Mysteries Of My Mind

Your dad dropped the news at breakfast, between sips of black coffee: “Bucky’s spending the weekend here. ” That was it. And you spent the next four hours changing clothes like a maniac, switching between jeans that were too conservative and a dress that was too obvious, before settling on a white tank top so thin you can see your nipples poking through, and shorts. No bra. Just a lace thong that cuts into your cleavage. You know exactly what you’re doing. You also know it’s stupid, that it’s dangerous, that he’s your dad’s best friend, and that he’s called you “kid” your whole life. But damn it, you’ve been thinking about him for a year. It’s been a year since you’ve been touching yourself while imagining his hands. So stupid or not, you’re owning it.

The car pulls into the driveway at 3:37 p.m. The engine roars—a deep V8 that makes the living room windows rattle and your stomach churn at the same time. Your dad jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, throws the door wide open, and the harsh July sunlight floods into the living room.

“Damn, Buck! It took you forever!” ”

“There was an accident on I-95.” Bucky’s voice hits you right in the chest. Deep, hoarse, a little tired. “It took me two hours to drive eighty kilometers. I almost killed someone.”

“You’re here, that’s all that matters. Come on in, put your bag down.”

He steps into the light. A black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps as if the fabric had given up all hope of staying loose, dark jeans. Brown hair tied back in a loose bun, strands stuck to his temples from the sweat of the road. He has dark circles under his gray-blue eyes, a small, fresh cut on his chin. He’s tired, unshaven, and damn, he’s handsome.

Then he sees you.

His eyes drift toward the couch. They settle on you. And everything freezes. He stands rooted in the doorway, the sun at his back, his massive silhouette silhouetted against the light, staring at you as if he’d just been headbutted right in the face.

“Shit. ”

The word slips out on its own. A barely audible whisper. But you hear it. And your stomach clenches.

“What?” your father says. “You look weird, Buck.”

“The road. I’m thirsty.”

But his eyes haven’t moved a millimeter. They slowly trace down your face, glide over your neck, linger on your bare shoulders, then plunge toward your breasts. There, they stop. For a long time. The white cotton hides nothing,the curve of your breasts, everything is visible. Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his beard.

Then his eyes continue their descent. Your bare stomach. The curve of your hips. Your thighs, long and tanned, bare almost all the way down.

“Kid.”

The word slips out mechanically, like a reflex honed over twenty years. Except this time, it’s not a nickname. It’s a growl. A warning. A veiled admission.

“James,” you reply.

Just his first name. But the tone you use, the way you look him in the eyes as you say it… it’s anything but innocent.

Your dad, that blind bastard, is already rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.

“I’m bringing back some beers! Buck, have you eaten yet or not? ”

“No,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off you. “But I’m hungry.”

And he’s clearly not talking about food.

“Spill it,” your father says, setting the beers on the table. “How’s it been going all this time? Still single?”

Bucky grabs a bottle, pops the cap off with a sharp twist, and takes a long swig. A drop runs down his beard, sliding over his Adam’s apple.

“Yeah. Always.”

“How come?”

He looks at you as he answers.

“I’m picky. ”

The silence that follows weighs three metric tons. Your father nods as if he’s just heard some profound wisdom, then turns back to the TV. You get up from the couch, pretending to look for chips, and as you walk past Bucky, your arm brushes against his. His skin is burning hot. His fingers tighten around the bottle.

“You’ve changed,” he blurts out suddenly.

You stop.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve changed. A lot.”

He looks you over from head to toe, without any restraint. His eyes linger on your breasts, then drift down between your thighs before moving back up to your face.

“She’s grown up, Buck,” your father says absentmindedly, already glued to the game. “Twenty-five now. ”

“Twenty-five,” Bucky repeats.

He savors the number, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of whiskey.

“So it’s official, then. You’re not a kid anymore.”

“Exactly.” You lock eyes with him. “I’m not a kid anymore, James.”

Your dad gets up to take a piss. The bathroom door slams at the end of the hallway. You’re alone. Bucky sets down his beer, takes two steps toward you, and stops twenty centimeters away. He’s so tall that your nose barely reaches his chin. His scent washes over you,soap, clean sweat, something woody and dark.

“Did you put that on for me?” His voice has dropped a notch.

“What?”

“Stop it.” He lowers his voice even further, to a hoarse whisper. “That tank top that shows everything. Those shorts that don’t even cover your ass. You put that on for me. Say it.”

“So what if I did?”

“Then say it. ”

“Yeah.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “I put this on for you.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly. When he opens them again, his pupils are so dilated that the gray has almost disappeared.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, kid.”

“Explain it to me. ”

“Your father’s like a brother to me. I saw you being born, for fuck’s sake. I carried you on my shoulders when you were four. And now, I can’t take my eyes off your breasts.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Ever since I walked in, I’ve been hard as a rock. It hurts.”

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me that you’re hard.”

He stares at you as if you’d just asked him to kill someone. Then, slowly, he grabs your right hand and presses it against his crotch. Under the denim, his cock is hard as marble, enormous, burning hot. It throbs against your palm.

“There you go, kid,” he growls. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me for the past hour. Are you happy now?”

“Yes.”

He pulls your hand away but keeps it trapped in his.

“I’m not allowed to do anything.”

“I know.”

“If I touch you, I’ll lose Steve.”

“My dad doesn’t need to know.”

Silence falls. The TV blares in the living room; the toilet flushes at the end of the hallway. Bucky lets go of your hand just before your dad reappears.

“Well,” your dad says as he sits back down, “are we having dinner tonight or what?”

Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you.

“Yeah. I’m starving.”

And he smiles. A little smirk that promises absolutely nothing good.You sit back down on the couch. Your thighs stick together, soaked. This night isn't going to be anything like a quiet one. And Bucky just confirmed that without saying another word.

The pizzas arrived at 7:30 p.m., delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid sweating in his red polo shirt. Your dad brought out three plates, three beers, and seated everyone around the living room table, as if to say,

“We’re going to have a nice, quiet evening.”

Except nothing is quiet. Not at all. The air is thick with tension, heavy like before a storm, and every time you shift in your chair, you feel Bucky’s gaze sliding over you.

He’s sitting across from you. Right across from you. The table is maybe one meter twenty wide,which is practically nothing. You can see every detail of his face,the pale scar near his lower lip, the salt and pepper starting to show in his beard, the way his pupils dilate every time your eyes meet his. He’s still wearing the same gray T-shirt, but he’s let his hair down. It falls in dark waves around his shoulders, and damn, it makes him look even more dangerous.

“So Buck, tell me about your job,” your dad says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. “Still in security?”

“Yeah.” Bucky takes a bite of his pizza without taking his eyes off you. “I had an assignment last week. Close protection. An actress.”

“Damn, really? Which one? ”

“I can’t say. Non-disclosure agreement.”

He wipes a streak of tomato sauce off his lip with his thumb, and your eyes follow the movement like an idiot.

“Let’s just say she was a pain in the ass.”

You break your slice in half to eat it more easily, and as you lean forward, your tank top gapes open a little. Just a little. Enough for Bucky to see the tops of your breasts. Enough for him to set his slice down on the table and clench his jaw.

“What about you, kid?” His voice is a notch lower. Slower. “Still at your graphic design school?”

“I’m not in school anymore. I finished last year.”

“Oh yeah? So where are you working now?”

“I’m freelancing. I work from home.”

You pick up an olive between your fingers, bring it to your mouth, suck on it a little before biting into it. An innocent gesture,except it’s not; you know exactly what you’re doing.

“I make a good living.”

Bucky watches you suck on that olive as if he wanted to be in your place.

“You sure look like it, yeah.”

“What do you mean, ‘you look like it’?”

“You look like a woman who makes a good living.” His eyes drift down to your lips. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants. ”

“Maybe I do.”

Your father wipes his mouth and burps discreetly.

“She’s talented, you know. She redesigned the whole company website for me. For free, no less.”

“For free,” Bucky repeats. “You’re a nice kid. ”

“I’m nice to the people I love.”

Silence. A fucking three-second silence where the word “love” hangs over the table like a vague threat. Bucky puts down his fork.

“What about the people you don’t love?” he asks softly.

“I’m not a nice person. ”

“I figured as much.”

You lean forward to grab the bottle of Tabasco. Your tank top gapes open again; the entire curve of your left breast is almost visible, your nipple brushing against the edge of the fabric. You sit back up slowly, very slowly, and meet Bucky’s gaze. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word. But his plate has been untouched for five minutes, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against the table.

“Are you hot, Buck?” your father asks without looking up from his pizza.

“A little, yeah.”

“No surprise, it’s thirty out there. Drink your beer.”

Bucky obeys mechanically, takes a sip, and sets the bottle down too hard. The noise makes your father jump.

“Hey, easy on the table. ”

“Sorry.”

It’s not the table that’s the problem. It’s you. It’s your lips around that damn olive. It’s your neck, exposed every time you toss your hair back. It’s that little vein pulsing beneath your jaw that he stares at as if he wants to bite it.

“Can I have another piece?” You reach for the box.

“Here.”

Bucky pushes the box toward you. Your fingers brush against each other. Just for a second. But a spark shoots through you, electric, all the way down to your groin.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, kid.”

That word burns you now. Before, it was cute. Before, it was affectionate. Now, every time he says it, you hear something else. You hear,

“I call you ‘kid’ to remind myself I shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing keeping me from ripping those shorts off you right here on this table.”

“Do you remember that time we went camping?” your father suddenly asks. “Buck, you had to carry the little one on your shoulders for three kilometers because she’d twisted her ankle.”

“I remember,” says Bucky without taking his eyes off your neck. “She weighed nothing. She clung to my hair like reins.”

“I was twelve,” you protest.

“You were light.” He takes a sip of beer. “Now…”

“Now what?”

“Now I’m not sure I could carry you for that long. ”

“Because I’ve gained weight?”

“Because I don’t have the same stamina anymore.” He smiles—a small, wry smile. “And because carrying you now would be… different.”

Your father bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, no kidding. She’s heavier than she was when she was twelve. ”

Bucky isn’t talking about weight. You know that. So does he. And he confirms it by letting his gaze drift over your mouth, then down your neck, then along the line of your collarbones.

“Do you not wear necklaces anymore?” he asks suddenly.

“Excuse me? ”

“You used to always wear a little silver necklace. With a moon pendant.”

You absentmindedly touch your bare neck.

“I… you remember that?”

“I remember everything, kid.”

Silence falls again, even heavier than before. Your father chews quietly, now glued to his phone, checking the scores. He has no idea what’s going on just one meter twenty away from him.

“I can’t wear it anymore,” you say softly. “The clasp broke. ”

“Too bad. It looked good on you.”

“I can fix it.”

“You should.”

His eyes drift up to your neck. He stares at that exact spot, just below your jawline, where the skin is thin and tender, where your pulse beats against your carotid artery. You know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about pressing his lips there. To suck on your skin until it leaves a purple mark. To hold you by the hair while he bites your neck, and to hear the little sound you’d make.

“You’ve got a sauce stain,” he says suddenly.

“Where?”

“There.” He touches the corner of his own lips with his thumb. “On your mouth.”

You reach for your napkin, but he raises his hand.

“Leave it. I’ll do it. ”

He leans over the table. It’s an absurd, dangerous, completely inappropriate gesture. But your father isn’t looking, and Bucky reaches out, places his thumb on the corner of your lower lip, and wipes away the smudge of tomato sauce with a slow motion.

“There. ”

His thumb lingers. One more second. Two seconds. You feel the texture of his calloused skin against your lip, the warmth of his finger, the immense possibility of what might happen if you opened your mouth right now.

“Thanks,” you whisper against his thumb.

“You’re welcome, kid.”

He sits back down. His knuckles are white as he grips his beer bottle. The bulge in his jeans is pressing so hard against his fly that the metal must be digging into his skin.

“Well,” says your father, putting down his phone. “I’m going to get another beer. Do you guys want one? ”

“No,” Bucky replies a little too quickly. “I mean, yes. Yes.”

“You have some nerve.”

Your father stands up and disappears into the kitchen, whistling.Bucky immediately leans forward, both elbows on the table, his voice reduced to a whisper.

“Stop it. ”

“Stop what?”

“Stop sucking on olives like that.”

“I’m eating normally.”

“You eat like a slut, yeah.”

The word hits between you like a slap.

“Don’t say that,” you say, but your voice trembles.

“Why? It’s the truth.” He holds your gaze without flinching. “You spent the whole dinner torturing me, kid. Every time you open your mouth to speak, I look at your lips. Every time you lean over, I look at your neck. Every time you shift in your chair, I wonder if you’re already wet.”

“I am,” you let slip.

Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He takes a long breath. When he opens them again, they’re almost black.He sits up straight just as your dad comes back with three more beers.

“So, what were you two talking about?” your dad asks cheerfully.

“Nothing,” Bucky replies, his eyes still locked on yours. “The kid was telling me about his plans.”

“Oh yeah? Tell us, sweetie.”

You look at Bucky.

“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out later.”

“Okay, okay,” your father grumbles. “Secrets, I suppose.”

“Exactly,” says Bucky, handing you a cold beer. “secrets.”

His fingers brush against yours one last time. And he smiles. That same slow, dangerous, crooked smile that promises the night is going to be very, very long.

***

Dinner drags on for another hour. An hour of stolen glances over empty bottles, of fingers brushing as you pass the plates, of heavy silences that your father fills with work stories that interest no one. Bucky responds in monosyllables. “Yeah.” “Seriously.” “Crazy. ” But his eyes never leave your face, your mouth, your neck. Every time you laugh at one of your father’s jokes, he clenches his jaw. Every time you run your tongue over your lips to wipe away a crumb, he swallows. Every time you bend over to pick up your napkin that fell on the floor, he watches your tank top gape open and forgets to breathe.

At 10:30 p.m., your father yawns. A huge yawn that almost dislocates his jaw.

“Well, I’m going to bed.” He gets up from the couch, stretching, his T-shirt riding up over his potbelly. “Bucky, you know your room. Same as always.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you, sweetie…” Your father absentmindedly kisses your forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“I promise.”

“Yeah, right.” He laughs to himself, already on the stairs.

The sound of his footsteps fades away. A door opens upstairs, then closes. Silence falls over the living room like a lid.

Bucky doesn’t move. He’s sitting in the armchair, legs spread apart, his empty beer bottle in his hand. He’s looking at you. You’re standing near the couch, your arms crossed under your breasts,a gesture that lifts them and makes them spill out a little more from your tank top. You’re doing it on purpose, of course. You’ve been doing everything on purpose since this morning.

“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” you say in a neutral voice.

“I’m here to help you.”

“No need. ”

“I insist.”

You turn on your heel without waiting for his reply. The kitchen is ten steps from the living room—a small, square room with a central island and light-wood cabinets. You set the dirty plates in the sink, turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run. Steam fogs up the window above the sink.

And then you hear him.

The sound of his boots on the tile floor. Slow. Steady. The kitchen door closing behind him with a soft metallic click. You don’t turn around. You keep rinsing the plates, your heart pounding like a damn jackhammer in your chest.

“Kid.”

His voice is right behind you. Thirty centimeters away. You feel his heat on your back, that intense, animalistic heat radiating from him like a furnace.

“Bucky.”

“Turn around.”

You turn off the water. You wipe your hands on your shorts,a pointless gesture, since the fabric is already soaked, but it buys you three seconds. Then you turn around.

He’s there. Right in front of you. His gray-blue eyes have turned almost black, his pupils so dilated they swallow up his irises. His beard looks darker in the dim light of the kitchen; his hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He must have taken off his boots somewhere between the living room and here. He’s barefoot. And damn, even his feet are beautiful.

“You’ve been doing this on purpose all dinner,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement.

“What exactly?”

“Leaning over so I could see your breasts. Sucking your fingers after every slice of pizza. Running your tongue over your lips while I was talking to you.” He takes a step forward. “You tortured me for two hours, kid.”

“I didn’t do anything special. ”

“Stop it.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop playing with me.”

Another step. You instinctively step back, and your back hits the edge of the counter. The kitchen island is behind you, cold against your shoulder blades. Bucky stops ten centimeters away, his two hands resting on the counter on either side of your hips, and he pins you there, trapped between the marble and his massive body.

“Do you know what you’re doing to your old uncle, kid?”

The word “uncle” stings. He’s not your uncle. He never has been. But he uses that word to remind himself that this is forbidden, that it’s dangerous, that your father is upstairs, and that what he’s about to do could destroy thirty years of friendship.

“You’re not my uncle,” you whisper.

“No.” He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m worse than that. I’m the guy who watched you grow up and who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you walked through the door this morning.”

“James…”

“Shut up.” His fingers clench the marble. “Let me talk. Otherwise I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.”

You fall silent. Your breath is short, your pussy is soaking wet, your nipples are pressing so hard against your tank top that they almost hurt.

“Ever since I got here,” he begins, his voice hoarse and low, “I’ve been thinking about one thing. Just one.”

“What is it?”

“To take you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he says this. “To bend you over that counter. To rip off those slutty little shorts. To spread your thighs and eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.”

You let out a little sound. A barely stifled moan.

“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He tilts his head. “Knowing I’ve had a hard-on for you for the past six hours. That I had to hold myself back from touching you in front of your dad. That I almost lost it when you sucked on that damn olive.”

“You saw that. ”

“I saw everything.” His right hand leaves the counter, moves slowly upward, stopping a centimeter from your breast. “I saw your nipples harden when I watched you. I saw your thighs clamp together under the table. I saw the way you bit your lip every time I said ‘kid.’”

His hand moves forward. His fingers brush against your nipple through the cotton. Just a light touch. Just enough to make you moan.

“James, my father…”

“Your father’s asleep.” His hand is now pressed fully against your breast, his warm palm against its soft curve. “And you’re going to be quiet. You’d better be. ”

He gently kneads your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple in small circles. Your head falls back, the nape of your neck hitting the edge of the closet, but you don’t care.

“Look at me,” he orders.

You open your eyes again. His face is five centimeters from yours. His beard, his slightly parted lips, his almost black eyes. He’s gorgeous and terrifying.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t answer.

“Say it, kid. Say ‘James, stop,’ and I’ll go back up to my room and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”

The silence drags on. You could say it. You should say it. That’s what reason demands, what morality commands, what thirty years of friendship between him and your father call for.

“Say it,” he repeats, almost pleading now. “Please. Say it.”

“No.”

The word falls like a guillotine.

Bucky closes his eyes. A long shiver runs through his body, from his shoulders down to his thighs. When he opens them again, there’s no restraint left in his gaze. No more struggle. No more morality.

“You’re going to regret this,” he whispers.

“I know.”

His other hand leaves the counter. It grabs the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair, holding your head back. His mouth descends on your neck without warning. Not a gentle kiss—a bite. His teeth catch the tender skin just below your jaw, his tongue runs over it, and he sucks hard and long.

“Shit,” you moan, grabbing his T-shirt with both hands.

“Shh.” His mouth moves up toward your ear. “You’d better be quiet. I told you so. ”

His hand lets go of your hair, slides down your back, and moves down to your buttocks. He grabs your right buttock with his whole hand, kneads the flesh, his fingers digging into the muscle.

“Those little shorts,” he growls against your ear. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been dreaming of taking them off. ”

“Take it off.”

He pulls his head back, looks at you. His eyes are blazing.

“Not tonight.”

“What?”

“Not tonight.”

His hand leaves your butt, moves back up, and rests on your cheek. A gesture that’s almost tender now.

“Tonight, I just want to… taste you.”

“James…”

“I want to know what you taste like.” His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing gently. “I want you to come on my tongue. Once. Just once. And then you’ll go back up to your room and sleep. ”

“What about you?”

“I’ll jerk off in my room, thinking about you.”

He smiles. That same dangerous smile.

“And tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast with your dad like nothing ever happened.”

Your breathing is ragged.

“What if I want more? ”

“We’ll see tomorrow.”

His hand slowly slides down your stomach, his fingers stopping at the waistband of your shorts.

“But right now, you’re going to spread your legs and let me do it.”

His thumb slides under your jeans, finds the lace of your thong, and presses just above your clitoris.

“You’re soaking wet,” he observes.

“For you. ”

“I know.” He presses harder, his thumb slowly circling the damp fabric. “You’ve been soaking wet for me since this morning. Ever since I walked into this living room, your little pussy has been dripping for your old uncle.”

“Stop saying ‘uncle.’ ”

“Why? It turns you on.”

He increases the pressure of his thumb, finds your clit through the lace, and rolls it.

“Your dad calls me his brother, and you’re getting wet in my hand.”

“James, please…”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me.”

He pulls his hand away abruptly. Takes a step back. His chest heaves rapidly; his breathing is as ragged as yours.

“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice choked. “I told you. Tonight, you come on my tongue, and that’s it. ”

“Why?”

“Because.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because if I fuck you now, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take you right here on this counter, then on the couch, then in your bed, and your dad will wake up and find us, and I’ll lose everything. ”

Silence falls. You understand. He’s still struggling. He’s trying to maintain a shred of control, a final line he won’t cross.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Tomorrow. ”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. His eyes drift down one last time over your body, over your breasts, over your clenched thighs. “Go to bed, kid.”

“Are you really going… to your room…?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about your little wet pussy.” He grabs the doorknob. “Good night, kid. ”

He walks out. The door closes behind him. You remain leaning against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, your panties soaked, your nipple still sensitive where he touched you.

That fucking guy is going to drive you crazy.

And tomorrow, I promise, he’s going to fuck you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

TEN YEARS LATER

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

It's kind of uncool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He always is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you—

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

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

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

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

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Perfect!"

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

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

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

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

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

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

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

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

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

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

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I said.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s what does it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have fun at prom, John.”

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

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

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

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

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

And of course it was Bucky. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

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

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

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

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

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

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

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

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

You were confused. "Okay?"

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

"Oh yeah?"

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

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

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

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

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

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

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

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

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

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

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

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

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

It flipped. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

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

"You've got the face."

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I appreciate that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not your baby."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

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

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

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

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

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

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

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

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

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Condom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bolder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

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

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

Which was concerning.

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

He glanced over. "Hm?"

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

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

Your smile faltered slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

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

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

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

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

Forever.

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

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

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

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee [i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]

⤷ masterlist

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

“But what if it’s not fine,” you’d pleaded. “What if there’s a- A storm, or more people than we thought, or- Or Bucky gets hurt-“

“Who is in charge of Bucky’s health?” Yelena had cut you off with a pointed look, and you’d swallowed.

“I’m not- I wouldn’t say in charge-“

“You make him eat vegetables. That is in charge.”

“I make all of you eat vegetables-“

“You don’t make me eat vegetables,” Walker had muttered, and you’d flipped him off.

“That’s because I hate you.”

Walker had scowled, Ava—pressed against the wall of the room and clearly trying not to be involved in this conversation—had snorted, and Yelena’s mouth had twitched.

“See,” she’d given you a winning grin. “You are a natural leader. You will be fine.”

“I will not be fine-“

Bucky had said your name, and everyone in the room had gone still. He’d been left out of this meeting. From Yelena’s wide eyes and Ava’s smirk, it hadn’t been hard to work out that it was on purpose.

“What isn’t going to be fine,” Bucky had muttered, and Walker and Yelena had an exchanged sharp, you do it looks.

Walker had lost the glare off, sighed, and turned to Bucky with a wide, winning grin.

“You’re taking the scout on her first mission, buddy, congrats- Shit- Hey-“

Bucky had stormed forward, metal hand flexing like he was thinking about wrapping it around Walker’s throat. He’d stopped himself, shot you a strange look, and jerked his head.

“Out,” he’d grunted, before pausing and adding, “Please.”

The please hadn’t been necessary. You’d almost run out the room with a nervous look back, a little worried you were going to come back to a bloodbath. The glass was supposed to be fully soundproof. You’d still been able to hear muffled, furious shouting. 

Bucky had stormed out after almost an hour, given you a tight look, strange look, then stomped down the hall. Yelena had given you a thumbs up. You’d—foolishly—hoped that meant you were off the hook.

It hadn’t.

You’d been dropped in Norway with Bucky a week later, an hour after planned—Alexei wanted to bring his camera, and wouldn’t hear anyone tell him no—with plans to be picked up in the morning.

“Stay close,” Bucky had muttered, not meeting your gaze. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You’d nodded, your voice barely more than a  breath. “James, I- I don’t know what you’d do.“

“Then don’t do anything.” He’d snapped.

You’d shrunken into yourself. You knew he didn’t like this—you weren’t a big fan either—but the bristling, electric anger almost radiating off of him, it wasn’t anything you were used to. Bucky was usually kind to you. He opened your doors and brought you muffins from the bakery down the street. You made him watch movies when he couldn’t sleep, and he asked you questions about pop culture when he was confused. You had a good—confusing, but good—relationship.

Yelena likes to tease that he like likes you. You try to punch her in the face, and always miss. He doesn’t. He couldn’t. He’s Bucky Barnes, and you’re a dork with a computer that he’s nice to because he’s a good man.

A kind, handsome, perfect man with a jawline you’d kill to kiss and hands you’d die to hold. A man who remembers your birthday when you sometimes forget, and knows your coffee order, and lets you push him around even thought he could crush you with a single hand. You’d like him to crush you with that hand. Maybe pin you down with it and split you open and kiss you with those soft lips that always ghost with a smile at your stupid jokes.

You never should’ve told Yelena about your tiny, little, totally manageable crush on him to begin with. It’s going to be the death of you. You’re sort of starting to worry that this was Yelena’s grand plan to finally make you talk to him. If it was, you’re actually going to kill her, or hire someone who can.

Because it started raining. And after it started raining, lightning cracked through the sky, and thunder followed, and you and Bucky got slowed down. Slowed down enough that—combined with the weather conditions—Alexei couldn’t come pick you up. And you had to find a hotel in Norway.

And the only room left had one bed.

And you’re going to jump off the balcony and pray that Bucky doesn’t catch you.

“You should take a shower,” he mutters, tossing your bag onto the couch. “I’ll go find some extra clothing.”

You nod, pulling at the sleeves of your drenched shirt. “I- I can take the couch-“

“No.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“I’m on the couch,” he shoots you a stern look, bracing his hands on his hips. “And you’re on the bed.”

You swallow, and nod. Arguing with him right now doesn’t seem productive. You’re lucky he’s still talking to you after the mission.

It didn’t go poorly. In fact, given everything, it actually went better than you could’ve hoped for. But Bucky is still looking at you like you’re a problem, and it’s making you sort of sick. You don’t want to be something extra that weighs on his shoulders. Don’t want to be an extra layer of ice, pressing down on his chest when he’s already the one keeping you both together. It’s already cold enough as it is.

You shower. Bucky finds clothing—an oversized, thin fabriced shirt that just drapes past your thighs—and follows after you. Neither of you say much, and you try not to let the silence feel like poison, but it’s hard. He’s never been quiet with you this long, but you’ve also never been in this kind of situation with him before.

“Alexei will get us in the morning,” he mutters, stepping out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Then we’ll get you home.”

“Oh- Okay.” You flush, staring down at your hands. His chest is broad, and bare, and warm looking. The rivers of scars over his shoulder and pecs look like they’d be easy to map, and the dip of his towel show off the strength of his stomach. Thick and muscled, soft in all the right places, probably easy to wrap yourself in, and-

Bucky mutters you name, and you’d stopped staring at your hands without thinking. You clear your throat and slide into the bed, grabbing your phone with shaking fingers and pretending to be deeply invested in the blank lock screen. In your periphery, Bucky doesn’t move for a long moment. You dare to look at him under your lashes, and find him staring back.

“Bucky?” You ask softly, and Bucky’s throat bobs. “Are you-“

“You did good,” he grunts, and you blink, heat rushing between your thighs.

“I- I did good?”

He nods tightly. “Today. You did good.”

“Oh.” You swallow, unable to break his gaze. “I- I didn’t do much-“

“You got me through the lab. You listened.”

“Anyone can listen, James.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he huffs something close to a laugh. “You’d be surprised,” he mutters, grabbing his warm clothing off the arm of the couch. “And don’t sell yourself short, doll. You listen real well.”

Your mouth falls open, and you think you might be frozen in place. Bucky retreats back to the bathroom, and you’re not even sure what to do with yourself. You’re sure he didn’t mean it like that, but god, it would’ve been nice if he did. Your head certainly takes the thoughts and runs with them. Bucky over you in this same bed, that metal hand pressed against your stomach, cooed praise and light orders of take it and make some noise for me, doll. The gleam in his eyes when you’d listen, the way he’d feel buried inside of you, the burn of blue eyes as he’d watch you come apart, driving into your cunt over and over and over-

“Night,” Bucky grunts, and you blink at him through the dark.

“Night,” you breathe back, and for a second, you just stare at each other.

Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. You could swear is does. And maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but his gaze drags down the fabric of your sleep shirt, catching on your bare thighs and spread legs. His tongue darts over his lips, and you press your thighs together, shifting nervously on the mattress.

He looks back up to you, jaw working tight. 

“Night,” he mutters again, and you swallow.

He goes for the light, and you glance at the couch. It’s small. More of a sectional than a functional piece of comfort.  

“Bucky?” You say, before you can think better of it. “Do you- Do you want to sleep in the bed.”

Bucky freezes, his hand on the light switch. You swallow, pulling the sheets higher up your body, and Bucky mutters your name. “You don’t have to-“

“Are you going to be able to sleep on the couch?” You whisper, and his jaw ticks again.

“That’s not your shit to worry about-“

“Alexei’s going to talk the whole ride home,” you push, and his throat bobs. “And you- You get really grumpy when you don’t sleep.”

Bucky chuckles. “I get grumpy, huh.”

You nod, and he sighs. His hand curls into a fist, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to tell you no.

“I- I really don’t mind-“ 

“Alright,” he cuts you off, words short and clipped. “You win.”

You blink, and try not to smile when he hits the lights. The streetlamps outside let you see his figure, walking over to the bed. You force yourself not to hold your breath, and lie down like everything is perfectly normal.

The mattress dips. Bucky lies flat and stiff on his back, slowly pulling the sheets over his body, and you turn away, trying to hide the flush blooming over your face.

This was a mistake. That’s clear now. You adore him too much, and you wanted to help, and it made you forget about the actual consequences of Bucky being right there, next to you, wearing only sweats and emitting heat like a furnace. The bed feels smaller than it did a moment ago, but that might just be the size of him. Your fingers brush, and his hand jerks away like he thinks you’re going to burn. You twist further over, pulling the blankets with you.

“You’re hogging,” Bucky grunts, and you pull your knees a little into your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to loosen your grip. “Just- Cold.”

It’s not cold. It was, before he climbed in next to you. Now it’s impossibly humid, like you’ve been dropped in to a hot spring. Bucky sighs, and doesn’t take the slack of the sheets you offered. You shift in the bed, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to offer him more space.

The minutes crawl past you. It’s been an exhausting day, but you’ve never been more awake. You’re worried he can hear your heartbeat. You’re worried he can smell the arousal, pooling between your thighs whenever your feet brush. You’re almost curled fully into a ball, the sheet wrapped around you like a cocoon. A restless, anxious pill bug of a cocoon, trying to find a spot on the bed where you’re not painfully aware of Bucky’s presence.

His hands, brushing near your spine when you roll the wrong direction. The steady sound of his breath, that should be calming but only works you up more and more. The line of his jaw when you risk a look, and the flutter of his lashes as he stares at the ceiling. At least he’s not sleeping either. You can be grumpy together, in the morning.

“You’re movin’ too much,” Bucky grunts, and you’re flushing so deeply you’re worried you’re going to light on fire.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he sighs.

“’S fine.”

You think he might just give up and go back to the couch, but he doesn’t. You consider taking the couch yourself, but you’re stubborn. You asked him to do this, and if you try to go to the couch, Bucky will just throw you back to bed and take the couch himself.

That’s a nice idea. Strong arms wrapped around you, manhandling you, folding you over and tossing you wherever he pleases like a fuckdoll.

You risk another look, and almost whimper.

He’s staring at you in the dark, that strange, hooded look gleaming in his eyes. Your heart pushes into your throat, and your fingers dig into your hips as you hold yourself. Neither of you seem to be able to think of anything to say. Bucky licks his lips again, his eyes darting down to the arch of your neck, and your breath catches. The air seems to be pressing over your skin like a shroud. You’re not sure what to do with yourself but try to breathe.

This must be a dream. Bucky wouldn’t look at you like that during the day. And if it isn’t a dream, he probably doesn’t mean it the way your sleepy, addled brain thinks. He’s always had the same effect on you as a strong drink. Making you a little loose-lipped and foolish and delusional. There’s a reason you don’t go out with him. You’re not trying to ruin the good, steady friendship you’ve had for so long.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” you whisper, and Bucky frowns.

“Stuck with you?”

“On- On the mission.”

His frown deepens. “I’m not stuck with you, that’s-“

He cuts himself off, rolling onto his back with a groan. He runs a hand over his face, and you swallow, pushing up a little to hold his gaze.

“It’s okay, I- I get it-“

“I wasn’t stuck with you,” he cuts you off, tone surprisingly stern. “I mighta been- Harsh,” he lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “But listen to me, I’m never- I like havin’ you around, alright? Never stuck with you.”

“But-“

“You matter,” he grunts, staring firmly up at the ceiling. “I don’t like this ‘cause you- You’re not supposed to be in these kinda situations, doll. That’s it. Don’t think it’s anything else.”

“Oh- Okay.” You whisper, and Bucky’s eyes dart to yours.

“Got it?”

You nod, and he sighs, looking back to the ceiling. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t look cold, but just lying there without blankets, it can’t be comfortable.

“Bucky?” You say softly, and he grunts. “Do you want the blankets?”

“I’m good-“

“We could share,” you add quickly, and he shoots you an amused look.

“I tried to share. You’re the one who kept yankin’ them away from me.”

You flush, wrinkling your nose. “They’re small-“

“They fit the mattress. Should fit two people.”

“Well, they didn’t think one of those people would be you.”

Bucky raises his brows, and your eyes widen.

“I- I just mean- You- You’re very big, and- I’m smaller- The sheets are smaller, and you’re big-“

“Said I’m big already,” he drawls, and you’re going to smack him.

“Well, you are,” you snap, yanking the sheets fully around you. “And now I’m not sharing. Because you’re being a butt.”

You flip over, burying your face in a pillow when Bucky laughs. It’s a low, deep sound that rolls through your body, almost making you dizzy. You feel the mattress shift behind you, and curl further into yourself.

“Your heart is racing,” he mutters, low and rough, and you’re sure you’re dreaming now.

“Your heart is racing.”

Bucky chuckles again. That’s a dangerous sound. He shouldn’t be allowed to make it.

“You’re bein’ bratty tonight,” he murmurs, a large, light hand tracing over the curve of your hips. “It’s cute.”

You want to roll over and hit him or something. It’s not fair to do that. Not right now, not to you. “James…” You whisper, and he hums.

“Love when say my name like that,” he toys with your hair between, and you bite back a moan. “You know you’re the only one I let say it, right? Only one who could get away with damn near anything ‘round me.”

You make a disgruntled, confused little sound that’s a mix between a moan and whine. You’re really not sure what the fuck is happening, but you’re terrified to ruin it. To move wrong and break from the dream.

“But Christ, doll,” Bucky wraps his hand slowly around the back of your neck, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning back into the touch. “I’m tryin’ real hard to be gentleman, and you’re not making it easy.”

His thumb drags over the base of your hairline, and the mattress dips again. Your breathing becomes shallow, as Bucky leans down. His lips brush near your ear, and you whimper, clinging onto the sheets for dear life.

“I can smell you,” he says, and you’d like the mattress to just swallow you whole. “Can smell how you get fuckin’ wet looking at me, how you gush whenever I touch you,” he squeezes that back of your neck gently. “Tell me to back off. Before I do something real stupid and selfish.”

You roll over slowly, and try not to moan at just the sight of him. Hanging over you in the dark, broad shoulders and parted lips, staring at you like he wants to eat you alive.

“Selfish?” You manage to breathe, reaching up to rest your hand, flat against his burning chest. “James, you’re not-“

“Don’t.” He catches your wrist, but doesn’t push you away. “I want you all to myself. I’d call that selfish.”

You shake your head, your heart pounding your ears. Your nails scrape over his skin, and his whole body almost shudders with restraint. He mutters your name, cupping your cheek, his thumb dragging against your lower lip. 

“Please,” he rasps. “Don’t look at me like that, doll, c’mon-“

“What if I want you to look at me like that,” you whisper, and Bucky’s fingers flex against your jaw. “What- What if I want you too.”

Bucky’s gaze drops back to your lips. His tongue flicks out again, and when he looks at you, you can feel the desperation, tight as a wire between your bodies, begging to be snapped.

You’re not a brave person. You have never been. But under his attention, you feel like you could do anything. You drag your hand over his shoulders, and he shudders. You hold him, trembling with anticipation, and tug him down. He lets you, lowering until your lips are just brushing, his eyes lidded and features blown out.

“You sure?” He mutters, letting out a sharp breath when you nod. “I’m not- One night ain’t gonna be enough-“

“Good,” you whisper, and Bucky groans, fully dropping his brow. “Bucky- Please-“

Bucky kisses you, and you’ve dedicated countless hours to dreaming of this moment. You’ve played it out in a million scenarios, a million different ways, with a million different results. You never dared let yourself think that the reality would be better than the dream, and yet you’re here. And Bucky’s kissing you, and you didn’t know anything could feel so good.

He’s slow. Almost cautious, like he’s trying to test the waters of just how much he’s allowed to take. His lips are chapped and warm, working softly against yours, lighting a little fire with every single, teasing kiss. His tongue brushes over your low lip and you suck in a sharp breath. Bucky hums, pressing a little further down, caging you beneath the mass of his body, trapping you beneath him.

You’re exactly where you want to be. You open your mouth when his tongue presses on your lower lip, tugging gently on his hair to coax him on. He moans down your throat, weaving his fingers into your hair and tugging ever so lightly back. You let him guide you, clinging to his shoulders, getting swept away in the mass of him, the feeling of having him everywhere. His free hand drags down to caress your side, and you arch into the touch with a soft, uncontrolled sound.

Bucky groans, and his kiss gets sloppier. His movements become shorter, his lips demanding against yours. You’re already out of breath, but you don’t dare to push him away. You’ll let him kiss you like this until your head is spinning, until you pass out from the pleasurable, burning ache of his kisses and touches.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters against your lips, kissing between every word as if he can’t stop himself. “You’re so fuckin’ soft for me, doll, so sweet and easy.”

You whine and Bucky chuckles, kissing you deep and long and so torturously slow. His hand drags further down, tugging the hem of your shirt up. Your legs spread mindlessly, all the thoughts in your head being sucked away by Bucky’s kisses. Cool, metal fingers drag up your sensitive thigh, and you gasp, whole body shivering under the touch.

“You like that, huh,” Bucky kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “Tryin’ to take it nice and slow, but you’re already begging for a little, more. Look at you,” he kisses up your cheek, over your jaw. “Gonna take real good care of you, doll. Make it feel real good for my pretty, needy girl.”

Words are already failing you, and you’re getting a little worried for what kind of boneless, fuckdoll puppet you’re going to be when he’s done with you. It’s an electric, hopeful fear. You hope you can feel him when you sit down tomorrow. You hope you can’t walk straight for a fucking week.

Bucky kisses over your nose, then your neglected cheek, and down your jaw. His teeth graze against you, his hand in your hair angling you around so he can suck little bruises right under your jaw. Those thick, metal fingers are still teasing along the inseam over your panties, and when his thumb brushes against the embarrassingly wet spot against your core, he groans against your skin.

“So wet,” he mutters, kissing over the sore mark under your jaw, then attaching his lips near your pulse point. “All for me, isn’t it? Thinkin’ about me fucking you, nice and slow.”

His tongue flicks against your throat, and you make a borderline pathetic noise.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You cry out, wrapping your arms fully around his neck. “Just for you- Only for you- Please-“

Bucky groans, pushing his face further into your neck. His thumb drags back against your clothed slit, teasing the lightest amount of pleasure until you’re clenching around nothing.

“More,” you try to demand, but it’s breathy and broken. “James, I- I need more-“

You roll your hips up, and Bucky’s thumb bumps right up against your clit. Your thighs try to push together and hold him there, but he grabs them forcing them back open and pushing his knee right against your core.

“Demanding,” he presses a quick kiss to your lips then pushes back up, tracing his thumb over the curve of your swollen bottom lip. “You wanna try that one again?”

You swallow and shake your head, trying to push him just a little, just to test what will happen. Bucky’s jaw ticks. He pushes his knee further forward against your cunt, and you cry out, rolling your hips to chase a little extra friction. Bucky lets you, his thumb pushing a little further into your mouth.

He groans when you take him, swirling your tongue and sucking as the need between your thighs builds impossibly high. He keeps hitting against your clit, but not with nearly enough pressure, and he’s planted against your fluttering cunt, but you need him in you. You need to not be able to think, outside of Bucky all around you. If you were stronger, you’d try to pull him back down, but you’re not. You’re  a messy, fluttering mess beneath him, unable to remember how cold it was moments ago as you suck on his thumb like a whore.

Bucky presses on your abdomen, pushing you deeper into the mattress, and you grab his wrist. You give him your best, watering, pathetic eyes. You need more of him the same way you need oxygen. His knee isn’t enough, no amount of him is enough. If you don’t get to drown in the pine scent and massive strength of him, you might start actually screaming.

“Look at you,” Bucky mutters, leaning over your body with a smirk. “So pretty like this, doll. Could drive a man fuckin’ crazy.”

You whimper, eyes dropping to his crotch. To the thick, massive tent pressing against his sweats, and the slightly dark spot against the gray fabric. You moan around his thumb, and watch it twitch slightly. Bucky groans, leaning further down so the head of his cock drags against your soft thigh. He pulls his thumb away, smearing a line of spit over your cheek, then ducks down and lick it away. You moan, turning your face to try and meet his lips, and he chuckles.

“That’s right,” he mutters, indulging you with a slow, gentle kiss. “I know what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”

You hum, eyes fluttering closed and Bucky goes back to kissing you like you’re something priceless. You’re still fucking yourself on his knee, the feeling spreading like a warm, rising tide through your body. Bucky hums, his now free hand slowly dragging under your shirt. Teasing up your side, under your breast, then pinching your nipple between two fingers and rolling it in tight, fast circles.

He swallows the cry that leaves your lips, flicking your nipple before soothing the hurt with his thumb.

“Easy,” he mutters. “Nice and easy. Let’s get you ready, huh?”

You nod, thinking back to that tent in Bucky’s pants. You’re going to need to be ready to take that. And whatever he has to do to get you there, you’re more than willing to let him.

Bucky pulls back up and slowly guides your t-shirt over your head, tossing it off to the side and helping you settle back into the mattress. A low groan rumbles through his chest as his eyes rake over your body, and your arms instinctively go up to cover yourself from the unrelenting, almost feral gaze.

He catches your wrist and pins it over your head, giving you a stern, knowing look.

“Don’t hide,” he scolds, his metal hand slowly trailing down your exposed body. “Most gorgeous fuckin’ girl I’ve ever seen, trying to hide her pretty little body from me.” He grabs your waist, squeezing the soft skin before massaging it, holding your gaze the whole time. “Been driving me made for years, baby. Thinking you were right there and I’d never get to have you like this.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Torture. Goddamn torture.”

Your mouth is hanging open, your breaths coming out in short helpless pants. You’re not even really sure what to do with yourself but lay there, and you’d feel worse about that if it didn’t seem to be exactly what Bucky wanted as well.

“Thought about just fuckin’- Living with my face here,” he palms at your breast, the cold of his metal hand a sharp contrast to the fire, brimming under every inch of your skin. “Marking those up until the whole world knew that you were mine. My needy little slut.”

You whimper, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Yeah, I know you like that,” he flicks your nipple, watching with dangerous attention as your body seizes up. “Always could smell you gettin’ wet when I’d tell you what to do. Drove me out of my mind, you got no idea.”

You think you’ve got some idea. His grip on your hands is tight like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, and his every muscle is rippling with restraint. You let out a low, soft whine of his name, and Bucky makes that deep, hungry sound again.

“This pussy,” he mutters, dragging his hands back down your body, cupping your pussy and grinding the palm of his hand against your clit. “It’s mine, isn’t it, doll.”

“Ye- Yes,” you whisper. “It’s yours, James- Please.”

Bucky grins, hooking two metal fingers around the ruined fabric, knuckles bumping against your needy pussy, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Damn right it is.”

He rips your underwear off in one motion, and you don’t even get a second to adjust to the feeling before Bucky’s shoving his ring finger straight into your cunt, pressing his thumb down over your sensitive clit. You make an embarrassingly loud sound, almost bucking off the bed, but the metal hand is impossibly strong. He pushes you back down, crooking his finger deep inside of you, and laughs when your eyes roll back in your head.

“Come on, doll. Eyes on me,” he pumps his finger once, twice, the slaps your sensitive cunt before shoving his hand back in. “Eyes on me.”

You force your eyes to open back up, locking onto his as you try to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. It’s just one finger. One thick, massive, metal finger that you can feel straight through your core and to your toes. The cold makes every sensation starker. Bucky’s forced eye contact makes you feel raw and exposed, like a meal he’s about to savor.

“Good girl,” he coos, pulling that finger almost fully out, swirling his thumb around your clit, and pushing it back in.

“Buckyyyy-“ You moan, lashes fluttering as he bumps right against that gooey spot deep inside of you. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“I’m not teasin’,” he leans over you, his hand picking up the pace. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, baby. You can do it.”

You try. God you try. Bucky fucks his finger into you like a machine, reangling his hand so the metal palm is slapping against your clit, working you open more and more and more until you’re whimpering and unravelling beneath him. It’s so overwhelming, you’re almost forgetting to breathe. You strain against his hold on your hands, but it’s hopeless, and you just end up wiggling below him, tits bouncing in his face.

Bucky groans at the sight of you, his hips jerking and cock dragging against your sensitive inner thigh, but he doesn’t slow down or offer you another kiss. He just keeps you pinned beneath him, drawling out praise and mocking words, shoving in a second finger when the first starts to slip in and out too easy.

“Greedy fuckin’ pussy,” he rasps, eyes burning against yours. “Bet my cock is gonna slide right in, doll. Made to take me like the pretty slut you are.”

You moan again, every last bit of dignity slipping through your trapped fingers. The eye contact makes it too intense, and the second finger is bullying you open just right, offering a little extra pressure against your sensitive g-spot. Bucky’s eyes flash, when a tiny, hitched noise leaves your throat, and presses down harder.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” he mutters, watching every twitch of your face, every flutter of your wet lashes like some kind of incubus sex-hawk. “There’s the spot, baby. Feels so good, I know you want to cum.”

You whimper, nodding desperately. Bucky grinds his hard palm against your over-stimulated clit, and your think you’re going to explode.

“It’s alright, babydoll,” he coos. “Let go.”

Your orgasm snaps through you like a rocket, ripping every nerve of your body and making your vision go white. You thrash and scream as you pussy gushes and clenches, your eyes still unable to leave Bucky’s. His jaw is hanging open, his face lust-drunk and predatory, and it just makes your orgasm crest higher. You think he could shove his whole arm in you and you’d be able to take it, with how he’s unraveled.

If the size of his cock in his pants is any indication of what’s coming. That’s for far better than worse.

You’re trembling when you come down, tears streaming down your cheek and broken mewls escaping your lips. Bucky leans down slowly, kissing your cheek, then your closed eyes, then your open mouth.

“You’re doin’ so well, baby,” he murmurs, letting your wrist go so he can cup your jaw. “Gonna fuck you so good, my sweet girl.”

You make a pathetic, eager sound, and Bucky’s faint smile ghosts over your lips. He leans back up, his thumb dragging against a hickey he left on your neck, and his shoulders shake.

“No idea,” he mutters. “No fuckin’ clue what you do to me.”

He pulls a little further back, tugging down his sweats, and you squeak at the sight of him. You didn’t think dicks could actually look like that without steroids or surgery or something. Thick and veiny, a good amount of hair cropped around heavy balls, his thick, angry head twitching as he fists himself and drags his thumb over his slit.

You look up at him, almost drooling. “You- You’re-“

“Big?” He teases, and you try to scowl, but it’s more of a pout.

“Shut up,” you whine, and he laughs, crawling slowly over your limp body.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky leans down, kissing you like you’re not both sex-addled, ruined wrecks of people. It’s the kiss you imagined when he would be a knight, and you’d be a princess, and he’d sweep you off your feet in your dreams. Slow and loving, more of an oath than an act of need. Trying to say things neither of you know how to articulate with words. You reach up, cradling Bucky’s face between your hands, and he lets out a shuddering breath, muttering your name.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he warns, and you smile against his lips.

“Yay.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but kisses you again, holding onto that soft, honey-sweet moment. His cock rubs between the lips of your pussy, and your breath catches.

“You’re so big,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke anymore. He’s nudging against your entrance, and a sting is already building back up behind your eyes. 

“I know,” Bucky mutters, kissing away your tears. “But you can take it, doll. Know you can.”

You nod, letting Bucky kiss you into the mattress. He’s holding you down with the weight of his hips, stopping you from squirming or crawling away as he nudges in the first inch.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans. “So tight, doll, shit-“

Another inch, and you’re struggling for air. The stretch burns in the best possible way, making your head spin and your mouth hang, agape and useless. Bucky kisses your open lips like he can’t help himself, and you can feel his control already slipping as he groans, pushing a little more inside.

His thumb fumbles to find your clit, rubbing tight circles, easing you further and further open. Bucky moans when he bottoms out, his whole body tensed as he tries to hold himself still, giving you time to adjust.

Your eyes cross, and your toes curl, and slowly the pain shifts into a warm, desperate pleasure.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You whisper, scratching at his back. “Move, please.”

He grunts, and pulls his hips fully out before driving them slowly back in. You moan, and he grabs your jaw, forcing his mouth back over yours.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he grunts against your lips, repeating the long, torturous motion. “Sweet fuckin’ doll, gonna milk this cock, aren’t you. Let me fuck you however I want.”

You mewl and nod, a molten puddle in Bucky’s arms. The sheets are long tossed to the ground, so you grab his bicep, blinking up at him with needy, pathetic doe eyes. Bucky groans, his pace picking up slightly.

“That’s right,” he grunts, finding an angle that makes him bully your g-spot, a rhythm that pushes broken moans out of your throat. “So sensitive, gorgeous when you cry for me, shit-“

Bucky groans, pressing down to kiss you, all bruising force and spit. You let him, unable to think outside of the consuming way he’s around you, the brutal split of his cock inside your abused pussy.

He’s fucking you so that the bed creaks, so that everything feels floaty and light and impossibly good. His abdomen presses against your clit and his dick hits every good spot inside of you, rearranging your guts and turning you into pure putty.  It’s embarrassing, how quickly you’re getting to the edge again. Bucky notices, and doubles down, slamming his hips down just a little harder.

“Like that, baby?” He grunts, watching your slack, cockdrunk expression. “Like bein’ fucked like this? Wanna soak my cock, show me how fuckin’ good it feels?”

You nod, another wrecked noise escaping your throat. Bucky snakes his metal hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit in small, tight circles.

“Again, doll, cum on this dick,” he spanks your clit, then goes back to the circle. “Cum for me-“

You shatter with a cry of Bucky’s name, pussy clenching and fluttering, body arching off the mattress. Bucky groans and doubles over, pressing his face between your breasts and mouthing at them like an animal. Your hands shoot into his hair as you try to hold onto something, your orgasm just cresting higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you. You can feel his cock pulsing inside of you, his shallow thrusts desperate and uncontrolled, his moans vibrating against your skin and making your whole body twitch.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You sob with pleasure, pressing his face further into your body. “Fuck- James- Oh my god-“

Your orgasm doesn’t seem to be settling. It just builds higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you, desperate and rough. You rock beneath him, overstimulated and dazed, and his wraps his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard as his thrusts start to get jagged.

You pet his head with trembling fingers, gasping every word with a hoarse voice. “Come on, James, pleaseee-“

Bucky moans your name, and crashes back up to your lips as he slams home, and cums deep inside your cunt.

There’s so much of him. He kisses you with tongue and long moans, and you’re barely even able to return the affection as he empties himself into your warm cunt. You can feel him in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, almost bursting out of your tummy and seeping through your pussy lips. Bucky fucks you through his orgasm, slower and slower with every thrust, panting against your lips. You clench around him and he buries himself back in with a grunt, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you up into his lap.

You kiss his slowly, everything a little bit of a haze as you finally float back down from your long orgasm. Bucky kisses all over your face as the last of him spills inside of you, then presses his face against your neck, letting out a shaky breath.

His tongue flicks against another one of those bruises he left, and you shiver.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and you hum, leaning your cheek against the side of his head.

“’S okay.”

Bucky sighs, leaning back to meet your hooded, starry eyes. You’ve never been so exhausted, but fuck, you don’t care. You’ve also never felt so close to someone. To Bucky. You never want to let go.

“That’s gonna hurt in the morning,” he mutters, and you’re not even sure which part he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter, so you just shrug.

“Worth it.”

Bucky swallows, glancing down at your lips. Like he’s suddenly not allowed to just kiss you.

You lean forward for him, and he immediately melts over you. You smile into the kiss, curling into his chest, and he lets out a low, rough groan. You should probably get off the bed soon. Neither of you are going to be able to sleep in it now. But you really don’t care. If you could, you’d just stay here forever.

Bucky leans back, tracing his thumb over the corner of your mouth. He’s looking at you like you’re a dream. You hope he thinks you’re looking at him the same way.

“Might be a little late,” he rasps. “But can I get you dinner?”

You giggle, and nod. Bucky’s shoulders sag.

“Thank god,” he mutters, leaning back in for another kiss. “Got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, doll. Really.”

You hum, and just kiss him back. You’ll show him that you know exactly how long later, because you’ve been waiting even longer. For now, you just let him kiss you. You’re going to have all the time in the world, to ruin other beds. You don’t want to waste a single second of his heat and ease in this one. Finally, in Bucky’s arms.

✦End note: it can't believe i've never done this trope before it's amazing i love it here✦

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