needle. While he worked, you couldnât help but close your eyes and sigh silently, your skin feeling much too cold without him touching you.
For the rest of the tattoo, you tried to sit still while the tingling warmth rolled through your body, settling deliciously between your thighs and teasing your throbbing core until you were dripping into your panties. You had the absurd urge to spread your legs, to beg Steve to fill youâwith his fingers, his cock, anything, so long as it put an end to the ache pulsing insistently in your body.Â
You tried to be good, to be still and quiet so Steve could finish your tattoo. But apparently you werenât doing as good of a job as you hoped.Â
âIf you keep squirming, âm gonna have to tie you down, pretty girl,â Steve rumbled, his head bent low over your ankle while he worked diligently.Â
His voice was so low and deep, you swore you could feel it in your belly, the delicious rumbling tenor teasing your clit, and your hips shifted again, your thighs clenching tight against your needy slit.Â
âSweetheart,â he growled in warning, his hand gripping your foot firmly and tugging on it hard enough that you slid a few inches down in the chair.Â
It took every ounce of your self-control not to whimper with desire at the evidence of Steveâs strength. Your imagination flooded with visions of him tossing you around in his tattoo chair, bending you over while he pressed his bulge into your ass or flipping you onto your back and folding you in half so he could pound into your pussy.Â
A whine clawed up your throat, desperation flooding your body and making you want to writhe and beg and plead, but you bit it all back. Forcing yourself to be still, you asked, âAre you almost done?â in a tight, tense voice.Â
âAlmost done,â he confirmed, his voice soothing. He looked up briefly, giving you a rakish grin. âYou can be good for me, canât you, sweet girl?âÂ
Your heart lurched in your chest. It was all you wanted, to be good for Steve. So you nodded eagerly and tried to relax back into the chair. Your fingers were digging into the padded leather of the armrests and you pushed yourself deeper into the reclined seat, doing your best to ignore the heat and desperate, aching, insistent need pounding through your body.
âI donât know whatâs wrong with me,â you said on a small huff, your eyes shut tight so you couldnât see Steveâs reaction. Your voice was little more than a whine as you went on, âIâve never felt like this.â
You heard Steve chuckle, the sound rolling over you like a deep, delicious wave. Then, just barely over the buzzing of the tattoo needled pressed to your skin, you thought you heard him say, âJust wait, sweet thing,â in a dark, ominous voice you hardly recognized.
But you didnât have a chance to try to parse out what he meant, because suddenly, you felt the sensation of a cold, hard shackle closing around your ankle.
It felt so real, and so at odds with the sensation of Steve pulling the needle away from your skin, that your whole body jerked. Quickly, you sat up and stared down at your leg, but there was no metal cuff. Only the tattoo. Finished.
Fresh black ink shimmered from your skin, and you had a brief moment to appreciate the artistry of Steveâs work, the beautiful, intricate design of the symbol. The phantom feeling of a manacle wrapped around your ankle remained, and you looked up at Steve, finding him wearing a smug, devious smirk.Â
You couldnât make sense of his expression, and in the next breath, it didnât matter, because the fire that had been simmering in your blood suddenly blazed into an inferno. You couldnât help the pained cry that fled your lips as you fell back into the chair, desire burning a demanding path through your body and tearing through your mind.Â
Your legs fell open on the leather seat, a pornographic moan slipping from your lips when the cool air of the tattoo shop brushed against your inner thighs. Your fingers tugged fussily at your sweater, trying to claw off the once-cozy garment that suddenly felt too heavy and constricting against your scorching skin.Â
Your eyes swiveled in your head, seeking and finding Steve, who was standing beside the chair and staring down at you. His gaze was lit with a depraved fire and his mouth was curled into a delighted grin.
âAw, poor little plaything, are you feeling hot and bothered?â he cooed at you in a mean, patronizing tone that was so at odds with the charming affability youâd come to expect from the tattoo artist that you felt like youâd been slapped.Â
A pathetic whimper slipped from your lips, and Steveâs eyes seemed to glow brighter, his smile hitching wider, growing more hungry and more eager at the same time. Leaning over your squirming body, Steve stroked the tips of his fingers down your cheek.
Your bodyâs reaction to his touch was instantaneous. The burning, blistering pain of need calmed enough that it no longer hurt, and you chased Steveâs fingertips instinctively, associating his contact with relief. He let you nuzzle into the palm of his hand, chuckling darkly when you sighed happily, your mind moving too slow to process what was happening.
âShould we get this cumbersome sweater off you, sweet thing?â Steve murmured, his hands curving around your shoulders before stroking down your sides. His thumbs brushed over the tips of your breasts and your spine arched off the chair, pushing into his touch, needing more.Â
You were so hot, so achy, so needy, and you somehow knew Steve was the only one who could help you feel better. Distantly, you knew it was highly inappropriate to let your tattoo artist undress you, even one as hot as Steve, but in that moment, you didnât care. His touch through your sweater wasnât enoughâyou needed him to touch your bare skin.Â
So you nodded frantically, whimpering, âYes, please, Steve, help.â
The man laughed, a dark, evil chuckle rumbling from his chest.Â
You didnât understand what was funny, but you didnât protest because his big hands slipped under the hem of your sweater and he touched you properly. His palms were warm, his fingers calloused and rough against your belly.Â
You sucked in a surprised breath when his touch sent sizzling tingles of pleasure through your body, gathering in your throbbing slit and making more wetness gush into your panties.Â
If youâd been in your right mind, you mightâve felt embarrassed over how wet you were from Steve sliding his hands up your stomach, but all you could do was revel in the pleasure his touch brought you. Your mouth curved into a delirious smile as you stared dazedly up at the supernaturally handsome man like he was the center of your universe.
Slowly, almost torturously, Steve slid your sweater up until it bunched above your breasts and he paused. His hands wrapped around your ribs, thumbs stroking over your skin beneath the band of your bra. He stared down at you, his blue eyes nearly glowing with hungry desire as his gaze raked over the lace containing your breasts.
Your chest heaved with your gasping breaths, and you took the moment to try to settle. The fire in your blood didnât burn painfully with Steve touching you, but you still wantedâno, neededâmore. Your hips squirmed in the leather seat and a whine clawed up your throat until it spilled free.
âSteeeve, please,â you begged, staring up at the tattoo artist with wide, imploring eyes. At the same time, you lifted your arms above your head and sat up a little in an effort to get him to pull your sweater the rest of the way off. Instead of spurring him to move, though, it had the opposite effect.Â
Steve went still, closing his eyes like he was savoring the sound of your whining voice and begging words. When he opened them a moment later, they appeared darkerâthe soft, sky blue of his irises darkened to an almost midnight black, with inky swirls of darkness creeping in from the edges.
Then he blinked, and his eyes went back to normal.Â
You were too distracted by your bodyâs need to think much about the fact that his eyes had gone nearly pitch blackâthat heâd looked, for a moment, like one of the monstrous demons from the art adorning the walls of Hell.Â
Your delirious, desirous mind let the moment slip by unquestioned, instead focusing on your lustâand on Steve.Â
âLift up for me, pretty thing,â he cooed, his tone almost gentle despite the grit and gravel in his voice.Â
You did as he said, lifting your back away from the chair so he could pull your sweater off, leaving you in just your bra, skirt and panties on his tattoo chair.
In the short moment when Steveâs hands deserted your body, the blazing inferno of need returned. You groaned in pain, reaching for Steve and latching on to his wrist. The burning sensation abated the second you touched him, but you didnât stop there, dragging his hand back to your body and sighing in further relief when you pressed his palm to your breast.Â
You didnât know if Steve pushed you back into the chair or if you fell back and he followed, but he leaned over you, his big hands kneading your tits through your bra. A moan tumbled from you as you sank into the feeling, melting beneath his touch. It just felt so goodâand the rougher he got, the harder he groped your tits, pulling and pinching on your nipples through the lace of your bra, the better it felt.
âThatâs it, plaything, moan for meâlet me hear how much you love it when I abuse your tits,â Steve growled, leaning so far over you that his head blocked out the light above the chair. His face was contorted into a greedy expression, his eyes sharp and hungry as he watched pleasure dance across your features. âYouâre such a dumb little doll, you have no idea whatâs heppening to you, do you?â
His tone was mean and mocking, but your body responded to the deep tenor of it all the same, wetness gushing between your thighs while your hips writhed on the leather seat, seeking something to grind against.Â
Your mind was hazy with lust and pleasure and confusion. It took you a long few moments to understand what heâd asked and when you did, it sparked a bit of fear. But even that dissolved into pleasure and you moaned, your hands clinging to Steveâs wristsânot trying to pull him away, just anchoring yourself to him.Â
âWha-whatâs happening to me?â you whined breathlessly, blinking your eyes up at Steve with an equal amount of uncertainty and trust. You still didnât realize he was the reason for what was happening, but youâd come to learn that soon enough. Not that it would matter.
âOh, baby, you donât need to worry your pretty little head about that,â Steve cooed, his tone changing so quickly back to gentle and reassuring, it nearly gave you whiplash.Â
Still, pleasure swirled in your chest at the sweet praise in his words, even if they were more than a little condescending. A smile curled the corners of your lips, but you forced yourself to focus. There was something you wanted to knowâsomething Steve knew, and you were determined to get the answer from him. You knew it was important, even if you couldnât remember why.
âSteve, pleeease,â you whimpered, your words dissolving into a moan when he shoved the lace cups of your bra down and pinched your nipples harder, pulling and twisting them until your spine was arching up off the leather seat. It took you a long moment to remember your train of thought and continue on. âTell me, Steve, please, I can handle itâwhatâs happening to me?âÂ
A wide smirk spread across Steveâs face and his eyes flickered with shadows that seemed to want to consume his gaze the same way he looked like he wanted to consume you. Bending over your squirming, twitching body, Steveâs face hovered just above yours, an evil kind of mischief in his expression.Â
âIf I tell you, do you promise youâll take it like a good girl?â
Images assailed your imaginationâSteve shoving his cock deep in your cunt, growling at you to take it like a good girl while he fucked you like a bat out of hell. Steve pounding into your mouth, grunting his pleasure as he spilled down your throat and ordered you to take it like a good girl. Steve stretching your ass around his cock, smoothing a hand down your spine as he cooed at you in that meanly patronizing tone to take it like a good girl.Â
A loud, debauched moan slipped from your lips as bliss pulsed through your body. It took you a long moment to push the images from your mind and gather your scattered thoughts enough to blink your eyes open and nod up at Steve.
âIâll be good, I promise,â you said fiercely, knowing somewhere deep down that if you were a good girl for him, the visions youâd had would become a reality. And you wanted so badly for them to become a realityâat any cost.Â
A devious, delighted grin spread across Steveâs face at your answer, satisfaction shimmering in his eyes. Then one of his hands let go of your breast and skimmed down your body, over your hip and down your leg until his fingers circled your ankle, just above the tattoo heâd given you.Â
âThis design you chose, itâs not just something I designedâitâs my mark,â he purred, putting emphasis on the last two words as if youâd know what that meant. But you still didnât understand what your tattoo had to do with what was happening to you. His explanation just made you more confused.
âWhat does that mean?â you whimpered, your voice desperate and pleading. You wanted to understand, you wanted to be good for Steve and grasp whatever it was he was trying to tell you, but the meaning of his words was still out of reach.
âThink hard, sweetheart,â Steve cooed, his voice turning sweet in a way that had your belly swooping deliciously.Â
When you still didnât seem to understand, Steveâs hand slid down, his palm covering your fresh tattoo and you gasped. His touch against the mark felt like he was yanking on a thread that had been tied behind your belly button. It felt like you were tethered to somethingâŠto him, you realized.Â
You were tethered to Steve by some sort of magic. The mark heâd tattooed on your skin had bound you to himâŠ
All the air fled your lungs as comprehension sank into your mind. Your face twisted in shock and understanding, though the expression didnât last long.Â
âThere it is, thatâs my girl,â Steve praised, squeezing your ankle and pressing his palm more firmly down on the mark.Â
The touch dragged a reluctant moan from you as pleasure swirled through your body, and you werenât certain if it was your own or the result of the bond between the two of you. When you got control of yourself, you glared up at the devious tattoo artist, letting him see the betrayal written plainly across your face.
âOh donât look at me like that, baby,â Steve rumbled, his other hand wrapping around the front of your throat and tipping your chin up while he bent down until there were mere inches between you. âYou heard the story, and you ignored its warning.â He tsked at you, shaking his head when you only narrowed your eyes in anger. âYou werenât careful about getting tattooed on Friday the 13th and now youâre enslaved to a dark forceâyouâre enslaved to me.â
He didnât give you a chance to react to that declaration, only closed the distance between your lips, covering your mouth with his own to steal a kiss. And, god help you, what a kiss it was.Â
Steveâs mouth slanted perfectly to yours, his lips soft and seeking as they brushed against yours. His tongue flicked out, licking along the seam of your lips as if asking for entry, and you were helpless to the pleasure he offered.Â
Your lips parted with a soft gasp, an invitation if ever there was one, and he wasted no time slipping in. Steve took possession of your mouth, plundering your body while his hands held you firmly pinned beneath him.Â
It wasnât long before you were moaning into his mouth and kissing him back, your fingers plunging into his soft, blond hair and nails digging into the skin at the nape of his neck until he was growling into your mouth.Â
His hand around your neck squeezed harder, choking you lightly in retaliation for the bite of your nails and you pulsed with so much heat, you cried out sharply, the sound transforming into a whine of need.Â
Steve nipped your bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and the coppery taste mixed with the heat of his tongue as he licked it from your mouth. When he pulled away a moment later, you could see the traces of red staining his lipsâthough that wasnât nearly as disturbing as the sight of his eyes.Â
Writhing shadows had blotted out the blue irises of his gaze, leaving only two fathomless pools of darkness shimmering in the warm lights of Hell. A shiver raced down your spine, unease and curiosity filling your chest as you stared at the suddenly inhuman visage of the handsome tattoo artist.Â
Steve Rogers was still attractive, even with the unnatural eyes of a demon, but the shadows in his gaze changed the terrain of his face. His teeth looked sharper in his mouth, and the curve of his smirk looked more cruel. His jaw looked more angular and his body seemed bigger, broader, more intimidating as he loomed above you.Â
And yetâŠ
You liked how Steve looked when heâd shed the pretense of humanity. He was somehow, impossibly, hotter. More dangerous, sure, but also freer in a way that you found enticing.Â
It took you a moment, your mind swimming with pleasure and the tingling remnants of his kiss, to pinpoint exactly what you liked about seeing Steve without the guise he mustâve been wearing. He was more himself. And this version of him, this demonic visage, called to the darkness inside of you in a way that made you feel like he belonged to you just as much as you belonged to him.
Pressing a palm to your forehead like you could push that thought straight out of your head, you forced yourself to focus on the present. âNooo,â you moaned in a small voice, mostly to yourself because you were already thinking it wouldnât be so bad to belong to Steve, especially if he belonged to you, too.Â
But, for all you could feel the bond between you and the demon strengthening and solidifying as your tattoo healed supernaturally fast, his desire and lust mixing with your own, he still couldnât read your mind. And he mustâve thought you were protesting the newfound connection between the two of you.
âOhh yes, sweetheart,â Steve growled, his fingers digging into the sides of your throat and tipping your face up so he could see your eyes.Â
The two shimmering pools of darkness were writhing with agitation, and you stared at them in wonder, your mouth falling open with awe. They were just as beautiful as his human eyes, looking like the surface of the deep ocean at night.Â
âYouâre mine, pretty little plaything,â Steve rasped, his voice low and dark and vehement, like he was determined to make you understand your new reality. âYour heart, your body, your soulâitâs all mine,â he went on, pausing only to capture your lips in a brief, but searing kiss, like he was marking you all over again. âYouâre bound to me for eternity, baby, enslaved to all my whims, and I bet you know what I want rigt now.â
You did know. You could feel Steveâs lust slinking through the bond, flooding your body and creating the burning need that was so painful when he wasnât touching you. But beneath it, you could feel your own desire, too. The yearning youâd felt for the tattoo artist that had only grown since youâd discovered his true nature as the demon from the Friday the 13th legend.Â
Watching your face keenly, Steve let go of your ankle, grabbing one of your wrists and bringing your hand to the bulge in his pants. It was so big and hot and hard, even through the stiff denim of his jeans, that you whimpered. But you didnât pull away, letting Steve use his grip to make you stroke his cock. And when he groaned his pleasure, your fingers tightened, giving his thick length a curious squeeze.Â
âThis is what you do to me, pretty girl, this is why youâre the one I chose,â he growled, his voice so deep, it sounded animalistic. âI knew from the moment you walked into my shop with your sweet little skirt and your dark little heart that you were going to be mineâand now Iâve got you.âÂ
It occurred to you to ask what he meant about your heart, but you suspected you knew. Heâd looked deep into your heart and soul saw the darkness thereâand it was exactly what he wanted.Â
The knowledge that you were what he wanted filled you with a sense of pride, and you took over from Steve. You stroked his cock through his jeans without his guidance, squeezing him while you stared up at him, devotion written across your face while you pressed your throat into his hand, knowing the tattoos on his fingers were making a pretty necklace.
âYouâre my precious little plaything, arenât you, baby?â Steve cooed at you, sweeping his thumb over your jaw and swiping it across your lower lip. âDonât worry, youâll enjoy being mine.â
You ducked your head, taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking on him, your eyes going heavy lidded as you nodded your agreement. Steve grunted a pleased sound.
âThatâs it, thatâs my good girl,â he purred, pressing his thumb onto your tongue and pushing deeper into your mouth. âYouâre gonna be such a good fucktoy for your demon master, arenât you?â
You could feel Steveâs cock twitch beneath your fingertips and you squeezed him harder, moaning when you felt an answering pulse deep in your cunt. The burning desire that had been held at bay by the realization of what exactly he was and what heâd done to you returned with a fury that would not be ignored.
âYes, master,â you murmured obligingly after tipping your head back to slide him from your mouth. You pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb and smiled up at Steve, your eyes hungry and eager.
The demonâs gaze darkened further somehow, filling with greed and lust and just about every sin you could imagineâall promising to do dirty, filthy things to your body in the name of slaking the desire that burned brightly in both of you.Â
âI knew you were perfect,â he growled, grabbing your throat and pulling you in for another kiss. His mouth was hot and demanding, his kiss inciting the fire in your body to burn hotter, making the throbbing between your legs impossible to ignore.Â
While he kissed you breathless, your fingers kept stroking his cock through his jeans, your other hand sliding beneath the hem of his t-shirt to rake your nails through the thin trail of hair dusting his abs. Both of you groaned at the contact, Steveâs tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips thrust against your palm.Â
Just as quickly as heâd dragged you into the kiss, Steve pulled away, shoving you roughly back into the chair. Your back hit the padded leather, a light, âoomph,â of surprise tumbling from your lips. One of his hands gripped your thigh possessively, fingers digging into your soft flesh while he leaned down and pulled a lever somewhere on the chair.
The footrest dropped away, allowing Steve to step between your legs, his hands groping roughly at your thighs, your hips, your tits. A low rumbling growl sounded in his chest every time his hand touched a piece of your clothing, as if they offended him personally. You squirmed in your seat, trying to find the words to beg him to take off the rest of your clothes, but all you could manage was a desperate whine.
âAre you still feeling hot, baby?â Steve asked, his tone playfully condescending as he skimmed his hands up your bare legs and tugged on the hem of your skirtâwhich, at that point, was barely covering anything with the way your legs were splayed open around his hips. âShould we get rid of the rest of these tiresome clothes?âÂ
You were nodding your head before he even finished his question, his hands making quick work of unzipping your skirt and tugging on it until you lifted your hips so he could drag it down along with your panties. He stepped back so he could pull them off your legs, raking his gaze up your body and pointedly looking at your bra.
âTake it off, fucktoy,â he growled, his tone going mean again.Â
The quick change of his mood had you gasping with surprise, even as his rough voice made you gush more wetness between your thighs. You didnât know if youâd ever get used to the demonâs mercurial moods, but you liked the unpredictabilityâit meant youâd never grow bored.
Scrambling to do as Steve said, you pushed forward from the chair to unclip your bra and ripped it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. When that was done, the demon shoved your legs open and stepped back between them, pushing your legs up to drape over the armrests of the chair.
âGood girl,â Steve rumbled, stroking his hands down your thighs, digging his fingers in suddenly, hard enough to make you squeal and squirm. He chuckled, looking like he enjoyed your reaction, and pushed your legs wider, spreading you so fully, you felt a twinge of discomfort in your hip. But the pain was soothed away a moment later by the pleasure throbbing through your body.
A sharp exhale gusted from Steve the moment he laid his eyes on your bare pussy. He was staring down at you like you were everything to him, like you were the center of his universe. He looked like he was a mere second away from getting down on his knees and worshipping at the altar of your body.
More surprising than the way he was looking at you was what you could feel through the bond tethering you to the demon. You could feel his devotion in your soul, the sensation curling round your heart and filling you with a sense of adoration that was both yours and Steveâs.Â
As much as you were his, you knew, with absolutely certainty, that he was yours, too. For better or for worse.
But the longer Steve stared down at your body, his hands unable to stop touching youâexploring every inch of your skin, his palms cupping your breasts, thumbs stroking over you nipples before he curved his fingers around your ribs and skimmed down to your hips, feeling you, learning youâthe more you began to believe it wasnât so bad being bonded to a demon.
You hadnât noticed your gaze had drifted away from the demon, staring unseeingly over his shoulder while you reveled in the feel of him touching you, until his hand came down sharply on your slit, slapping your pussy so sharply, you cried out in surprise, tears springing to your eyes. Pleasure and pain burned through you, writhing and fighting for dominance, and you were helpless to the sensation.
âEyes on me, fucktoy,â Steve growled, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him. His fingers dug into your cheeks, his face looming over yours while his hand came down again, spanking your cunt and making your whole body jerk in the leather chair from the sharp, stinging pleasure. âYouâre my dumb little cock slave, and youâll look at me like a good girl when Iâm playing with you like youâre my own personal fuck dollâgot it?â
The demon punctuated his seething question with another spank to your pussy, and it was the hardest of all, but though you expected pain, you felt only pleasure. A loud, pornographic moan, spilled from your lips while your mind swirled, your whole body throbbing like you were one big nerve ending.Â
Forcing your eyes open, you found Steve watching you expectantly. You gasped for air and scrambled for words âYes, master,â you cried, surprising even yourself when you shouted, âIâm your good little fucktoy!âÂ
Steve seemed appeased, a satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth while his fingers rubbed through your drenched folds. âYou are, baby,â he assured you. âYouâre such a good little plaything for your master.âÂ
His words were an alluring purr, soothing you. Then, he surprised you by shoving three of his fingers into your cunt, making your whole body shudder from the unrelenting and sudden fullness.
âOh god,â you moaned, pleasure ricocheting violently through your body. You squirmed in the chair, feeling your pussy spasm with delight, your wetness gushing out of you and dripping down between your ass cheeks, making a mess on the chair.Â
âGodâs not going to help you now, sweet thing,â Steve rumbled with a smirk, pulling his fingers out of you before pushing them deep into your sopping wet hole again. âYou sold your soul to me, He has no dominion over you anymoreâyouâre mine for eternity.â
His thumb rubbed your clit and you cried out helplessly, barely hearing his words as your body focused on the pleasure he was giving you. He pushed deeper, his fingers stroking a spot inside you that had your spine arching and your hips bearing down on his delicious intrusion. You were so wet, he fucked you easily with his three fingers, spreading them wide to stretch you open.Â
âOh fuck,â you whined, your whole body shaking with need while the demon fucked you slowly with his fingers. You watched them slide into you, your folds swollen and puffy from his rough spanking. He was moving with a torturous laziness and you squirmed, mewling for more, âFaster, Steve, please.âÂ
Suddenly, Steveâs fingers pulled free from your obscenely wet pussy, and a second later they were being shoved into your mouth. Your sweet, musky taste exploded on your tongue as the demon pushed them deep, making you gag on his slick fingers while he loomed above you.Â
âWhat did you call me?â he seethed through gritted teeth, the dark shadows of his eyes roiling like a churning sea.
âMâm sowwy,â you mumbled around his fingers, drool dripping down your chin and tears spilling onto your cheeks.Â
Steveâs mood immediately calmed at the sight of your tears and he made a soft shushing sound as he pulled his fingers from your mouth. âThere, there, my sweet little plaything,â he cooed, leaning down to kiss and lick the salty tears from your skin. âI like it better when you call me masterâcan you be a good girl and call me master?â
The way Steve was bent over you, the bulge in his jeans pressed into your leaking cunt and you rubbed against him like a cat in heat, your hole aching to be filled, but you knew you had to answer his question first.Â
âYes, master,â you whimpered, âIâmma be a good girl, I swear.âÂ
âThatâs my girl,â Steve purred, swiping the drool from your chin and pressing a kiss to your mouth. It was sweet and slow, his mouth praising you without words and making your head spin with the feeling of affection slipping through the bond.Â
When he pulled away, Steve gave you a stern look, his brow lowered over his black eyes and his mouth pressed into a firm line.Â
âNow, I can feel you rubbing your cute little cunt on my cock, baby,â he rumbled, his hands groping your thighs, but not pinning you down to make you stop. So you kept humping against him, your body shameless in its need for him. âBut I want you to use your wordsâwhat do you want from your master?â
âFuck me, masterâplease, oh g-fuck, I need your cock, master, please, please, please give it to me,â you babbled, blinking away the last of your tears to stare up into the handsome face of your demon.Â
You could still feel his lust and desire and fondness thrumming through the bond heâd created, but beneath that, deep in your own heart, you felt your own affection swell. Youâd had a crush on Steve before heâd sealed the bond, andâgod help youâthose feelings didnât waver in light of his trickery. If anything, every touch, no matter how rough or soft, only strengthened them.Â
Steveâs fingers dug into the plush flesh of your thighs, his grip possessive as he stared down at you with a satisfied smirk.Â
âYâknow, I donât think Iâll ever get tired of hearing you beg for me, babyânot for a millennia, at least,â he murmured, ducking down to capture your swollen lips in a kiss.Â
At the same time, he rubbed his bulge against your sensitive pussy, making you cry out so that he could swallow the sound down.Â
Kissing him back, you whimpered into his lips, need burning through your body and making you impatient. Your fingernails raked down the front of Steveâs chest, reveling in the way his firm muscles contracted, and the sharp little breaths he took.Â
You hooked your fingers under the lower hem and tugged the shirt up with a desperate whine until Steve yanked it off over his head, breaking your kiss for only a second.Â
Your fingers explored the smooth planes of Steveâs chest, brushing over his beautiful tattoos as you traced his hard muscles. All the while, he kissed you, devoured you, his own hands kneading your thighs and your tits and plucking at your nipples until you were writhing mindlessly beneath him.Â
âPlease, master,â you keened, arching your spine and pushing your tits into his palms. âFuck me, pleeease!â You tugged demandingly on the waist of his jeans, your fingers fumbling to undo the buckle of his belt.
Steve only chuckled maddeningly, rubbing his clothed cock into your sopping wet pussy while he pressed kisses to your jaw.Â
âCâmon, baby, you can beg better than that, canât you?â he rumbled, his tone playful and warm, but it quickly turned dark and demanding. âBeg me to split you open on my dick, to fucking ruin your pretty little pussy with my fat demon cockâuse your filthy mouth, sweetheart, tell me all the dirty things you want your evil master to do to you.â
âOh fuck, yes,â you groaned, squirming beneath him and humping shamelessly against his bulge. âPlease, masterâplease ruin me, hurt me, abuse me,â you cried, not knowing where the words were coming from, but you suspected they were being ripped right from that dark place deep in your heart, your soul. âFill my holes with your demon cock and pump me full of cum, wanna be bulging with your seed, masterâwanna be your dumb little fucktoy for all eternity. Make me yours, please!â
You cut off on a broken, desperate sob, and Steveâs mouth covered yours with an animalistic roar, kissing you hardâlike he was branding you all over again. It made you moan louder, kissing him back just as fervently.
Your head spun from Steveâs kiss, but you could feel his hands fumbling between your legs. Then, the hot, hard length of him smacked against your swollen, smarting pussy, making you cry out into his mouth.Â
Steve drank down your sounds greedily, like they were the nectar of the gods. His tongue pushed into your mouth, licking into you as if trying to lap up your pleasured noises straight from their source.
âYouâre fucking perfect, baby,â Steve praised when he pulled away, his voice silky and earnest in a way that made your heart warm in your chest.Â
His mood had switched again, and you didnât think youâd ever get tired of the way it could shift like the wind. It was exciting and thrillingâlike riding your own personal roller coaster. But no matter how his mood seemed to shift, you always felt his affection through the bond. Your demon was just fickle about how he liked to show that affection.
âSuch a good fucking girl for me, âm gonna give you exactly what you want, sweet thing,â Steve went on, rubbing his hot, hard length through your drenched folds, coating himself in your wetness. âGonna bury my cock in your holes for an aeon, keep you dumb and drunk on my cock, gonna make you my precious little plaything.âÂ
âYes, master, please,â you whimpered, your hands finding Steveâs waist and pulling your bodies closer, your ass sliding to the edge of the chair. âFuck my tight little hole, pleaseâplease!âÂ
Something in Steve seemed to snap, and with a snarl, he folded you in half in his leather tattoo chair, pushing your knees to your chest and lining up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance. In the next breath, he shoved his cock deep into your cunt, splitting you open with such a delicious mixture of pain and pleasure that your screams filled the whole of Hell.Â
Steve gave you only a moment to adjust to the sheer girth of his thick, massive cock before he pulled back and snapped his hips forward, the sound of his thighs hitting your ass making a loud clapping sound.Â
Your mouth fell open, the most obscene, pornographic moans coming from your lips. Against your will, your eyes slid closed.
Grabbing the back of your head to hold it still, Steve slapped your cheekâhardâmaking your eyes fly back open. The stinging pain blurred into a deep, aching pleasure, and your cry of surprise devolved into a lewd moan.Â
âWhat did I tell you, fucktoy?â Steve growled, slapping you again, harder. The pools of his eyes churned dangerously, his mouth twisted with determination as he reminded you of his earlier command. âKeep your fucking eyes on me.â
Though you knew his strikes were meant to be punishing, he was keeping a tight leash on his strength. His hand smarted but he never truly hurt you.Â
It was more degrading, feeling Steve slap your face, and you enjoyed it much more than you wouldâve expected. The sounds of your desperate, depraved pleasure spilling freely from your lips.Â
When you managed to focus your gaze on your demon, you found Steve watching you with a smug smirk on his face.Â
âDo you like it when I slap you, sweet thing?â he cooed, his hips driving into yours, fucking you deep and hard with his thick cock while he held the back of your head. He didnât wait for an answer, slapping you again, letting your face twist to the side before forcing you back to look at him. âDo you want me to hurt you more, pretty girl?â
âYes, master!â you cried, surprising even yourself. But you were greedy for the mixture of pain and pleasure Steve offered, finding you were quickly growing addicted to the wicked way he made you feel. âPlay rough with your fucktoyâplease, master, I want it!â
âGood girl,â Steve purred, grinning wider and using his free hand to slap your tits, your thighs, anywhere he could reach. The sharp smacking sounds joined with the clapping of his hips against your ass and the obscene wet noises of your pussy being fucked. âYouâre such a perfect little plaything, baby, taking it like such a good girl for your master.â
Steve leaned more heavily on top of you, his hips pressing his cock so deep, you sobbed with pleasure, feeling like he was pushing into your cervix. Pain and pleasure made your mind spin, and your hands clung to Steveâs thick biceps, your nails digging sharply into his skin.
Your demon hissed out a breath at the bite of your nails, his hips stuttering and fucking more powerfully into you. He slammed against a spot deep inside your cunt that had you thrashing beneath him in the leather chair, clawing at him even more.
âFuck yeah, sweetheart, hurt me back,â he growled, his tone taunting you meanly as he went on. âShow me what ya got, I can take it.âÂ
Darkness rose inside of you, and though it was tempting to believe it was solely the effect of the demonâs mark on your body, you knew it wasnât. This was the darkness that had grown within you over the years, the one that had called out to the demon and had been so pleased when he answered your call by binding you to him for an eternity of sinful servitude.Â
Skimming your hands up to Steveâs shoulders, you didnât miss the way he looked a little disappointed at your light touch. You curled your lips in an impish grinâthe only warning you gave him before you dug your nails deep into his skin, dragging them down over his inked shoulders and biceps as hard as you could.
Though you didnât break skin, dark red lines appeared on his pale skin where it shone through and Steve groaned loudly, his hips twitching before he picked up his pace. He fucked you faster, with punishingly violent strokes that had you babbling an endless stream of pleasured noises.
âThatâs it, plaything, let it outâtake it out on me,â he growled encouragingly.Â
You didnât know what exactly he was prompting you to let out, but you suspected it had something to do with the darkness churning in your chest. And his reaction, his pleasure in response to the pain youâd given him, lit something inside you. The darkness unfurled further as you finally let it free, and you felt Steveâs encouragement through the bond you shared.
Tilting your hips up so that Steve could pound harder and deeper into your pussy, you reached around to his lower back, raking your nails up the long length of his muscles. You pressed so deep, you wouldâve gouged into a humanâs skin. But your demon was made of sturdier stuff, and he simply grunted in pleasure, fucking you harderâso hard, it nearly hurt.
Steve was glorious above you, his demented coal-black eyes staring down at you with a fathomless greed you could feel thrumming in your own heart. It made you want to hurt him. It made you want to love him.Â
Frightened by both impulses, you grabbed Steve by the back of his neck, digging your nails into his skin as you pulled him down. Instead of kissing him, though, your face buried into the crook of his neck and you sank your teeth into the spot at the base of his throat, the one free of ink, biting him hard enough you thought you might actually pierce the demonâs skin.
He tasted like fire and smoke and salt.Â
Steveâs growling groan rumbled in his throat and you felt it against your cheek, moaning in answer while you licked his warm, golden skin. You sucked on him hard, wanting to leave your own mark on your demon, sinking your teeth in further while his cock pressed deep inside you.
Your demon allowed it for a moment, then his hand wrapped around the front of your throat and he pushed you away, pinning you hard against the back of the tattoo chair while he climbed on top of you. The back gave way until you were laying flat and Steveâs big body was covering yours.Â
The chair rocked dangerously, but stayed upright and Steve caged you in beneath him, fucking you in slow, lazy strokes.
âYou bite me like that again, sweetheart, and âm gonna blow my load way too soon,â he grumbled, glaring at you, though there wasnât any heat to it. Especially since you could feel his pleasure through the bond.Â
âOops,â you said, unable to hold back your giggle. Steve didnât look nearly as amused as you felt, so you forced yourself to look a little contrite as you pouted and simpered, âSorry, master.â
Shaking his head and huffing a laugh, you felt his humor slip through the bond and saw his mouth flicker in a smile.Â
âBaby, baby, baby, what am I gonna do with you, huh?â he purred. Tilting his head to the side, he considered you with smirk. âYouâve only been bound to me for an hour and Iâve already corrupted you, sweetheart.âÂ
He ducked down, dragging his nose from the base of your throat up to your jaw, nipping at the spot just below your ear that had you moaning softly. Your legs clung to his sides, holding him close in the cradle of your body while he kissed your neck. Â
âMmm,â you hummed in agreement, even though you both knew it was the darkness in your heart that had drawn him to you in the first place, not that heâd corrupted you. âI guess youâll just have to keep me, master,â you said sweetly, lifting your hips to meet Steveâs languid strokes, gasping when the tip of his cock hit that spot deep inside you that had you seeing stars.Â
At your words, Steve huffed a laugh, burying his face in your neck and mumbling against your skin, âAs if Iâd ever be able to let you go.â He rocked into your body, wringing another moan from you as he grunted his own pleasure. âFuck, your cunt feels so good, âm not gonna last much longer.â
âMaster, please, âm so close,â you whimpered into his ear. You wrapped one of your arms around his broad shoulders while your other hand dove into his soft, blond hair. You clung to your demon while he dug his arms beneath your back, holding you pinned beneath his body so he could rut ferociously into you.
âBite me, baby,â Steve growled, pounding into you with short, hard thrusts, grinding the base of his cock against your clit with each one. âMark meâshow me Iâm yours.â His voice was a desperate, greedy rasp, his need thrumming through your body through the bond, and you couldnât think of doing anything but indulging him.
Your teeth sank deep into Steveâs neck, in the one spot that wasnât covered in ink, and sucked hard on his skin, licking his throbbing pulse point at the same time. He growled wildly, his thrusts turning harder and meaner, his fingers slipping between your bodies to find your clit and rub ruthlessly.
You didnât know which of you came first because it seemed like you both pushed each other over the edge in the same instant.Â
The coil of pleasure deep in your belly snapped suddenly, and pleasure exploded through your body, leaving devastation in its wake as you screamed your release. At the same time, Steve groaned, long and loud, his cock throbbing deep inside your cunt while he spilled his seed into your fluttering channel.Â
Your demon kept fucking you as you both rode out the waves of pleasure, your body clinging to his and milking his cock while he held you crushed to his chest.Â
Your gasps for air turned to deeper breaths as you slowly came down from your peak, and you were distantly aware of Steve hauling you up from the chair and spinning around to sit while you sprawled in his lap.
As you recovered together, Steveâs fingertips danced up and down your spine while your head lay on his inked shoulder and you watched the red indents of your teeth slowly fade from his neck. A frown pulled at the edges of your mouth, and you wondered how on earth heâd managed to get tattooed if it was so difficult to leave a mark on his skin.
âWhatâs wrong?â Steve asked in a deep, gruff voice, like heâd been on the brink of sleep.Â
It took you a moment of being confused about how he couldâve possibly seen your frown before you remembered the bond. You still felt the tether to him, like a string tied behind your belly button, but you didnât feel a tug on it until his palm skimmed down to your ankle and his hand closed over the tattoo heâd given you, which was healed somehow.Â
âHow did that heal so fast?â you asked, sitting up twisting around to look at your ankle. The sweeping, delicate curves peaked out from behind Steveâs hand, and you brushed your fingertips over the inked lines with wonder.Â
âThere was a drop of my blood in the ink,â Steve answered, and when you looked at him, he wore a mischievous smirk. âI told you the ingredients were all-natural, didnât I?â he asked charmingly and shot you a wink, making you laugh and shake your head.Â
But then your eyes fell on the spot on his neck where youâd bitten him. Heâd healed so fast, you couldnât see any trace of your teeth anymore, and you brushed your fingers over it sadly. Steve caught your hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of your fingertips.
âThereâs a special method to tattooing a demon,â Steve answered your unasked question, skimming his free hand down his chest and over all the other ink on his skin. âI can teach you how,â he offered.
Your eyes had drifted down to his chest, tracing the lines of the tattoos that had been hidden by his shirt, but at his words, you glanced upâand were surprised to see the darkness had receded from his eyes, leaving them a bright, sky blue. The look he was giving you was earnest, and you felt it reflected in the bond that hummed in your body.
âIâd like that,â you said softly, ducking your head into the crook of his neck and licking the spot you wanted to mark.Â
He still tasted like fire and salt and smoke and you wanted to savor him for an eon. With a sigh, you gave into the urge, licking and kissing him idly while you cuddled into his chest. Steve held you securely, your body still impaled on his half-hard cock while his cum dripped out of you, and you thought you could stay like that forever.Â
Instead, after a few moments, you asked, âSo what happens now? Do you take me back to hell or the underworld or whatever?â
A chuckle rumbled in Steveâs chest. The sound reverberated through your sternum where you were pressed together and you smiled into his neck.
âI figured weâd stick around Brooklyn for a couple decades, then we can head down below,â he murmured, tracing patterns on your lower back with one hand while the other gripped your ass possessively. âI think youâll like it thereâIâve got all kinds of fun toys to play with.â
You could hear the depraved excitement in his tone and snorted a laugh. But then something occurred to you and you pushed up from his chest to sit back so you could see Steveâs face. He looked confused by your suddenly serious expression.
âWhen you say toys, you donât mean other people youâve bound to you, do you?â you asked him with your eyes narrowed. Your focus was almost entirely on the bond, waiting for his reaction. You knew youâd be able to tell if he was lying, or hiding something.
But you felt only amusement from him, and watched as a grin spread across his face. âNah,â he said, his hand wrapping loosely around the front of your throat to pull you in for a kiss. âIâm not actually the demon from the urban legend,â he confessed. âItâs just one of the ways we trick pretty little humans like you to sell your souls to usâyou really shouldâve read the fine print of that contract you signed.â
You huffed an exasperated laugh, because what else could you do, and kissed your demon again. He chuckled into your kiss before deepening it, his mouth sliding possessively against yours. When he pulled away, he nipped your lower lip, soothing the sting away with his tongue as he growled into your mouth.Â
âYouâre the only soul for me, sweet girl.â
Your heart beat harder in your chest, and you felt his deep affection swirling with your own in your belly, twining together around your heart to create something real and deep. It was something that would grow and strengthen over the millennia you spent together.
You knew in that moment that there would be no running from the demon youâd unknowingly bound yourself to, and that you wouldnât want to escape him anyway. Steve may have tricked youâand youâd make him grovel for your forgiveness for at least a century for thatâbut he was yours now, just as surely as you were his.Â
âYouâre the only demon for me, Steve Rogers.âÂ
You moaned for your demon when his hands grabbed your hips and began bouncing you on his hardened cock. His cum was still leaking out of your cunt, making a mess of both of you, but neither of you cared. Your kisses turned messy with your grunts and groans of pleasure, your bodies pushing each other toward the edge of another release as you gave in to the insatiable need you both felt for the other.
It would be a long time before that need was finally satedâso long that it was no longer Friday the 13th by the time you stumbled out of Hell, Steveâs heavy arm draped around your waist. His strong body kept you upright on unsteady knees while he walked you to his brownstone around the corner.
For years after that fateful Friday the 13th, you helped Steve keep up appearances as a tattoo artist, playing his devoted girlfriend during the day. Then at night, he took you home and made you his personal plaything, bending you over and fucking your ass with his fat demon cock or unloading his cum down your throat.Â
In the rare moments when you werenât fucking, Steve taught you how to tattoo, and the method of how to tattoo a demon specifically, all so you could leave your mark on his skin. You tattooed an outline of your teeth marks on his neck, in the spot heâd left open for you since the night youâd met.
Youâd even included a drop of your blood in the ink, even though Steve said it wouldnât strengthen the bond. But afterward, you did feel like you were close to him, and he admitted he felt it, too.Â
Years later, Steve surprised you by asking you to marry him, and though you thought it was a little unnecessary, you said yes. It just seemed a bit like overkill to have a whole wedding ceremony when your souls were already bonded for eternity, but you had to admit it was a good time. Plus, all your friends and family cried happy tearsâeven the demons.Â
Finally, when it began to get suspicious that you and Steve werenât aging while the humans around you were, Steve passed on ownership of Hell to one of the other artists and he took you down below to the real thing. He carried you across the threshold of his house and welcomed you home, where youâd live happily together until you decided to go topside again.
There in hell, Steve spent centuries shattering you apart with his cock before rebuilding you, only to break you down into his dumb little fucktoy all over again. Together, you used every toy Steve owned. You were your masterâs good little plaything while he delivered pain and pleasure that sent you to new planes of existence.Â
Then, of course, Steve taught you how to use them all on him, too, because your demon master liked a little bit of pain, too.
Youâd loved your time in Brooklyn with Steve Rogers, the tattoo artist and owner of Hell, but you loved your time in hell with your demon master even more. Together, you allowed yourselves to be truly free and give in to your darkness together. You allowed yourself to love him, and let him love you in return.Â
It was everything you could have dreamed of, living a happy life for the rest of eternity with your demon in hell.
And all you had to do was follow one rule: When in hell, do as the demons do.
âlove is a dagger.â @faeryloki - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook