a/n: hey guys!! long time no see, I have this plot for a bucky series i've been meaning to write and inspiration kicked in. i will be posting the story on ao3 as well, if anyone prefers. anyway, i normally write with an OC but i converted everything into 2nd person for this, i hope everything makes sense. this story starts during / after civil-war. i will not get into detail about the sokovia accords tho. hope u enjoy it! i will be posting the rest of the series slowly. and as usual, likes, comments and reblogs give me fuel. check out my masterlist!
summary: bucky is living with you while he learns how to be human again.
warnings: mentions of mental health struggles; nightmares, PTSD, anti-depressants, scars, bucky being vulnerable and emotional. is fluff a warning?
warnings will be updated once the series is continued. i'll be making a series masterlist
read chapter two here!
Your life changed the day the lab exploded. You’d been there with your father when the attack happened, too young to understand what he had been working on, but old enough to remember the moment everything went white. You were the only survivor. Whatever had been inside that lab altered you in ways no one could fully explain. Your abilities revealed themselves slowly. A warmth in your hands, a sense of knowing, how to ease what was broken. You felt it in the way your hands hummed when you held them too close to your chest, in the way objects shifted when your emotions ran too high, in the strange, quiet instinct that told you where to place your touch when someone was hurt.
S.H.I.E.L.D. found you soon after and gave you structure, training, and a place to belong. You grew into your abilities under their watch, and when the avengers initiative took form, you were immediately considered as an asset in the team and became part of its foundation, forming close bonds with Steve, Tony, Clint, Nat, Bruce and Thor.
Over time, you had learned that not everything broken needed to be fixed the way people expected. By the time the Sokovia Accords were put into place, you had already seen enough to know that it was rarely as simple as it claimed to be. People were labeled just as easily. So when the world began to turn on James Buchanan Barnes, you didn’t see what anyone else saw.
The fire burned low, its warmth spreading through the quiet space outside the hut. Wakanda was quiet, untouched by the noise of everything else.
You were visiting Bucky during his time in Wakanda, forming a quiet friendship of trust and respect. You were Steve’s best friend, he used to tell you so manny stories during his childhood that when Bucky came into your life, you almost felt like you knew him.
You stood a few steps away from Bucky, close but far enough to give him space if he needed. He sat across from Ayo, shoulders tense, his right hand resting on his knees, a bit shaky. His head was slightly bowed, eyes unfocused, as the trigger words started to roll out of Ayo’s mouth. Her voice was steady, unwavering as she spoke each trigger, watching him closely, waiting for any shift in him. Bucky’s breathing grew uneven, his chest rising and falling harder with each word, his jaw tight as if bracing for something. As he took a sharp inhale, tears started to spill freely as his body shook under the weight of it all. Decades of fear, pouring out of him all at once. There was no switch. Bucky was in control. You didn’t move, you let the moment exist as it was, chest tight as you watched him grip onto himself.
“You are free.” Ayo spoke steady as before, softer now.
A quiet, broken sound left his chest as his head dropped, his shoulders shaking harder now, tears falling with no restraint. It was relief this time, not pain, or fear. He looked up then, eyes glassy, and landed on you. With no hesitation, you crossed the space between you quickly, dropping down beside him, your hands gentle as they came to his face, grounding him in the moment. He leaned into you immediately, like it was instinct, like it was the only place he would rather be. None of you spoke, you just held him, letting the emotions pass through him without stopping it or getting in the way. In that moment, your presence was enough. He was anchored to it.
The apartment was warm when both of you stepped inside, softer than anything he was used to. You set a few bags down on the table before turning your back to Bucky with a small, gentle smile. You and the other avengers came to an agreement that Bucky would stay in your two-bedroom apartment in the avengers tower for the time being. Steve was unsure of it at first, insisting Bucky needed his own place to stay for privacy, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s mental health team suggested he would stay with someone he trusted. He was seeing two different therapists, and was on a few medications.
“Alrighty,” you said softly, “These are some basics.” You picked up a folded stack of clothes, walking over to the spare bedroom and pulling a drawer open. “These are T-Shirts,” you added, placing them inside neatly next to his sweatpants, a small collection of clothes and items you had prepared and bought before-hand when he was still in Wakanda. Bucky was starting over completely, and you were fully supporting him in any way he needed to be supported. Bucky stood a few steps behind you, taking everything in without interrupting. You moved to the next drawer. “Socks, underwear…,” you said, a little more quietly.
He nodded once, “Thank you,” he said, voice low. You glanced at him briefly with a soft expression.
“The sheets are clean,” you gestured toward the king size bed. You knew there was no way on earth he was going to be sleeping on a bed. Not yet, atleast. “If you feel like trying it, you can. No pressure. And -” you reached into one of the bags, pulling out a couple of bottles. “These are shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. They’re, um … all coconut scented.” You held them up slightly. “So shampoo first, then conditioner after. It just, makes your hair softer and easier to brush.” Your voice stayed calm, careful not to overwhelm him with too much at once. Bucky smiled softly, nodding again. “Okay.”
A small pause settled between you before you spoke again. “Is there anything specific you like to eat?” you asked gently. “Just so I know what to get.”
He took a deep breath. “I, uh … I didn’t really eat, during that time. They didn’t feed me like that.” you stayed still, your expression open and patient, your chest tightening slowly. “They just had me on the IV drip. They didn’t bother with food.” you nodded quietly, giving him space to keep going if he wanted to.
“In Bucharest, i ate a lot of fruit. Couldn’t handle big meals, I didn’t really have an appetite, I guess,” he admitted. “When I tried to eat a lot I’d just get sick. Most of the time.” He exhaled shakily. “My body’s not used to it.” You took a deep breath, “That’s okay,” you said quietly. “Then we start slow. Light stuff. Like what you used to eat in Wakanda. Bread, soup. fruit,” His eyes flickered up to yours. “We’ll figure it out as we go, yeah?”
That evening, Bucky stood in the bathroom for a moment after the shower, the steam clinging to the mirror, his hair damp, falling around his shoulders, and his dog tags on his neck. The scent of coconut lingered in the air. He wore a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants, the cotton loose and comfortable against his skin. The new prosthetic arm Shuri gave him rested against his side, heavy in a way he was still getting used to. Shuri’s words echoed in the back of his mind, to take it out every now and then and only wear it for short periods of time, but he hadn’t taken it off yet. Not until he stepped back into the living room. You were on the floor next to the couch, arranging blankets and pillows into something that looked like a small fort. It was nowhere near perfect, but it was warm and intentional, you were trying to make the space feel less like a floor and more like somewhere someone could actually rest. He paused, watching you for a second. “You don’t have to do all that,” he said, voice quiet. “I’m probably not even gonna sleep anyway.”
You didn’t even look up. “Don’t say that,” you replied, her tone gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to relax and rest, Bucky.”
He let out a small breath, almost a huff, but didn’t argue. You finally looked over at him, taking him in. His damp hair, the way he stood, the tension that hadn’t quite left his shoulders. “Come here,” you said softly. You hesitated for just a second, then gestured lightly toward his hair. “Do you want me to dry it a bit? You’ll get cold if you leave it wet like that.” He shook his head once. “No, it’s okay.”
“Alright,” you said, accepting it without pushing. “Should we take off the arm for the night?”
“I can’t take it off myself,” he said, his voice uncertain.” you did not hesitate. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll help. Come on.”
you stepped closer, your movements slow and calming, giving him time to adjust to your presence before you touched him. Bucky took a deep breath. your hands came up carefully, rolling the sleeve of his t-shirt just enough to reach the mechanism. your touch was light and precise. you immediately noticed bucky tense up. “Good,” you said, “just breathe for me.” your hands worked carefully, like how they practiced. The vibranium arm came loose with a quiet shift of weight, and you set it gently on the couch. Bucky exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Does your back hurt?” you asked. He hesitated for a second. Bucky was not used to this. Wasn’t used to his feelings being a priority … or, heard, even. He nodded softly. “A little.”
You went to reach for the small bottle of ointment Shuri had given you, in case he was feeling a bit sore. It was sort of an ointment cream he could massage in to ease the pain.
“Maybe you should, um, take your shirt off. I don’t think I can do it properly with your shirt on.” you added, giving him the space to refuse if he wanted. “Or- I can get you one of those sleeveless tops instead.”
Bucky shook his head, already reaching for the hem of his shirt before stopping halfway, the motion awkward with one arm. you stepped in without a word, “okay, wait. here. let me.”
your hands were soft as you helped him pull it over his head. Once it was off, you set it aside, your attention already shifting back to him like your own chest didn’t tighten at the sight of the deep scars on his shoulder. Not that they made you uncomfortable, but just the reminder of Bucky going through all that made you want to hurl. You did not let it show.
“Sit,” you said softly, gesturing towards the edge of the couch. As he sat, you moved behind him, working a small amount of lotion between your hands before placing them lightly against his shoulder blades.
Bucky stilled, and his shoulders gave in. you felt the tension shift under her hands, his muscles softening beneath your therapeutic touch. Bucky’s breath caught. It was subtle, barely noticeable, his face tightened slightly, his eyebrows pulling together as something unfamiliar moved through him. His head dipped forward, his body was reacting before he could make sense of it. you stilled immediately.
“Am I hurting you?,” you asked carefully. Bucky shook his head quickly. “No,” he said, coming out quieter than he intended to. He swallowed, trying to steady himself, but the moment your hands resumed, grounding and slow … he couldn’t push it down. He was truly not used to this at all. Not this gentleness. Not touch that did not come with pain. His eyes slipped shut before he could stop it. Warmth spread where your palms pressed into his shoulders, sinking past skin, past muscle, into something deeper he did not have a name for. It felt almost wrong. But it was not wrong. It was just unfamiliar.
His eyes slipped shut, lashes resting against his cheeks, shoulders lowering further under her hands. you noticed every shift, every time his body leaned into the contact without meaning to, the way he was holding his breath for a second before letting it out slowly.
“You okay?” you asked again.
“Yeah, sorry.” he murmured. your hands paused. Why was he apologizing? you didn’t ask it out loud, but the question sat there unspoken in the space between you as your hands moved again, slower, almost abstentminded in their rhythm. Bucky swallowed, though his throat was dry as sandpaper, heat creeped up at the back of his neck, settling somewhere behind his ribs where it twisted into something tight. He didn’t know why he apologized, it just felt like the right thing to say. The way his body reacted to your soft touch, like he’d let himself be seen in a way he didn’t quite understand. “I don’t-” he started, the stopped, his voice catching slighty. He exhaled through it, “It just feels good,” he admitted, the words low and almost reluctant.
He paused, “Thank you.” It was simple and honest and somehow that made it harder to say. you let the words settle between you without turning them into something that he would feel the need to take back. Okay. Good. That was more than enough.
Eventually, your hands came to a halt, the warmth lingered where they had been, a quiet echo that stayed under his skin longer than it should have. He noticed it too. you reached for his shirt without a word, stepping back just enough to give him space before gently helping him back into it. Bucky kept his gaze down. His chest felt tight from awareness. Too much of it all at once. He could still feel where your soft hands had been, like his body had memorised the shape of them. It didn’t fade. If anything, the absence of it made everything sharper, it was almost as if his body had already adjusted to it and now didn’t know what to do without it. The warmth you’d left behind lingered just enough to remind him of it, just as a memory, and that made it worse. He was aware of how much he wanted it back.
He swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. It wasn’t just that it felt good, it was the way everything in him had gone quiet under your hands, the way his body had stopped bracing instinctively, the way his breathing had evened out like it had been waiting for something like that without him realising. and now that it was gone, he could feel the difference immediately. Across from him, you moved like nothing had changed, and that made him feel almost nauseous, because from your own end .. maybe nothing had. Maybe you thought you’d made him uncomfortable. The thought settled wrong in his chest, sharp enough to make his jaw tighten slightly. If anything, he did not know how to deal with how much he had liked it. How easily his body leaned into it without hesitation, like it had already decided that was where he felt safest. He wasn’t sure what to do with that.
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read first chapter here! (i'll be making a series masterlist)
a/n: hello! back with the second chapter, this is a slow-burn friends to lovers story, i promise it'll get better :D to be completely honest with all of you this plot has been a constant bedtime scenario to help me fall asleep, everything is vivid in my imagination however im having a hard time writing it because i dont want it to get boring for you all. i think reader and bucky connect a lot through eye contact and unspoken feelings, bucky still doesn't see himself as a good person and he doesn't feel deserving of all this still. hopefully the writing isnt toooo bad. i kinda dont know what im doing
warnings: tooth rotting fluff. description of PTSD nightmare, mentions of medication, bucky still a tad disoriented from his trauma, bucky being obedient and a subby good boy :3 woops
the apartment was pitch black dark. bucky hadn’t meant for it to be. he left the television on earlier, some late night background noise to fill the space, but he had reached for the remote and turned it off, thinking it would help, thinking the quiet would be peaceful. it was not.he woke up with a sharp inhale, his body already tense before he fully understood what was happening, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to him in fragments he couldn’t piece together. his chest rose and fall quickly, breaths uneven and shallow, like his body was trying to catch up.
for a moment, he didn’t know where he was. that was always the worst part. yes, the nightmares are always sinister, but when the past and present blended together, he always had a hard time with grounding himself.
the darkness pressed around him. his eyes moved quickly, trying to find something recognisable, something that would anchor him, but there was nothing immediate. he pushed himself up slightly on the floor, his hands pressing into the blankets beneath him like he needed something solid, but it didn’t settle him in the way it should’ve.
his skin was damp, sweat clinging to him, his shirt sticking to his back. he dragged a hand over his face, trying to slow his breathing.
you woke up when he started screaming and panting. you checked the time, seeing it was 2am, immediately realizing what was going on. so you got out of bed, and opened the door of your bedroom quietly. you didn’t rush in, all panicky, instead you took a deep breath and took him in. you could almost feel the tension in his shoulders. you moved towards him slowly, slow enough not to startle him.
“hey,” you said softly. bucky looked up at you, and something in his expression shifted the second he saw you. “it’s just me,” you said gently, lowering yourself down onto the floor in front of him. “you’re safe, buck. you’re okay.”
you reached out to him, your hands resting slightly on his shoulders, trying your best to anchor him without overwhelming him. your touch was warm, something he could follow back into himself. “can you breathe with me, just for a bit?”
he tried. it took a while, his breaths still uneven at first, but with you there, something familiar, it started to slow little by little, his body catching up to the present instead of staying stuck somewhere else. after a while, when his breathing had evened out and the tension in his shoulders started to ease, you shifted slightly. “you’re soaked with sweat, buck.” glancing at him. “you’ll feel a lot better if you take a nice shower. trust me.”
he nodded. showers always helped, he liked to think of them as cleansing and starting over. by the time he stepped out, you were still there watching television sitting on the blankets near the couch. a small lamp and the soft light from the television filled the open space of the apartment just enough to take the edge off. “you can go to sleep,” he said, voice quiet. “i’m okay.”
you shook your head. “i don’t wanna leave you alone out here, though.” you replied. “is it okay if if i stay a bit longer?”
he nodded appreciatively as he lowered himself on the blankets next to you. you didn’t share much conversation after that, the sitcom you put on playing quietly in the background. bucky sat close enough that he could feel your warmth beside him. eventually, without realizing, bucky fell asleep with his head on your shoulder, and you didn’t even try to hide the smile on your face.
bucky thought time moved a little different in your apartment. he didn’t feel constantly on edge, and the days had started to settle and create a routine. he liked routines. he felt like he had control. he started to expect certain things, like you making him a smoothie in the morning, or reminding him to take his medication, or the sound of the hairdryer after he comes out of the shower.
bucky stood in front of you with his hair still damp, the soft hum of the dryer filling the space between you as you worked through it gently, your fingers threading through his brown strands with ease.
“have you ever thought about cutting it?” you asked gently. “i don’t mean all of it, just like, a trim, you know? could be healthy.”
his gaze dropped slighty. “yeah,” he said, letting you just do about anything to him if it brought a smile to your face. “might be a good idea.”
you grinned, already moving to grab your handy dandy scissors. “okay, stay still,” you said, stepping back behind him. your fingers slid through his hair separating sections. the soft pull of his hair and the drag of your nails against his scalp sent shivers down his spine. his shoulders lowered involuntarily, his head tilting into your touch.
you noticed everything. but you kept going, trimming just enough, your movements unhurried, because frankly - there was nowhere else you’d rather be.
when you were done, you stepped back slightly. “you know, while we’re at it,” you added, “your beard also really needs a trim. what d’ya think?”
he nodded. he would fly to space and steal a planet from the milky way and bring it back to earth for you if you asked.
as you reached for the electric shaver you borrowed from sam a few days prior, bucky frowned slightly at the sound the second you turned it on to make sure it works, the low mechanical buzz was sharp enough to pull his attention, his body tensing before he could stop it.
he laughed nervously. “what the hell is that?”
“it’s an electric shaver. no need for the buffer brush or whatever you guys used back then.” he looked uncertain. “hey, it’s okay. i’m not gonna hurt you, i promise.” you stepped closer, your hands coming up carefully, one resting lightly against his jaw, the other near his shoulder. “if it hurts, tell me and i’ll stop.” you said softly, almost certain it would not hurt, but giving him the peace of mind. bucky took a deep breath and nodded.
you turned it back on, your hand still on his face, your thumb moving slowly, just enough to keep him anchored. you guided him a bit closer, and without thinking he stepped forward until he was standing between your knees where you sat on the bathroom sink counter. the sound of the shaver didn’t feel sharp anymore, not with the way your thumb moved slowly against his cheek like you were reminding him, over and over again, that he was safe. with your hands on his face and your attention fully on him, taking care of him with such gentleness, bucky felt something settle into place in his head, like a piece of a puzzle. he could definitely get used to this.
a/n: hey guys!! long time no see, I have this plot for a bucky series i've been meaning to write and inspiration kicked in. i will be posting the story on ao3 as well, if anyone prefers. anyway, i normally write with an OC but i converted everything into 2nd person for this, i hope everything makes sense. this story starts during / after civil-war. i will not get into detail about the sokovia accords tho. hope u enjoy it! i will be posting the rest of the series slowly. and as usual, likes, comments and reblogs give me fuel. check out my masterlist!
summary: bucky is living with you while he learns how to be human again.
warnings: mentions of mental health struggles; nightmares, PTSD, anti-depressants, scars, bucky being vulnerable and emotional. is fluff a warning?
warnings will be updated once the series is continued. i'll be making a series masterlist
read chapter two here!
Your life changed the day the lab exploded. You’d been there with your father when the attack happened, too young to understand what he had been working on, but old enough to remember the moment everything went white. You were the only survivor. Whatever had been inside that lab altered you in ways no one could fully explain. Your abilities revealed themselves slowly. A warmth in your hands, a sense of knowing, how to ease what was broken. You felt it in the way your hands hummed when you held them too close to your chest, in the way objects shifted when your emotions ran too high, in the strange, quiet instinct that told you where to place your touch when someone was hurt.
S.H.I.E.L.D. found you soon after and gave you structure, training, and a place to belong. You grew into your abilities under their watch, and when the avengers initiative took form, you were immediately considered as an asset in the team and became part of its foundation, forming close bonds with Steve, Tony, Clint, Nat, Bruce and Thor.
Over time, you had learned that not everything broken needed to be fixed the way people expected. By the time the Sokovia Accords were put into place, you had already seen enough to know that it was rarely as simple as it claimed to be. People were labeled just as easily. So when the world began to turn on James Buchanan Barnes, you didn’t see what anyone else saw.
The fire burned low, its warmth spreading through the quiet space outside the hut. Wakanda was quiet, untouched by the noise of everything else.
You were visiting Bucky during his time in Wakanda, forming a quiet friendship of trust and respect. You were Steve’s best friend, he used to tell you so manny stories during his childhood that when Bucky came into your life, you almost felt like you knew him.
You stood a few steps away from Bucky, close but far enough to give him space if he needed. He sat across from Ayo, shoulders tense, his right hand resting on his knees, a bit shaky. His head was slightly bowed, eyes unfocused, as the trigger words started to roll out of Ayo’s mouth. Her voice was steady, unwavering as she spoke each trigger, watching him closely, waiting for any shift in him. Bucky’s breathing grew uneven, his chest rising and falling harder with each word, his jaw tight as if bracing for something. As he took a sharp inhale, tears started to spill freely as his body shook under the weight of it all. Decades of fear, pouring out of him all at once. There was no switch. Bucky was in control. You didn’t move, you let the moment exist as it was, chest tight as you watched him grip onto himself.
“You are free.” Ayo spoke steady as before, softer now.
A quiet, broken sound left his chest as his head dropped, his shoulders shaking harder now, tears falling with no restraint. It was relief this time, not pain, or fear. He looked up then, eyes glassy, and landed on you. With no hesitation, you crossed the space between you quickly, dropping down beside him, your hands gentle as they came to his face, grounding him in the moment. He leaned into you immediately, like it was instinct, like it was the only place he would rather be. None of you spoke, you just held him, letting the emotions pass through him without stopping it or getting in the way. In that moment, your presence was enough. He was anchored to it.
The apartment was warm when both of you stepped inside, softer than anything he was used to. You set a few bags down on the table before turning your back to Bucky with a small, gentle smile. You and the other avengers came to an agreement that Bucky would stay in your two-bedroom apartment in the avengers tower for the time being. Steve was unsure of it at first, insisting Bucky needed his own place to stay for privacy, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s mental health team suggested he would stay with someone he trusted. He was seeing two different therapists, and was on a few medications.
“Alrighty,” you said softly, “These are some basics.” You picked up a folded stack of clothes, walking over to the spare bedroom and pulling a drawer open. “These are T-Shirts,” you added, placing them inside neatly next to his sweatpants, a small collection of clothes and items you had prepared and bought before-hand when he was still in Wakanda. Bucky was starting over completely, and you were fully supporting him in any way he needed to be supported. Bucky stood a few steps behind you, taking everything in without interrupting. You moved to the next drawer. “Socks, underwear…,” you said, a little more quietly.
He nodded once, “Thank you,” he said, voice low. You glanced at him briefly with a soft expression.
“The sheets are clean,” you gestured toward the king size bed. You knew there was no way on earth he was going to be sleeping on a bed. Not yet, atleast. “If you feel like trying it, you can. No pressure. And -” you reached into one of the bags, pulling out a couple of bottles. “These are shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. They’re, um … all coconut scented.” You held them up slightly. “So shampoo first, then conditioner after. It just, makes your hair softer and easier to brush.” Your voice stayed calm, careful not to overwhelm him with too much at once. Bucky smiled softly, nodding again. “Okay.”
A small pause settled between you before you spoke again. “Is there anything specific you like to eat?” you asked gently. “Just so I know what to get.”
He took a deep breath. “I, uh … I didn’t really eat, during that time. They didn’t feed me like that.” you stayed still, your expression open and patient, your chest tightening slowly. “They just had me on the IV drip. They didn’t bother with food.” you nodded quietly, giving him space to keep going if he wanted to.
“In Bucharest, i ate a lot of fruit. Couldn’t handle big meals, I didn’t really have an appetite, I guess,” he admitted. “When I tried to eat a lot I’d just get sick. Most of the time.” He exhaled shakily. “My body’s not used to it.” You took a deep breath, “That’s okay,” you said quietly. “Then we start slow. Light stuff. Like what you used to eat in Wakanda. Bread, soup. fruit,” His eyes flickered up to yours. “We’ll figure it out as we go, yeah?”
That evening, Bucky stood in the bathroom for a moment after the shower, the steam clinging to the mirror, his hair damp, falling around his shoulders, and his dog tags on his neck. The scent of coconut lingered in the air. He wore a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants, the cotton loose and comfortable against his skin. The new prosthetic arm Shuri gave him rested against his side, heavy in a way he was still getting used to. Shuri’s words echoed in the back of his mind, to take it out every now and then and only wear it for short periods of time, but he hadn’t taken it off yet. Not until he stepped back into the living room. You were on the floor next to the couch, arranging blankets and pillows into something that looked like a small fort. It was nowhere near perfect, but it was warm and intentional, you were trying to make the space feel less like a floor and more like somewhere someone could actually rest. He paused, watching you for a second. “You don’t have to do all that,” he said, voice quiet. “I’m probably not even gonna sleep anyway.”
You didn’t even look up. “Don’t say that,” you replied, her tone gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to relax and rest, Bucky.”
He let out a small breath, almost a huff, but didn’t argue. You finally looked over at him, taking him in. His damp hair, the way he stood, the tension that hadn’t quite left his shoulders. “Come here,” you said softly. You hesitated for just a second, then gestured lightly toward his hair. “Do you want me to dry it a bit? You’ll get cold if you leave it wet like that.” He shook his head once. “No, it’s okay.”
“Alright,” you said, accepting it without pushing. “Should we take off the arm for the night?”
“I can’t take it off myself,” he said, his voice uncertain.” you did not hesitate. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll help. Come on.”
you stepped closer, your movements slow and calming, giving him time to adjust to your presence before you touched him. Bucky took a deep breath. your hands came up carefully, rolling the sleeve of his t-shirt just enough to reach the mechanism. your touch was light and precise. you immediately noticed bucky tense up. “Good,” you said, “just breathe for me.” your hands worked carefully, like how they practiced. The vibranium arm came loose with a quiet shift of weight, and you set it gently on the couch. Bucky exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Does your back hurt?” you asked. He hesitated for a second. Bucky was not used to this. Wasn’t used to his feelings being a priority … or, heard, even. He nodded softly. “A little.”
You went to reach for the small bottle of ointment Shuri had given you, in case he was feeling a bit sore. It was sort of an ointment cream he could massage in to ease the pain.
“Maybe you should, um, take your shirt off. I don’t think I can do it properly with your shirt on.” you added, giving him the space to refuse if he wanted. “Or- I can get you one of those sleeveless tops instead.”
Bucky shook his head, already reaching for the hem of his shirt before stopping halfway, the motion awkward with one arm. you stepped in without a word, “okay, wait. here. let me.”
your hands were soft as you helped him pull it over his head. Once it was off, you set it aside, your attention already shifting back to him like your own chest didn’t tighten at the sight of the deep scars on his shoulder. Not that they made you uncomfortable, but just the reminder of Bucky going through all that made you want to hurl. You did not let it show.
“Sit,” you said softly, gesturing towards the edge of the couch. As he sat, you moved behind him, working a small amount of lotion between your hands before placing them lightly against his shoulder blades.
Bucky stilled, and his shoulders gave in. you felt the tension shift under her hands, his muscles softening beneath your therapeutic touch. Bucky’s breath caught. It was subtle, barely noticeable, his face tightened slightly, his eyebrows pulling together as something unfamiliar moved through him. His head dipped forward, his body was reacting before he could make sense of it. you stilled immediately.
“Am I hurting you?,” you asked carefully. Bucky shook his head quickly. “No,” he said, coming out quieter than he intended to. He swallowed, trying to steady himself, but the moment your hands resumed, grounding and slow … he couldn’t push it down. He was truly not used to this at all. Not this gentleness. Not touch that did not come with pain. His eyes slipped shut before he could stop it. Warmth spread where your palms pressed into his shoulders, sinking past skin, past muscle, into something deeper he did not have a name for. It felt almost wrong. But it was not wrong. It was just unfamiliar.
His eyes slipped shut, lashes resting against his cheeks, shoulders lowering further under her hands. you noticed every shift, every time his body leaned into the contact without meaning to, the way he was holding his breath for a second before letting it out slowly.
“You okay?” you asked again.
“Yeah, sorry.” he murmured. your hands paused. Why was he apologizing? you didn’t ask it out loud, but the question sat there unspoken in the space between you as your hands moved again, slower, almost abstentminded in their rhythm. Bucky swallowed, though his throat was dry as sandpaper, heat creeped up at the back of his neck, settling somewhere behind his ribs where it twisted into something tight. He didn’t know why he apologized, it just felt like the right thing to say. The way his body reacted to your soft touch, like he’d let himself be seen in a way he didn’t quite understand. “I don’t-” he started, the stopped, his voice catching slighty. He exhaled through it, “It just feels good,” he admitted, the words low and almost reluctant.
He paused, “Thank you.” It was simple and honest and somehow that made it harder to say. you let the words settle between you without turning them into something that he would feel the need to take back. Okay. Good. That was more than enough.
Eventually, your hands came to a halt, the warmth lingered where they had been, a quiet echo that stayed under his skin longer than it should have. He noticed it too. you reached for his shirt without a word, stepping back just enough to give him space before gently helping him back into it. Bucky kept his gaze down. His chest felt tight from awareness. Too much of it all at once. He could still feel where your soft hands had been, like his body had memorised the shape of them. It didn’t fade. If anything, the absence of it made everything sharper, it was almost as if his body had already adjusted to it and now didn’t know what to do without it. The warmth you’d left behind lingered just enough to remind him of it, just as a memory, and that made it worse. He was aware of how much he wanted it back.
He swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. It wasn’t just that it felt good, it was the way everything in him had gone quiet under your hands, the way his body had stopped bracing instinctively, the way his breathing had evened out like it had been waiting for something like that without him realising. and now that it was gone, he could feel the difference immediately. Across from him, you moved like nothing had changed, and that made him feel almost nauseous, because from your own end .. maybe nothing had. Maybe you thought you’d made him uncomfortable. The thought settled wrong in his chest, sharp enough to make his jaw tighten slightly. If anything, he did not know how to deal with how much he had liked it. How easily his body leaned into it without hesitation, like it had already decided that was where he felt safest. He wasn’t sure what to do with that.
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⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, civil war canon compliant, smut, mentions of size difference, widows have a red room variant of a super soldier serum, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, sex pollen, touch starved, bucky is so down bad, dry humping, bucky is a virgin, virginity loss, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, body worshiping, arguments, banter, physical fights as foreplay
⭐︎ word count: 11.1k
⭐︎ a/n: first time writing for civil war bucky and a black widow/avenger reader, kinda nervous. this is also my first attempt writing sex pollen. i hope i make the founding fathers proud with this one. gif
synopsis:
While Bucky Barnes is on the run, Steve entrusts you to look after his old friend while the rest of the team tries to resolve the conflict with Tony Stark peacefully. As if babysitting a grumpy ex-Hydra soldier wasn't hard enough, an airborne toxin gets released—one designed to weaken a super soldier's resolve with the intention to trap them... and an unexpected side effect that skyrockets their libido.
Between the constant bickering and fighting for your life, you have to keep reminding yourself, "I refuse to be Bucky's first."
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There were a few things you could respect Steve Rogers for.
He always seemed to know what was best for the team, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he always tried to find a way to resolve conflict with the least amount of bloodshed possible. He was a respectable man—respectable enough for people like you to follow him into hell.
But there were also plenty of things you disliked about him.
Namely, once he had a plan, he stuck to it whether the people around him agreed or not. Unfortunately for you, his current plan involved you babysitting the world’s most wanted Hydra assassin.
And that was the Winter Soldier.
“What!” you barked in disbelief, throwing your hands in the air. “No! I am not watching him. I’m coming with you—”
Steve was already gearing up—wearing the suit he stole from the Smithsonian and strapping on his shield last.
“No,” he replied, sharp and firm. “Trust me, it’s better if you stay put. If I show up with Buck by my side, it’s not gonna look good.”
Steve motioned towards Bucky, who just stood there looking about as useful and clueless as a bag of bricks.
The kicked puppy look on his face almost made you feel bad for him. Almost. Because if it weren’t for him, and your own stubborn loyalty to Steve, nobody would be in this mess in the first place.
“Look, you’re going to talk to Stark, right? Nat’s with him. Let me come. I can talk to her while you work things out with Stark, and maybe we can figure out a better solution—”
“We shouldn’t even consider talking to Nat. She’s in deep with Tony and the Accords. And besides, I don’t trust—” Steve cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes flickered between you and Bucky. “Never mind.”
You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Don’t trust what?”
The tension in the parking garage turned uncomfortable really fast.
No one dared speak or move—it felt like a bunch of kids walking in on Mom and Dad arguing and refusing to pick sides. Even though you already knew what he was going to say, you kept your eyes fixed on Steve with a silent threat for him to continue.
Steve sighed and stepped forward, mentally cursing himself for letting the words slip.
“You Widows—they’re known to be deceptive,” Steve explained as calmly and gently as he could, though it didn’t help.
“I just… can’t risk you talking to Natasha. It’s too dangerous.”
Offended wasn’t even the right word for it.
Everyone in this line of work—including you, especially you — knew about the Black Widows and their reputation. You were a group of young girls broken down and rebuilt into perfect chameleons. Widows were trained to whisper sweet nothings into a victim’s ear, only to hold a blade to their throat, slit it without remorse, and go about the rest of their day as if nothing had happened.
Steve wasn’t wrong, but the hypocrisy of his logic made you feel sour.
He didn’t trust your background, yet in the very same breath, he was willing to leave you entirely alone with Bucky—his best friend, and the only piece of his past he had left. If you were truly so deceptive, so inherently untrustworthy, what was stopping you from turning Bucky over to Stark the second Steve cleared this garage?
You wanted to cry. You had been loyal to Steve, standing by his side while the rest of the team split up and tore at each other’s throats—and this was how he repaid you? By humiliating you in front of everyone?
But you’d die before you let a single tear fall in front of Steve, or anyone else for that matter.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tightened your jaw until your teeth hurt and forced your gaze away.
“Fine.”
You were going to protect his precious best friend—not out of submission, but to shove his own prejudice right back down his throat. You would prove to him, definitively, that you could be trusted.
“I’ll watch over him,” you added, trying to keep cool. “I’ll keep my comms open, too—just in case you want to pop in and check if he’s still alive.”
Steve returned your sarcasm with a relieved exhale. “Thank you—”
“Don’t mention it,” you cut him off, waving a hand dismissively as you walked past Bucky—who was standing there looking like a child of divorce. You headed for your motorcycle.
“Are you coming, Barnes?”
Before joining you at the bike, Bucky walked over to Steve with a fond look in his eyes. They shared the same brotherly hug they'd been exchanging since they reunited. Steve mumbled something into his shoulder—probably reassurance that everything was going to be okay—before finally sending him off to you.
You rolled your eyes, slipping your helmet on to block them out.
As everyone else cleared out of the garage, Bucky walked over to your bike. You handed him a helmet, and he started strapping it on.
“Should I drive?” He asked.
You blinked at him, your face going blank despite him not being able to see it.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve been hiding in Bucharest for a while,” Bucky explained. “I know some discreet spots where they won’t find us.”
Even though neither of you could see the other’s expression, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky was testing your competence—and on top of everything that had led to this moment, especially that little conversation with Steve, your patience was wearing dangerously thin.
“Barnes, I assure you that whatever spot you’re thinking of, a SWAT team is already sweeping it.” You revved the engine. “Get on.”
Bucky muffled a deep sigh inside his helmet. Based on his stiff posture, you thought he might argue, but he finally conceded, swinging his long leg over the back of the seat.
As you gripped the handlebars, you waited for him to hold on, but nothing happened.
Glancing at your side mirrors, you saw him awkwardly plant his hands at the edge of his seat, leaning back as far away from you as the space would allow.
“I’m gonna need you to hold on,” you ordered without looking back.
Bucky hesitated, not moving an inch.
Annoyed, you killed the revving engine for a second and glared at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to fall off?”
Bucky still didn’t budge. He kept his posture uncomfortably stiff, his eyes boring down at the empty space between his hips and the arch of your back.
“I’ll be fine right here.”
You couldn’t believe the gall of this guy. You had been tasked with something that was supposed to be so simple—tedious, sure, but easy enough—yet he was making your job twice as difficult. You glared at him through your visor, your voice strict even through the muffle of your headgear.
“Steve entrusted me to look after you. If he finds out on the evening news that his most wanted best friend fell off the back of my motorcycle and got captured by the government, then he’s never going to talk to me again. And everyone who is risking their lives for you did it all for nothing because you chose to be stubborn. Now, I am not going to repeat myself. Hold. On. To. Me.”
You couldn’t make out his expression, but slowly and reluctantly, he leaned forward and wrapped his thick arms around your waist.
“Tighter,” you commanded.
From the short time Bucky had known you, he already knew there was no point in arguing.
He let out a sigh into his helmet and wrapped his arms around you just a little tighter than before—but still kept his hold loose and, well… as respectful as he could manage.
“Bucky, I need you to hold me tighter,” you urged again.
It had already been a good five minutes since everyone left—and here you were, stuck with the man who, if caught, could risk your life and your position, all because he refused to hold onto you properly.
To you, this was nothing but a nuisance.
But for Bucky…
Bucky was holding onto every thread and reminder left from the forties of what it meant to be a respectful man. Especially since it had been so long since he’d not only been this close to a woman, but held one.
“Tighter!” you shrieked, patience finally snapping.
“Fuck, you know what? Fine!” he snapped back, adjusting his hips so that his chest was pressed up right against your back, wrapping his strong arms around you tightly enough to make you gasp.
“Is that tight enough for you?”
“Perfect,” you croaked sarcastically.
Without giving him another second to respond, you kicked the bike into gear and finally steered it out of the garage.
You were determined to keep your pride intact. His broad chest was pressed up against your back, trapping your body heat until your leather jacket felt burning hot against your skin. His metal arm was a hard band across your midsection, while his flesh arm gripped you still.
You were so small compared to him. He could easily take over—yet here he was, being your obedient puppy.
“Where are you taking me?” Bucky shouted over the rush of wind as the two of you whipped through the busy streets of Bucharest.
“To an amusement park,” you shouted back. “Don’t you want to ride a roller coaster?”
Bucky let out a tired sigh.
You managed to find sanctuary at an abandoned, overgrown rooftop greenhouse. Located on the very outskirts of Bucharest, it was far enough from the city center to avoid suspicion, but still close enough to keep your comms within range of Steve.
You paced the rooftop, feeling restless as your mind overworked with what Steve and the rest of the team could be doing right now.
Were they already fighting? Would Stark actually listen to reason and put all of this to rest?
Letting out a defeated sigh, you kicked a stray pebble, watching it skid across the concrete of the rooftop.
“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself. “Stuck on babysitting duty when I should be out there.”
Lifting your head, your eyes locked onto Bucky. He was standing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distant streets below.
“Hey!” you barked, pointing a finger at him like a mother scolding a child. “Step away from the edge! You’re going to fall.”
“I’m just keeping a lookout,” Bucky mumbled, his back still facing you as he refused to step away from the edge.
“You’re just making my job harder than it already is,” you argued, throwing your hands up in exasperation.
You pointed aggressively to the dusty wooden crate tucked against the brick wall.
“Just go sit over there or something.”
Bucky’s brow twitched the same time his patience snapped. He turned around to finally face you, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.
“Would you stop talking to me like I’m a child?” he snapped, stepping away from the edge—not because you had ordered him to, but to match your hostile stance as he stalked toward you. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the shitty job of watching over me, but I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”
His defensive outburst made you raise a brow.
“Oh, really? You can handle yourself just fine?” you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Is that why the entire global government is hunting you down right now? Is that why Steve had to throw away his entire reputation just to keep you out of a cage? Because you’ve got it all handled?”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.
The mention of Steve’s sacrifice definitely hit a nerve, you could see the guilt in his eyes.
A part of you wished you hadn’t said it at all, and you were just about ready swallow your pride and apologize, until…
“You’re from the Red Room,” he said, stepping closer. An involuntary shudder went down your spine. “You’ve done terrible things in the past—just as I have. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone like Steve bend over backwards for lowlifes like us.”
You didn’t realize just how close he was standing until his hot breath hit your face, only shortening your temper.
“We don’t ask for the help, yet they do it for us anyway,” Bucky’s voice graveled into a whisper. “Don’t talk down to me like you don’t know what it’s like. When in fact, you’re worse—”
You were already seeing red before he could even finish his sentence.
You quickly unsheathed a pocket knife from your belt and lunged at him, aiming straight for his throat just as a threat to silence him.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me!”
But Bucky was faster.
He brought his metal forearm up just in time to block the blade, making an ugly scraping sound. He twisted his wrist to disarm you, but your grip on the knife was tight. While one arm was held captive by his, you used your other to try and deliver a punch—which he also dodged.
You resorted to your legs, bucking them up to deliver hard kicks to his stomach. He grunted after each hit your leg managed to put out, but his hands moved quickly to grab the collar of your jacket and hurl you backwards to the nearest wall.
You cried out, face scrunching into a wince as your back slammed into hard brick.
The impact made you drop your knife. Bucky pressed his heavy body right against yours, aggressively tucking his legs between your thighs so you couldn’t use the space to swing your knees at him again.
“I can’t believe this is who Steve decided to trust me with,” he hissed in your face.
“Get off of me!” you yelled, squirming beneath his body.
“You drew your knife at me,” Bucky roared back. “Maybe Steve was right. All you Widows have a tendency to break your vows whenever things go even remotely south for you—”
You weren’t going to sit there and take his insults. Gritting your teeth with a brace, you pulled your head back and slammed your forehead directly into his face.
Bucky groaned out in pain, his grip on you loosening as he stumbled back with a hand to his face. Seizing the small window of opportunity, you shoved his chest away and dove towards the floor, reaching for the dropped pocket knife.
Before your fingers could even brush the hilt, his large hands grabbed you from behind and slammed you right back into the brick wall again.
You let out a breathless gasp as your face was forcefully squished up against the brick.
Bucky’s flesh hand came to the back of your head, pushing your skull firmly against the wall to keep your vision pinned away from him. At the same time, his metal hand gathered both your wrists behind your back, locking your two arms prone.
“Let go of me!”
You started to violently squirm and writhe, trying to buck your back against him—to tire him out, but Bucky moved his entire lower body to seal the space. His hips pressed tightly up against your bottom, his chest to your back, pinning you completely helpless as you were left trapped between him and the wall.
“No. I don’t care if you’re Steve’s friend, or if Steve respects you,” Bucky hissed, his breath right at your ear. “If I find my life in danger—after finally being free from Hydra, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way. Even you.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving against your back.
He was angry.
He hated how much a woman like you could get under his skin with just a few sarcastic words and petty jabs.
One moment he was flustered just holding onto your waist during the bike ride, and now, he had you pinned up against the wall, your life completely in his hands.
You grit your teeth. “Dammit, Barnes—”
“—do you hear me? Hello? Anyone copy?”
You and Bucky froze. His eyes went wide as he leaned his head down toward the earpiece tucked just behind your earlobe where Steve’s voice was emitting. You glared at Bucky through the corner of your eye.
“Steve’s calling for me. I can’t answer it unless you let me go.”
“Status check. Code Blue-Alpha. Repeat, Code Blue-Alpha. Do you copy?”
Bucky was hesitant.
He didn’t want to let you go—afraid that you might actually threaten his life again the second he backed off.
Instead of releasing you, his metal hand kept the tight grip on both your wrists, while his flesh hand finally let your head free. Shifting his body closer, his finger reached around to press the button on your earpiece, activating the channel and allowing you to speak.
“Steve,” you breathed, catching your breath. “I’m here.”
“There you are!” Steve let out a relieved, staticky sigh through the comms. “How are things over there? Are you two alright?”
You and Bucky side eyed each other.
The situation was ridiculous—the two of you were still tangled in each other’s limbs, bodies pressed tight against one another, chests heaving in sync as the adrenaline from the fight slowly began to die down.
“We’re fine,” you lied. “Your boyfriend’s still alive.”
Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh right against your ear. He didn’t say it out loud, but you could already hear his thoughts. This fucking woman.
Steve wasn’t laughing, however. His voice was serious.
“Listen to me carefully. We just got word that there are traps set up around the highest points of Bucharest. They’re wired to release an airborne toxin—specifically meant to target the biology of a super soldier.”
You watched Bucky’s eyes. His brows furrowed, concentrating on Steve’s voice as his grip on your wrists loosened slightly.
“They’re trying to smoke him out,” you reasoned. “What about the regular civilians? Will it affect them?”
“No. Just us. I’m already wearing a rebreather mask on my end,” Steve continued with a rasp. It sounded like he was running from something. “But Bucky doesn’t have one. You need to keep him inside and be extremely careful.”
There was a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach.
Steve was thinking about Bucky, and Bucky was thinking about himself, but neither of them knew your full medical history—how could they?
During your time in the Red Room, they had pumped your veins full of a biochemical serum. It wasn’t the exact super soldier formula that created Captain America, but it was a heavily modified variation meant to enhance your physical abilities, speed up your healing, and maximize your strength.
It was what made you into a Widow. And right now, you had no idea if that same chemical footprint was enough to trigger the airborne toxin.
“Steve,” you swallowed hard, your voice shaking with worry. “How is Natasha doing? Is she with you?”
If Natasha was fine, then maybe you would be, too.
Behind you, Bucky must have sensed the sudden spike of panic in your posture. He took a step back and finally released his tight grip on your wrists—relinquishing his hold over your body.
He inhaled a deep breath to steady himself, but stopped midway, choking as if something had gotten stuck in his lungs. His chest hitched. He sniffed the air again, letting out a harsh, hacking cough in return.
“Fuck—” Bucky choked out, his hand flying to his throat.
You spun around, catching the way Bucky stumbled blindly against a wooden crate. Your heart started to race in a panic.
“Steve?” you called into the earpiece, your eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of the trap he had just mentioned over comms. “Steve, do you copy?”
There was no answer.
The static on the other end had cut out completely. Steve had already ended the line to focus on his own escape—either that, or his comms had been jammed. You tapped the button behind your earlobe again desperately, but there was nothing.
“Steve! Respond!”
Bucky called your name from where he held himself against the crate—a sound that was broken, small, and almost whiny.
“Bucky!” you cried out, abandoning the comm line completely and focusing entirely on the man you were tasked to protect. “Are you okay?”
“Hot,” he winced, letting out a deep groan. “It feels... hot.”
You knelt by his side, the palm of your hand flying to his forehead to check his temperature. Your eyes widened at how warm he had suddenly become. He wasn’t nearly this hot when he had you pressed up against the wall just mere seconds ago.
“Fuck. Did the toxins get to you already? But how! We’re on the outskirts—”
Bucky lazily raised a finger just past your head. You whipped your head around, squinting past the sunlight that pierced the clouds.
There, you saw a hazy, almost pollen like fog beginning to drift from across the rooftop building far from you.
“Shit,” you cursed, wrapping your arm around his waist and positioning his heavy arm over your shoulders to help him up.
“Come on, we’ve gotta hide you somewhere. You’re too weak to run if you get caught.”
You tried lifting him up, but he was too heavy to carry just on your own. You groaned beneath him, using every bit of your strength to try and keep him steady.
While you struggled, Bucky’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused—he could barely keep them open.
“Stay with me, Bucky,” you murmured against him with a grunt, dragging your feet to get him inside the greenhouse.
It was a glass enclosure, but the walls were muddied with dirt and the plants were overgrown enough to provide decent cover. It wasn’t as indoors as you’d like, but it was the closest place you could take him with your current strength.
Bucky’s eyes fluttered down to you, letting out a heavy sigh.
“I think… I need to sit.”
Suddenly, he felt like he was suffocating in his own clothes. The breeze in Bucharest was cool, but his body felt like it was burning up from the inside. What was even worse was your touch—having your body pressed up against his made him react in ways he never thought he would.
Or at least, not anytime soon.
You stumbled over an overgrown branch, losing your balance and your grip on Bucky.
“Shit—I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
Bucky lay on the ground, adjusting his body so that he was flat on his back. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, the organ trying to tear its way out. His vision and mind went hazy, and his flesh hand was clammy.
The tension was even worse whenever he looked at you. His pupils would dilate the second his eyes landed on your body, his breath getting stuck in his throat.
You knelt down, trying to get your hands under his arms to haul him back up, but Bucky flinched away with a sharp hiss.
“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”
You furrowed your brows. You had no idea what kind of side effects the airborne toxins had been released—Steve hadn’t specified. But right now, you couldn’t afford to stand around and ponder it. You groaned, trying to lift him up one more time, but your body suddenly felt even weaker than before.
Your knees buckled as a strange aroma began to drift into your nose. It was a musky, almost tangy smell filling the deep pockets of your lungs.
“W-what the hell…?”
Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavily from where he lay on the floor, his dark, half lidded eyes meeting yours. “Do you feel it, too?”
Meeting Bucky’s eyes in this state was the worst thing you could have possibly done.
Suddenly, the greenhouse felt smaller—a glass enclosure closing in on the two of you. Your body felt molten, and you wanted nothing more than to strip your clothes off.
Grunting, you began to pull down the zipper of your jacket, and Bucky inhaled sharply.
“Hey—what… what are you doing?”
“It’s hot,” you breathed, your head spinning. “Need to take my jacket off.”
The heat inside your own skin was hurting, but for Bucky, it was absolute torture.
The super soldier serum in his veins processed the toxin at an accelerated rate, making his flesh feel like it was working overtime. His blood was rushing—hot and heavy—pooling lower until he was completely and unapologetically hard under his pants.
He wanted to rip his own clothes off. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice the tent poking between his legs—or maybe a dark part of him did, and he wanted you to offer to take care of it.
Fuck. What was he thinking?
But it wasn’t like you were thinking straight, either. Abandoning your jacket, you were left in just a tank top that clung tightly to your chest, offering Bucky a full view of your tits. You knelt right back down beside him, your hands clumsily reaching for his shoulders to lift him up again.
This was going bad for Bucky.
Too close.
Too close. Too close. Too close.
Bucky caught your scent—a natural floral and feminine smell mixed with an underlying musk of sweat that made his head spin with an overwhelmingly dangerous amount of desire.
“Stop,” Bucky choked out, his voice dropping deep and dangerous.
His right hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your bare wrist, while his metal hand gripped your hip to keep you from leaning any closer.
“Don’t... don’t do this. Get away from me right now.”
“Bucky,” you panted. “I need you to get up for me.”
“I can’t,” he groaned, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I mean it. Move away… or I swear to God, I won’t be able to control myself—”
Your gaze drifted down his body, your eyes widening at the prominent bulge waiting for you between his large, strong legs.
It throbbed and twitched beneath his pants, growing harder and more unbearable by the second.
This position was too compromising—too vulnerable, and far too dangerous for you both.
Bucky had no strength to get up on his own, and you could feel your own body betraying you by the second. You would have to relieve this for him now, or it would be doom for you both.
“Goddammit,” you cursed, bracing yourself mentally.
You moved to cradle Bucky between your thighs, mounting his lap while he was pinned weak to the floor.
His eyelids flew open, and he used all the strength left in his body to lift his head and stare up at you, bewildered and off guard.
“What the hell are you doing—!”
“We need to take care of this,” you muttered, grinding your hips tight and firm against his, making him let out a groan.
“We need to fix your problem before they find us. They set up that trap not too far from this building. There’s a chance they’re already scouting it out. It’s only a matter of time—”
Bucky’s eyes were filled with hungry lust as he stared at the point where your hips were rubbing against his. He was so hard it fucking hurt. He didn’t dare touch you—because if his hands made contact with your waist, with that warm, smooth skin just beneath your tank top that was begging to be licked, he would probably embarrass himself and cum in his pants right then and there.
“Shit—wait. Hold on. I—fuck.”
You reached for his zipper, tugging it down, and the sudden movement made his hips buck up against yours.
“Now’s not the time to talk, Barnes,” you panted, the toxin blurring your thoughts. “We need to take care of this now, or we’ll be in deep trouble. And Steve’ll have my head—”
“Fuck, shit. Wait—! I’ve never…”
You were losing your patience. You stopped your hands, glaring down at him. “Never what, Barnes?”
His face burned an embarrassing shade of red. He refused to look at you, his eyes suddenly far more interested in the overgrown plants next to him than your face.
“I’ve never had… sex,” he admitted quietly, swallowing hard.
Oh.
Oh.
Bucky was a virgin?
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
You felt incredibly foolish straddling him with your hands still hovering over his open zipper.
You felt shameful—you felt like a harlot, throwing yourself onto him and thinking you could resolve this entire crisis just by getting him off with a few strokes. You felt dirty, humiliated, and deeply guilty.
“I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly scrambling off his lap.
Your legs felt like jelly—a testament to the toxin fully taking hold of your own system.
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know. I mean, that doesn’t excuse it, but—”
“No,” Bucky rasped, his hand catching your wrist before you could back away entirely.
His grip on you was so tight and dominant, it felt like a pickaxe slowly chipping away at your remaining resolve.
“Don’t go,” he broke out, his voice a desperate, tortured rasp. “Please. Keep going. It hurts. I need you to relieve it.”
If he had said that to reassure you, you felt anything but. In fact, you felt even guiltier because of how broken and desperate he sounded.
“Bucky, I can’t.”
His brows knitted together tightly, his face twisting unpleasantly—he was upset.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because—”
“Because what!” he barked back, rolling onto his side to give you his full attention. You tried really hard not to look at the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “You threw yourself onto me. You promised Steve you’d take care of me—so you’re going to come back here and finish it.”
“Bucky, I’m not going to be your first!” you yelled out, and that finally stunned him into silence.
Your chest was heaving with a frustration you didn’t even know how to name.
With confusion and a flash of embarrassment taking over his gaze, his fingers finally loosened, releasing your wrist reluctantly.
“I’m sorry,” you said, much softer this time. “I’m sorry. Just… if you need a minute to take care of it yourself, I’ll be over there—” you pointed to the far end of the greenhouse “—I’ll keep watch.”
“And what about you?” he asked, his dark eyes trailing down your body in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. “Don’t you need to take care of yourself, too? You feel it, don’t you? That… primal need.”
You pressed your lips tight and tore your gaze away, not trusting yourself to look at his pained, desperate expression. You couldn’t look at the way his body was open and inviting you back in, or the way his voice went so coarse when he said the word need.
“I’ll be fine.”
You were not fine. And Bucky certainly wasn’t, either.
You tried to keep your concentration focused outside the greenhouse, forcing your hazy eyes to stare through the glass panes to keep watch. But your gaze kept betraying you, drifting right back to the corner to watch Bucky where he sat propped up against a wooden crate, his legs spread wide.
His chest was still rising and falling heavily, his long hair damp with sweat and falling over his darkened eyes.
You had told him to take care of his business, but he hadn’t made a single move since you stepped away from him. Your own urges were becoming impossible to control, too. You found yourself squeezing your thighs tightly together, trying to find any form of friction, any relief from the ache that had been building up ever since the toxin first wafted into your lungs.
It didn’t help that you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, watching you from behind, tracing your silhouette.
It felt telepathic—as if his silent gaze was speaking directly to your body, knowing you wanted exactly what he was desperately craving too.
No. You couldn’t go to him.
If you walked up to him right now, neither of you would have any control left, and you would both submit to the drug completely.
He was a virgin. You couldn’t take something so precious from him. He had already been through a lifetime of torture and lost autonomy. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you took his first time over a stupid, weaponized toxin.
Sex was meant to be reserved for someone special—and you were far from it.
“Bucky,” you finally called out, still refusing to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay back there?”
“…No,” he muttered with a thick rasp. “Come here.”
You sucked in a breath.
Every instinct in your brain was telling you stay exactly where you were, but your body was entirely out of your control now.
Your feet dragged you across the dirty floor until you were standing over him again.
You dropped to your knees in front of him with a sigh. Trying to frame it as purely medical check, you lifted a hand and pressed your palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature once more.
He was still burning up, but the fever felt even worse.
Every hot breath he exhaled hit your exposed collarbones, and the way he was sitting—legs spread wide with you kneeling directly between them—made you feel like a mouse being lured into a trap.
Realizing just how dangerous this proximity was, you swallowed hard and began to pull your hand away. But Bucky didn’t let you. His fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist to hold you back. He let his heavy eyelids flutter shut and slowly leaned his head into your touch, rubbing his stubbled cheek right against your warm, open palm.
“Stay,” Bucky pleaded as he his metal hand came to hold your hip. “Stay here. I need you.”
A breathless groan rumbled warmly into your palm. You froze, your eyes locked onto him as you watched the lethal super soldier—the very man who had pinned you up against the wall just minutes ago—unravel helplessly right in front of you.
As he held you there, you felt an unbearable heat trickle between your legs.
Your cunt pulsed, and you squeezed your thighs tightly together to soothe the desperate ache spreading through your lower body.
The friction was a temporary fix, but the tight grind of your thighs only made you ache for more.
Bucky nuzzled his face deeper into your palm, inhaling your scent like a dying man catching a breath of fresh air.
Then, his parted lips pressed a soft, wet kiss against the center of your hand. And another one. Then another, right against the inner skin of your wrist.
“Bucky… what are you—”
“Please,” Bucky whispered against your skin, looking up at you through his dark, thick lashes.
His eyes were dilated, the blue completely washed out by a lust that made you burn from the inside out.
“I need you.”
“You… You don’t know what you’re saying,” you muttered, shaking your head in a desperate attempt to find your reason.
Bucky held your hand tighter, refusing to give you any chance to escape.
“Please, don’t go. Fuck—I need you so bad, it hurts,” he choked out. “This ache won’t go away until you help me take care of it.”
His eyes never left yours. Under normal circumstances, every confession leaving his lips should have left him feeling deeply ashamed or embarrassed. But right now, he didn’t care. His body was on fire, and your touch was only stroking each and every flame.
“I know I’m a virgin, but I don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either,” Bucky rasped.
His large hand covered yours, forcing your palm down his chest—slick and damp with sweat—until he guided your hand directly over the heavy erection waiting for you beneath his pants.
“I can make you feel so good. I can fix this for both of us. Please.” He begged.
You let out a shudder as his large hand swallowed yours, guiding your palm to slide up and down against the length of his cock. Even through the denim, you could feel him throb and harden rapidly beneath your touch, his breathing turning incredibly shallow and fast.
“It hurts so bad,” he groaned, his eyes unhinged by the toxin. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too?”
You looked down, biting your lip hard at the sight of Bucky’s thick bulge pressing directly against your fingers. He twitched beneath your touch.
There was nothing you wanted more than to finish the job you had started earlier—to finish unzipping his pants, sink right down onto him, and show him exactly what it felt like to be inside a woman for the very first time.
But you couldn’t.
Not like this.
“Bucky, I can’t—” you whispered so softly, it sounded like a whine. “I can’t be your first.”
Bucky trembled a sigh, his head falling back against the wooden crate. But he didn’t let go of your wrist. He began to subtly shift his weight, rocking his hips up in a tilt that forced his thick length to slide right against your captive palm.
“Why not?” he murmured, deep and gravelly. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’d do a good job?”
His question was so innocent, though the very thing he was doing wasn’t. He kept grinding his clothed cock into your hand—seeking pleasure from just your palm—and you felt yourself going insane.
“No, it’s not that,” you tried to pull your hand back, but he held you tight, using your trapped hand for his own pleasure. “Sex is supposed to be something that you save. And your virginity is something you give away to someone special. Not… not a casual teammate—not someone like me—”
Bucky interrupted you with a groan, his hips bucking up higher against your palm. All of your words went in one ear and out the other. The only thing he could process right now was how good your hand felt—and how much better it would feel if he sunk into something tight, wet, and warm.
Like your mouth… or your…
“I don’t care about any of that,” he choked out.
His hips rolled into your palm with a needy jerk.
“I need this. I need you. I’d be more than happy to give it to you. Fuck—I’ll give it to you so good. You’re the one I want. I need you—”
Bucky’s mouth dropped into an o shape, a sharp hiss of breath filling his lungs as his hips bucked uncontrollably. His eyes never left yours as he suddenly started spilling in his pants. A warm, thick liquid began to seep through his jeans, leaving your fingers sticky with his seed and musk.
You couldn’t believe it.
Bucky had just finished right in his pants.
“Bucky…”
His face was unreadable.
His head was tilted back against the crate, his eyes boring into yours through heavy lids and long lashes. He was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath while letting his cum shamelessly pool in the tight space of his pants.
You figured he’d pull your hand away any second now—that finally releasing all that pent up frustration would make him feel well enough to move to a safer location.
You tried not to point it out to save him from the embarrassment. And most importantly, you tried not to give in to the intense sensation of his warm spunk right beneath your fingertips.
“You should be feeling better now, right? We should keep moving—”
With his grip on your wrist tightening, he hauled you forward until you collapsed back to the ground. Two strong arms wrapped completely around your body, caging you flush against his chest.
Your knees—already so weak—forced you to straddle his lap. Your hands flew to his broad shoulders for balance as you found yourself perched directly over his ruined pants.
“Hey—what are you—!”
Bucky nuzzled his face straight into the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breaths turning into open mouthed kisses against your skin.
“More,” he begged, the deep vibration of his voice tickling you. “S’not enough. I need more.”
Your breath hitched when his hands started to roam over your body. His fingers tickled beneath the hem of your tank top, the metal fingers cooling your skin and making you gasp out loud from the sudden cold.
No.
I won’t let this happen.
I refuse to be Bucky’s first.
But despite your emotional turmoil, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not with the way his hands were roaming around your body, claiming every inch of you as his through touch alone. Not with the way he was looking at you, his mouth parted with desperation.
And especially not when he had just let himself spill in his jeans from nothing but your touch and closeness.
“I know you feel it too,” Bucky rasped against your neck. “I know you’re wet down there, begging to be touched. Begging to be filled. I can fix you, baby. Just let me take care of you, please.”
He pulled back slightly, looking up at you with wide puppy blue eyes that made your heart ache and your pussy clench.
“Can I kiss you?”
You searched his gaze, breathless. “You want to kiss me?”
His metal hand left your waist, slowly crawling up your spine until his fingers tangled firmly in the hair at the back of your head, keeping your eyes pinned to his. His pupils were completely blown out, his gaze demanding an answer right now.
You should have said no. You should have pushed his chest, reminded him of the drug, and scrambled away to safety.
He was a virgin, sure. But with the way he was looking at you while holding you tight—you felt like you were going to be ravaged.
But your resolve was already a fragile thing. And with the way he was looking at you, you knew you were in too deep. Your body was hurting—aching for him in the exact same ways he was aching for you. The only way you two could fix it was each other.
You pressed your lips hard against his, and Bucky let out a rough, needy sound into your mouth.
His grip tightened in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.
The fever burned through your veins, and the way his tongue danced with yours only made the fire burn hotter. He was tasting you, broken whimpers tearing from his lips with every slick slide of his tongue. Saliva mixed together, leaving you both completely breathless, your lips and limbs tangled.
You rolled your hips back, grinding yourself deeper against Bucky’s pelvis.
His cock twitched inside his jeans, poking hard against you. You didn’t know how—but he felt even bigger and harder than he had before.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he panted against your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t—I need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”
His hands scrambled down to your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of your pants. He popped it open with a rough tug—threatening to break the button itself—as his knuckles brushed against your hot skin.
Bucky groaned at the sight.
The lace of your panties was poking through the opening, damp with sweat and your scent. He inhaled deeply, and you wondered just how much his heightened senses were actually taking you in.
When he let out a satisfied sigh, you knew he could smell everything.
“Look at you,” he praised, his eyes tracing the curves of your body. “You’re so beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you.”
You chuckled—a sound that came out raspy and sultry without your intention, making Bucky’s cock twitch beneath you.
“Quite a bold statement for someone who’s never had sex before,” you teased, your hands trailing slowly down his chest.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He accepted your challenge, gripping the waistband of your unzipped pants and yanking them down your thighs.
The moment your bare skin was exposed to the cool air, Bucky wasted no time traveling his eyes down the expanse of your legs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from drooling like a madman, his gaze raked over the inner and outer curves of your thighs. His mouth went dry at the sight of the little wet spot that had collected near your clit.
His large hands slid up your thighs and behind you, squeezing your ass firmly in his rough palms.
“So fucking beautiful,” he growled, his thumb swiping over your clit, smearing your own juice all over the lace.
“Fuck—you’ve been dripping all this time. You need this just as bad as I do, and you’ve been holding back?”
You swallowed hard. “It’s not too late. We don’t have to—oh!”
You cried out once his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties. His fingers dipped between your folds, collecting your arousal with embarrassing wet noises as he tried to rub at your clit.
“No, Bucky… it’s right here—” You grabbed his forearm, guiding him to the right spot, and arched your back with a sharp cry when he started rubbing deep circles against the sensitive bud.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
This was the pleasure you were looking for—but it wasn’t nearly enough.
There was an empty ache deep inside you that was begging to be filled. But you weren’t going to demand that of him just yet, in case he changed his mind.
A lazy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he watched you come undone from his fingers.
“Yeah?” he huffed out a breath. “That feel good, baby?”
“Yes—don’t stop, please,” you cried helplessly.
His other hand lifted your tank top up and over your head, quickly unhooking your bra to fully reveal your tits. With a low grunt, he leaned forward, capturing one of your perky nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth.
You moaned loudly, your hand flying to the back of his head and giving his hair a hard, desperate tug. He liked that a lot, moaning against your skin in pleasure.
Bucky’s tongue swirled around your nipple, licking and sucking until you were arching off his lap at his mercy.
He was making a beautiful mess of you, switching between both buds and letting his mouth worship your body. His rough stubble tickled your chest while his fingers continued their clumsy work down below, sliding through your slick folds and rubbing messy circles right against your clit.
The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers moving against your soaking flesh filled the greenhouse—the filth of it only making you wetter and causing the toxin to course even harder.
He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your chest, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin, and finally looked up at you.
His lips and chin were slick and shining from giving your breasts such sloppy, adoring kisses.
“I need to be inside you,” he pleaded. “Please… I need to put it in. I need to stuff you so full of me, baby. Please, let me fuck you.”
Your eyes searched Bucky’s.
He looked like an even bigger mess than before. He looked and sounded utterly helpless, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face tight with an expression that made it look like he was physically hurting.
Even though he had just come in his pants moments ago, he needed so much more.
You knew that once you gave in to him completely, there would be no holding back for either of you. He would have to live with the fact that you would be his first.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky slowly slipped his hand out of your panties, bringing his fingers up to his lips and licking the juices clean. “You’re scared, but I’m not. I know what I want, and what I want right now is you.”
Bucky gripped your waist, raising you off his lap and pinning you flat against the ground.
He slipped his large body directly between your legs, his strong thighs forcing yours wide open as he covered your frame with his.
Your hair was messy across the dirt floor, framing your face as you laid beneath him breathless. The toxin was taking over control of your body—every single nerve demanding to be touched by the man between your legs.
You felt like you were in heat, consumed by a fever that only Bucky could cure.
His eyes fell over your body, tracing your tits and stomach, his gaze locking onto the way your panties—already a soaked mess—looked like they were begging to be torn away by his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands making quick work of your underwear.
With a harsh tug and a sharp tearing sound, the fabric gave away.
“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do to you.”
Your panties didn’t even make it past your knees before tearing clean off your thighs. You winced slightly.
It was dizzying to think about how you had found the strength to fight Bucky earlier, only to now be reduced to a breathless, aching mess over a piece of torn fabric.
Bucky leaned back on his heels, unbuckling his belt and shoving open his unzipped, stained denim jeans.
The moment he pulled his cock free, it sprang forward then back—the tip slapping against his abdomen.
He was thick, his cock fully engorged and begging to be wrapped in something tight and warm. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, trailing down his shaft and mixing with the creamy white essence from his earlier release.
His eyes were glued to your soaking center, legs spread wide and inviting. His jaw slacked as he lazily pumped himself at the shaft, prepping his cock for your warm embrace.
He claimed he was a virgin, but the way he was looking at you with such a hungry look in his eyes made you think otherwise.
“Bucky,” you breathed, heart racing. “Are you sure you want to do this? With… me?”
Bucky leaned over your body, using his metal elbow to prop himself up while he slapped the tip of his cock against your entrance.
You weren’t sure where he learned that from, but the dirty act left you clenching around nothing.
“The more you ask, the harder it is for me to stay in control,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m just gonna have to stuff you full of my cock just to prove how much I want you.”
You craned your neck, watching Bucky rub his tip up and down your folds—smearing his pre-cum while coating his shaft in your own slick juice.
When he positioned himself right at your opening and poked gently, testing your stretch, your folds immediately parted for him. You were so wet and pliable from the toxin that you were sure he would slip right in without a fight, despite how big he was.
“Just… just enough to get rid of the side effects, okay?” you muttered, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.
Bucky either didn’t hear you, or maybe he did and he just chose to ignore it.
With a clench of his jaw, he slowly pushed his hips forward, his eyes glued to the spot where your cunt wrapped around the head of his cock.
The sensation was delicious. Your body was burning hot, tight, and dangerously wet. He had only sunk the tip in, but it was already the greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back as a deep groan tore in his chest.
“Ohhh…”
Despite the toxin making your body more accommodating, you were still tighter than either of you expected.
You were being stretched completely and fully as Bucky kept going, relentlessly sinking his cock all the way inside until his dark, hairy base pressed flush against your folds. He was so big, and a part of you was grateful that he had already come once before this—because right now, his entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable need.
“So goddamn tight,” he cursed, his face twisting that looked almost like pain. “I never… fuck, I never expected pussy to feel this good… Christ.”
He stilled inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. But in reality, he was the one who needed time to adjust to your tightness.
You paced your breathing. Being stretched full by him made you want to scream at him to hurry up and move, to fuck you right into the dirt floor of the greenhouse—but you couldn’t make that kind of demand of a virgin.
Since it was his first time, despite the unfortunate circumstances, you were going to guide him gently.
“Hold me here,” you murmured, taking his hands and guiding them back to your thighs. “Feel me. It’s soft, isn’t it?”
Bucky breathed hard, nodding as he held you.
“When you’re ready, just move your hips nice and slow. Take your time.”
His face fell into a tight scowl, as if displeased with that order.
Every single one of his base instincts was screaming at him to fuck you hard and fast—to claim every surface of your pussy with his cock.
“F—fine,” he reluctantly agreed, his voice strained. He gripped your thighs tightly, spreading you open as he began rocking his hips back and forth.
His eyes were glossy with desire, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your body.
A thick, creamy white ring was forming around the base of his shaft, staining the unruly dark curls that sat at his pelvis.
Every time he pulled out, he made sure to sink back in even deeper, rolling his hips forward until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.
Your eyes rolled back, your hands clutching his broad shoulders as he buried himself inside you.
“Fuck… just like that,” you moaned. “Keep going.”
“Does… does that feel good?” He swallowed hard, fingers digging deeper into your thigh.
You nodded fast. “So good—I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Your breathless plea made him scowl , a frustrated snarl leaving his lips.
“This is torture.” He groaned.
You furrowed your brows, looking at his angry expression in concern. Torture? That wasn’t what sex was supposed to feel like. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.
“Bucky,” you said, pressing your hand against his sweating chest. “If this is hurting you, we need to stop right now. Pull out of me—”
You gasped as his metal hand circled tight around your wrist, prying it away from his chest and pinning it over your head. He slammed you back to the floor, his large body shadowing yours as his face hovered.
His dark eyes bored deeply into yours—and you felt like if you so much as looked away, he might take it as a threat.
“No, I can’t—I can’t do slow,” he growled. “The drug in my veins, it’s like it's yelling at me to take what I want. And what I want is to fuck you until you cry.”
Your breath left your lungs as Bucky slammed his hips forward, burying himself inside you.
He pulled out halfway before fucking right back in, a broken gasp leaving your lips as you arched your back against the floor from the pleasure. You hadn’t expected him to fuck you this hard—being a virgin and all—but you couldn’t complain.
You had been craving to be taken like this since the moment the drug first entered your system.
“Oh my god—!” You cried out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
“Ah—fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky cried out.
He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath scalding against your skin as he relentlessly pumped his hips in and out of you, using your vulnerable body like his own personal sex toy.
“It feels too good, fuck, baby. Everything feels too good—I can’t stop,” he moaned.
Your moans blended together into a dirty symphony.
The toxin was amplifying every single touch, his thick shaft stretching you out completely—turning your usually strong and poised body into mush with every thrust.
Your wet walls clenched down on him every time he threatened to pull out, as if sucking him right back in. Bucky was entirely lost, his mind short circuiting from the pleasure.
Every time he buried himself deep, your swollen pussy tightened around him like your body was trying to milk him dry. You whimpered with every single thrust he gave you, your teary eyes meeting his in a lustful haze as you wrapped your legs tight around his hips for support.
“Fuck—my god, don’t do that—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re squeezing me so tight. God—if this is what sex feels like, I never want to stop.”
He tilted his head down, his sweaty strands of hair tickling your hot face as he stared back down at the exact point where his hips got lost with yours.
Every stroke of his cock inside your tight body came with a hot wave of pleasure, amplified by the toxin coursing through your blood.
The sensation was addicting.
Bucky had never felt a pleasure like this before. He’d jerked off a few times in his apartment just to quickly relieve some stress, but that was always by himself.
He was a curious boy back in the forties, but he had never been close to getting any action like this.
To him, this was like a dream come true.
But he needed to go deeper. These regular, sloppy thrusts weren’t enough. He needed to feel more.
With a snarl, he leaned back to grip the backs of your thighs and shoved your knees up towards your chest, folding you into a tight mating press.
Before you could adjust to the new position, he pressed his hips against yours to lock you in place and sank down even deeper than he had before.
Your eyes flew wide, nearly bulging from their sockets as a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. His cock was stretching you at an impossible angle, burying himself so deep you could’ve sworn you saw stars.
Because you were already so sensitive from the toxin, having him bottom out so hard against your cervix made your core shudder uncontrollably, causing your legs to shake. Your head fell back against the floor, your toes curling in the air as your vision went hazy.
“Oh my god!” you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “It’s too much—I can’t… you’re gonna make me cum!”
You felt your walls start to hyperventilate around his length. You knew he felt it, too, because he immediately doubled his pace.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Fuck—I’m so sorry. It just feels too good—fuck, I—”
His voice broke into a pained moan the moment your pussy tightened. You came hard around him without warning, your neck arching as a loud moan strained your vocal cords.
Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face twisting in a grimace from how your climax was squeezing him.
The feeling was exquisite, and fuck, he wasn’t going to last another second when he was buried this deep inside of you.
He knew your body was sensitive and overworked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His balls had never felt this full, this heavy. He was close, so fucking close, and the more your pussy fluttered around his shaft, the more desperate he became to chase that same release.
“Shit. M’gonna cum,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he hilted himself deep inside.
His cock twitched—he had never came inside a girl before, but he was determined to do so now.
He was going to make sure he filled you, to stuff your tight hole to the brim with his backed up super soldier seed.
“Gonna cum inside,” he warned, his metal hand sliding beneath your lower back and lifting your hips up to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t control myself.”
You couldn’t muster a single coherent word. Only muffles and teary whimpers escaped you, but it didn’t matter what you said while Bucky was in this state. He had no intention of stopping.
His blue eyes were crazed, rolled back so far in his sockets you could see the white. He grit his teeth, meeting your hips with sloppy and wet thrusts. A litany of curses mumbled in broken strings under his breath, until finally…
“Oh my god—I’m cumming. Take it, baby. Take every single drop of me. Don’t let it go to waste. Please, I need this. I need this so fucking bad—”
With a firm grip on your thigh, he pinned you down and pushed his hips against yours.
His tip kissed your cervix, pulsing twice before his body gave way to your tightness. You were being filled by the thick, heavy pumping of his seed. You could feel his cock twitching relentlessly against your walls, determined to flood every inch of your pussy.
He buried his face in your neck, his chest heaving violently as he stuffed you so completely full that your lower belly felt heavy.
“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded brokenly.
Bucky trembled from head to toe, and despite his mumbled apologies, he kept your hips pinned securely so that not a single drop of his release could escape. He was spent, breathing in shaky and ragged gasps against your skin. He didn’t want to pull out yet, still savoring the feeling of your pulsing walls squeezing the very last drops from.
The two of you lay on the floor, tangled and sweaty in each other’s limbs. Once you finally caught your breath, your hands gently caressed his broad back, a comforting gesture that caught even you off guard.
“How… how are you feeling?” you finally mumbled.
Your body tensed as you braced yourself for an answer.
Now that the side effects of the toxin seemed to be wearing off, dread started trickling in.
You were terrified that everything you had just done with Bucky would be something he’d immediately regret. A part of you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care—that he had despised you before this, and he would simply go back to hating you again.
But after being his first, there was an undeniable connection in the way you felt beneath him.
If he was already starting to feel regret... well, you weren’t sure how you would handle it. Guilt? Probably. The longer he stayed silent, the more the worry gnawed at you.
He eventually huffed a breath, but he didn’t pull away.
“If you’re wondering if I’m going to regret this,” Bucky began, his voice so raspy and tired that it sent a shiver down your spine. “The answer is no.”
You sucked in a breath, expecting a but to follow.
Bucky attempted to lift himself up slightly so he wasn’t crushing you, but he was still so sensitive that the movement made him wince sharply. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out yet, so he collapsed right back against you with a soft huff.
“I wish I could just stay like this,” he muttered, wrapping both arms around you while resting his head against your sweaty chest.
He looked so small and vulnerable in that moment, and it made your heart ache for him.
“Just holding you,” he whispered, hugging you tighter as his voice grew quieter. “Instead of constantly running, fearing for my life, or being taken away. I just want to stay like this. Holding a pretty girl.”
The tension was starting to become too much for you to handle. Your face burned, unsure of how to process the sudden compliment. Trying to break the tension, you huffed a soft laugh and continued to rub your hand up and down his broad back. He seemed to like your touch very much.
“I’m sorry you lost your virginity this way.” you tried to joke.
Bucky chuckled against your chest. “The man I was in the forties probably would’ve done a much better job.”
“Well, this wasn’t bad at all—I’ll tell you that much.”
The two of you lay there, chuckling softly in each other’s arms, until the loud, sudden static of your earpiece made you both jolt.
“Do you copy? Report in.”
You both froze, your hearts beating rapidly for an entirely different reason now.
Bucky cleared his throat as he reluctantly tried lifting himself up. The friction of his slick and semi-hard cock sliding out of you made you let out an involuntary whimper.
“Status update,” Steve pressed, his tone anxious. “Are you two safe, or are you compromised?”
Compromised, sure. But definitely not in the way Steve meant.
Suppressing a giggle, you tapped your earpiece with a bright smile, catching Bucky's eye.
“Glad to hear your comms didn’t break, Steve.”
A relieved sigh came from the other end. “Give me a status report. How are you two? How’s Bucky?”
You watched as Bucky began to pull his clothes back on, his face an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to compose himself. You chuckled softly.
“We’re fine.”
halfway through proofreading this i lowk realized this was slop. i thought i had a good idea and then lost the plot. if you actually liked this please consider leaving a like and hit that subscribe button *epic outro music*
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Summary: Joel's exhausted by the time he makes it to bed. But when a pretty little thing crawls in beside him, he finds the time for you, just like he always does.
Warnings: +18 MDNI, post outbreak, jackson!joel, unspecified age difference, joel pov, porn no plot, dry humping, slow and soft sex, smut with feelings, internalized shame, intimacy, unprotected piv, clit stimulation, kissing
Note: i haven't written for joel in monthsss but i hope you enjoy!!
WC: 2k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Joel’s the kind of exhausted that only comes with age.
Weary bones, heavy limbs, tired eyes.
He’s falling into bed as soon as he gets home, often forfeiting dinner in favor of blissful rest. Sometimes even before the sun’s fully set.
And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces.
So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day.
And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”
His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.
It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.
Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.
So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.
He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it.
The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.
Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.
And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good.
But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.
Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.
The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.
Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like.
He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.
But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips.
You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack.
Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark.
“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”
He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.
It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”
You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.
Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock.
Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.
You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back.
He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”
When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you.
His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one.
In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.
Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do.
Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.
When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with.
Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.
He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche.
Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that.
But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.
He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.
When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response.
Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”
He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve.
But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.
He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity.
Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.
He slides in real easy.
You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.
It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home.
Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace.
There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it?
He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.
He wants to savor the way you love him.
“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.
You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.
It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation.
The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much.
Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves.
Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.
He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.
“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”
Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it.
“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”
He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble.
Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.
He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.
You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.
Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest.
When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.
“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."
Bucky Learns That He Likes Being a Pillow Princess
TW sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual), dom/sub undertones, riding, power play, soft dom!reader (she/her).
WC: 1.4k (my drabble size lmao. I know they should be like 500 words but unfortunately I am a yapper.)
Look.
Bucky Barnes doesn’t start out as a pillow princess.
He starts out as the exact opposite, actually. He starts out insisting, very politely, very stubbornly, very Bucky, that he likes being on top.
Not in a controlling way. Not in a “you don’t get a say” way. Never that. Bucky is so careful with you it almost hurts sometimes. But still.
He likes being on top.
Or at least, he thinks he does.
Because in his head, behind all the therapy and progress and the twenty-first century trying to teach him how to be human again, there’s still this stubborn little 1940s voice telling him a man takes care of his girl.
A man does the work.
A man holds himself over you, keeps his weight off your body, kisses your forehead, tells you, “I got you, sweetheart,” and makes damn sure you feel good before he even thinks about himself.
And honestly, you're not really complaining.
Because Bucky on top of you is a religious experience. Bucky with his hair falling around his face, metal hand braced beside your head, flesh hand curled around your waist, jaw clenched like he’s barely surviving the pleasure is a wonderful thing, 10/10 would recommend finding your own super soldier to do this with.
He loves seeing you under him. He loves when your head tips back, loves when your hands clutch at his shoulders. Loves when your eyes go glassy and unfocused because he’s taking care of you exactly the way he promised he would.
It’s sweet and hot and very gentlemanly in that old-fashioned, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart, that’s my job” sort of way.
And you love him for it.
But, unfortunately for Bucky and his entire masculine self-concept, you also like being an active participant in bed.
You like touching, teasing, taking. You like making him react. You like not just being adored, but getting to adore him back.
So one night, after he has once again kissed you breathless and settled himself between your thighs, you put a hand on his chest.
He stops immediately.
His eyes snap up to yours, alert and worried. “You okay?”
You almost laugh because he is so serious about your sex life. Still, you push gently at his chest and say, “Lie down.”
Bucky blinks. “What?”
“Lie down,” you repeat, smiling. “Let me take care of you.”
And ohm the look on his face.
It’s not reluctance, exactly. It’s confusion in some very outdated idea of what he is supposed to be. “Sweetheart,” he says, “you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” You kiss him once, “I want to.”
That does something to him.
And because Bucky trusts you, he lies back.
And then you climb over him.
And James Buchanan Barnes, six-foot-something super soldier, man with a vibranium arm and a kill count he refuses to talk about, looks up at you like he has just discovered God is real and she’s sitting on his lap.
The first time you ride him, he loses his mind.
There is no dignified way to say it.
His hands go to your hips first. Then his gaze drops, and his eyes nearly roll back because the view is good.
You know the view is good.
You can feel the way he reacts to it, see his throat work when you start moving. Your hands on his chest. Your body over his. The roll of your hips. The way you smile when you realize he’s already fighting for his life.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
And that is when the power starts going to your head.
Because Bucky Barnes under you? Bucky Barnes breathless beneath you? Bucky Barnes, who can flip cars and tear through reinforced doors and take down guys twice your size without breaking a sweat, looking up at you with parted lips and blown-wide pupils because you have him pinned to the bed with nothing but your thighs and your audacity?
It makes you drunk with lust. Drunk with power. Drunk on the knowledge that you can tame him. That this beautiful nightmare of a man is lying beneath you, moaning your name.
Of course, at first, he tries to help.
Because he’s Bucky and therefore doesn’t know how to simply receive.
You start riding him properly, slow at first, finding the rhythm, enjoying the way his hands flex against your skin, and then his hips snap up hard.
You laugh, breathless and a little wrecked, and press your hands harder to his chest.
“No.”
Bucky freezes. “No?”
“No,” you say, leaning down until your lips brushes his. “Stop trying to do my job.”
His looks confused, flustered, and turned on beyond belief. “I was just—”
“I know what you were doing.” You kiss the corner of his mouth. “You were trying to take over.”
He swallows.
You sit back up, roll your hips deliberately, and watch his head press back into the pillow. “Let me ride you, Barnes.”
That shuts him up for about three seconds.
Then he makes a growl so deep and broken you feel it everywhere.
And that is how it begins: The glorious corruption of all his old-fashioned little ideas about what a man is supposed to do in bed.
Because once he realizes he is allowed to just lie there and let you want him, let you use him, let you take pleasure from his body while he gets to watch you come undone above him, he becomes addicted to it.
At first, he is almost shy about it.
He still offers to get on top. Still murmurs, “C’mere, sweetheart, let me take care of you,” because that is his default setting. That’s muscle memory. But then you push him back again.
And again.
And again.
And every time, he gives in a little faster.
Until eventually, it takes almost nothing.
All it takes is a hand on his chest and a “Lie back for me, baby.”
And Bucky’s gone.
He’s on his back, pillows messy behind his head, hair spread out, lips parted, eyes dark and dazed and fixed on you.
He is still strong, obviously. You never forget that. You know he could flip you over in a second.
But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to.
You love it so much it makes you a little insane.
You love watching the terrifying Winter Soldier become your sweet, desperate, ruined man in bed. You love the way his hands hover when you tell him not to touch yet. You love the way he groans when you finally guide them to your waist. You love that he blushes sometimes.
Actually blushes.
This man has survived wars and assassins and brainwashing and aliens, but you tell him he looks pretty like this and he turns pink to the tips of his ears.
“Don’t say that,” he mutters, even though his hands tighten on you.
“Why not?”
His jaw works. “Because.”
“Because you like it?”
He glares at you.
It is not intimidating at all, considering he’s underneath you, panting and letting you set the pace.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he says.
You grin. “Yes.”
You enjoy it too much. You enjoy him too much.
It’s not really just about sex, either.
It’s about trust.
It’s Bucky letting himself be wanted without earning it through service. It’s him learning that taking care of you doesn’t always mean doing all the work.
And fuck, does he learn.
He learns a little too well, maybe.
Because now he has preferences.
Now he has the audacity to look at you from the bed with those big, tragic blue eyes and his hair already messy against the pillow. He reaches for you lazily and says, “You coming here or not?”
He knows what it does to you when he lets the metal arm rest above his head, when his shirt rides up, when he looks at you like he’s already waiting to be ruined.
He’s still a gentleman about it.
He says please.
He says thank you against your mouth afterward, which should not be as hot as it is.
He still checks on you, pulls you close and rubs your back and kisses your shoulder and asks if you need water.
Sometimes, sure, he gets on top when you ask. Sometimes you want him over you, want that old Bucky sweetness, the low murmur of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you. And he gives it to you instantly.
But even then, there is a difference now.
Because that’s not his default setting anymore.
His default is now being told to lie down, because he likes being ridden until he forgets how to speak.
Bucky Barnes may have started out convinced he needed to be on top because that was what a man was supposed to do.
But now, more often than not, he is your pillow princess.
And honestly, he has never looked better.
—
Notes : Reminder! Short stories don’t have taglists <3
.⋆♱ summary: After a long week of work, all Joel wants is to relax in the arms of his sweet little wife. At least until you give him a haul of your new makeup purchases, and one small product stirs up trouble because of its name.
.⋆♱ a/n: This idea was born while I was going through my Sephora cart… So, yeah, that’s my excuse! By the way, I can’t believe I’ve already reached 238 followers... I’m gonna cry. This one is for my baby @pattwtf <𝟑 .ᐟ
.⋆♱ warnings: Smut at the very end, Obsessive! Joel (kinda…?), Soft Dom/Sub Elements, Makeup Kink, Mirror Sex, Repeated Orgasm Denial, Spanking, Pussy Slapping, Hand on Throat, Unprotected Sex, Creampie… And a lot of love! First time writing a complete sex scene btw (I'm scared)
.⋆♱ wc: 15.230 k
Friday had a way of loosening men up in all the worst ways.
By noon, the air smelled like cut lumber, diesel, sweat, and sawdust, the kind of smell that clung to skin long after the day was over. Hammers rang out in uneven bursts, a nail gun snapped somewhere near the back, and country music crackled low from a radio somebody had balanced on an upside down bucket by the porch steps.
Joel stood near the stack of framing lumber with a pencil tucked behind one ear and a tape measure hanging from his belt, scanning over the plans in his hand with the kind of focus that made most men think twice before interrupting him.
“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” one of the younger guys called from the far side of the site, loud enough for half the crew to hear. “If I’m takin’ her somewhere expensive, least she can do is not make me sit in the damn car for forty-five minutes waitin’ on her.”
A couple of snorts of laughter answered him.
Joel didn’t look up right away. He kept his eyes on the plans, jaw set, trying to decide whether the floor joists were gonna be a bigger problem than the mouths on his crew.
“She ain’t even late in a normal way,” another guy said, dragging a gloved hand across his forehead. “Nah, it’s always some little emergency. ‘Babe, I gotta redo my eyeliner.’ ‘Babe, I don’t like my hair.’” He pitched his voice higher in a cruel imitation. “I’m starvin’ by the time we leave the house.”
That got more laughter.
Tommy, who was up on the temporary decking checking measurements, sighed loud enough for Joel to hear. “Here we go.”
Joel still didn’t say anything.
He should have. He knew that. He knew the shape of this kind of conversation and exactly where it usually went. But sometimes, if you cut in too early, it only encourages idiots to perform for each other. Men like that got louder when they thought they had an audience.
“Mine puts on lipstick to go buy milk,” another one said. “Milk. From the damn grocery store. I told her, sweetheart, the dairy aisle is gonna fall in love with you.”
The laugh that followed was uglier than the last one.
Joel’s eyes lifted.
He knew these boys. That was the thing. Boys, most of them. Old enough to swing a hammer, young enough to still mistake being dismissive for being funny. He’d worked with all kinds over the years: good workers, lazy workers, drunks, hotheads, quiet ones, fools. The loudest were usually the least sure of themselves. Had to fill the air with something before anybody noticed there wasn’t much beneath it.
Still, that didn’t mean he had to listen to it.
“Hell,” the first one went on, encouraged now, “I don’t even get it. They complain they ain’t got enough time, then they spend two damn hours in the bathroom paintin’ themselves like they’re headed to some red carpet thing.”
Joel folded the plans once.
Another voice chimed in. “And then you gotta tell ’em they look pretty like you ain’t been lookin’ at the same face for three years.”
Tommy winced and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
That was enough.
Joel started walking before he even fully decided to. He stopped a few feet from the group gathered around the sawhorses—three of the younger subcontractors and one laborer with more confidence than sense—and looked at each of them in turn.
Nobody spoke.
Joel nodded once. “Y’all done?”
The guy in the baseball cap gave a half shrug, half grin that died fast under Joel’s stare. “We’re just talkin’, man.”
Joel’s face didn’t change. “Ain’t what I asked.”
Silence.
He slipped the folded plans under one arm. “I said, are y’all done.”
“Yeah,” one of them muttered.
Joel took another step closer. “Then maybe y’all can get back to work and quit runnin’ your mouths long enough to remember I’m payin’ you to build a house, not stand around bitchin’ about women who apparently still choose to go home with you.”
Tommy turned away, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide a grin.
One of the younger guys, John maybe, ducked his head. “We were kiddin’.”
Joel fixed him with a look. “That so?”
“Yes, sir.”
Joel hated being called sir. Normally he’d say so. Right now he let it stand.
He hooked his thumbs through his belt and looked between them. “Tell me somethin’. You got a woman at home who takes time gettin’ ready to go out with you, and your first thought is to complain?”
Nobody answered.
“That woman picked out a dress, did her hair, stood in front of a mirror decidin’ she wanted to look nice, and you somehow made that an inconvenience to you.” His voice stayed level, but the disappointment in it landed harder than if he’d shouted. “That what we’re doin’ now?”
The laborer with the red bandana shifted on his feet. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Joel’s eyes cut to him. “That’s usually when a man oughta think a little harder about what’s comin’ outta his mouth.”
Tommy climbed down from the decking, landing beside them with a thud. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t need to. He knew Joel well enough to hear the line in his voice that meant this wasn’t just irritation anymore.
Joel went on, “You wanna know what I hear?” He tapped two fingers against the rolled plans. “I hear a bunch of fools complainin’ that somebody gives enough of a damn to wanna look good standin’ next to ’em.”
That got their attention.
One of them tried to laugh it off. “It ain’t that deep, Joel.”
Joel turned his head slowly. “No?”
“No, I just mean—”
“I know what you mean.” He took a breath through his nose. “You mean you’re too young and too selfish to understand that not everything a woman does is for your convenience.”
The site has gone quiet now.
Even the men who hadn’t been part of the conversation were listening, pretending not to.
Joel looked down at the open toolbox on the sawhorse, then back at them. “Some of you got girlfriends. Some of you got wives. And near as I can tell, not one of you sounds near grateful enough for the women keepin’ your lives stitched together when you go home actin’ like this.”
Nobody met his eyes.
“Maybe she takes too long in the bathroom,” Joel said. “Maybe she changes clothes three times before dinner because she wants to feel pretty. That ain’t foolishness. That ain’t vanity. That’s her wantin’ to feel good in her own skin, and if your reaction to that is to stand around mockin’ her with other men, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”
Caleb swallowed. “We weren’t mockin’ them.”
Joel gave him a look so dry it bordered on pity. “Son, if you’re gonna lie, at least do it convincingly.”
Tommy barked a laugh and turned it into a cough.
A few of the older workers smirked into their sleeves.
Joel kept going, because now that he’d started, he knew exactly what was bothering him. It wasn’t just the words. It was the casualness of them. The way men could take something tender and make it small just because they didn’t know how to hold it properly.
“My wife,” he said, and that alone changed the air, made everybody listen closer, “can take as long as she damn well pleases gettin’ ready for anything she wants. Grocery store. Dinner. A walk down the block. I don’t care if she’s puttin’ on lipstick to sit in the livin’ room and watch television. If it matters to her, it matters. End of story.”
That landed.
Because when Joel spoke about you didn’t sound like a man making a point for the sake of winning. He sounded like a man stating a universal truth.
The laborer scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, but women don’t do all that for us anyway.”
Joel’s brow lifted. “Well, congratulations. That’s the first smart thing anybody’s said in five minutes.”
A few snickers broke the tension.
Joel didn’t smile. “No, they don’t do it all for you. That’s exactly the point. Maybe she does some of it for herself. Maybe it’s fun. Maybe it makes her feel confident. Maybe it’s the one damn thing in a day that’s just hers. And maybe instead of complainin’, you oughta learn enough respect to keep your mouth shut and tell her she looks beautiful.”
The man in the cap looked down at his boots. “Alright.”
Joel’s expression hardened. “That ‘alright’ better means somethin’.”
“It does.”
“Good.” He glanced between all of them. “Now pick up your tools and get back to work. We’re behind, and I’ve had about enough of hearin’ how burdensome it is that women continue to exist as full human beings.”
That actually got a real laugh, even from a couple of the guilty ones, though they had the decency to look embarrassed about it.
Joel let the silence sit a beat longer, then pointed at the framing on the east wall. “John, if you’ve got enough energy to complain, you’ve got enough to finish bracin’ that corner.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joel’s stare sharpened.
Caleb sighed. “Yes, Joel.”
“Better.”
The group broke apart at last, muttering to each other in lower voices now, heads down, hands moving quicker than before. Tommy stepped up beside Joel and watched them scatter back into usefulness.
For a second neither brother said anything.
Then Tommy glanced at him. “You feel better?”
Joel bent to grab the level off the sawhorse. “Not especially.”
Tommy’s mouth twitched. “You know they’re all scared of you now.”
“They oughta be scared of bein’ stupid in public.”
Tommy laughed under his breath. “That speech about your wife?” He nudged Joel with an elbow. “Bit dramatic.”
Joel shot him a look. “Wasn’t dramatic.”
“No?” Tommy grinned.
Joel set the level against the brace and adjusted it with one hand. “You got somethin’ useful to do, or you plannin’ on botherin’ me the rest of the afternoon?”
Tommy leaned against a stud, folding his arms. “I am doin’ somethin’ useful. I’m watchin’ you pretend that wasn’t personal.”
Joel didn’t bother looking at him. “Go measure somethin’.”
Tommy ignored that completely. “You thought about her, didn’t you?”
Joel checked the bubble on the level, shifted the brace half an inch. “I’m workin’.”
Tommy rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself now. “So when those idiots were yappin’ about women takin’ forever in the bathroom, you were thinkin’ about her sittin’ at the mirror?”
Joel let out a quiet breath and straightened. He should’ve known better than to engage. Tommy had the kind of nosiness only a younger brother could get away with, half affection and half appetite for trouble.
Joel grabbed the drill. “Tommy.”
His brother laughed. “Alright, alright.”
But he didn’t move away yet, and after a moment he said, softer this time, “You know, you were right.”
Joel glanced up and Tommy shrugged one shoulder.
Joel shook his head, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re annoyin’.”
“Runs in the family.”
Joel drove the screw in with more force than necessary. “Go to hell.”
Tommy laughed and pushed off the wall at last. “Can’t. I work for my brother.”
Joel watched him go, then looked back out across the site.
Work picked up again in the wake of the interruption. The radio came back into focus. Men shouted measurements, wood scraped against wood, someone swore after dropping a box of nails. The day moved on the way it always did, one task into the next, one hour bleeding into another until the sun shifted.
But Tommy was right.
Of course he’d thought about you.
He had the moment those boys started talking.
He could picture you too easily.
Standing in the bathroom in one of his old shirts, hair pinned back, leaning close to the mirror with that concentrated little crease between your brows. Sitting at your vanity—your vanity, the one he’d built with his own hands after seeing your face fall when the one you wanted sold out before he could order it—surrounded by brushes and powders and little bottles that all looked nearly identical to him and yet somehow never were. Looking over your shoulder to ask him which earring. Holding up two lipsticks and asking if one looked too dark. Smiling when he got the answer wrong but tried anyway.
He never mocked any of it. Never would.
Half the time he didn’t understand what half those products were for, but that had never seemed like a reason to dismiss them. They mattered because they were yours. Because they brought something bright into your face. Because he had learned, over the course of loving you, that attention was a kind of devotion all its own.
That was the part those boys didn’t get.
Loving somebody meant noticing. It meant learning the shape of their rituals, even the ones that didn’t belong to you. It meant understanding that intimacy wasn’t just the big things like the hospital visits, funerals, marriage vows, bad nights or worse mornings.
Sometimes it was remembering the exact height she liked a table because she tended to hunch if it sat too low. Sometimes it was sanding the edge of a drawer three extra times so it wouldn’t catch on her dress. Sometimes it was building something beautiful out of wood and patience because she had looked disappointed for all of two seconds and that had been enough to undo him.
Joel drove another screw into place and exhaled slowly.
He hadn’t meant to build the vanity quite as elaborate as he did.
At first, he’d only intended to make something simple. Clean lines, sturdy legs, decent storage. Then he’d remembered the way your face had lit up describing the one you’d wanted, the little details you liked, the mirror shape, the drawers, the finish. By the end of it, he’d spent nearly three weeks in the garage after work, pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself every time you wandered in and tried to peek beneath the tarp he kept throwing over it.
When he finally brought it inside, you’d looked at him like he’d hung the moon in the bedroom with his bare hands.
That expression had stayed with him. It still did.
“Joel!”
He turned at the shout.
One of the crew was waving him over near the back of the house. Something about the window framing looked off. He tucked the level under his arm and headed that way, slipping back into the rhythm of the job because there was always another problem to solve, another correction to make, another young man to stop from ruining good lumber with bad math.
The afternoon wore down by inches, the light changed and the heat eased. By the time they started packing up, Joel’s shirt was stuck to his back, his shoulders ached, and there was sawdust worked so deep into the lines of his hands it would take a brush to get it out.
He signed off on the delivery order for Monday, checked the lock on the storage trailer, and made sure the site was squared away before anybody left. Tommy came up beside him with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a half finished bottle of water in the other.
Tommy studied him for a moment. “You tell her about this?”
Joel frowned. “About what.”
“The little feminist awakening you had in front of the crew.”
Joel shot him a flat look. “That what you’re callin’ it?”
Tommy grinned. “I’m callin’ it funny as hell. And yeah. You should tell her. She’ll eat that up.”
Joel shook his head and started toward his truck. Tommy followed for a few steps before peeling off toward his own, still smiling to himself like he’d been handed some private joke he planned on keeping.
Joel climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let the quiet settle around him for a second. He dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes just long enough to feel the day in his bones. Then he started the engine and pulled out onto the road.
The drive home wasn’t long, but it was long enough for his thoughts to drift where they usually did at the end of the week.
To you.
Maybe you’d be on the couch with a blanket over your legs and an episode of the Gilmore Girls half watched because you’d been waiting for the sound of his truck.
God, he could picture it so clearly it almost made his chest ache.
He thought, not for the first time that day, that the men back on that site had no idea how lucky they were if there was somebody waiting for them at all. They have no idea what a privilege it was to be known that intimately by another person. To have your favorite plate set out before you asked. To be greeted by the sound of their voice from the next room.
Joel flexed one hand on the steering wheel.
He thought of you in front of a mirror again.
Of your careful hands. Your patience. The little pleasure you took in things most men would dismiss because they had never learned how to look properly. He thought of how easy it was, in a world this ugly, to sneer at softness just because you didn’t know what to do with it.
He also thought, with a private heaviness he never quite voiced, of how much of your life lived in those little rituals. The tender ordinary things. The things he catalogued without meaning to. The products lined up on the vanity. The order you used them in. The brushes you reached for first. The colors you favored when you were happy, or when you were quiet, or when you wanted him to notice.
Joel always noticed.
And somewhere deep beneath that noticing lived the old anxiety he carried like a second spine, the one that made him prepare for loss even in the middle of joy. It came uninvited, as it always did, whispering its ugly what ifs into the back of his mind. What if one day you were too tired. What if one day your hands hurt. What if one day life turned cruel in some new and inventive way and you couldn’t do these things for yourself anymore.
He hated those thoughts. Hated the shape of them. Hated that fear had taught his mind to brace for impact even when nothing was wrong.
But still he learned.
The names of things. The purpose of things. The order of them. Not because he expected praise for it, and not because he ever intended to say any of this aloud. Only because if the world ever tried to take some small comfort from you, Joel wanted his hands ready, wanted to know enough to step in gently and give it back.
His throat tightened a little, and he swallowed it down.
By the time he turned onto your street, the sun was lower, the sky softening into streaks of amber and pale blue. Home came into view steady and familiar, porch light not yet on, the windows warm with the first signs of evening.
Joel eased the truck into the driveway and killed the engine.
For a second he stayed where he was, one hand still on the wheel, looking at the house like he did every now and then when the day had been long enough to make him feel the full weight of what waited inside it.
His true home.
Then he got out, shut the truck door, and headed for the front porch with sawdust on his boots, tiredness in his shoulders, and the faintest trace of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth for no reason other than the simple fact that he was almost home.
You.
He pushed the front door open with one hand, already loosening up a little at the simple fact of stepping inside, and was met at once by warmth, soft lamplight, and the unmistakable smell of something good waiting in the kitchen. Then, Joel set his keys in the bowl by the door and shrugged out of his jacket.
“Honey?” he called, voice carrying low through the quiet.
“In here!”
Something in your tone made him pause.
A kind of carefully held excitement you were trying, and failing, to disguise as casual. Joel’s mouth pulled almost into a smile before he even saw you. He followed your voice into the kitchen and found you standing near the stove.
There you are, he thought, with that immediate, quiet hit of relief he never quite got used to.
You turned when he appeared in the doorway, and your face lit in a way that still undid him a little, no matter how many times he came home to it. “Hi.”
Joel leaned one shoulder against the frame for a second, just looking at you. “Hi, baby.”
He heard the roughness in his own voice and saw the way your eyes softened at it.
You crossed to him without hesitation, and he opened an arm automatically, catching you against him with all the ease of a long habit. Your hands slid around his middle carefully, as though you knew exactly where the day tended to settle in him, and his palm spread over your back. He bent to kiss the top of your head first, breathing you in, then your temple, then finally your mouth, the kind of kiss that means that he was finally at home now, and home meant you.
“You smell good,” you murmured against his mouth.
Joel huffed a tired laugh. “Smell like sawdust.”
“But it's sexy,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.
That did make him smile. His thumb brushed once at your waist. “That so?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He let his gaze move over your face, lingering a beat too long because something about you felt gently charged tonight.“You been waitin’ on me?”
You widened your eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Maybe.”
Joel studied you. “That look usually means you’re hidin’ somethin’.”
You gasped softly. “I’m offended.”
“No, you ain’t.”
You tried not to grin and failed. Joel watched the smile break across your face and had the strange, familiar thought that if he died tomorrow, this would be the shape of heaven in his head. You in the kitchen, looking pleased with yourself. The light warm on your skin. The house quiet around you both. Something cooking. The weekend beginning at the edges of the room like a blessing neither of you had earned but both of you needed.
He brushed his knuckles along your cheek. “What’s for dinner?”
Your whole expression brightened. “Sit down and I’ll show you.”
That got a low chuckle out of him. “Bossy.”
“Just tonight.”
“That’d be a first.”
You swatted lightly at his arm, laughing, and he caught your wrist before you could move away, tugging you in just enough to kiss you once more, this time with a little more intent, enough to make your breath catch and your fingers curl against his shirt. Then he let you go before either of you leaned too far into it, because there was still dinner on the stove and because he knew that if he stood there kissing you too long after a week like this one, he might never make it to the table.
He washed up at the sink while you moved around the kitchen putting the last things together, and Joel watched you in the window reflection while the water ran over his hands. You kept glancing at him like you had something else to say. Something you were sitting on. He knew you well enough to spot the tells now; the little smile you bit back for no reason, the extra care you took with the plates, the way your body seemed almost too still whenever you were trying not to blurt something out too soon.
“You gonna tell me what’s got you lookin’ like that?” he asked, drying his hands on the dish towel.
You set a plate down. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about two seconds from spoilin’ your own surprise.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joel pulled out his chair and sat, eyes never leaving you. “Baby.”
You laughed, soft and guilty, and finally brought the plates over. “Fine. Maybe I’m just happy it’s Friday.”
He accepted that with a slight tilt of his head, though they both knew that wasn’t all of it. “That much, I believe.”
Joel took the first bite of the tender meat you've cooked for him and closed his eyes for half a second before he meant to.
You noticed, of course.
“That good?” you asked, trying not to sound too pleased.
He opened his eyes and looked at you over the table. “You fishin’?”
“Yes.”
Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, chewing, making a deliberate show of considering it. “Might be the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”
You laughed, and the sound of it loosened something in him he hadn’t realized was still tight.
That was the thing about Friday nights with you. The workweek wore him down and you gathered him back together. Not all at once. Just piece by piece. A hot meal. Your voice across the table. Your foot brushing his under it. The look on your face when he reached for a second helping like he hadn’t spent the whole drive home pretending he wasn’t hungry.
He told you a little about work. Not too much. Just enough for you to follow the shape of his day. A delivery that came late. A measurement that had to be redone because somebody hadn’t listened the first time. Tommy nearly stepping backward off the decking because he’d turned around too fast while arguing with one of the electricians.
You laughed at that. “Was he hurt?”
“No.”
“Then I can laugh.”
“You already were.”
“I know.”
Joel watched you talk, watched your hands move when you got animated, watched the way you leaned in when you were interested in something he’d said as though there might still be new things to learn about him after all this time. It made something warm and almost painful spread low in his chest. He’d never been very good at making speeches about love. But if anybody had asked him where most of his peace lived, he would’ve had to point right here. To this table. To your voice. To your company at the end of the day.
At some point your foot slid against his calf beneath the table and stayed there.
Joel’s eyes flicked up.
You were smiling down at your plate, pretending not to notice what you’d done.
His mouth twitched. “You bein’ sweet, or are you up to somethin’?”
You looked up, all innocence again. “Can’t it be both?”
He held your gaze for a beat, then reached for his glass. “That answer concerns me.”
“It should.”
He laughed under his breath.
When the plates were nearly empty you rose to clear the table but when Joel started to stand with you out of instinct, you pointed at him.
“Sit.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I mean it. You worked all day. Sit there.”
Joel settled back slowly, one brow raised. “You order me around awfully easy for somebody this small.”
You gathered up the dishes with a smile. “And yet you listen.”
“Sometimes.”
“Most times.”
He gave you a dry look. “Don’t push it.”
You disappeared into the kitchen with the plates, and he sat there listening to the music of you moving around… water running, cabinets opening, cutlery clinking softly against ceramic. Domestics sounds. He loved them with a ferocity he kept mostly to himself.
When you came back, you weren’t empty handed.
Joel’s eyes dropped to the plate you set in front of him, and he went still for half a second.
Not just any pie. Apple pie. His favorite. Still slightly warm, the crust golden, the scent of cinnamon and butter rising up before it had even properly touched the table.
You folded back into your seat trying and failing to look casual. “There’s ice cream too, if you want it.”
Joel looked from the plate to you. “You made pie?”
Your expression softened. “I did.”
“For me.”
The corners of your mouth lifted. “Well, I don’t know many people who get this emotional about apple pie, so yes. For you.”
Something in his face must have shifted, because your own expression gentled further.
Joel glanced back down at the dessert and let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. “Christ.”
“What?”
He looked at you again. “Nothin’.” His voice came out lower than before. “Just… thank you, baby.”
You leaned your chin into your hand. “You’re welcome.”
He took a bite, closed his eyes and opened them again. “That’s real good.”
Your smile went luminous. “Yeah?”
“Mm.” Another bite. “Dangerously good.”
You watched him with such open fondness it made him shake his head a little and look back at the plate, because being adored that plainly still makes him blush some days.
“There’s more,” you said after a moment, like you couldn’t possibly hold it in any longer.
Joel looked up, chewing slowly. “More pie?”
You laughed. “No. Although yes, there’s more pie. But that’s not what I meant.”
He set his fork down. “Alright. Go on.”
Your eyes brightened immediately. “I restocked everything.”
He frowned mildly, trying to follow. “Everything.”
“For the weekend.” You started counting off on your fingers. “Coffee. The good kind you like.”
Joel felt an involuntary little stab of gratitude so strong it was almost ridiculous. “You got coffee.”
“I got coffee,” you confirmed. “And beer.”
His brow lifted. “Beer too, huh?”
“And your barbecue chips. And the pretzels you pretend you don’t like that much but somehow always eat. And those peanuts Tommy keeps stealing every time he comes over.”
Joel stared at you for a second, then leaned back in his chair with a quiet exhale, one hand coming up to scrub over his beard. “You’ve been busy.”
Your face softened into something tender. “I wanted you to have a nice weekend.”
There it was again, that precise, deadly thing you did to him without even trying. You said simple sentences that landed somewhere deep because they carried more than the words themselves. I wanted you to have a nice weekend. As if his comfort was something worth planning for. As if the shape of his rest mattered enough for you to think ahead about coffee and snacks and the exact beer he reached for first.
Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he said, quieter, “C’mere.”
You got up at once and crossed the space between you, and he drew you gently between his knees, one hand settling at your hip while the other curved around the back of your thigh. He tipped his head back to look at you properly. Your hair had fallen forward a little, your expression open and sweet and expectant, and the simple sight of you there, taking such obvious pleasure in taking care of him, nearly undid him.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said.
“I know.”
His thumb rubbed once over the fabric at your side. “Then why’d you?”
You looked at him like the answer was the easiest thing in the world. “Because I love you.”
Joel’s throat moved.
He knew better than most men how dangerous those words could be when spoken carelessly. How people used them as decoration. As habit. As currency. But you never did. When you said them, you meant them all the way through.
He rested his forehead briefly against your stomach and let the quiet sit. Then he leaned back enough to press a kiss there through your shirt, right above your navel, and felt the little shiver that ran through you.
“You keep this up,” he murmured, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ again that you’re after somethin’.”
You smiled down at him, fingers slipping into his hair. “Maybe I just missed you.”
That, too, he believed.
Joel turned his face and pressed another kiss to the heel of your palm before letting you go. “Alright,” he said, clearing his throat a little as you stepped back. “Now I’m definitely suspicious.”
You laughed, gathered the pie plate, and turned away before he could see too much of whatever was passing over your face. Joel watched you go, watched the sway of your body as you moved around the kitchen, watched the little lightness in you that had only grown since he came through the door.
He knew now with certainty that you had something planned, he just didn’t yet know what shape it would take.
Once everything was cleaned up and the kitchen restored to order, the evening softened around the two of you. Joel checked the locks out of habit, turned off the extra lights, and came back to find you already collecting his towel from the linen closet before he could ask for it. He took it from your hands with a low, amused noise.
“Baby, I can get my own towel.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why am I bein’ supervised?”
You stepped closer and smoothed a hand over the front of his work shirt, over the dust and wrinkles and the tiredness still hanging off him. “Because you’ve had a long week.”
Joel looked down at you. “And?”
“And because I like taking care of you.”
His expression shifted into something softer, more serious. “I know you do.”
You held his gaze for a moment too long, and once again that same curious charge moved through the room. Not enough to name yet. Just enough to feel.
Joel tipped your chin up with two fingers and kissed you slowly, until your body leaned into his and the hem of his shirt bunched a little in your fists. When he pulled back, he lingered close enough that your breath still crossed his mouth.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said.
You nodded. “Okay.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You say that like you’re plannin’ somethin’ while I’m gone.”
You widened your eyes. “Maybe I’m just going to… fold laundry.”
Joel let out a short laugh. “That lie was insultin’.”
“Go shower, Miller.”
The way you said it, bossy and faintly pleased with yourself, made him shake his head as he turned toward the hallway. “Yes, ma’am.”
He heard your little triumphant laugh behind him all the way to the bathroom.
The shower was hot enough to ache pleasantly over his sore body. Joel stood under it longer than usual, one hand braced on the tile, letting the day rinse off him in layers. The dust fell away first, then sweat, then whatever lingering irritation had stayed with him from the workplace. By the time he stepped out, the mirror had fogged over, and the house beyond the bathroom door had gone quiet in that particular evening way that meant you were no longer puttering around downstairs.
He dried off, wrapped the towel low around his waist, and dragged one hand through his damp hair before stepping into the bedroom.
And stopped.
You were waiting for him.
Not in bed, not curled up under the covers with a Jane Austen book or half asleep with the lamp on. You were seated at the bedroom vanity with your back mostly to the door, posture straight, legs crossed at the ankle, like you’d been there long enough to settle into the moment. The vanity itself caught the warm glow from the bedside lamp making you look almost ethereal. He looked at the whole scene at once and felt something inside him go very still.
You’d changed into a nightgown while he was in the shower, your hair arranged just so, your expression reflected in the mirror as you looked at him through it with a smile too small to be innocent.
Joel stayed by the bathroom door for a second, towel slung low, water still cooling on his shoulders. “There it is.”
You turned slightly in the chair. “There what is?”
“The surprise.”
You tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He huffed a laugh, already moving toward the bed. “Sure you don’t.”
Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, elbows resting loosely on his knees for a second as he took you in. Then his gaze dropped to the box in your lap—black and white stripes, tissue paper peeking out the top—and his mouth twitched.
“Sephora,” he said.
Your face brightened at once. “I went today.”
“I can see that.”
“You said I should get myself something nice.”
“I did.”
“And I listened.”
That made him smile properly now. “I’m learnin’ that can be dangerous.”
You angled the box toward yourself protectively. “No take backs now, Miller.”
“Ain’t askin’ for any.”
He leaned back slightly, one hand braced on the bedspread, and watched as your fingers slipped beneath the tissue paper with excitement. He recognized that look on you too. The one that made you seem younger and softer all at once.
You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to see?”
Joel’s eyes moved from your face to the box and back again. “Baby, you know I got no earthly clue what half that stuff is.”
“I know,” you said sweetly. “That’s why I’m going to explain it to you.”
He laughed under his breath and settled in, already knowing he was done for. “Alright, then.”
And because it was you asking, because it mattered to you, because he loved the sound of your voice when you got excited about something, Joel gave you his full attention.You shifted in the chair until you were facing him a little more fully, one leg tucking beneath you, the Sephora box still balanced carefully in your lap like something precious. Joel stayed where he was at the edge of the bed, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, towel slung low around his waist, watching you with attention.
You dipped a hand into the box and pulled out the first item. “Okay. We’re starting easy.”
Joel’s mouth twitched. “That suggests we ain’t stayin’ easy.”
“We are not.”
He nodded once, resigned already. “Go on, then.”
You held up a sleek bottle. “This is primer.”
Joel frowned faintly. “Primer.”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his thighs. “Like paint.”
You stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Well, it’s called primer.”
“It is not a paint primer.”
Joel tipped his head. “How do I know that?”
“Because this one costs thirty eight dollars and if I ever put it on a wall, you’d have me committed.”
That earned a low laugh out of him.
He reached for the bottle, and you handed it over. Joel turned it in his hand, studying the label with the seriousness of a man trying very hard not to look like he was reading another language. “So what’s it do?”
“It goes on before makeup.”
“Hence the name.”
You squinted at him. “You can either be respectful during my presentation, or I can pack everything up and go to bed.”
“Presentation?” he repeated, eyes warm now. “Baby, are you givin’ me a seminar?”
“Yes.” You folded your arms. “And if you’re lucky there’ll be a practical demonstration.”
Joel’s gaze flickered over your face for half a second, before he handed the bottle back. “Now that sounds promisin’.”
You ignored the way your stomach fluttered and went on. “Primer makes everything sit better on the skin. It helps smooth things out, helps makeup last longer, and sometimes it gives you a certain finish.”
He blinked. “A finish.”
“Yes. Glowy. Matte. Blurring. Hydrating.”
Joel was quiet for a second. “That all different from just… face?”
You laughed. “Yes, Joel, that is different from just face.”
He gave a solemn nod. “Alright. Good to know.”
You placed the primer on the vanity and reached into the box again. “Next: concealer.”
Joel watched the little tube appear in your hand. “Lemme guess. Covers somethin’.”
You pointed at him. “See? This is good. You’re learning.”
He leaned back a little, smug enough to annoy you. “I ain’t dumb, darlin’.”
“I didn’t say you were dumb.”
“Your tone did.”
“My tone is educational.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
Joel’s smile deepened, but he let you continue.
“Concealer can be for dark circles, redness, blemishes, whatever.”
His brow furrowed almost immediately. “You don’t have any of those things on your pretty face, baby.”
You stared at him, then softened a little despite yourself. “That’s sweet, but that’s not the point.”
He looked genuinely unconvinced. “Seems like the point exactly.”
“No.” You set the concealer down with a small huff. “The point is not fixing some horrible flaw. It’s just… enhancement. Evening things out. Playing around. Feeling put together.”
Joel nodded slowly, eyes still on your face. “Alright.”
You narrowed yours. “You still look like you disagree.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I can disagree privately.”
“You are not disagreeing privately. Your whole face is disagreeing.”
A laugh escaped him then. “You know my face too well.”
“I do.”
That landed softly between you.
Joel’s gaze stayed on you and you had the strange feeling that he was not just watching you talk… he was memorizing you. The way your fingers handled each item. The way your voice changed when you were explaining something you liked. The way you lit up when he listened properly.
He did listen properly. That was the thing.
You cleared your throat and reached for the next item before the moment got too soft to bear. “Okay. This one is blush.”
Joel nodded. “I know blush.”
“Oh?”
He gestured vaguely toward his own cheekbones. “Pink.”
You blinked at him. “That is both offensively simple and, unfortunately, correct.”
He looked pleased with himself.
You held up a compact and opened it, letting him see the soft rosy color inside. “Blush goes on the cheeks. Sometimes a little on the nose too. Depends on the look.”
“The look,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“You got multiple looks?”
You gave him a flat stare. “Joel.”
“What? I’m askin’ questions.”
“Of course I have multiple looks.”
He held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”
You turned slightly toward the mirror and tapped your cheek. “Blush can make you look healthy, fresh, sweet, sunkissed, romantic—”
Joel interrupted. “Sweet.”
You glanced back. “Yes.”
He tilted his head. “You already look sweet.”
Your expression betrayed you then, a little smile creeping in despite your best efforts. “You can’t just say things like that in the middle of my explanation.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m trying to be serious.”
Joel looked at you for a beat, taking in your face, your excitement, the slight pink that had risen in your cheeks before you’d even put any actual blush on. “That may be the problem right there, baby.”
You laughed softly and reached into the box again. “Fine. No more compliments until the end.”
“That doesn't sound natural.”
“It’s a rule now.”
“Seems harsh.”
“You’ll survive.”
He considered that. “Debatable.”
You had to look away for a second because the sight of him sitting there barely dressed, all broad shoulders and damp hair and sleepy amusement, making himself the world’s most attentive audience for a makeup breakdown, was almost too lovely to process in one go.
You pulled out a small palette next.
Joel squinted. “That one looks expensive.”
Your face changed instantly. “It was a little expensive.”
“A little.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He extended a hand. “Lemme see.”
You passed it over carefully, and Joel turned the compact in his fingers. The palette was heavier than he expected, the case clicking softly when he opened it. Inside were shades of brown, gold, rose, and deep muted plum, each one arranged so prettily it almost did make sense that you’d looked delighted pulling it out of the bag earlier.
He studied it in silence for a moment.
Then, very seriously: “These are all nearly the same color.”
Your mouth fell open. “Joel!”
“What?”
“They are not.”
He looked at the palette again, then back at you. “Baby, I’m lookin’ at seven versions of brown.”
You snatched it from him with exaggerated offense. “This is taupe. This is a soft rose. This is bronze. This is a champagne shimmer. This one is mauve.”
Joel blinked slowly. “That last one was definitely still brown.”
“It was not.”
“Looked brown from here.”
“You are impossible.”
He grinned then. “Maybe. But I’m listenin’.”
You held the palette protectively against your chest. “Eyeshadow,” you informed him, in the tone of someone recovering from a great insult, “is what you put on your eyelids.”
“I gathered.”
“It can change the whole mood of a look.”
He raised a brow. “Can it?”
“Yes. Soft. Smoky. Dramatic. Fresh. Sultry.”
Joel’s expression altered at that last word, barely. “Sultry, huh?”
You pretended not to notice. “Yes.”
“And you’re sayin’ that like it’s a normal thing to tell me while sittin’ there lookin’ like that.”
“Like what?”
He looked you over once, slowly enough to make your pulse jump, then brought his eyes back to your face. “Like you know exactly what you’re doin’.”
The silence that followed lasted a beat too long.
Then you cleared your throat again. “Anyway. Moving on.”
Joel let out a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.
You pulled out a fluffy brush, and his brow furrowed. “That one for paint too?”
You gasped. “Joel!”
“I’m kiddin’.”
“No, you’re not. You think all of this is construction supplies in disguise.”
He looked at the brush. “You gotta admit there’s some overlap.”
“There is absolutely no overlap.”
“That primer still sounds suspicious.”
You shook your head, smiling helplessly now. “This is an eyeshadow brush.”
He gave the brush a dubious look. “Seems too soft to do much.”
“It’s not supposed to do much. It’s supposed to blend.”
“Blend what?”
“The eyeshadow.”
Joel leaned back and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Alright, hold on. So first you put color on your eyelid.”
“Yes.”
“Then you use another tool to sort of… smear it around.”
“It is not smearing. It is blending.”
He nodded gravely. “My mistake.”
You pointed the brush at him. “Mock me again and I’ll use this against you.”
Joel looked at the brush, then at you. “Sweetheart, I am not afraid of a tiny fluffy weapon.”
You fought a smile and lost badly. “You should be.”
“What, you gonna do my makeup in my sleep?”
That image hit you so suddenly and vividly that you nearly laughed. “Honestly? You’d look gorgeous.”
“Would I?”
“Yes. Maybe a nice neutral eye to enhance your hazel eyes or something soft and romantic with berry tones.”
Joel gave you a long look. “You flirtin’ with me or threatenin’ me?”
“Bit of both.”
“Mm.”
His voice dropped on that little hum in a way you very deliberately chose not to think about too hard.
Instead, you kept digging through the box and grabbed a lipstick. “Okay. This one you know.”
Joel’s gaze landed on the tube and warmed immediately with recognition. “Now that one I know.”
You looked pleased. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He pointed lazily. “That’s similar to the color you wear when we go out somewhere nice.”
You paused.
Then slowly: “What?”
Joel shrugged, like this was obvious. “The darker one.”
You blinked at him. “You know this shade?”
“Could pick it out in a lineup.”
You stared.
His expression shifted, a little wary now. “What?”
“Joel.”
“What.”
You turned fully toward him on the stool, lipstick in hand. “Are you telling me you can identify my lipstick shades?”
He frowned as if the question itself were strange. “Some of ’em.”
“Some of them?”
“Well, not by all the names,” he said. “Those names are ridiculous.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean, ridiculous?”
He held out a hand, and when you passed him the tube he read the label aloud with a face like he was being personally offended by it. “‘Rosewood Whisper.’” He looked up. “That’s not a lipstick shade. That’s some fancy car freshener scent.”
You laughed so hard you had to grab the edge of the vanity.
Joel kept going, encouraged now. “Y’all never just call somethin’ red. No. It’s ‘midnight garnet seduction’ or ‘velvet sin’ or ‘spiced fig dream.’ Sounds like a fancy cocktail menu.”
You were laughing openly now, shoulders shaking.
He pointed the lipstick at you. “And I’m right.”
“You are a menace.”
“I’m observant.”
“That is not the word I would’ve used.”
Joel smiled and handed it back. “It’s the one I’m usin’.”
You twisted the lipstick up and held it near your mouth. “So which one is this, then?”
He squinted. “That’s not the darker dinner one.”
“No.”
“And it’s not the peachy one you wear with that cream sweater.”
Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
Joel blinked once. “What.”
“You know the peachy one?”
He shifted slightly on the bed, suddenly looking like a man who had stumbled into revealing more than intended. “Baby, I got eyes.”
“No, no. That’s not just eyes. That’s data collection.”
A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. “You say that like it’s criminal.”
“It is deeply suspicious.”
Joel looked down, then back up at you. “You want me not to notice?”
It got you in the chest a little.
Your voice softened without permission. “No.”
He nodded once. “Then I'll keep noticing.”
You looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the mirror before he could see too much on your face. “Well,” you said, trying for lightness and getting only halfway there, “for the record, this one is newer.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And it’s not for every day.”
Joel watched your reflection. “Special occasion?”
You glanced at him in the mirror. “Maybe.”
His eyes held yours there for one quiet second before you broke the look and set the lipstick down.
You reached for another item. “Okay, next: highlighter.”
Joel exhaled. “That one also sounds like office supplies.”
“It does not.”
“It absolutely does.”
“It makes the high points of the face catch the light.”
He nodded slowly. “Now that, I understand.”
You blinked. “Really?”
“Sure.” He pointed gently toward you. “Bit on the cheekbone. Maybe here.” He gestured near the inner corners of his own eyes with shocking accuracy. “Makes things brighter.”
You stared at him, deadpan.
Joel’s mouth twitched. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”
“How do you know that?”
He shifted one shoulder. “Seen you do it.”
“When?”
His expression was almost offended now. “What d’you mean, when?”
You let out a breathy laugh. “No, I just—I don’t know. I didn’t realize you were paying that much attention.”
Joel went quiet.
Then he said as a matter of fact, “I pay attention to you all the time.”
The words settled over the room.
There was no vanity in the way he said it. He sounded like a man stating something as ordinary and unremarkable as the weather, when to you it felt like being handed his heart in the simplest possible form.
You swallowed. “I know.”
His gaze lingered on your reflection. “Do you?”
The question was gentle enough to hurt.
You looked down at the highlighter in your hand, then set it beside the rest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”
Joel didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, something tender moving beneath the calm of his face, and then the moment loosened because he cleared his throat and tipped his chin toward the clutter spreading over the vanity.
“So how much of that did you buy?”
You laughed, grateful for the release. “Rude.”
“I’m serious.”
“You told me to treat myself.”
“I did not expect to finance a full cosmetic expansion.”
“Expansion,” you repeated, grinning.
“Looks expensive enough to be one.”
You picked up two little containers. “These were mini sizes.”
Joel narrowed his eyes. “That means they’re small.”
“Yes.”
“Not cheap.”
You sighed. “No.”
He nodded like a man whose suspicions had been confirmed. “Thought so.”
You held up another gloss tube. “This one was on sale.”
He gave you a long look.
“It was!”
“That phrase’s dangerous in your mouth.”
“It’s not dangerous.”
“Darlin, every time you say somethin’ was on sale, somehow three bags appear.”
You put a hand to your chest. “I can’t believe you’d stereotype me like this in my own bedroom.”
Joel laughed and the sound of it curled around you like a warm blanket.
He rubbed his hand over his beard and nodded toward the products. “Alright. So what else we got.”
You brightened immediately and began lining them up in order like you were preparing to teach a masterclass. “Skincare.”
Joel made a face.
You caught it instantly. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say nothin’.”
“Your face said enough.”
He leaned back on one arm. “How many steps?”
You looked away. “That depends.”
Joel groaned quietly. “Baby.”
“It depends on the night.”
“That means too many.”
“It does not mean too many.”
“How many.”
You started counting under your breath. “Cleanser. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream if I feel like it. Sometimes an exfoliant, but not every night, obviously. And then if my skin is dry, maybe—”
Joel held up a hand. “I blacked out halfway through that.”
You laughed. “No, you didn’t.”
“Felt like I did.”
“Skincare is important.”
He gave you a skeptical look. “You’re twenty seven, not ninety.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
He watched you for a second, then asked with suspicious sincerity, “Is that why there are so many tiny bottles in the bathroom that all look exactly the same?”
You gasped. “They do not look exactly the same.”
“They absolutely do.”
“That one has niacinamide.”
He stared.
You lifted another. “This one has hyaluronic acid.”
He kept staring.
You held up a third. “And this one is peptides.”
Joel blinked once, then slowly dragged a hand down his face. “You just cast a spell at me.”
You burst out laughing.
“I’m serious,” he said, though he was smiling too now. “That sounded illegal… like drugs and that stuff.”
“It’s not illegal, it’s skincare.”
“Same difference.”
You shook your head, still smiling, and then your fingers dipped back into the box one more time.
Joel watched your expression change before the product even cleared the tissue paper.
His brows lifted. “What’s that look for?”
You bit back a grin. “Nothing.”
“Sweetheart.”
You looked over your shoulder at him with eyes far too innocent. “This one’s just… funny.”
Joel straightened a little. “Funny how?”
You held the tube in your hand but didn’t show him yet.
He narrowed his gaze. “Why’re you hidin’ it?”
“Because you’re going to be immature.”
Joel actually looked offended. “I am never immature.”
You stared at him.
He waited.
Then one corner of your mouth lifted. “That was embarrassing for both of us.”
A laugh escaped him. “Alright, fine. Little bit.”
“Little bit,” you echoed, unconvinced.
You turned the tube in your fingers, smiling to yourself now, and Joel could already tell from the expression on your face that whatever came next was going to amuse you entirely too much.
He shifted closer to the edge of the bed without even meaning to, curiosity plain on his face now. “C’mon, then. Lemme see.”
You looked at him, still grinning. “Promise you’ll behave?”
Joel met your eyes. “No.”
That made you laugh again and you lifted the last item slowly, ready to show him the thing you already knew was going to make him lose it.You held it up between two fingers with a grin you were making absolutely no effort to hide now, the little metallic pink tube catching the warm bedroom light as you turned it toward him.
Joel squinted at the label.
Then he went very still.
His eyes moved across the words once. Twice.
And then, exactly as predicted, he barked out a laugh so sudden and unguarded it startled even him.
You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”
That only made it worse.
Joel bent forward, one hand over his mouth now, shoulders shaking as the laugh hit him again, deeper this time, rough and helpless and impossible to stop. He looked up at you with tears of amusement practically threatening in the corners of his eyes and repeated, disbelieving, “Better Than Sex?”
You stared at him, trying very hard to look stern and getting nowhere. “Joel.”
“Baby.” He shook his head and laughed again. “No. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be respectful, I do, but that is the dumbest damn name I ever heard in my life.”
“It is not dumb.”
“It is ridiculous.”
“It’s marketing!”
“Marketing by a thirteen year old boy, maybe.”
You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your own smile and failed miserably. “You said you were going to behave.”
“I very specifically did not promise that.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to be mean.”
Joel sat up a little straighter, still grinning, and held out a hand. “Lemme see it.”
You hesitated just long enough to make a point, then passed it over. He took the tube carefully, turning it in his fingers like maybe the name would somehow become less absurd if he looked at it from another angle but it did not.
He read it aloud again, slower, like he was trying to understand how a real company with a real boardroom and real adult employees had come to this decision. “‘Better Than Sex.’” He looked up at you. “There was nobody in that office brave enough to stop this?”
You laughed despite yourself. “Apparently not.”
Joel stared down at the tube. “Who approved that?”
“People smarter than us, probably.”
“No, ma’am.” He handed it back with quiet authority. “Ain’t no smart person names a mascara after sex.”
You took it from him, smiling now. “That’s because you don’t understand branding.”
He leaned back on the bed again, one hand braced behind him, expression dry. “Then explain it to me.”
You drew in a dramatic breath and straightened in the chair like you were about to defend a thesis. “Alright. The point is not that the mascara is literally better than sex.”
Joel immediately cut in. “Well, that’s disappointin’, because that is very much what they printed on the tube.”
You glared at him. “Would you let me finish?”
He made a little go ahead gesture with his fingers, though the smile was still pulling at one corner of his mouth.
“The point,” you repeated, “is that it promises drama.”
Joel’s expression remained skeptical. “Drama.”
“Yes. Big lashes. Volume. Length. Impact.” You held the tube up between you both like a piece of courtroom evidence. “It’s not subtle. It wants attention.”
He looked from the mascara to you. “So the mascara is flirtin’.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I hate that you made that sound logical.”
Joel’s mouth twitched. “Ain’t wrong.”
You rolled your eyes and unscrewed the tube, pulling the wand out with a soft wet click. “Look.”
He leaned forward instinctively, curious despite himself now, watching as you angled the wand so he could see the brush.
Joel frowned. “That’s it?”
You looked at him. “What do you mean, that’s it?”
“It’s just a little spiky stick.”
“It is not a spiky stick.”
He pointed. “That’s absolutely a spiky stick.”
“It’s a mascara wand.”
Joel nodded once, solemn again. “That’s what I said.”
You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself, and turned toward the mirror. “You are impossible to educate.”
“Yet you persist.”
“Because I’m committed.”
“To what, exactly.”
“Improving you.”
Joel’s low laugh followed you into the mirror. “Good luck with that.”
You angled closer to the glass and lifted the wand to your lashes. “Okay. So mascara darkens them, lengthens them, thickens them—ideally.”
“‘Ideally’ don’t sound confident.”
“Because some mascaras clump.”
Joel frowned. “Clump.”
“Yes.”
“That bad?”
“It can be.”
He was quiet for a second. “How many problems y’all got in that industry?”
You laughed under your breath. “More than you could possibly understand.”
He watched your reflection carefully as you started applying the mascara with slow, practiced movements, the brush catching at the roots and pulling upward. Joel had seen you do this before, of course. More than once. But there was something different about being invited into it this closely, being talked through the steps like he belonged there in the middle of the ritual instead of merely passing by the doorway while it happened.
He found himself following every little motion.The steadiness of your hand. The slight concentration in your face. The way your eyes widened a touch as the lashes separated and darkened.
“Waterproof,” you reminded him, glancing at him through the mirror.
Joel nodded. “That part I understand.”
“Do you.”
“Sure. Means it won’t run if it gets wet.”
“Exactly.”
He folded one arm across his chest. “Good for rain.”
You smiled. “Yes.”
“Cryin’.”
“Yes.”
“Humid weather.”
“Yes.”
Joel considered that, then squinted at the tube as if he could extract more information from sheer suspicion. “And that’s it?”
You took your time with the other eye, far too aware now of the way he was watching. “Not exactly.”
His voice changed a little. “No?”
You kept your gaze on the mirror because looking at him directly would’ve been too much too soon. “No.”
Joel waited.
He had that patience when he wanted to. He could make silence feel like a gentle and guiding hand at the small of your back. You felt him watching as clearly as if he’d touched you, and it made your skin go warm in places you were trying very hard not to think about yet.
You cleared your throat softly. “It also says it holds up against sweat.”
Joel made a small thoughtful sound. “Alright.”
“And…” You adjusted the wand, pretending great interest in the angle of your lashes. “Other… things.”
Joel didn’t move right away, didn’t speak either. The quiet between you lengthened until it had weight, and when he finally did say something, his voice came out rougher than before.
“What kind of things.”
You looked at him in the mirror then.
There was the answer.
You turned back to the mirror and gave your lashes one more slow coat. “Fluids.”
Joel let out a breath through his nose that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so much like restraint. “Darlin'.”
“What?” you asked, all false innocence.
He looked at the back of your shoulder, then up to your eyes in the mirror again. “You know exactly what.”
You capped the mascara with careful fingers, buying yourself a second. “I’m explaining the product.”
“That's what this is.”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, but his eyes stayed on you. “Seems awfully selective.”
You smiled faintly. “It’s an important feature.”
“Is it now.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Joel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent enough to make the room feel smaller. “So let me get this straight. Some genius came up with a mascara named ‘Better Than Sex,’ and then another genius decided to advertise that it survives…” His eyes moved over your face, dipped to your mouth, then back up. “Fluids.”
You swallowed, trying not to show it. “That seems to be the implication.”
He sat with that for a second. Then, very dryly, “That may be the most committed sales pitch I’ve heard all year.”
You laughed, but it came out weaker than before.
Joel watched you set the tube down on the vanity, watched the way your fingers lingered on it for a fraction too long. “And you bought this because…”
“Because it had good reviews.”
“Mm.”
“And because it’s supposed to make lashes look dramatic.”
His gaze flicked up to the mirror again. “Mission accomplished.”
Your breath caught a little at how simply he said it.
You looked at yourself then, partly to avoid looking at him. The mascara had done what it always promised to do: your lashes looked darker, longer, fuller, framing your eyes in a way that made your whole face read differently. Less soft. Less sleepy. Sharper somehow. More deliberate. Your eyes looked bigger, yes, but definitely not innocent.
You turned on the stool, one hand settling in your lap. “Well?”
Joel didn’t answer immediately.
He just looked.
His gaze moved slowly over your face, taking in what had changed. The lashes now casting longer shadows against your skin. But he was not just looking at the makeup. He was looking at you inside it. At the way you wore it. At the confidence that had crept quietly into your posture because you knew you looked good and you wanted him to know you knew.
It made his heat tighten behind his ribs.
“You’re pretty,” he said at last.
You made a face immediately. “Joel.”
“What.”
“That is not a serious review.”
His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say it was.”
“I’m asking about the mascara.”
“Mm.” His eyes stayed on yours. “And I’m answerin’ honestly.”
You tried not to smile and failed. “Be specific.”
Joel let out a quiet breath, like he was indulging you, but there was no impatience in him. Only attention. “Alright.”
He stood then.
Joel crossed the small distance between the bed and the vanity until he stood just behind your chair, close enough that the warmth of him slid over your bare shoulders before he even touched you. In the mirror you watched him lift one hand and rest it lightly on the top edge of the vanity, caging you in without quite meaning to. His other hand came to your jaw, fingers rough and warm as they tilted your face very slightly toward the light.
Now you could barely breathe.
Joel studied your reflection and yours alone, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if he were trying to get this right. “They do look longer.”
His thumb brushed once, barely there, near your chin. “Darker, too.”
You kept still.
His gaze lingered. “Makes your eyes look…” He trailed off.
You looked up at him in the mirror. “Look what?”
Joel’s eyes met yours there. For one suspended second he seemed to debate with himself. Then he gave in, just a little.
“Like trouble,” he said quietly.
Your heart stumbled.
He looked down at you then and whatever he saw on your face must have reached him, because something in his expression softened even as the heat stayed.
You tried for lightness. “That’s not very technical.”
Joel’s mouth curved. “You want technical?”
“Yes.”
He leaned down just enough that his voice brushed near your ear. “Alright, then. They make it hard to look anywhere else.”
You exhaled shakily.
He stayed there a moment, close enough that your whole body had gone aware of him in pieces. The smell of soap from his shower. The quiet scrape of his thumb when it moved once more against your skin.
Then, because you needed the thread picked back up before it snapped entirely, you looked at the mascara on the table and said, with a little too much brightness, “And it’s waterproof.”
Joel laughed softly, the sound low in your ear. “You already sold me on that part, darlin’.”
You swallowed. “Did I?”
“Yeah.”
He straightened just enough to look at you again in the mirror, one hand still resting beside you on the vanity. “Only thing I’m still unclear on—”
You turned your head slightly. “What’s that?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, maddeningly calm. “Whether all that advertising’s true.”
The words landed between you dangerously.
You stared at him.
Then his hand slipped from your jaw, slow enough to feel deliberate, and he stepped back just one pace, enough to give you air without really undoing what he’d started.
His voice, when it came, was gentler. “Though I should probably mention”—his eyes moved over your face once more—“you didn’t need it.”
Your expression softened despite yourself. “Need what?”
“Any of it.” He nodded toward the products scattered over the vanity. “The primer, the blush, the dramatic flirtin’ mascara with the terrible name.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re beautiful without all that.”
You looked down for a second, smiling helplessly. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“I know.” You glanced back up at him. “But that’s not the point.”
Joel nodded slowly. “No. I know it ain’t.”
There it was again. The understanding, the quiet way he met you where you actually were instead of simplifying you.
His gaze moved to the mascara one last time, then back to your eyes, still darkened and dangerous in the vanity light. “Still,” he murmured, voice gone rough at the edges again, “I gotta admit.”
You waited.
Joel’s eyes held yours.
“It does look real good on you.”
You looked at him through the mirror.
He looked back.
And then his gaze drifted over the products scattered across the vanity and he said, low and thoughtful, “Seems a shame, though.”
Your brows lifted. “What does?”
“All that effort.” His eyes came back to your face, to the lashes you’d darkened on purpose, to the mouth that had been trying not to smile for the last thirty seconds. “All that makeup.”
You turned a little more in the chair. “What about it?”
Joel’s mouth twitched faintly. “Gonna go to waste.”
You stared at him for half a beat, then let out a tiny laugh. “Waste?”
He gave one slow nod, like this was the most reasonable point in the world.
“How exactly is it going to waste?”
Joel shifted his weight, one hand catching the knot of the towel at his hip for the briefest second before falling away again. The motion was absentminded, but your eyes dropped there anyway, and when they lifted back to his face he had already noticed.
That did not help.
His voice dipped lower. “Well, darlin’… unless I’ve badly misunderstood the shape of this evening, I figured we’d be goin’ to bed before too long.”
The words themselves were almost innocent.
Almost.
You felt the silence that followed settle over the room, and for one suspended second you didn’t answer.
Joel noticed that too.
His eyes narrowed just slightly as he watched your face, watched the way your fingers tightened in your lap, watched the little shift in your breathing. He knew that look by now. Knew the exact moment a thought took hold in you and turned from playful to dangerous. It was always there first, in your eyes. That glint. That pause. That split second where he could practically see the idea forming before you ever said a word.
And judging by the way his chest rose on a slow inhale, he knew this one was going to be trouble. The kind of trouble he never once tried very hard to avoid.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured.
You stood from the vanity slowly, turning fully to face him now. The height difference between you always felt more pronounced when he was like this, with his eyes fixed on you with that patient, dangerous attention that never rushed and never missed a thing.
You stepped closer.
Joel’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.
“How do you mean, waste?” you asked softly.
His expression shifted, something amused and warmer than amused flickering through it. “Darlin'.”
“No, tell me.” You tilted your head just slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, nothing’s being wasted.”
Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, except there was too much heat in it now to really be one. “That so?”
“That so.”
You could see him trying to read you, trying to decide whether this was still teasing or whether the ground had shifted under his feet without him noticing.
Then his eyes moved over your face again, slower this time, taking in the lashes, the mouth, the expression you were making no attempt to soften.
When he spoke, his voice had gone gravel deep. “Baby.”
That one word should not have felt like a hand sliding over bare skin. And yet you took the last half step in, close enough now to feel the heat coming off him, close enough that if you lifted your hand it would land on the center of his chest. The towel sat careless and unfair around his waist, his hair still damp, his whole body loose with the kind of comfort that only existed in private, in the quiet safety of home, in the hour when the rest of the world stopped mattering and there was only this room and this man and the way he was looking at you now.
You smiled teasingly.
“It’s not going to waste,” you said.
Joel held very still.
“No?”
You shook your head once, eyes never leaving his. “No.”
He swallowed.
That was it. Just a tiny movement in his throat, but you caught it, and the satisfaction of being able to do that to him with so little nearly made you bolder than you already were.
Joel’s hands remained at his sides, though you could tell by the tension in them that it cost him something now. “Alright,” he said carefully. “Then I’m listenin’.”
You let your gaze flick down his chest and back up, deliberately mirroring the way he’d looked at you before. “I’ve been thinking about this mascara all day.”
That got his attention in full.
“All day,” he repeated.
You nodded.
Joel’s mouth curved, but it was thin now, held back by effort. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably.”
He laughed once under his breath, but the sound came out uneven. “You say that awful casually.”
You took another inch of space, enough that the edge of your nightgown nearly brushed the towel at his hip. Joel didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed to brace without meaning to, like his whole body had recognized the shift before his mind could catch up.
And still you made him wait.
“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice softening, “to see if it’s actually as good as it claims.”
Joel stared at you.
His eyes searched yours, and when he spoke, his voice was so low it barely seemed to cross the space between you. “Baby…”
You smiled wider.
“So no,” you said gently. “Nothing’s going to waste.”
He exhaled slowly, chest rising under the warm lamplight, and there it was again, that look. That exact look. The one you knew got under his skin every single time. Part disbelief, part desire, part the dawning realization that he was no longer in control of the direction this night was taking and that, worse, he did not want to be.
Your fingers lifted at last, just enough to rest lightly against his chest.
Joel’s eyes dropped to the touch.
Then back to your face.
And you gave him the line like a gift.
“I’ve been waiting all day,” you said softly, “to test with my husband whether this mascara really holds up to everything it promises.”
Joel went completely still.
His jaw tightened just slightly. His hand flexed once at his side. His eyes dragged over your face as though he were seeing you and the trouble in you with punishing new clarity.
Then he laughed, just once.
And when he looked at you again, whatever amusement had been there before had burned down into something darker.
“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Joel’s hand came up then, rough fingers finding your waist with slow intention, like he was giving himself one last chance to be careful and already knew it was too late.
“Baby,” he said, and this time it sounded like a warning aimed at both of you.
His hand tightened slightly at your waist, thumb pressing in just enough to ground himself, or maybe to make sure you were real and not something his tired brain had invented after a long week and a hot shower and too much time thinking about you.
You tilted your head, lashes dark and deliberate, exactly like you’d intended. “What?”
Joel let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except there was no real humor left in it now. Just pure heat turned into desperate need. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
You smiled. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”
“Ain’t meant to be.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered there just a second too long, then dragged back up like it cost him something.
He shifted his weight slightly, like he was bracing for something he’d already decided not to stop.
“Say that again,” he murmured.
Your breath caught. “What part?”
“All of it.”
You held his gaze, fully aware now of how close you were, how little space there was left to hide behind anything safe. “I said,” you began softly, fingers still resting against his chest, “that I don’t think anything’s going to waste.”
Joel’s jaw tightened.
“And,” you continued, quieter now, stepping just a fraction closer, “that I’ve been waiting all day…”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, like he was mapping out the line of you again just to be sure.
“…to test it with my husband,” you finished.
The silence that followed was thick.
His control was still there, you could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his grip hadn’t tightened too much, in the way he was still choosing every movement instead of letting instinct take over completely.
But it was slipping.
And you could feel that too.
Your hand moved slightly against his chest again—just enough to tempting him—and that was all it took.
Joel closed his eyes for half a second, like he was giving himself one last moment of control.
Then he opened them again.
And whatever had been holding him back was gone.
“Alright,” he said, voice low and dangerous in that quiet way that meant he was done pretending this wasn’t happening. “You wanna test it?”
Your pulse jumped.
He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed warm against your cheek, close enough to make your thoughts scatter without even touching you yet.
“Let’s see how well it holds up,” he murmured.
That was the moment everything tipped.
His thumb dragged slowly along the curve of your hip. “All day, huh? Thinkin’ about me ruinin’ it?”
“Every hour.”
A low, dangerous sound rumbled out of his chest. He spun you around so fast your breath caught, pressing your front against the vanity edge until the cool wood bit into your hips. The mirror reflected everything: your flushed face, the new mascara, Joel towering behind you like a man who’d just been handed permission to lose control.
“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice right against your ear. One big hand slid up your sternum, fingers spreading wide over your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there like a heavy reminder. “You’re gonna watch every second while I fuck that pretty makeup right off you.”
Your eyes met his in the glass. His were dark, pupils blown, jaw tight with restraint he was already losing.
“Yes, Joel.”
He hummed approval, free hand shoving the towel away. It dropped to the floor with a soft thud. His cock was already hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip and curving up against your clothed ass. He dragged it slowly between your cheeks, teasing, letting you feel exactly how much he meant every word.
“Gonna start slow,” he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Deep. So you feel every inch stretchin’ that tight little pussy while you keep those eyes on the mirror. Then I’m gonna fuck you stupid. And every single time you’re about to come…” His fingers flexed around your throat. “I stop. You’re not comin’ till that mascara’s runnin’ down your cheeks like you’ve been cryin’ for me. Understand?”
You whimpered, nodding frantically. “Yes—please—”
He kicked your feet apart wider, one hand still collared around your throat, the other sliding down to pull your panties aside. No patience left for taking them off. The blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, already slick from how long you’d been teasing each other.
“Eyes on the mirror, darlin’,” he growled. “Don’t you fuckin’ look away.”
Then he pushed in. One long, slow, relentless inch at a time until he was buried to the hilt and your mouth fell open on a broken moan. The stretch burned so good your lashes fluttered, but you kept your eyes open, locked on the reflection like he’d commanded.
“Fuck,” Joel breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “So goddamn tight. Always so perfect for me.” He rolled his hips once, grinding deep, letting you feel him throb inside you. “Look how pretty you look takin’ me. Those lashes still all nice and dark… for now.”
He started moving then. Slow, deep drags that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back into your dripping cunt. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. His hand stayed firm around your throat, thumb stroking the side like he was petting you while he ruined you.
“That’s it, baby. Watch yourself get fucked.” His voice was pure filth now. “See how your tits bounce every time I bottom out? See how your mouth opens like you can’t even breathe right? That’s my cock doin’ that to you.”
You moaned, the sound loud in the quiet bedroom. Your hands gripped the edge of the vanity so hard your knuckles went white. The mirror showed everything: the way your eyes were already glassy, the faint sheen of sweat starting on your collarbones, Joel’s broad body behind you, muscles flexing with every controlled thrust.
“Gonna take my time,” he rasped. “Gonna fuck you so deep you forget your own name before I even let you come.” He snapped his hips a little harder on the next thrust, making your breath hitch. “But not yet. Not till I say.”
He kept the pace torturously slow for what felt like forever. Long, rolling strokes that had you whimpering and pushing back against him, chasing more. Every time your moans pitched higher, every time your walls started fluttering around him, Joel would still completely, buried deep, and just hold you there.
“Not yet, baby, not a chance,” he murmured against your neck, biting down lightly. “Feel that? Feel how full you are? That’s where you belong, baby. Stuffed full of my cock while you watch yourself fall apart.”
“Joel—please—”
“Please what?” He flexed inside you, grinding slow circles. “Use your words. Tell me what you want while you’re lookin’ me in the eyes.”
“I need to come,” you gasped, voice shaking. “Please let me come—”
His hand tightened just enough around your throat to make your pulse jump. “No, sweetheart,” He pulled out almost completely, then sank back in so deep your knees buckled. “Not till those lashes are ruined. I want black streaks down your pretty cheeks. I want you lookin’ like you’ve been cryin’ and chockin’ on my dick.”
He started fucking you harder then, still controlled, but deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your mascara was already starting to smudge at the corners from the tears of frustration gathering in your eyes.
“Look at that,” he groaned, eyes locked on the mirror. “Already runnin’. My pretty little wife’s mascara can’t even handle a little foreplay. What’s it gonna do when I really start wreckin’ you, huh?”
He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, the hand on your throat keeping you upright and forced to watch. Every thrust jolted you forward against the vanity. Your lashes were definitely smearing now, faint black tracks forming under your eyes.
“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he growled. “Pussy’s greedy tonight. You love to watch while I ruin you, don’t you?”
“Yes—yes, Joel—”
He reached around with his free hand and found your clit, giving it a light, stinging little tap with two fingers. You cried out, hips jerking.
“Uh-uh,” he scolded, tapping again, harder this time. “No comin’. Not yet.” Another sharp little slap right over your swollen clit. “This pretty pussy’s gonna wait till I’ve got black tears runnin’ down your face.”
Joel kept fucking you hard and deep, hips snapping forward with that relentless rhythm that had the vanity creaking under your hands. He leaned in close again to whisper in your ear.
“Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world, baby?”
You laughed. A broken, desperate sound that turned into a moan halfway through because he chose that exact second to grind against your spongy spot. Joel’s hand cracked down on your ass in a sharp, stinging spank that made you jolt forward. He didn’t miss a beat, cock still buried to the hilt.
“I asked you a question,” he growled. Another hard thrust. Another spank, this one right on the same ass cheek, making your skin bloom hot. “Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”
Your voice came out wrecked and breathless.
“Me—fuck, Joel— it’s me.”
He was grinning in the mirror. He rewarded you with a deep, punishing stroke that made your eyes roll back.
“That’s right,” he rasped, spanking you again. “My beautiful girl. Say it again while I fuck you.”
“It’s me,” you sobbed, voice cracking as an orgasm threatened to rip through you. “I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Joel groaned low in his chest, hips snapping harder.
“Damn right you are,” he muttered almost tenderly while he kept pounding into you. “And don’t you ever fuckin’ forget it.”
He fucked you like that for what felt like hours with hard, deep thrusts interspersed with those cruel little clit slaps every time you got too close. Your mascara was a mess now, dark smudges under your eyes, streaks starting to run down your cheeks every time a tear slipped free.
“Goddamn,” Joel muttered, voice wrecked. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty when you cry for me.” He slammed in harder, grinding against your spongy spot again. “Almost there, baby. Almost got you lookin’ exactly how I want.”
Your legs were shaking. You were babbling —please, Joel, please, I can’t, I need— but he just kept going, relentless, edging you right to the brink and then stopping or slapping your clit until the orgasm retreated.
One final hard thrust and he stilled again, buried to the hilt, hand flexing around your throat.
“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice rough. “Look how ruined you are.”
In the mirror your reflection was wrecked: You were shaking, tears spilling faster, mascara dripping off your chin onto the vanity. Joel looked feral behind you with his hair damp with sweat.
“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s the face I wanted. Now you can come, baby. Come all over my cock while I watch those tears run.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. He fucked you with brutal, perfect strokes that hit exactly where you needed every single time. His hand left your throat only to slide down and rub tight, fast circles over your clit, no more teasing, no more denial.
“Come on, baby. Let go. Soak my dick while I ruin the rest of that mascara.”
The orgasm crashed into you like a freight train. You screamed his name, walls clamping down around him, body shaking so hard he had to hold you up. Black tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, mascara running in messy streaks all the way to your jaw.
“Fuck—yes—that’s my girl,” Joel groaned, voice breaking. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart for me.”
He fucked you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Gonna fill you up, baby.”
One more thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, coming with a low, guttural moan, cock pulsing hot inside you. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop while you trembled and cried in his arms.
For a long moment the only sound was both of you panting, the mirror fogged slightly at the edges from heat and breath.
Joel stayed inside you, arms wrapped around your middle now, gentler. He pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your tear streaked cheek.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he murmured, voice soft and wrecked. “You look like a goddamn dream.”
He reached over to the vanity without pulling out, grabbed the pack of makeup remover wipes you always kept there, and tugged one free with his teeth. Then, still buried deep inside you, he turned you in his arms, lifted you clean off the floor, and carried you the few steps to the bed.
He sat down on the edge, keeping you straddling his lap, cock still snug and warm inside you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. He cradled the back of your head with one hand and brought the wipe to your face with the other.
“Hold still, darlin’,” he said gently, voice full of that quiet affection that always undid you. “Let me clean my pretty girl up.”
He wiped your cheeks with slow, careful movements, thumb brushing tenderly under your eyes as the black streaks disappeared. Every few seconds he’d lean in and kiss you with soft, lingering kisses on your lips, your forehead, the tip of your nose.
“That mascara didn’t stand a chance, did it?” he teased between kisses, a crooked smile on his face. “Promised it was better than sex… and here you are with black rivers down your face after one round with your husband.”
You laughed, watery and breathless, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.
“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, wiping the last smudge away. “All clean now. My beautiful girl.”
He tossed the wipe aside and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. His cock twitched inside you, still half hard, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.
“Love you,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and reverent. “Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts sometimes.”
You buried your face in his neck and smiled against his skin.
“Love you more.”
Joel huffed a soft laugh, hand stroking slow circles up and down your back.
“Nah, baby. Not possible.”
He stayed like that for a long time, still inside you, holding you close, kissing your temple every few seconds while the bedroom lamp cast a warm glow over both of you. The vanity mirror behind you reflected the two of you tangled together.
“Next time you buy somethin’ similar to ‘Better Than Sex,’” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I’m makin’ you wear it so I can prove it wrong all over again.”
You laughed into his neck, and he tightened his arms around you, heart beating steady against yours.
“Deal?” he asked, smiling.
“Deal,” you whispered.
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prompt: “i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.” with bucky?
It’s not supposed to happen like this.
Bucky has planned it for weeks. Maybe longer, if he’s being honest, because the idea has been sitting in his chest, heavy and certain, long before he ever worked up the nerve to do something about it.
He has the ring. He has the speech. He has a whole stupid list in his head of things he’s supposed to say—how much he loves you, how you make him feel human again, how you’ve carved a home out of a man who never thought he deserved one.
He’s practiced it, too. Quietly. Under his breath. In the mirror once, which he immediately decided was humiliating and never did again.
He’s got it.
He has it.
Until he doesn’t.
---
You don’t know anything is different when he asks you to come with him.
“C’mon, doll,” he says, tugging on your hand, already halfway out the door. “Wanna show you something.”
You squint at him, suspicious, but you go anyway, letting him pull you along with that soft, insistent grip of his. The evening air is warm, the sky bleeding into that soft gold-and-pink stretch just before sunset, and he’s quieter than usual as he walks beside you.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Yeah, but this is like… upgraded weird.”
He huffs, but there’s no bite to it. Just nerves. You don’t recognize them for what they are yet—just assume it’s one of those Bucky moods where he gets in his own head a little too much.
So you lace your fingers through his, grounding, steady. He squeezes back immediately.
Always does.
---
He stops when you reach the spot.
It’s nothing extravagant. Not some big, sweeping, cinematic place.
Just your place.
The quiet stretch near the water where you two end up more often than not—late nights, early mornings, stolen hours in between. The place where he’s watched you laugh, watched you cry, watched you fall asleep with your head in his lap while the world kept spinning around you.
It matters.
That’s why he picked it.
You turn to him, brow furrowed slightly. “Buck?”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything in his head just—
Gone.
Completely blank.
He knows he had words. He knows he had a whole damn speech lined up, something worthy of you, something that could even begin to explain the way you’ve changed his life.
But you’re standing there, looking at him like that—soft, curious, a little concerned—and suddenly every single thought just… disappears.
All he’s left with is feeling.
And it’s too big.
Too much.
His chest tightens, his pulse pounding in his ears, and before he can overthink it—before he can talk himself out of it—he just moves.
Drops.
Right there.
One knee hitting the ground hard enough that he barely registers it.
Your eyes go wide.
“Bucky—?”
His hands are already fumbling, pulling the ring from his pocket, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. His fingers shake—actually shake—and he can’t even look away from you long enough to be embarrassed about it.
Because you’re staring at him.
Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.
And he's panicking.
Not about the answer. Never about that.
Just—about getting it right.
About saying it right.
About making sure you know.
And he can’t find the words.
Not the pretty ones. Not the practiced ones. Not any of it.
So what comes out is—
“Please.”
It’s rough. Breathless. Barely more than a whisper.
Your face does something soft, something almost startled.
He swallows hard, chest heaving slightly as he tries—tries—to pull something else together.
“I—” He shakes his head, a broken little huff of a laugh leaving him. “I had a whole thing planned. I swear I did. I—”
Nothing.
Still nothing.
His throat works, his eyes burning just a little as he looks up at you, completely exposed.
“Please,” he says again, a little stronger this time, but no less raw. “Just—please.”
And it’s all there anyway.
Everything he couldn’t say wrapped up in that one word.
Please stay.
Please choose me.
Please let me spend the rest of my life loving you.
Please don’t let this be something I lose.
Your eyes shine almost immediately, tears welling up faster than you can stop them. You press a hand to your mouth, a breath hitching out of you as you stare down at him.
“Bucky…”
He looks terrified.
Not of you.
Of losing you.
And that’s what does it.
That’s what breaks you open completely.
You drop to your knees in front of him so fast he barely has time to react, your hands coming up to cup his face, grounding him the same way you always do.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice thick. “Hey, look at me.”
He does. Instantly.
“You don’t need a speech,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You don’t need any of that.”
His grip on the ring tightens, like he’s still not convinced.
“You’ve got me,” you continue, tears slipping free now, but you’re smiling through them. “You’ve always had me.”
His breath stutters.
“Yeah?” he asks, quiet, almost disbelieving.
You laugh a little, wet and shaky, leaning forward until your forehead presses against his.
“Yeah, idiot,” you murmur. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
The relief that hits him is immediate.
His shoulders sag, a broken, breathless sound leaving him as his eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he needs it just to steady himself.
“Jesus,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-choking on it. “Thank God.”
You pull back just enough to look at him again, grinning now. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” he says, still a little dazed, finally slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that are only slightly less shaky. “I had this whole—this whole thing, doll. It was good, too. Real good.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I practiced.”
You snort. “Did you really?”
He groans, dropping his head forward until it bumps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” you say, laughing as you wrap your arms around him. “I think it was perfect.”
He huffs. “Yeah? Just ‘please’?”
You pull back, kissing him slow and soft, pouring every bit of your answer into it.
“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips. “Just ‘please.’”
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦
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summary: you and bucky have always been close, close enough that everyone else noticed a spark long before you did. but after a shift leaves you both strung out, comfort blurs into something heavier, then when guilt tells him to pull away, you’re left fighting for the truth of what you did and what it meant.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (first; not overly detailed, second; full on), fluff & angst, traumatic shift (not overly detailed), miscommunication, silent treatment, friends to something to lovers, arguments, confessions, mild dissociation (reader), bestfriend!bucky, emotionally repressed!bucky (wooow everyone act shocked), alcohol/bars, smoking, bucky smokes & it's implied reader does with him, switch!bucky, switch!reader, semi-public, making out, hair pulling (m&f!rec), dry humping, thigh humping, cumming in pants (f!rec), mean!bucky, whiny!bucky, uncut!bucky, tit worship, nipple sucking and pulling (james boobchanan barnes amirite), degradation (B wants reader to say mean things to him), the L word, lotus position, angry sex to sweet(?), missionary, clit stim, creampie, aftercare, showering together, sappy ending, no beta . . .
word count: 15.8k (i dont know either man...)
a/n: hey barbies !! it's babys first collab, and i can't be happier to be doing this with @stantastic-association !! thank you to the absolutely amazing @miraclediviner for creating this spectacular event, all the ideas, and graphics and keeping everything in check, thank you so so much mj :") and thank you to @metal-armed-muse for helping me with smart med stuff shdfsjsfh and @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel for keeping me from going insane with this fic, although i think thats too late,, i love you all so so much, thank you for letting me be a part of this amazing and beautiful collab and group <33
just a little heads up, i'm from the uk and also not a paramedic or work in the medical field so i relied heavily on google and reddit when researching about paramedic shifts, clock ins, where ambulances sleep at night and whatnot,, if theres anything wrong i am so sorry i really tried :')
✴︎ i'm just an art degree having person, i dont know shit about this im gonna be honest, but i wanted to challenge myself, so i am so sorry to the smart people in the ER, and to paramedics themselves, for anything wrong :") i'll grovel istg.
✴︎ Nat is head nurse at the ER (and readers bestie), Sam is a nurse, and Steve is Nat's partner who's energy can be felt if you look hard enough :") paramedics are basically the new avengers (Ava, Yelena and John) (im so sorry Bob..)
✴︎ this is all from reader's POV except for one small tiny bit near the beginning, but from then on, the rest is all reader and i apologise in advance:')
The call came late in the shift. The kind that settled into your bones without asking permission.
Everything that came after moved too quickly and not fast enough at the same time, muscle memory carrying you both through while something essential lagged behind. By the time you were at the ER — voices loud and assertive, arms still carrying the sting and scrape of metal, plastic and sweat — the adrenaline burned at the edges, a hum on the edge of your skin, a live wire through your fingertips, and left a cavity where certainty used to lie.
The paperwork was finished. The rig was cleaned and the building smelt like sickly-sweet antiseptic and medical supplies. A sterile zing, one you had gotten used to after a few days now burns through your insides, as if to rid you of what occurred just minutes ago. And the city outside went on, undisturbed, breathing.
It was well past evening when you finished, the sun barely had time to say goodbye, as you walked out into the parking-lot with both hands cradling your midsection, head down, hoodie up and the warm presence of Bucky beside you.
His hair was a mess from his fingers combing through incessantly. Eyes dark, jaw set and clenched with words unsaid and memories replaying, but his hand set low on your back, a radiator almost, rubbing up and down each ridge as if he was trying to remind himself that despite everything, you're still here.
"I spoke to Natasha," he spoke low, voice crackled from the tightness and silence. "She said it's best I take you home."
You stayed silent, not thinking, your brain stayed silent ever since you passed your case along, watched them try and try and try, until it was too late and now you're both stuck with a ballpoint pen that keeps skipping and fingers that wont stop twitching. Your writing was borderline unintelligible, and the pads of your palms still burn from how hard you gripped the gurney bars.
"I feel like I should be stronger than this," you huff, a mimic of a laugh that comes out tired, impatient. "I feel pathetic."
"You're not pathetic. You don't need to be strong. Not here, not right now." he responds, never letting your words hit the ground and holds his hand out. "C'mon, gets go home."
By the way his words come, the warmth that curls around them, and you, how he spoke with sureness, quickly and strong, never giving your own doubts time to release fully before they were fought back with praise, comfort. Hope squeezed your lungs together like the tightest embrace, and never let go.
Red light streaked through the windshield, spilling on the tarmac in velvet tresses, covering your faces. Bucky's car stood still with only the whirring hum of the engine to soundtrack your awkward silences. It felt full, too thick.
You sat too still, knees knocked together, hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your nails. No radio tonight. Even with an empty car, the two of you couldn't stomach some shitty three minute commercialised industry plant. Your combined sighs and incessant picking of skin will have to do.
Bucky's right hand gripped the wheel at two, thumb impatiently drumming against the fabric, and his left hand held up his head, elbow on the door.
Scraping his palm over his salt and pepper beard, he sighs.
"You did good," he says. "Really good."
Though your chest burns with the need to speak, you don't reply. You just let the soft fire creep up your sternum and lungs.
"Everything you did today was on point, no mistakes, no mishaps," He shrugs with his hand, two fingers tap on the leather. "You were perfect. You should be proud of yourself, I know I am."
A breath hitches its way from your nose, harsh and quick, a sob that stuck and makes itself known vehemently, and you grimace at the way it sounded humoured. Bucky turns his head at the sound.
"I'm sorry." Rubbing your eyes of the sleep and dirt and stress that accumulated in the corners with a deep sigh. He places his hand on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture, peeling you back from your mind and into the passenger seat of his car.
He hums, "what for."
"Everything," you whisper. Letting the word lie, you expect him to find a way to reply, to reassure and find a solution to your desolate mood. But you find yourself sitting on in the silence you made. "I did everything right. But it didn't work."
This time the silence hangs clearer. Not man-made in an attempt at gaining soft words to pillow the fall, this time it stays still and works. Both of your brains sitting in on the rapt of earlier. Resolution wasn't what either of you needed, but it comes anyway. Only this time it's jumbled and frosted, and coming from the mouth of your best friend.
"As much as I hate to say shit like this, I'm gonna have to, so — I'm sorry if i cant find the right words," Bucky rasps, calloused palm scraping against his scruff, licking his lips, and he exhales. Deep and slow, letting it all out, and you cant help the tiny voice in the back of your head from murmuring 'ah, shit, not a speech'.
"Sometimes… things don't go the way we plan. We see a solution, we see the light at the end of the dark tunnel, but suddenly theres an obstacle we didn't see, a detour kinda…" he inhales, finding his footing, and it wheezes slightly in the back of his neck. "… and sometimes… sometimes that obstacle slows you down. Or sometimes, in this case, it wraps around your legs until you can't do anything but stay."
He winces slightly, appalled by his wording, how slow it comes, how his head tingles from trying to find synonyms and meanings. A grin points the edge of your lips. "What I'm trying to say is, the outcome is never what we expect it to be. Sometimes we have this image in our head of the perfect project, but along the line your tastes change, you hate a colour, so you choose a different one. Or sometimes, you scrap the project altogether. Your angry, sad, distraught, you should feel that way, you're human. But life has it's way of putting you through shit you didn't see comin'."
Staring out onto the street, you take in his words. Clumsy as they can be, over the years of your friendship with Bucky you've gotten used to his disorder and understand how to rearrange them into something slightly comprehensible.
"I liked the second one better." You hummed, eyes still glued to the watercolour of black, white and red against the dark street.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Nodding slowly, you turned to face him, smile still stuck to your lips. "And then you kinda referred to them as a 'project'. Very tasteful, Barnes."
He smirked lazily at your animated retort. Your words come humourless, sarcasm laced and sleepy, but they still had that sharpness you carried — that he loved. A scoffed chuckle fills the car and paints his face with smile lines and a colour, despite the red of the traffic light spilling overhead. It's contagious, and you cant fight the ache of your cheeks.
Once the light turns green, the attitude shifts. The laughter still ebbed around you both, but it felt like it was suddenly swatted away with a wave of remembrance, like you both had this need to stay composed and professional.
"I'll walk you in." He decides, shaking his head with the remnants of wit.
You run your palm over your cheek, feeling the warmth. Your eyes suddenly feel heavier, skin tighter yet so lose against your muscles you're not sure how to feel.
"You really don't have to." Slips out, lower than usual, you barely recognise your voice.
Everything feels… different. Yet the world keeps turning, his car keeps driving, streetlights still spilling against his arms, and the indicator keeps blinking with every turn.
"Please," he pleads firmly, edged with a wobble. A sound that tells you he needs this, maybe even more than you do. "Just… Please."
And you cant fight. Not him.
Not when a dull ache has been ruminating inside of your chest since the call, only to deepen and cultivate through the night.
He helps you inside. Takes your keys for you after he caught the tremor in your fingers, lets you rest against him when your knees felt too weak to hold — arm wrapped tight and securely around your shoulder, letting the hum of your buildings elevator ruminate as he presses a soft kiss against your head, whispering soft praises into your scalp, as if willing them to sink into your brain and keep.
Doing so well for me.
It's okay.
You're okay.
His hand squeezes the meat of your shoulder, a pattern of kneads against taut muscle and soft slides of his thumb against your hot collarbone. It makes you shiver in a way it never had before.
Your breath expels harshly, twitches of your lungs that quiver your ribs in his hold.
"Hey," you hear him say, hand clasping ever so slightly harder, "hey, look at me."
When you don't at first, he inhales your scent once more before he moves. Gently sliding his hand to your other shoulder, pushing you to look into his eyes as he tilts his head, his free hand finding your neck, your pulse, and caressing.
"Breathe in for me, sweetheart." He requests. You try, but the air gets trapped and sputters out. Your hands go up to push his own away, but instead they weakly circle around his wrists.
"C'mon, you got it, like this," Bucky inhales. The hand that rest on your neck finds its way to your jaw, then to your cheek, a mindless move to pull your sight from his shoes and into his eyes.
And you inhale. And exhale.
"There we go, just like that." The praise, though soft, hits you in every inch of your skin like tiny pin-pricks in each follicle. The warmth of his hand, his breath, his words, it all pulls over you like a wool blanket, like that one winter he made sure to use his break-time to check up on on you while you were sick, making sure you were warm, fed and relaxed, practically forcing a spoon into your face to get you hydrated and full of the proper nutrients, to get your eyes a little wider and joins less achy for tomorrows shift.
You both almost miss the ding when you get to your floor.
The walk to your apartment is quiet. Full. You can feel it all spill out at the edges once you shut the door and suddenly it all tips over. Contents gone, messy and everywhere.
Wires seem to get mixed up. Touches linger. Voices hush lower into murmurs and whispers.
Tension snaps like a taut rubber band, and comfort is the only thing the two of you need in that moment.
Years of friendship balling up into an combination of bodies — sweat, skin, tears, whispers and closeness you didn't realise could exist. Not with Bucky anyway.
Of course you had your fair share of quick crushes and epiphanies while he was by your side, but they all quietly dissipated with each new fling or relationship he brought into the mix. Nothing indicated reciprocation. So why stay at this bus stop when it had departed long, long ago.
Being needed felt so good.
You forgot to shut the curtains last night.
Bright morning sun filters through the panes, soaking your sleep ridden body in a glow that renders Bucky dumb. From the moment he woke up, warm from your body at his front, his arm tightly wrapped around your middle, face pressed into your hair that smelled like salt and sex, with the lingering scent of your vanilla shampoo.
Guilt hits like a sucker punch straight to the stomach, rattling up his chest, and blowing his knees, even while he was laying down. Getting up immediately, retracting himself as softly and quietly as possible, letting you bask unconsciously in whatever last night was. Whatever it became.
Putting his clothes back on his body, making sure to gather your own, throw them in your laundry basket and fold some fresher clothes for the new day at the end of your bed, he sat with a heavy feeling of remorse.
Last night was a mistake.
It shouldn't have happened. Not like that, anyway.
Too inebriated with adrenaline and 'too big' emotions; the both of you needed a vice to let it all out, and it just so happened to be each other — but Bucky can't, and won't, let himself believe that.
He insisted on walking you in.
He helped you with your keys.
He draped his arm over your shoulder, tucked you in close and whispered and pecked sweet nothings into your hair like it was just another day.
The coffee machine in your kitchen hummed as it filled your favourite mug. Bucky stared at the dark liquid as it filled the ceramic. Distant.
Silently praying the whirring wont wake you up, his brain replayed the way you looked underneath him. The way your lips felt, how you felt. Hands roaming with no destination, mapping new skin like this wasn't a fresh, quick adventure, but a finale, a place to call home, a place to familiarise.
His muscles tightened as they tingled with remembrance.
It was good. It all felt right, correct in a way nothing else he had ever felt before. But it had to have been because it was you.
Good old you, and your sullen, tired eyes that reddened around the edges with unshed tears. Back and shoulders arched into yourself, only to slowly uncover at his touch and voice. You, who always beamed each morning when your names were paired, as if it wasn't a regular, everyday occurrence, as if he didn't make sure to double — triple — check the sheet just in case he didn't read the name wrong. But how could he?
It's you.
Which is precisely why he gently makes your coffee exactly how you like it. Hands moving by their own accord, muscle memory working overtime while his brain tries to wrack around last night.
How you held onto him like you needed this, needed him. The soft whispers of his name mixed with sleepy praises breathed against his neck, shoulder and collarbone. Your hands roaming his body almost as if you knew it would end with detachment, like you wanted his skin pierced into your palms forever. How you asked him, so gently, voice laced with sleep and something so much deeper than he ever thought he'd hear from you, if he could stay, not move from his position on top of you, slowly twitching while you paced yourself back into reality with pulses that traced through his skin.
You wanted him to stay.
His warmth you craved, his weight atop of you, his skin, his presence, his body inside of you. You wanted it all.
And that's precisely why he places the mug on your bedside with a clink, careful enough not to wake you. Took one last, long look at your sleeping form. Unknowing of his internal dilemma.
And left.
The emptiness that comes after you wake up didn't deter you. You expected it, kind of.
Bucky has always been the type of person who gets into work bright and early, gets everything in check, memorise, recount, retain, as if he hasn't been doing this almost every morning for years. The routine helps him, and you know that.
The coffee was still warm, steam curling while your eyes adjusted to the creamy morning sun peeking through the window, and the first conscious thought of the morning is, 'i hope it didn't wake him'.
Friday busses are always busy, especially in the morning, but this time two of your usuals skidded past without a care of your hand waving out for them. Pure coincidence? Maybe they didn't see your hand, or maybe they're full and forgot to show it on the destination sigh.
Eventually, after your card failed once, twice, before finally going through with a huff from the driver. The road was bumpier, there were kids on their way to school way too energised this early in the day. And turns out you forgot to charge your headphones the night before.
Of course you did.
You clocked in mechanically, bones already awaiting the hours waiting to be endured. Flexing your head in a circle, ridding it of a readying strain, the building felt… off. It wasn't the kind that was spotted immediately, it was a feeling, an energy that laid itself on your shoulders like a perfectly content cat already cozying up while your back started to ache and it's claws poked.
At your locker, the hallway felt emptier, the room itself was only full with the incessant humming of the ventilation and pipes in the walls — a tune half unknown to you with the accustomed noise of yours and Bucky's lazy conversations, his body facing yours, leaning against the locker beside by his shoulder, arms and legs crossed, tired grin on his face while you ramble on about anything to keep your brain awake.
The thought crystallised. The routine, the meticulous rules he ran himself by all day, everyday, simply vanishing after twenty-four hours.
You didn't put it past him though. Last night was a lot. Mentally, physically.
As if to rid you of your doubts, you shook your head, taking a deep inhale of antiseptic and a floral zip of a Dollar Tree air freshener, masking the smell around with hopes and dreams.
The rest of the team greeted you like normal. Short waves, tight-lipped smiles, though this time, some had added a soft pat on the shoulder — a gesture you should find endearing, but it only just digs its fingers deeper into the wound.
Walker was the first to talk to you. Sat at the break table, legs up, fiddling with his watch. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps.
"Hey," He said, light like usual but it dipped like a question — interrogating — looking at you quizzically. "Aren't you supposed to be with Barnes?"
Stopping in your tracks, your boots squeaked against the linoleum. "Uh," you shake your head quickly in confusion, sputtering. "I don't know, am I?"
He scoffs amusedly, "I dunno, you two are like," he gestures, hands spread wide, interlocking his fingers once, then twice, before dropping them down onto his lap. "Y'know? So."
The sentence hangs, his voice echos quietly through the dead halls, bouncing off the walls while he waits for you to speak. But you don't. You just stand there, head tilting to the side as an open invite for more context.
So he adds in a mumble, staring back down at his watch. "Think he left already though."
"What?" The words slip out before you could try to catch them, and you flinch back minutely.
John catches on, tickled by your automatic obtrusion. He settles back with a sigh, bluffing, putting on a show of carelessness. "Left like a half hour ago—"
This time you don't even try to stop yourself from asking. "With who?"
Glancing back up, he grins, shrugging his hands up. "Check the sheet. You can even find your new partner."
Your stomach churned with the words — 'new partner'. Yet, still, anticipation flowed through your veins, and you couldn't keep moping like a puppy at the door.
"Huh."
Your head flinched back slightly, tilting to the side. Thumbing at your lip automatically, scraping across the skin in an attempt to rest yourself from picking at it.
He was on call. With Yelena.
"You okay?" a voice snapped you back. Eyes clenching shut for a moment before turning your head around to face Ava.
"Hm?" You squeak, "oh, right. No, yeah, I'm fine. Great."
Brows creasing, she crosses her arms lazily, leaning back on one foot, scanning you up and down.
You scowl. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" She asks, voice pitched innocently as a teasing smile cloaks her lips.
With a tut you turn back to the sheet, finger brushing against the paper. "That scanning thing you do with your eyes, like you can read my mind."
She pouts, hands over her heart. "So you do notice the little things, huh?"
Without looking away, you kick at her shin, chuckling softly.
She takes a peek at the sheet from beside your shoulder, humming in contemplation. "No Bucky today, huh?"
Your face pulls, "seems like it."
"Hey, it's okay," tapping your bicep with her knuckles, she tips her head back. "You're with me anyways."
Your chest eased at that. Ava was better than John. But then again, anyone is better than John. And Ava had this 'no nonsense' energy you absolutely adored and found intimidating in one giant cluster, and it sent your body tingling with readiness to get the day started.
But there was no familiarity. No comforting jabs, no inside jokes, no off-hand bets you'd always gasp at in disbelief (a smile always finding its way on your face), yet add a twenty to the pool.
"Come on," Ava clicks her tongue twice. "Better to get this started sooner than later. Let's shut that brain off, shall we?"
Shut your brain off it did. In the opposite way you had hoped.
The hours you had spent working alongside Ava, speeding down streets, rushing to a patients side, checking, working, calculating, pumping the heels of your hands against chests until your wrists ached. But along the line, once the coast was clear and the area seemed to let your body rest, you sat in the passenger seat silently, thinking.
It seemed to you like the majority of those back at the bay believed you were still shaken — rightfully so — and that little assumption had your chest scarcely easing.
You couldn't fault Bucky for leaving early, that was his routine, even during hangouts that turned into impromptu sleepovers, he'd wake up earlier than you to get ready for the day ahead, leaving you a text and a coffee in his wake.
That's what was missing. A text.
Heart picking up, thumping softly against your sternum, brows furrowed, you go for your phone and scroll through your notifications. Empty, apart from the occasional passive-aggressive instruction from the work group chat and a Facebook post from your mom (you'll get back to her later), it all seemed to be crickets from Bucky's side.
Sighing louder than you anticipated, you scroll to manually check your conversation itself.
You [7:16am]: See u at work B.
You [7:16am]: Bringing u some coffee btw. Deserveddd.
Yesterday morning seemed so far away. Reading back with a feeling of nostalgia that laid tainted and blackhole-like in your stomach, staring specifically at the little pink heart he had sent back as a reaction. The last sign of reciprocation through pixels before the day would inevitably wash you both up to shore, an island where only the two of you inhabit, and made nature take it's course.
Sure you weren't bright-eyed and bushy tailed, having seen the worst of the worst in your first few years, memories and shifts you buried in your brain so deep, you couldn't even remember them if you tried. But for some reason, yesterday stuck. The patient, the technique, the van ride, the whispered prayers of loved ones while you worked in the back, moving as steadily and quickly as you could with the rocking of the cab. The aftermath. The numbers that passed through your lips like a ghost itself, and the goddamn aftermath.
Cutting the thoughts off immediately with a jolt back, and you found yourself in the back of the van. Working on autopilot, hands moving with muscle memory, the tingles of used equipment still tingling on your palms.
You cursed under your breath, how long has it been? Did you dissociate that whole time? Flexing your fingers and patting down your hips, you realise your phone is still in your pocket, thanking the universe that the patient onboard the gurney was passed out, looked after well and seemingly looked like they were making a mends after you went and triple checked them over. The minor panic subsided and was immediately by the opening of the tailgate doors, listing off every bit of information and detail your unconscious mind miraculously retained, wheeling them down and out and into the anarchy that is the ER.
Instantaneously, as you moved about the bustle of bodies, Nat's eyes caught yours from the nurses' station. Standing up, she was leant forward, her weight on her palms that stuck to the desk, focused on lab results or a patient's medical history. It was as if her body was attuned to your whereabouts, finally waking up once you rushed through.
By the time the case was handed off, finding yourself strolling back through where you had entered, the scene ahead was practically unchanged. Only now, Ava seeped into the image. Cool as can be, her body slanted with her elbow to the desk that sheltered the computers while her free hand sat confidently on her hip, attention set on the redhead in front. She had a smile on her face, one that only came when gossip was shared, mouth slightly agape, eyes rocking up and down Nat's face.
Strolling past with a rigid exhale, a breath you hadn't realised you've been holding in for how long now, a hand curls it's way around your bicep. Voice, low and velvety, speaks before you could turn.
"You know, you could power an entire state with the amount of energy you're giving off."
With a playful tut and a smile, you tilt your head to the side and cross your arms. "Hello, good afternoon to you too, Natasha and Ava."
Returning your demeanour, she speaks with a classy intonation. "Hello and good afternoon, grumps," she smirked. "Now whats up with you."
You turn and nod to Ava, eyes squinting at her laid back manner. "What did you tell her."
"I had absolutely nothing to do with this," her eyes hold defence, nodding her head back in Nat's direction, "she can just read people. And to be honest you do have this energy."
"I do not."
"Yeah you do," Nat chimes back in, now holding you still with both hands on each bicep, scanning, analysing, brows taut, eyes wandering. "Was it the shift? You did look more shaken up than usual."
Without much of a pause, your lungs inhaling deep with frustration, eyes moving to the ceiling. Ready to deflect, to push away, build a wall higher than any skyscraper in Manhattan, complete with steel walls, bulletproof and all, but it all crumbles apart as Ava hums, tracing nonexistent patterns in the corian surface.
"Barnes did switch partners this morning."
As quick as her murmur came, Nat whipped her head to face her, only to start looking back and forth between the two of you, the hold of her hands becoming tighter and tighter. "Deliberately?"
"Ava—" You warn, praying the way you speak — tired and gritted — will help camouflage it into something softer than it actually is. Only it falls on deaf ears.
She hums again, a hint of amusement in her voice, song-like. "He's with your sister today."
As much as you want to let the topic go, let it lie and mend itself with the passage of time, the casualness of your two friends still pokes and jabs at your ribs like tiny pin pricks. Each easy slide of their tones, their quips, their treating your internal dilemma as nonchalant gossip, it's just another tough poke to the side that'll most likely bruise, and you'll have to endure the growing pain in fear of being a coward.
"Lena? Really?" As Nat's attitude morphs into something akin to scepticism, you try to push the pain aside. Her voice growing higher with curiousness, a scowl curling her lip even when she tries to hold it down.
Tiredness blankets you like a storm cloud, only just about half finished with your shift, and you realise now, with the new unauthorised information shared, this shift will last a lifetime. You can already feel it in your bones, and the way you barely try to debate. "We seriously don't have to talk about this."
And it was then, every ounce of you, you had left, completely left the building.
"Talk about what?" Sam's voice felt like a strike to the already blossoming purples and yellows from Nat and Ava. You love him, honestly, he's the first person you go to when you find some good, hot gossip that's burning on the tip of your tongue, begging to be free.
And that's exactly why, to the trio's hilarity, you groan obnoxiously loud, turning away, only to turn back to your spot.
"Bucky changed his partner this morning." Nat replied, low and conspiratorial, already plotting ways to talk to her sister off he clock with unsuspecting questions that Yelena will very much see through.
With a huff, Sam leans forward, palms braced on the counters edge, "And why would he do that?"
"Okay," Ava cut through, turning herself to you, closer, hands together, pointed. "Just walk us through yesterday evening."
A sigh wracked through your body, dragging a hand down your face. "He drive me home, like you told him to," glancing at Nat, who nodded attentively, silently asking for more, "he walked me in, and I didn't wanna be alone so he stayed the night."
"And that's it?"
"Yeah, basically," you suck in a breath, "he didn't text me this morning though."
"Huh…" Nat paced in her spot, "but did you text him at all?"
The silence was enough to answer.
"Sweetheart—"
"Listen I'll do it later," stepping back to address them all, you edge closer to Ava. "I'll update you or something, it's probably just because yesterday was a lot. I'll see you guys later, come on Ava."
The room moved without disturbance. Still breathed with frenzied bodies walking, jogging, hands moving without thought. Yet Nat and Sam just watch on next to each other as you and Ava scurry out through the doors.
"I bet twenty she and Barnes fucked."
Wheezing, Sam bowed his head, shaking it. "They just walked out the damn doors. You're cold, Romanoff."
"What can i say," she smiles and saunters backwards, "I like to play dirty."
"Hey, save that shit for Steve, he's not gonna be happy when you have to add another five to the jar." He called out to her as she turned, but she didn't look back. Red hair a beacon among the pack around them, her voice picks up.
"I'll make it up to him!"
After a couple days, you let it slide. Perhaps memories, emotions, muscle aches got the better of him and he needed some quiet. But his name seemed to find another, every single goddamn shift, while yours was stuck paired with Ava (not that you minded), and your days overlapped more-so than usual. Trying to find him around the station felt worse than trying to scout a glimpse of Bigfoot. His presence felt ghostlike, almost like a memory taunting you with the scuff of boots on linoleum, a hint of his aftershave in the locker room, all sharp and clean, sending your brain miles and miles away, back to your bedroom and the pillow that still carried his air like it was made for him. His voice sometimes echoes, only murmurs, nothing intelligible, your brain cannot process the words while they grasp onto his gruffness, right where it spilled onto your neck and the hinge of your jaw, just on the soft skin where it dips into your tendons.
You can still feel the warmth of it lingering. Especially after shifts that burned in your muscles and your head unfortunately laid too deep into your side, excreting his scent like the skin of an orange, reminding you that you did, in fact, text him after the shift. But his replies after felt vacant and unenthusiastic, so again, you chalked it up to him wanting to be alone.
But you tried not to let three words from forming after that thought. 'Away from you'.
He wanted to be alone, away from you.
Late nights seemed the most vacant over those silent hours. Your apartment, a place once full of joint laughter, a warmth that permeated even when his presence lacked amongst the soft pillows and handmade throws, and soft yellow lamps, it all seemed… empty. Your phone dared to buzz against your bedside table, even though you turned it onto 'do not disturb', too nervous to hear that ding of a notification. What if it's someone else? And it always is.
Natasha, ever the observer, caught wind of this sudden change between you and Bucky too quick for your liking, and understood how deep it truly was after the first day without him — something totally not lightly mentioned by Steve over takeout. Nat had a way of sniffing things out, too smart for her own good, and throughout the years (much to your chagrin) she's just gotten better at reading you. Even when it's through short two minute glances across the ER as you wheel in a patient, body running on stale gas-station coffee and burgeoning resentment. Try as you might to keep stats clear and hands steady, your eyebrows apparently have this minuscule taut the redhead can pull twenty different meanings from, just across the bay, and they're all correct.
And then there's Sam. Who wouldn't leave her alone until she spilled something. Even when he got most of the story beforehand, the man just didn't let up until someone broke, and even then you both knew he'd just take one glance at Bucky's tight jaw and immediately guess correctly, or corner Steve when he brings Nat her lunch and he'd spill. So there was really no winning. And in the ER, your business is everyone's business.
The mawkish scent of the bay hit's your gut even before you arrive.
"Incoming!" Speaking before your body could catch up, your entire nervous system, muscles, worked while you were put on standby, praying everything that came out of your mouth was eligible. "GCS 12 and dropping, heart rate 130, BP 90 over 60. twenty four year old male, MVA at 18:27, approximately twenty minutes ago. Blunt force trauma to the chest with a suspected flail segment… obvious compound fracture of the right femur. Diminished breath sounds on the left, and cool, clammy skin. Showing signs of compensated shock."
As if sensing your apprehension, Ava cut in, composed and ready. "Two large bore IVs started with a litre of saline running, and a needle decompression performed on the left side for tension pneumothorax." She nodded, eyes sharp on your own. You reciprocated, quick and tightlipped.
Once your presence was quickly filled by staff on hand — Ava moving to take a call outside — you found yourself leaning with your back against the brick wall at the side of the building. Head tipping back with a dull thunk, exhaling, you close your eyes at the feel of the early evening breeze. Light hues of yellows and oranged curtained the sky, and you let yourself bask in it for as many seconds as you possibly could.
Gravel crunched underfoot, pace quick, but not distressed, just determined. Tilting your head to the side, the bright flash of red coming closer to you settled a weight on you, yet you couldn't help the lazy smile that grew on your face.
She hummed before you could counteract, eyeing you like a cat, up and down, with a pleased smirk on her face, the kind that reads 'I know everything just by the way you're carrying yourself'.
"Still trouble in paradise?"
Taking one quick glance at her, you suck in a breath. The tiredness of the shifts, of the silence, of the week — even though it's only been a few days — hits you in a wave through your body. "I'm fine."
A singular, amused laugh claps back, "He still hasn't texted you back?"
"Who?"
"Don't 'who' me, you owl," she takes a small step forward, leaning beside you, voice lowering just enough to be heard through the hums and whirrs of traffic. "Steve mentioned earlier that Buck's been all weird and you look one second away from snapping your molars. And stop chewing the insides of your cheeks."
You swat her hand away with a groan as she tries to squish your cheeks.
"It's nothing," you sigh, hands folding over your chest, looking away from her gaze. "You know how he gets sometimes."
"Yeah, but he's never gets like this with you,"
Rolling your neck back, you shoot her an unimpressed, flat look to say 'that didn't help one bit'.
Sucking her teeth, she tapped your shoulder with the back of her hand, eyes rolling to the back of her head.
"Listen. Whatever happened — actually happened — big or small, I'm always here. So is Steve, and unfortunately by default, so's Sam," the soft attempt at humour works. Breathing out sharply through your nose, a tight, but real, smile stretches across your lips. Finally looking at Nat in the eyes, her own smile is warm. Cosy in the way that something familiar is, the way something tainted in autumnal orange and gentle grazes can be. "Just give it a little more time, yeah? He'll come around."
You sniffle, something you instantly regret with a shake of your head and murmur, but push through anyway. "Thanks Nat."
"Anytime," she replies, "Now back to work, you've got a long day ahead of you."
The next time you're back at the ER, Steve's there. A sight you rarely ever see during work hours, only if timed perfectly — which, when you're no longer next to his best friend, is scarce. His presence, though you saw him the week before, felt like a comet sighting. An eclipse in a way.
Only now, you weren't filled with delight at the sight of the blond. Not with him talking up close in hushed murmurs with Natasha and Sam.
Before you could walk up and greet the group, the redhead spotted you, and without a word, expression, or a goodbye to the guys, she was on you. Manicured hand pulling you by the bicep, down crowded hallways, weaving through bodies like it was an Olympic sport. Her face was stern, set in stone, and no matter your half-assed protests, and jokes of "it's nice to see you too!", she made no indicator of stopping, nor giving you any warmth back.
It was like third grade all over again. When your favourite teacher suddenly got stern with you one lesson, and all resolve would come tumbling down, and from then on til you left school, they were now just a teacher, and nothing else. But Nat is your friend. Albeit, terrifying sometimes, especially when you close off back into your shell and try to work shit out yourself, even when you both know that's not how you work. But she is still your friend.
Rounding a corner, your body flung slightly off circuit, boots squeaking the linoleum, scuffing the light blue with a dark grey smudge.
The closet clicked shut. Flicking the lock shut, more for theatrics than for any real purpose, Nat stared with taut brows and a confused glower. Hands snake their way to cross over her chest, she leaned back against the door with a cool ease you can, and will never get used to.
"I love you way too much and you know that. Sam is tired of you and Bucky's silences, and that's saying something. Steve won't stop talking about how tired he looks, and his default face is unimpressed and bothered. Keeps saying he's sighing like an old dog, snapping at people, hell, he's smoking more!"
Your chest does something torturous. Caves in on itself with a sound you never thought you could make. Your body sinks into the wall opposite her, spine curved, arms crossed, a mimic of Nat's powerful stance, only for it to fall weak and wet, as you turn your head to stare at the floor while your nose tingles.
Anger, frustration and anxiety start to creep up your spine. It wouldn't have gotten so bad if you both just… talked.
"I'm worried. You two were so inseparable, and now it feels like all of us are living with two ghosts who refuse to move onto the afterlife even though you both hate the house you haunt. Steve and Sam can't get a goddamn lick out'a him, and you're here," she motions you up and down with a lazy hand, "I don't even know what you're doing. 'I'm fine', 'don't worry'… Fuck, i know i said to give him time, but at this point Sam and I are so close to pushing you both into a closet, locking the door and making you sort it out."
Silence spreads in the closed off space. The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears. Guilt spread through your veins like poison, and your stomach rolled.
"I love you. So does Steve and Sam even though they never say so. But they, we, also love Buck. And we care so much about you both, and your friendship, and we don't want this to split anything up — especially if it's over some childish bullshit, you know?" She lets her words sit for a few seconds before continuing. "So please. Spill."
The throb up your nose worsened, ascending up to an ache in the inner corners of your eyes, darkening the skin around your cheeks.
"That Thursday… a week ago or something, you know," you mumble, voice croaky and whiny, your gut clenched with how embarrassed you felt. Childish. Barely able to take your eyes off the floor, and through the blur of unshed tears you see her nod for you to continue. "It was stressful. It—I, we—"
Hands cradled your shoulders, albeit cold through your shirt, but the temperature helped to mix with your warming cheeks and flushing body, as with her soft voice when it came.
"Breathe with me, hun," she exaggerates her inhales, eyes widening until you follow shakily. "In and out, that's it. Take your time, we can work this out together."
You tried. Staggering the first few breaths, breathing too quick and short, but Natasha stayed still and quiet, letting you gather yourself in your own time. After sputtering, covering your face with the back of your hand, trying to hide yourself behind tightly shut eyelids, you finally find your footing. Humming to find your voice, whispering the first utter of the situation you've been cruelly holding tight to your chest.
"Bucky gave me a ride home," you swallow, jaw clamping shut, you breathe a couple more times, feeling the next few words in your mouth before setting them free. "… and we had sex."
"Halle-fuckin-lujah."
The confession was still fresh. Warm in the confines of the tight four walls you both occupy, but the redheads bluntness swatted the squishy texture until it rid and became something hard and natural, and something… normal. You hated it.
"Nat."
The look on her face was an accumulation of happiness, irritation, and impatience. She scoffed, almost scorned by the casualness of this secret.
"What? We've been praying for this since you two were rookies, and Sam owes me twenty," She jabs, trying to fill the tiny supply closet with a lighthearted joke, but it falls a little stiff.
She sighs, "look, I know this may seem like the end of the world, but Bucky's just," she waves her hands trying to find the words, "stupid. He's doing this shit to process his feelings and this new dynamic you two created — also, this started, what? The call on Sixth?" Her voice lowers, tentative and almost motherly.
Nat's hands stay firmly on your shoulders, not in a vice grip, soft enough to say 'you can leave if you want' but tight enough to let you know this means business and you'll want to hear what she says. Her head dips, trying to hold eye contact.
"From everything the boy's have been huffing about, he most likely feels conflicted. That was… a night," she exhales harshly, "I saw the way he looked at you while you were handling paperwork. He cares. Maybe a little too much, but fuck, he really cares."
When you look up, all you see is comfort.
"I'm not saying the way he's handling this is correct or healthy, or even remotely okay, but… It's just what he does, and it's so aggravatingly him and it's dumb."
The edge of your lip points. "He is dumb"
"The dumbest," squeezing your shoulders, she shakes you softly. "Listen, Steve and I are going out after tomorrow's shift to that bar on First — shit, what's it called… the one with the karaoke?"
You chime in, voice still croaky, whispering unevenly, "The Plum Tree?"
"That's the one," her smile broadens. "Come with us. Sam'll be there, Lena and Ava too —"
"And Bucky?"
She chuckles lightly, fidgeting, but she stays collected, like this is just a tiny bump in the road and she has all the tools to fix it. "Steve's already on it. Placed a few mentions of the name here and there, said 'beer' one too many times—"
"Are you… using subliminal messaging?"
"Potato Potahto," she dismisses with a flick of her wrist, already edging backwards to the door. "In no time it's all gonna seem like it was his idea to go out."
"Wait but what will I —"
"My love, I'm begging, do not worry," flicking the latch, she opens the door and the flood of chatter and beeps is back to dull your senses. "Everything you need and want to ask will come. Don't dwell on it, even though i know you will, but Steve and I've got it. We're smart."
"Sure you are."
"Oh, was that a little sarcasm?"
"Shut up"
The bar is livelier than you expected, even though it was a Friday and it's just started to drizzle. You arrived alone and on foot, hoping to get at least a little bit of alcohol in your system just to pump yourself up and get your confidence boosting. You opted for comfort too, a casual long-sleeve and jeans combo, though the weather called for a jacket despite the nearing warmth of the sun whenever it peaked midday. The chill never ceases to bite once her company has gone. And you have an intimation something else might sink their teeth into you later.
Warmth evaded your senses, heat from bodies; familiarity in almost every corner of the place, groups of fours or more occupied booths, whereas couples stayed put by the bar. Amber lights basked on their skin, washing everything in a dark orange that felt more intimate than it needed to be, mellow and harmonious. It felt like a joke made at your own expense.
Slipping your way through, you locked onto Sam who sat at a booth. Wooden table stained with rings of condensation and carvings from years of use, half drunk glasses and cups sat atop, ice melting, dripping onto the surface and you have half the mind to collect a bundle of coasters. The acrylic sheets of maroon that coated the seats looked worn in, and well loved.
It wasn't until you neared closer to the man you saw that beside him was Ava, and in front sat Yelena.
"And here she is."
Sam's bright voice followed through the music overhead, tickled, his smile carried through. You grin despite yourself, and took the empty spot next to Yelena as she scooted to give you room.
Scanning the table with squinted eyes, you sigh. "So was this all a ruse to get Bucky and I locked in the same room?"
Hushed mutters and mumbles of 'maybe's and 'perchance's hum across the table, and Sam completely diminishes your smug with a push of an untouched bottle. "Just drink your drink."
You have no choice but to huff out a chuckle mixed with disbelief and something akin to feeling impressed.
Taking a well needed sip, letting the coldness, the fizz, the alcohol do it's work. "Where's Nat and Steve?"
Chiming in, speech slurred slightly — not from alcohol, but from drowsiness — Yelena grumped out a sound with an elbow to the table, closed fist against cheek. "Back alley with the perpetrator. Probably on his fourth pack of the day."
You wince ephemerally, catching the slight turn of your face, but the blonde is quick to catch it and try to backtrack.
"I'm sorry. He's just been so — God, shit, I don't even know —"
Ava watches on amused, and meanwhile Sam just sips this beer, looking out behind you, like it's a regular night.
"Lena here, thinks you hate her."
The sly lilt of Ava's teasing has you perking up in your seat. Tilting your head in question, eyes widening. Your hand mindlessly moving an inch closer to her as if to comfort. "Lena, please, I don't hate you."
"Good! Because really, I had no say in the matter," she mumbled into her cup, taking a gulp. "It was like babysitting an thirteen-year-old emo kid who had his first heartbreak. Sad. Made my arms hurt."
"Poor boys been sulking for a week."
You hum unamused at Ava, sarcasm dripping from your lips as you take another sip. "I wonder who's fault that might be."
"Oh, he knows." Sam quips, sarcasm filled the words he spoke, but the truth remained clear and deep. Glancing back and forth between you and the space over your shoulder, he straightens. Nodding to himself, to you, with a tight smile, trying to make light but you saw the hardness inside of it.
Taking another sip, a hand slides over your shoulder, making you lock up, only for a voice, ever so familiar and velvety, to murmur beside your ear like this was a stakeout. Clandestinely working with the grace of a spy. "He's outside. Talk to him."
You wince into your drink, groaning into the spout as you swallow. "Nat, come on—"
"Talk to him," she declares. Eyes widening, voice dropping with seriousness you only ever heard when she was on the clock, "or I swear I will drag you outside myself."
You scrunch your face with a huff, pushing yourself out of your seat with a squeak. "I hate you."
Without as much as a glance back, hearing the softness in your words despite the bite, she slips into your spot. "You so love me," she smiles. "And you'll love me more after this!"
The smoking area smells like old ash and rain. Bucky’s leaning against the farthest wall, covered by the smallest of awnings, watching the rain fall with his arms crossed, legs stretched out with a kind of composure that jabs you in the chest.
There's a warm light above him, a curved fixture that spotlights over him, making him like some kind of divine presence. The smoke he exhales trails off above him, dancing around his head and it makes you think of a halo.
You should hate him.
Your chests grows tighter as you just stand and watch him, all casual, all him with no audience. After not seeing him after a week, it felt torturous how your body immediately reacted. Emotions ended up manifesting to physical aches, tightening in your biceps and gut. Besides that, the worst part, it seems the little dog in your brain — the one that latches onto familiarity like a chew toy, holding it in your locked jaw, growling at anyone who dares to take — remembers that night like it was yesterday.
The tightening in your gut coincided with another feeling. It coiled and dragged, too sensitive and delicate, your breath hitched when you felt the first wave wash down and spill in your underwear.
A cigarette hangs from his lips barely halfway done before he sees you, silhouetted by the light of the frosted windows and outdoor lights, and holds it in his fingers.
“Nuh-uh, nope,” he mumbles the second he notices you. “I'm not doing this right now.”
A sigh slips out, small and steadying. You could already feel your eyelids drooping from tiredness.
From knowing how this will go. From being in his presence again. From the week you've had. You couldn't count all the possibilities on one hand, so you push it down and decide to make Nat and the group at least a little bit proud, and rip the bandage off.
"Too late," you draw out, inching closer slowly, testing the waters. The playful hint you always kept for him slipping out, but you catch it quickly before you could finish. "We have to, or all of them back there are handcuffing us together for the next week."
Silence.
You don't expect him to talk immediately, but there's something about this particular stillness that makes your gut tense more.
You let the rain, moved from a drizzle to a downpour, orchestrate the moment.
"Bucky, why didn't you just talk to me."
The quiet stays, though now you understand he wants to fill it. It pulls harder and hits thicker after you speak. And you can see his chest move inwards on a breath.
With a ruffle of his jacket as he shrugs briefly, a scratch of the back of his neck, an awkward, a smoke, and breathy chuckle he does when he doesn't quite know what to say. So you let him stew, like how he did to you before, only this time a minute of your withdrawal feels like years to him.
"I'm a coward."
"Not good enough."
You almost flinch at the harshness of your voice. Almost cower in on yourself and apologise, but you stand down. You stopped just in front of him, close enough that he can see the tiny movements of your face, the tightness of your jaw, and the stare of your eyes, how the honey coloured lamp above him colours your irises, but far enough that theres an obvious space between the two of you — there is now a distance, and he should notice and want to fix.
"Okay," he sighs, minutely amused, "but it's the truth."
"Okay, so, I'll reword," shuffling in your spot, your arms tighten over your chest like a physical barrier. An added wall to the stretch, and you can just about see his restraint start to fray. "Why did you shut me out for an entire week without a word?"
He chuckles again, breath and smoke swirling in front of him as he flicks the cigarette out into the rain.
"Sweetheart—"
“See, because from where I’m standing, you fucked me and then decided I was too fragile to deal with the aftermath.”
You don't shout, but the truth comes louder than expected and you're both glad no one else occupies the space with you.
"No," he straightens, jaw clicking, “I took advantage of you.”
This time you chuckle, “that's bullshit, and you know it.”
“You were shaking.” He replies, voice unshaken and fair.
“So were you!" You counteract louder and frustrated. As you lick your lips you check yourself, lowering your voice back to something that holds structure. But Bucky knows you, knows you completely and, as of recently, wholly. The watches the space between your brows crinkle and the way your right cheek hollows as you scrape your teeth against it. "We'd just worked a long shift, Bucky, and a really shitty one at that. That doesn’t make us incapable of… of consent. Of wanting something.”
“You weren’t thinking clearly.”
A groan almost slides up your throat. Tipping your head back with your eyes closed, drawing in a breath that tastes too much like warm rain and earth, and the fatally addictive scent of his aftershave and cigarettes that sunk into the fabric of his clothes and skin.
“You don’t get to say that,” you mutter, stepping closer. “You don’t get to strip me of my agency because it makes you feel better about bailing.”
"I didn't bail," His hands curl into fists at his sides, only for him to hold them up, palms out. Another barrier. “I’m trying to not be the kind of guy who—”
“Who what?” you interrupt. “Who fucks his coworker and, what? Regrets it?”
"Oh?" His eyes flash, widening a fraction and he just about stutters on his words. “Oh, 'coworker' now? Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” He steps closer, never minding the space, the makeshift restrictions you both created wordlessly, his eyes dark, voice low. “You’re the one who keeps saying it like that word didn’t mean something different two weeks ago.”
“That is not what I meant." You could laugh. Annunciating each word carefully, feet planted to your spot, tipping your head like it was the only part of you that wanted to be closer to him.
“Sure sounds like it.” His jaw tightens again, ready to bite. “Funny how it’s ‘coworker’ when you’re mad, but — oh, when you were pulling me in by the shirt—”
"You're fucking mean." You swallow, eyebrows furrowing deep as anger flares hotter.
“Yeah?” He asks, stepping closer, voice rising, rough around the edges. “Say it again. If that’s all I am to you, say it to my face.”
Your pulse thunders, anger buzzing so loud it makes your hands shake. “You’re such an asshole.”
His eyes flick to your mouth, dark and heated. “Then why are you standing right here?”
You scoff incredulously, still unwilling to move, standing ground like a stubborn horse.
"Get in my face."
Something in you snaps. Tiny, but it snaps nonetheless. You tip your head back, hand wiping down from your eyes to your neck, anger sparking hot, you almost shout. "Oh, Jesus Christ —"
"Just me, sweetheart, and I'm serious," he steps closer than ever, repeating the same line again like a mantra, a demand for something, a plea of sorts, but you don't want to dig too deep into it. "Get in my face."
So you do. One step forward, boots knocking on his own, chest to chest, air exhaled becomes his, and suddenly you feel warm and clammy.
Your eyebrows tighten as you look up to him. His perfect eyebrows, the harsh crinkle of crows feet beside his eyes, those azureous pools that maliciously make your stomach flip even know. They warmed in the golden lamplight, almost a sea foam green.
His pupils flickered then, and it all snapped.
His hand fists in your jacket and he hauls you in, mouth crashing against yours with zero finesse and all intent. It’s rough and hungry, all teeth and pressure and pent-up frustration finally given somewhere to go. His kiss tastes like tobacco and anger and it ached underneath.
You make a sound you don’t recognize and grab him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor him there, merely to plant onto his neck. Bucky kisses you deeper, sloppier, like he’s furious at the distance he created that ever existed at all.
His teeth scrape your lip. You bite back, breathless and unyielding.
"You," you murmur against his lips breathlessly, "you are so mean."
But he doesn't stop. The hands that had crumpled into your clothes rummaged up to your face, cupping your cheeks with a soft reverence that spread molten through your entire body, forcing another noise from you that he swallowed entirely. They tangled into your hair, keeping you in, holding you steady.
"I know, I know," he whispered back, lips never letting up, hands cradling you gently, one back to your cheek while his other held you by the nape of your neck. "I'm the fuckin' worst."
Nodding in agreement, you hum, your own hands finding purchase back on his shoulders and down his front, smoothing down his chest.
His soft lips mapped with earnest obedience, slipping away without a notice or protest from you. Pecking the edge of your lips, to your cheeks and temple, before moving downwards, slow and steady, memorising the way you feel, sound and taste as he licks, nips and sucks at the skin of your jaw and neck.
"Awful… just," a broken, breathless sigh leaves your mouth as he grazes the soft spot just beneath the hinge of your jaw, making you ball your fists into his front. "God, the worst."
Bucky grunts, feeling a heat accumulate where you both begin to ache, and he finds himself already in too deep to care, and his lips find yours again, bruising.
The brick crumbles and catches against your back as you both writhe, hands with no destination cling onto any surface and inch of clothing, your fists clench around his shirt, creasing the fabric, trying to pull him closer into you as possible.
Without preamble, Bucky's knee knocks into your own, hastily pushing them apart with a grunt into your mouth to which you steal gratefully, the vibration lingers on your lips and tongue. This dance the two of you follow, a new creation of the nights lingering need and unabashed desire, all made up on the go, seems to fall together so perfectly, even the clumsy shoves and hums and touches hard enough to leave tiny yellowed bruises seem so purposeful.
His fingers trail down your body and through your belt loops, keeping you secure in his palms as he pushes you down, just a slight crook to your knees atop of his thigh with a groan. Splitting from your lips, his breath strokes your ear.
"C'mon, that's it," he praises as your hips grind, denim on denim, "take it out on me, right here."
Your fists ball tighter, and a whimper falls from your slacked jaw from a strong mix of arousal, annoyance, forgiveness and punishment.
It's not him. Well not fully. It's his thigh, his thigh that's covered by denim, against you, who's also covered. The barriers of thick cloth makes your head thunk back onto the wall, but your hips never stop their movements, nor can they stop with Bucky's strong grip guiding them to and fro. The warmth of them tightens your chest, and your hands fall to them, holding his forearms, his wrists — to keep you steady, grounded, or to just touch some semblance of his skin.
You watch his eyes through heavy lids, staring down at where you frot, how you arch into him instinctively, how your nails dig into his skin without remorse.
"You're such… an asshole." You pant shakily, and he finally looks up. When he does so his grip tightens, making you grind into him, hips to hips, harder, slower, than before, and you can feel the obvious hardness of his cock tented beneath his zipper against your hip.
"I know."
You scoff weakly, "I didn't even wanna be out here."
"Understandable."
"I hate you." You bite. It's sleepy under the haze of lingering nicotine and liquid courage, but the nip is there, nonetheless. And the worst thing is, he smiles. Something that makes your heart flip inside of your chest, cracking beneath your ribs, thumping so hard, you lick your lips and clench your jaw.
"That's good to know, sweetheart," he huffs, smirk wobbling for half a second before correcting itself. "Fuck, say it again."
"I fucking hate you," you repeat, harsher than before, cutting to his chest but it feels good all the same. His arms move faster, bucking his knee up as he whispers approval in the heady air around you and against your sticky skin.
You move your hips in time, missing the short but momentous touch of his clothed cock against your hip. The note of you doing something to him, making him turned on — this turned on — brings a whole new wave of wetness to pool in your panties and ache to your already stimulated clit.
"The worst person ever… leaving me like that." You're half-gone and just about ready to cum. Thighs trembling around his own, hands shaking against his shirt, and your teeth chatter from the excess adrenaline.
Completely forgetting where you were.
As his name whispered past your lips, escaped by a sharp exhale against his neck, your movements were suddenly halted. Bucky's hands had moved you up, just enough for you to miss the friction, to drive you to the edge, and have it tingle and linger.
"Buck," you started, a hiss between your teeth as your nails dug into his skin. "Bucky, what the fuck?"
He sighs, unmoving from your temple. "You deserve better,"
"Jesus Christ, Barnes."
"I'm serious," one hand moves from your belt loop, tangling itself within your hair, keeping you close — scared of you running, of watching him undo himself in front of you. You feel him exhale shakily. "Not… Not in your jeans in the middle of some alley. I want you to cum on my cock again."
With a wobbly, breathless chuckle, you shake your head. Disbelief washing through you. "Bucky."
"Please sweetheart," his tone lingers on whiny, pleading, a complete contrast of his earlier disposition. His hands held tighter, fingertips digging deep enough for your ribs to stutter. "Please, I wanna feel you again."
The trembling of his breath, his body softly reeling against yours with leftover adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt against your chest. For what, you have no clue — it's stupid, really — so you shove it down, exactly like you have for the last few days.
His gentle pleas lodged deep inside of you, pinging a new ache in your abdomen, making you feel cruel and hot.
"With the week you've put me through, I deserve this shit," pushing your hips back down, you're so glad Bucky had the gall to move one of his hands away, giving you less strength to fight against, less weight to push, and you find yourself stationed back against the thick plain of his thigh. "You started it, right here, so you finish it, Bucky," a strangled choke breaks from his lips, the hand that stayed stationed to your hip readying.
"Make me cum in this alley, and you can finish where we left off last week," you whisper. Meanwhile, Bucky stays still like your words lodged him into place, sifting through his brain, so you give him a little nudge with your own knee against his tent. Just a split second of boiling bliss, before you moved it away. "Deal?"
He wheezes. An unfortunate sound, sweet yet sharp and it reminds you of all the cigarettes he smokes, and the ones you'd share on nights where shifts hung tight and heavy on your shoulders, where you would lose track of how many beers you drank and laugh a little too loud on the fire escape. And though it's only been about a week, you missed it ever so badly.
But in that moment, the pious hums were gone, and left was the Bucky Barnes you'd only ever imagined when he'd invite the latest girl he was seeing on a night out with you and your friends — the Bucky who liked to chase and challenge, the one who had the kind of hunger in his eye that would glint insurgently. Even when the attitude wasn't directed at you at those times, it still sparked a light up your spine. And it was wholeheartedly and perfectly worse now it was for you, and only you.
Smirking, he glanced away for a split second. Back to the door where anyone could walk in to see your position, and he shrugged. "Deal."
The drags, starting slow, almost teasing with how measured and deliberate they were, drawing out the pleasure in long stretches, quickly accumulated into short bursts of need and attention.
Pulls turned to grinds. Tiny jolts of your hips on his lap, moving yourself in his hold as much as you could as he pushed.
Slick puddled, wet and sloppy between your thighs and words felt like water in your hands. Slipping from the crevices that was your lips in quick, unintelligible mumbles and whispers. Your eyes glossed over, unfocused, rolling up to look at the sky as if you were ready to ascend straight to heaven.
Your hold tightens, nails leaving deep, dark red punctures in his arms while you work yourself over the edge. Gasping, grinding slower with the help of Bucky, his breath glues to your neck with praise so sweet it just about prolongs the feeling of ecstasy.
"That's it, good girl," he draws out, holding you down, letting your senses fire up as pleasure ebbs into overstimulation. "So beautiful. So good for me, God, you're beautiful."
He whispers against you, around you, letting the breeze of the night carry them against your flushed cheeks as you come to. Bottom lip pulled between your teeth, eyes slacked but they stared unto his face as he slowed down to a stop.
You looked wrecked.
You were wrecked.
"You…" catching your breath, your mouth opened, never wandering your gaze from his face that now looked down on you with wonder. "You brought your car… right?"
He nods. Lips parting, only to close, wet and red.
"Deals a deal," You tap on his wrist twice with a smile, one too sweet for the moment shines on your face and fills your cheeks, eyes glinting with leftover pleasure. "Let's go to my place. "
The drive home felt like déjà vu. Quiet and loaded all the same, now its filled with a different kind of adrenaline. It wasn't a mystery this time, the universe wasn't pulling cards with a hand over its eyes, now it was clearer.
Anticipation thrummed through the vibrations of the engine. Words seemed too much and not enough, both of you too worried about scaring off the other, even though you both knew that this was it. Permanently and irrevocably.
The elevator ride wasn't filled with soft spoken words and comfort, this time it felt telepathic. Leaning against the handrail on the further wall, watching the red light counting floors flicker by, while in the corner of your eye you could see him looking. Watching you feign casualness with a soft smile on his face. You wanted to slap it off him, and kiss it better all at once.
Once you got to your floor, to your door, all reserve fell through the cracks in the floor boards.
Lips finding yours in a breathless mess, moving you blindly until your back hit the wall, holding your head in his hands like something precious, because to him you are, and he's not making any mistakes ever again. Humming into the touch, he takes the opportunity to run his tongue across your lip, before deciding to jump the gun. One hand moved backwards, finding the same position from back in the alleyway. The hand that rest on your cheek stroked with a loving calmness that contrasted to the way his mouth had you, and how his other hand — now threaded through your hair — pulled, causing your mouth to open with a gasped moan. He dove in.
His hands move with a sharp purpose. Sliding through the opening of your jacket, it slipped and hit the ground with a clink of the zipper, his own following, and his palms smoothed over your face once more before grazing down. Curling lightly over your neck, squeezing at the sides just enough to have you feeling light and desperate.
You tugged him closer, moving back into your home while you both became a messy bundle of hands. Touching and groping with fervour.
Bucky didn't let you get so far, pushing you back by your hips and pulling your shirt up and over your head, leaving you in just your bra and jeans.
"I missed you." He muttered as he kissed up your cheek and down your jaw. A sentiment slipped out before he could stop and inspect it. As if to divert your attention, he cups your breasts, nipping and licking at your neck.
You arch your back at the feeling. His jaw scraping raw against you, the heat of his mouth, the marks you'll see in the morning. The way he squeezes your chest just right, pinching your nipples over the fabric, making you arch into his hold.
Coasting your hands down to his jeans, you cup his crotch, palming leisurely as you feel it twitch under the thick denim.
"Fuck, don't do that," Bucky groans loudly as his hips jerk into your touch. "Please, baby."
"But you look so pretty." You whisper back, dragging your palm over him once more before holding his hips.
"You're trouble."
His hands don't let up their grip, holding, massaging, until he sneaks a hand behind you and unclips your bra with precision you file into the back of your mind for later. You push his shirt up. He helps you, tugging it off, while you slip out of your bra and quickly unbutton your jeans.
"Oh, Jesus Christ." Bucky pauses for a moment, caught in a trance, watching you unzip your fly and slip out of your pants and underwear. Watching your breasts, the way your hair covers your face messily, all before snapping out of it when your arms extend outwards to unbutton his jeans.
You giggle softly under your breath at his exclamation, and how his fingers start to fumble over yours as you both try to get his pants off.
"You okay, Buck?" You tease, staring up at him, pushing his pants down his thighs. Its then you find yourself on your knees, helping him untangle his feet from the legs.
Lips parted in harsh breaths, ears tinted pink, chest wobbling as he tries to steady himself. Bucky is conflicted between two scenarios: Watching you take him in your mouth, have you choke so beautifully around his cock, see how you look with your eyes and nose all red while you swallow around him, taking all his load. Or take you to bed.
As much as he wants to, even when people find he's such a selfless man. Bucky often finds himself in moments of weakness, a reminder that he is a part of the male species. But this time, he chooses the latter. "Sweetheart, c'mere."
With hands finding your face again, he doesn't miss the gentle confusion that washes your features. Your hands stuck on each of his thighs as he tries to hold you up, shushing your protests quickly.
"I wanna fuck you, on your bed," he clarifies, stroking your face, "I would take you on the floor, right here, but I don't think you're neighbours would appreciate that. And I wanna do this proper." He chuckles lightly with a wonky smile, thumbs tracking over the apples of your cheeks again as you whine but comply.
Once you stand at full height, he runs his big hands down your body. Cupping your breasts once again, thumbs circling your nipples as your breathing picks up, watching them harden, before giving them a lazy pinch as he trails lower and lower, down your waist, circling to your back, and finally resting at your ass. He massaged playfully, pulling you closer to his chest.
You sigh theatrically, "You're such a mean man, Bucky."
"Am I?" Tilting his head, he pouts, "talk to me, sweetheart. How am I mean?"
"First of all, you — Oh!" With one last squeeze of your ass, his hands lowered, and gripped onto the backs of your legs to hoist you up. Without a word he moved down the hall, leaving your clothes to wrinkle on the hardwood floor beside your front door. "Bucky!"
"C'mon, tell me," with his hands still on your ass, he bounced you up, making you both fall into soft laughter and sighs with a minute relief as you both grazed each other. His voice dipped breathy and low, "I'm curious, baby, don't leave me like this."
His brows dipped dramatically, smiling wide as he glanced into your eyes, trying to find your room without looking (as if he doesn't know the floor plan like the back of his hand).
"For one," you start, fingers tugging on the fuzz at the nape of his neck, making his cheeks blush, teeth to bite into his bottom lip and dick stir against you. "Leaving me all by my lonesome, all goddamn week."
Turning you both around, he pushes the door open with his back, and kicks it to with his foot.
"Lonesome," he repeated, hiding his face in your neck and scraping his teeth, "you poor, poor thing."
Your room, a disastrous mess of you. Sleep clothes stay screwed up on the floor, bottles of perfume and makeup you wear on the rare occasion you get to go out, or on random nights when you want to try something new, laid haphazardly on your desk with colourful puffs of dust coating the surface like watercolour. Your bed, Bucky's destination, was cleaned ever so quickly with a tug of your duvet and quick turn and press of your pillows just to pretend and make yourself believe you have your shit together.
"I am a poor, poor thing, Bucky," you grin, carding through his hair and pulling him back with a moan, "so you better make it up to me."
"Oh, I think I will."
Kneeling against the edge of the mattress, his knee dips, settling you down against the pillows. He follows, blanketing your torso, licking kisses down to your collarbone, easing his body down until his tongue reaches the expanse of your sternum.
"Keep talkin', sweetheart, I'm not gonna stop until I don't understand a single word that come out'a your mouth," one of his hands holds your chin, making you stare into his eyes. The blue, once vast and freeing, were now swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, leaving a ring as dark as the ocean, deep and tenacious. "Got it?"
You nod quickly, adamantly, and before you could register, Bucky licked up the middle of your chest in a broad stripe. He moves, sucking kisses around the top of your left breast, nipping into the skin, leaving soft bruises and red marks, a trail running around until he finally circles your nipple with the wet tip of his tongue.
Whispering a curse, your legs open wider and hips buck up trying to find any way to release the tension throbbing against the gusset of your panties. As he suckles, he breathes out moans, sounds that release like sighs to your wet skin, making you shiver. His free hand moves to copy on your neglected nipple, pinching, rolling between his thumb and forefinger, tugging off, before repeating.
"Teasing me, an-and," your jaw slacks as he switches sides, slipping his thumb over your wet, bullied nipple while he sucks and grunts on your other, sending vibrations through your body. "Fuck, you — oh…"
With his body over yours, his hips met your own, still covered, now in ruined, wet cloth. He lurched his hips against yours, looking for some semblance of relief as he nipped your breasts.
Unlatching with a soft pop, he pushes the mounds together, squeezing them in his grip as his hips dragged at their own rhythm. Shaky, messy, twitching at every flick down and against your sopping core. "What was that?"
"Fuck you." You bite, hands coming up to push into your eyes.
"Soon, sweetheart," he hums, dragging his tongue out to lick from one tit to the other, dragging lazily while he squished them together, leaving a sloppy trail of spit. "Patience."
A singular laugh pierces out with a shake to your chest. Your hand runs up the front of Bucky's hair, and you pull his face up.
"Patience?" You probe, staring into his watery eyes like that one pull of his hair undid his mask in just one second. His lips spit stained, kissed red and full, a string of dribble still connected him to your slick breasts.
When he stayed silent, gulped heavily, and ground his hips into yours, pushing his luck, you let go of his head and pushed his body back by his shoulders.
He stayed sat upright on his haunches, trying to catch any crumb of power, but you kept pushing until his back hit the mattress, head whipping down making the frame creak, and he watched you straddle his lap with a light grin.
You moved quickly, as if at any moment a spell would break and you'd wake up in this exact bed, only for it to be empty and cold. Fingers curling over the waistband of his boxers, silently admiring the mess he made of the front and the silhouette of his thick cock straining. Tugging without preamble. Once they got to his thighs, down to his knees, Bucky launched.
"Fuck!" You squeaked at the surprise attack, barely enough time to fully appreciate the heavy smack he made against his abdomen, or the veins that trailed down his shaft to his balls, the aching red tip that peeked out under blushing skin, wet and sticky, so needy.
Because his hands worked faster. He was always better than you at work, even though whenever you'd tell him, he'd either wave his hand and grumble or put it over your mouth and tell you to 'shut up'. But his hands always worked faster. He memorised, took notes, and when in a new environment, he made sure to understand, appreciate and work.
Understand, appreciate and work was absolutely what he did.
Your underwear was gone with a rip of the waistband, surprised they even lasted this long, sticking to your slit from cum and arousal.
Warm on your waist, pulling you forward, Bucky began to direct your body. The other snakes to your back, right between your shoulder blades where he could hold you close. His eyes bore into yours while sliding from your torso, to the curve of your hip, until it fists and kneads down your ass again. The pulsing of his fingers pushes your hips forward and into the slick heat of his cock.
"Still mean, aren't I?" Pulling from your ass with a quick, stinging slap, he holds his weeping cock in his fist, sighing with relief as he slides his hands up and down the shaft, slicking it up with his own pre, right in front of your cunt. "Tell me I'm such an asshole. Tell me you hate me for fucking you so good."
Your walls clamp around nothing, aching uncomfortably with emptiness as you whine and shift your hips closer. Your head tips forward, holding your arms around his neck and hiding your face into his collar as he slowly, achingly makes love to his hand.
"Say that you hate me and I'll let you have him," he whispers so quietly, so softly it makes your bones feel like jelly. The saliva pooling in his mouth clicks around the words, something you've always hated on others but in this moment you cant help but feel the burning desire to lick it all from his tongue and swallow it for yourself.
He nudges your head up with his shoulder, making you look up at him with a tired gaze, sleepy with need so thick it hurts, eyes dark and settling into the skin underneath. God, he hasn't seen anything so beautiful in his life.
To wake you up further, he sets his hips so the tip grazes over your clit. The shock is immediate, burning, vicious, it almost feels delirious. How your entire body jolts in short shakes, how your hands tighten around his neck, how you coat him. The sounds you both create, syrupy and sweet, mixed with the ever light taps his tip makes as he drags himself through your mess. And your chorus of moans and sighs, all while he keeps composure — tries to.
"C'mon, baby, say it," he jerks up, slipping between your lips. Hardly hiding his neediness and desperation. "Tell me, God, please just fuckin' tell me."
You have half the mind to leave him like this. Wet, shaking, pleading at his knees for you like a man praying for forgiveness, like you hold a sword to his shoulders. He deserves to wait, to beg, and whimper — needing to hear your words, hear you reprimand and berate him for what he did.
But there's a quiet voice in your head that asks: what's a week next to years of friendship?
Your hips tip up, catching the head of his cock in your entrance, and the words on your lips feel odd and quiet.
You mean them.
"I love you,"
The burn reaches every corner of your body as you slip. Taking him all. All of him. Of Bucky. Your coworker, your partner, your best friend. Inside of you, held snug and tight in your walls, twitching against your cervix, as your body greets him again.
Your breaths mingle as you share gasps and skin.
"I love you so much, that I hate…" you strain, inhaling deep and hard, swallowing back the feeling of anxiety and his length all the way in the back of your throat. "I hate that you left me, and made me guess, and — and made everyone stress the fuck out."
You don't feel the tears until he starts wiping them away from your face, cooing gently, kissing away the salty tracks.
"I'm sorry."
You sniffle, causing your walls to clamp messily around his erection. He groans under his breath, holding your hip while moving your hair away from your eyes.
The feeling of his thickness and the attention on your face and emotions has your hips canting in his hold. Grinding down and against him, clit grazing the hair of his abdomen, making sure your body remembers him completely. "Never do it again."
"Never," he shakes his head, still wiping away the tiny trails welling in the corners of your eyes, kissing your lids, breathing in your scent. He holds onto your hips tighter, following your lead, your rhythm as you find it, and starts to shift his own to your beat.
"Not — never in a million years," his head cranes back on a grunt in his throat, and he lets go of your hip, moving his arm behind him, holding your sheets, and himself from behind. He lets you move. "Make me pay for it… for the rest of our lives, and I'd — fuck, baby — I'll thank you, forever."
As your hips grinded, Bucky's eyes never faltered off yours (as badly as he wanted to watch the way your pussy swallows his cock). His hand stayed on the side of your face, moving down, just enough to cup your jaw when he felt your gaze slipping away.
Grinding, the slick sounds of your exertion got louder, your walls aching around him, his breath coming out in tight, long pants, you slowly started easing into confidence. Tipping your hips up every time you eased forward, short inches at first, letting him know you're ready to take him, until you start to ride.
Hips rocking off his, bouncing on his lap, taking his length over and over again. You could feel him deep in your belly, making himself home. And through your frosty eyes, you saw him gaze on you like you were another being.
As you locked sights, his hips pushed up into yours at every touch down, chasing you. To retaliate, you moved your head to the side and took his thumb into your mouth, humming around the digit.
He scoffed, huffed a laugh out, and pressed it to your tongue.
"You feel so good baby," he breathed, pressing up into you, chasing a speed you cant get. "Takin' me so good. Missed this pussy so bad, sweetheart. She miss me, too?"
Of course she did. You wanted to scream at him, strangle him for asking such a dumb question. But the only thing you could do was nod, moan and suck around his finger.
"Is my girl getting tired?"
Despite your previous words, you do hate him. All these nicknames, now with a little addition. An ownership.
His.
You hate him in the way that he know exactly how to push your buttons and get you going in the same order, even after just one play, because your cunt traitorously clamps around him.
Moaning, his eyebrows dip, and his hips drive up again and again.
"Yeah? Sleepy thing, aren't you?" it's with that, he leans forward. Hand back on your ass, as you're being laid down onto your back.
You want to fight back, to push him back down and take and take until your body burn and tears flood your face. But you can barely hold on.
Legs dropping open around his hips, cock still sheathed inside. And he's still so goddamn attentive, even when he speaks with sarcasm.
"I hate you," you shake your head and grumble, "fuckin' asshole."
His cock stuttered inside you, and you could've sworn you felt his balls tighten. But all was lost once his hips started moving. Smacking against yours, wet trails of fluids dripping and splatting on skin, it was all too perfect.
His girth leaving and entering in quick succession, leaving your whole body tightening, right on the edge of hysteria — unable to breathe or know if you want to laugh, cry, or both.
"You wanna cum so bad, sweetheart, i can feel it," he clasped at your hips, digging into you while he held you down and close, keeping you still while he works. "Speak."
"Fuck, yes! Fuck," You wailed into the sheets below you. Your cunt clamping down so tight, it hurt. "Bucky, please."
He didn't let up.
"Please what?" He panted, fingers tight on your skin.
Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, coming out breathy. "Please touch me. Please, please."
There was no need for spit. With the amount of cum you had created, from the exact moment you saw him in the alley at the bar to now, spit wasn't needed at all. But the thought of more of him being close to your pretty pussy, the fact he didn't get to know what you tasted like tonight, couldn't see how his saliva mixed into you so pretty. He had to drop a fat string of spit from where he sat, still fucking into you deep and hard, and chase the dribble with his thumb.
Wiping circles over your neglected bundle with the accumulated stickiness, watching how it frothed and bubbled, how a ring of cream settled at the base of his cock as you brace.
Jaw slacking with pants and whines, body fastening as every second closer to finishing comes. Bucky notices how you seem to quiet down, how you start focusing on the pleasure at hand. The drilling of his cock, his thumb bullying your clit so perfectly, it only toppled over, finally, to the sweet release when his body folded over yours, breathing sweet nothings into the corners of your mouth, where he kissed and sighed and grunted, until you shook in his embrace.
Molten, white hot, and wet. He took you in his arms, easing off your clit, keeping his pelvis to yours to bring more relief to the nerves, while he wrapped himself around you and held you close as you both finished.
Your hands fell to his skin as he filled you up. Heavy breaths slippery on your jaw, cock and balls twitching with each burst inside of you. You gripped onto his ass with each twitch, keeping him in, holding on, wanting it all to last.
It took a while for your heavy breaths and jelly-like limbs to subside.
"Wow." You don't know who made the noise, but with Bucky's face still hidden in your neck, kissing soft pecks, rustling his beard, you're pretty sure it was all you.
"I'm sorry."
Laughing softly, accidentally squeezing his half-hard cock, you pull him up to look at him. You're both fucked out. Ugly in the most beautiful ways. And it's this time you both laugh.
"Thank you for apologising," you whisper, "but I don't think I can forgive you. Not yet anyway."
He nods, the smile that was on his face before, eases into something slightly more serious. Sadder, but understanding. "Of course."
Easing up, Bucky makes no mistake in taking care of you. Picking you up, carrying you down the hall like absolutely nothing, sitting you at the toilet, cleaning you with a warm rag and making you pee, despite your protests in him being there, watching.
"Sweetheart I've seen everything," he replies, standing in front of you, cupping your jaw. "I'm seein' everything now, too."
You don't really know how it slipped your mind that you were both still naked in that moment, but it felt… strange. In a good way.
Showering with him felt harmonious. As with his touch, cleaning you all over, reverent, not lustful. Careful. He looked and worked with determination, lips pouted and brows taut, making sure your hair was thoroughly washed out of the products before shutting off the water and plopping a towel over your head, only to then start to messily rub it around. Something he would do on beach days years ago.
Laughing comes easy, same with the teasing and groans of displeasure.
"Bucky! Come on, you'll tangle my hair!" You whine from under the sheet, flicking it up and slapping his hands away with a grin and squint. His smile is wide. Bigger than you remember it ever being, all as he watches you dry your hair in comfortable silence.
"I meant what I said by the way." You say after a while, watching him from the mirror.
He hums, snapping out of the trance you put him in by just being.
"When we… I said 'I love you'," you pause for any indication, "I meant it."
Coming up behind you, arms slinging tight around your waist, holding you close. He automatically kisses your temple as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "I know."
Looking at him through the glass with your brows furrowed. "You know?"
Bucky shrugs casually. "Sweetheart, we say it all the time."
You refrain from sighing loudly, so you turn in his hold. Naked chest to naked chest and his arms stay secured, lazily draped on your sides.
"Yeah but this time its…" you gesture broadly, "different."
He smiles, breathlessly staring into your eyes, like he needed to memorise the colour and swirls of your irises. "Different."
You didn't need to clarify if it was good or bad. Didn't need to tell him anything, because when Bucky looked at you, he understood every minuscule detail your body was trying to explain.
Different isn't so bad after all. And when it's something you get to enjoy with your best friend, it's actually a lovely feeling.
" The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow. "
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ᝰ.ᐟkey: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I ~S- implied smut I H/C -comfort I 04/22/26 I gif - @/ransomflanagan
꒰ masterlist ꒱ ꒰ marvel ꒱ ꒰ one I two I three I four I five I six ꒱
handful ── @tw1sters I H/C
Your infatuation with one firefighter brings you to the station every day. That is, until you hear him call you a handful.
consolation ── @/tw1sters I H/C
A memory from Bucky's past cracks open your confidence in his love for you. With your heart on the line, Bucky has to convince you that his belongs to you.
already yours ── @/tw1sters I H/C + S
Getting cheated on mere weeks away from the holidays has you fleeing to your parents' holiday house upstate. What you don't expect is to find and fall for the groundskeeper there who seems to know more about you than you might think.
we’re not really strangers ── @/tw1sters I H/C
Three levels. Two people. One night. You and Bucky learn a little bit more than anticipated about each other from a simple card game.
so, this is love? pt2 ── @superbassbuck I H/C + S
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
table for two one ── @/superbassbuck I A + C
One arranged marriage, one homemade dinner, two cold plates... and a husband who showed up three hours late, drunk, and heartless.
grade-a pain in my ass pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 pt10 pt11 pt12 pt13 ── @/superbassbuck I F + A + S
Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. He’s got everything he needs: a steady job, cozy home, and his whole life wrapped up in one little girl, his daughter Rebecca. No complications, and absolutely no room for romance. After a rude and not-so-pleasant first encounter, he finds out you're the elementary school teacher of Rebecca's class. He would make it his mission to avoid you at all costs and to absolutely not fall in love with you. How could he? Especially since you're a grade-A pain in his ass.
anesthesia haze ── @w1nter-fairy I F
After waking up from surgery still under anesthesia, you meet a ridiculously pretty stranger who claims to be your boyfriend. Convinced he's too perfect to be real, you spend the next hour flirting with him.
don’t play with love potions ── @witchywithwhiskey I S
bucky barnes barges into your workshop while you're brewing a love potion and when you're startled into spilling it, the containment protocols in new avengers tower are triggered—trapping you in with the super-soldier and a whole lotta love potion.
perfect partner ── @helaintoloki I F
Bucky has loved you for as long as he’s known you, but he’s not willing to risk your friendship by telling you that. thankfully, you take matters into your own hands
back to the old house ── @/helaintoloki I H/C + S
Bucky finds out he has a teenage daughter he never knew about because Hydra took him before he could find out. He reconnects with her later in life and tries to be a dad. The daughter might even try to get him and her mom (the reader, his ex-gf) back together!
black sheep ── @aquaticmercy I A + F
The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.
flight risk ── @wkemeup I H/C
Bucky becomes a flight risk after a failed mission and is put in lockup under Steve’s orders. Even though Bucky won’t say a word of what happened, you camp outside the door to his cell so he knows he isn’t alone.
pinefall valley ── @chipotleburritobowl I H/C + S
heavy with the weight of a job you never had any passion for, you decided to open the envelope your grandfather gave you after shoving it in your office drawer for years. suddenly, you’re living in a small obscure town in the middle of nowhere getting more than what you signed up for.
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Summary: Based on this anonymous request here, after you’re struggling to fall asleep one night, Bucky notices and… helps put you back to bed.
Warnings/Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Established Relationship, Plot? What Plot?, Fingering, Clitoral Stimulation, Overstimulation, Smut But With Feelings
Word count: 1.2k
Music:
Alkaline - Sleep Token
Kiss It Better - Rihanna
Earned It - The Weeknd
Notes: hi hello!! A short and spicy request that I hope you all enjoy! <3
Night has settled over the compound like a woolen blanket, thick, muffling, almost too warm. You’ve kicked off the sheets twice already, flipped your pillow to the cool side three times, and still your mind buzzes with static. Beside you, the mattress dips under the steady weight of Bucky sprawled on his back, left arm bent behind his head, moonlight spilling across the ridged vibranium plates.
He’d been motionless for twenty minutes, but you hear the shift in his breathing the instant restlessness coils through your muscles again. A soft scrape of stubble against cotton, then that deep-rumble whisper:
“Still awake, doll?”
Your answering sigh feels petulant even to your own ears. “My brain won’t shut up.”
“C’mere.”
It isn’t a suggestion. He rolls onto his side, covers the narrow space between you with one languid slide, and pulls you against him so your back meets the furnace of his chest. The weight of the metal arm drapes over your waist, the cool vibranium contrasts deliciously against your overheated skin. His flesh hand splays over your abdomen, thumb stroking tiny half-moons just beneath your navel.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “What’s keepin’ you wired?”
“Tomorrow’s briefing. The paperwork I forgot to file. The way Sam teased you about the coffee mug…” The list tumbles out in a breathless stream.
He chuckles, low and fond. “That mug had it coming. But none of that matters right now.”
His hand drifts lower, lazy, exploratory, until the pad of his thumb grazes the elastic waistband of your cotton shorts. He pauses, waiting. The question hangs in the hush: yes?
You nod. “Please.”
“Good girl,” he praises, voice honey-slow. He curls closer, nuzzling the spot where your neck meets shoulder, breathing you in like home. Then his fingers slip beneath the fabric, into humid warmth.
He starts with feather-light strokes along your inner lips, coaxing slickness with every unhurried pass. You feel the stretch of his grin when your hips buck at the first direct brush over your clit. He doesn’t linger… instead, he sketches broad, soothing circles across your mound, grounding you in the sensation of being touched, owned, adored.
The rhythm builds in increments, fingertips sliding, pressing, withdrawing, then returning with a firmer sweep that drags a gasp from your chest. Your knees draw together on instinct, but his vibranium arm tightens, guiding your top thigh over his, opening you wider.
“There we go,” he croons, pressing a slow kiss beneath your ear. “Let me take care of you.”
His middle finger finds your clit again and begins a pattern, three languid circles, one deliberate tap. Circle, circle, circle… tap. The gentle percussion sends little sparks ricocheting through your belly, each tap a tiny shock that spikes pleasure higher before the soothing circles smooth it flat again. You ride the rise-and-fall, breath hitching on every fourth beat.
The metal arm shifts, cool fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your tank top to cup a breast. His thumb flicks your nipple lightly, syncopating with the rhythm he maintains down below: circle, circle, circle… tap. Pleasure migrates up your spine, meets the heat blooming in your chest, and forks down your thighs in tingling threads.
“Feel how soft you are,” he marvels, kissing the juncture of neck and shoulder. “Could touch you for hours.”
The words unzip something inside you: confidence, hunger, ownership. You press back into him, offering. He takes the invitation, sliding the finger lower to gather more slick, then returning to your clit with exaggerated slowness. This time, after the third circle, the tap is firmer, sharp enough that you whimper.
“That’s it,” he soothes, easing the circles again until your pulse evens. “Gonna do that a few more times, sweetheart. I want your body nice and heavy when you finally drift off.”
And he does. Each set escalates: circle, circle, circle… tap, circle, circle, circle… tap-tap. Your hips jerk, your thighs tremble. He murmurs praise for every twitch, sweet, gravel-rough endearments that settle warm in your chest.
By the fifth repetition, the tap becomes a staccato double beat that sends an electric crackle tearing through you. Your hand shoots out to grip his wrist. “Bucky—”
“I know,” he whispers, kissing your knuckles before guiding your hand away so he can continue. “Trust me. Let me push a little more.”
His flesh fingers change tempo, circles tightening, taps turning into toe-curling flicks. Your vision whites out with each measured strike, then melts into velvet with the slow swirl that follows. The duality, sharp and soft, tease and balm, drives you higher than relentless pressure ever could.
You pant into the pillow, thighs quivering, nerves humming a single-note plea. He massages the oversensitive nub with tender circles, lets you settle, then taps three quick times. The world tilts.
“Bucky, please… I’m close.”
“I feel it,” he answers, voice reverent. “Come when you’re ready, doll. I’m right here.”
He resumes the pattern until your body bows despite his hold. The coil snaps with a soundless cry, heat pulses outward in concentric rings, gripping his finger where it still moves in steady, grounding circles. He doesn’t stop, eases the rhythm instead, drawing out aftershocks until you sag boneless against him.
But he’s not finished.
While your muscles are still fluttering, he coaxes your shorts down your thighs, leaving them tangled at your knees. Cool air kisses swollen flesh, a delicious counterpoint to the furnace of his body. He drags the flats of two fingers through your slick folds, collecting evidence of your release, then slips those fingers into his mouth with a groan that rattles your bones.
“Taste so good when you’ve just come,” he mutters, hips grinding forward so you feel the hard length of him against the curve of your ass. “One more, sweetheart. You’ll sleep like a baby.”
You whimper, half protest, half need. He hushes you with kisses along your shoulder blade, then slides wet fingers back to your clit. This time he alternates pressure: firm anchoring presses that make your toes curl, followed by rapid-fire taps you feel in your teeth.
Stimulation skates the edge of too much, but the overwhelming care in his touch steadies you. He murmurs constant assurances, “I’ve got you”, “So perfect for me”, “Let it wash over you.” The words weave into the rhythm and become another kind of caress.
Your second orgasm hits quick and bright, a burst of stardust that leaves you gasping his name like a prayer. He rides the wave with you, whispering praise, easing the tempo until your tremors subside.
At last he withdraws, pulls the discarded shorts free of your legs, and settles you back against him. His vibranium arm curls protective across your middle while his other hand strokes gentle patterns over the thigh draped across his own.
“Breathe,” he instructs softly, syncing his inhale with yours. The room is silent save for the joint cadence of your breaths and the distant hum of nighttime generators. Your eyelids grow heavy, every limb feels dipped in warm honey.
Somewhere in the haze you sense him press a final kiss to your hairline. “Sleep, doll. Paperwork and mugs’ll still be there tomorrow.”
You manage a sleepy smile. Wrapped in unbreakable metal and unwavering devotion, you yield to gravity, sinking through the mattress into a darkness threaded with fireflies.
The last thing you register is the steady drum of his pulse at your back, two heartbeats, perfectly in time with yours, lulling you into the kind of rest only love can buy.
