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summary:: bucky knows the rules when it comes to you and studying. But you both know that he's not one to behave. So, you're not exactly surprised when he starts to beg.
warnings:: 18+,smut,PINV,riding,Dom/sub dynamics,Sub,needy, pathetic!Bucky,Dom!reader,VERY,VERY Historically inaccurate portrayal (I don't even think it was even acceptable to be a sub in the 40's,if you were a man...but yeah. It's very inaccurate),Author doesn't really know how it was in the 40's and author was lazy,hair pulling,begging, choking,orgasm denial (these all happen to Bucky lmao. Reader is a meanie I guess,lmao)
word count:: 4,7k
A/N:: despite how inaccurate it is historically I kinda like it? Idk,please don't hate me lol
The air in the room is heavy as velvet and smelling faintly of cheap tobacco and the wet, rain-soaked asphalt outside the window. You are drowning under a sea of paper, charcoal pencils, and the half-finished ink of a research project that feels entirely pointless while the rest of the world is spinning toward a war.
The desk lamp casts a low glow over your knuckles. Youâve been staring at the same sentence for an hour. Itâs an oppressive kind of silence, the kind that makes you want to break something.
Bucky is there on the bed.For the last forty minutes, heâs been sitting on the mattress, idly flipping an unlit cigarette between his knuckles, pretending to be occupied. Slowly, you realize, the rhythmic movement of his hands has stopped. The cigarette slips out of his grip, rolling onto the sheets.
When you steal a glance, you see he isn't paying attention to anything else at all. He is just staring. His eyes are fixed entirely on the back of your neck.His broad shoulders are pulled tight, the muscles in his jaw ticking with a restless tension. He looks at you with an aching concern, waiting for you to notice him.
You deliberately choose not to turn around. The wood of your chair creaks softly under your weight, but you keep your eyes glued to the white pages, forcing your spine to stay rigid. There is a strict rule in this room, a line drawn in this Brooklyn apartment that cannot be crossed: no distractions while studying. The rule is simple, and it has to be followed.
It is a cruel kind of discipline because your boyfriend is dangerously attractive, a boy built out of old leather jackets, and bad habits. He is intimately familiar with you, knowing exactly where to touch you to make you forget your own name, let alone the words on a page. You can still feel his fingers on your skin from earlier. But the boundaries are set. You keep your face turned toward the lamp, your knuckles white against your pen.
He knows the rule just as well as you do, and he is staying in his corner of the dark. He is obeying you, sitting there with his jaw clenched and his broad shoulders are tense.
Bucky Barnes was never good at following simple rules. The rebellious streak that made him a legend on the Brooklyn boardwalks, a restless energy he could never quite contain.
âYou've been staring at that exact same paragraph for twenty-three minutes, doll,â he murmurs. His gaze tracks the tense line of your shoulders with a lazy intensity, checking the clock on the wall just to prove his point.
âYouâve been keeping track of the time down to the exact minute, James?â you say softly. You twist your pen between your fingers, keeping your gaze locked onto the blurred text in front of you. âThatâs unusually obsessive, even for you.â
A faint smile pulls at the corner of your lips as you keep your eyes fixed on the page, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your full attention just yet.
The mattress groans softly as he gets up from the bed, his leather shoes making no sound against the rug as he crosses the small room. Even as the warmth of his body approaches, your attention remains fixed on the paper, your eyes stubbornly tracking the same black lines of ink.
He steps up behind your chair, a presence that smells of rain, wool, and the sweet scent of his hair pomade. Without a word, he places his hands on your shoulders. His palms are warm, slowly his thumbs begin to press into the tense, tightly coiled muscles of your neck and shoulders.
He kneads the tension away with his large hands. For a boy who spends his days fighting on the streets or training for a war, he is entirely soft under your roof. He keeps his head bowed close to yours, silently waiting to see if you will finally break your own rule for him.
âYouâre tight as a piano wire, doll,â he murmurs. âAnd don't tell me you're too busy for a breath. You've been reading the same line since the streetlamps came on.â
âIâm busy, James,â you insist, forcing your eyes to stay glued to the ink even as his fingers send a melting warmth straight down your spine.
He lets out a bitter chuckle. âBusy,â he repeats, the word tasting sour on his tongue. âRight. Or maybe youâre just avoiding me.â
The sharp accusation finally snaps your discipline. You drop your pen, and you finally turn around in your chair to face him.The defense you had prepared dissolves the second your eyes meet his.
Up close, his appearance completely distracts you. He is dressed in his casual loungewearâa lightweight cotton camp shirt with the top buttons left entirely undone, revealing the skin of his collarbone.Below, he wears a pair of dark high-waisted wool trousers, sitting loosely on his hips without a belt or suspenders. His dark hair is still neatly slicked back with pomade, but a few shiny strands have loosened over his forehead.
But itâs his eyes that lock you in place. They look bruised, dark with exhaustion, revealing that he hasnât been sleeping well at all. Or, perhaps, that he has been staying awake craving something entirely out of his reachâhungry for a closeness that has been denied from him all night.
âIâm not avoiding you,â you say softly. âIâm just stressed. Itâs a twenty-page paper, and the deadline is suffocating me.â
Bucky lets out a soft huff from his chest, his lips twitching into a lazy smirk. He doesn't take his hands off your shoulders, his thumbs smoothing over your collarbone. âTwenty pages?â his gravelly Brooklyn drawl dripping with exhaustion. âJesus, doll. Sounds incredibly boring. No wonder your neck is stiff.â
âIt is not boring,â you say. âThe topic is actually interesting. It matters to me.â
Bucky lets out a rough chuckle. He keeps his hands resting firmly on your shoulders, his thumbs resuming their teasing rhythm against your collarbone.
He leans down just a fraction closer, his scent completely clouding your senses. âIs that so?â he whispers. âTell me then, is that paper really more fascinating than I am?â
His hands slide slowly from your shoulders, before his fingers come to rest gently along your jawline. His touch is incredibly soft, holding your face like you are something fragile.
It is a desperate touch, and you both know why. It has been a full, excruciating week since you had shown him anything more than simple affectionâjust quick kisses at the door or a distracted squeeze of the hand. During that long week, Bucky had repeatedly tried to get your attention, bringing you cold bottles of Coca-Cola, or casually messing with his lighter just to hear you tell him to stop, practically begging for you to look at him.
Now, he finally has your eyes on him, and the hunger in his face is undeniable. As his thumbs slowly caress your jaw, his grip shifts, his touch becoming deeply intimate. He begins to lean down, his lips parting slightly as he chases the warmth of your skin.
The heat of him is intoxicating, but the sight of the open textbooks snaps you back to reality. Before his lips can find yours, you place your hands against his chest, gently pushing against the soft cotton of his camp shirt to stop him.
âJames, stop,â you say softly. You look directly into his tired blue eyes. âThere is still a mountain of work left to do on this desk. Look at all of these papers.â
Bucky freezes against your hands. For a second, he stays completely still, his thumbs lingering on your jawline. The cocky smirk vanishes entirely from his face, leaving him looking utterly defeated by your words.
âYou always seem to have more work to do,â he complains. He looks down at you. âItâs always another book, another page, another hour.â
You don't let his frustration sway you, keeping your hands steady against his chest. âThis is simply how earning a degree works, James,â you reply calmly. âIt doesn't just happen. It takes time, and it takes rules.â
Then, unexpectedly, Bucky drops to his knees.The abrupt shift in his height catches you completely off guard. He sinks down right beside your chair. He doesn't say a word as he rests his large hands on your thighs, anchoring himself to you.
âPlease,â he says. The word slips from his lips so quietly, that it is barely a breath.
âWhat are you asking for?â The question hits him visibly. Bucky struggles to answer, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, his hands tightening their grip on your thighs just enough to show how desperately he is holding onto his composure.
The smooth-talking boy from the neighborhood is completely paralyzed under your gaze, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths as he tries to find the courage to tell you exactly how weak he is for you.
Many girls in Brooklyn would never believe this if they saw it. To the rest of the world, to every girl on the Coney Island boardwalk or in the crowded jazz clubs, Bucky Barnes embodies masculinity. He is the boy who is always confident, and entirely in control of every situation. He is the protector, the soldier, the leader of the pack.
But with you, he has always been like this. He doesn't want to be the leader here; he doesn't want the burden of control. He craves the exact opposite. He wants to beg for your scrap of attention, completely content to lay his pride on your floorboards if it means he gets to belong to you. With you.
Bucky swallows hard, his knuckles turning white against your thighs as he forces the words past his lips.
âJust... touch me,â he whispers. The request seems physically hard for him to make. âPlease. Itâs been a week, doll...â He trails off, struggling to express the weight of how much the distance has been affecting him.
You look down at him from your chair. âI know exactly how long itâs been, James,â you reply gently.
âItâs driving me crazy,â he confesses. âYou not looking at me, not touching me for seven days. Itâs driving me completely out of my mind.â
Your hand moves into Buckyâs hair, your fingers tangling into the thick, dark strands. You grip it firmly and pull his head back, forcing his chin up so he has no choice but to look directly into your eyes.
He makes a desperate sound at the sudden constraint. It is the kind of helpless noise that the proud Brooklyn boy would later feel deeply embarrassed about, a total betrayal of the smooth soldier persona he wears on the streets. But here, on his knees, he doesn't have the strength to hide it.
A faint smile plays on your lips as you look down at him.âOnly a week without my attention, Jamie,â you murmur. âAnd youâre already acting this needy. What am I going to do with you?â
The moment the name leaves your lips, Buckyâs entire body goes rigid against your chair. Jamie. Hearing it now, while he is on his knees completely shatters whatever sliver of composure he had left.
âYouâre pathetic,â you say.Bucky doesn't flinch, nor does he try to defend his proud reputation. Instead, he closes his eyes for a fraction of a second.
âI know,â He accepts the humiliation like a holy thing, his head bowing slightly under the firm grip of your hand.
âStand up,â you command.He obeys immediately,rising until he is towering over your seated figure once again. But as he stands before you, you notice how profoundly the situation is affecting him. The confident of his posture is completely gone; his chest is heaving beneath the loose camp shirt.
His hands hover uncertainly at his sides.He is starving to reach out, to wrap his arms around you. Yet, he doesn't dare close the distance.Waiting with a beautiful patience for your permission.
Underneath the unbelted line of his high-waisted wool trousers, you notice the unmistakable outline of his bulge.A dark flush creeps up Buckyâs throat as he catches your gaze.
You slowly stand up from the creaking wooden chair, but your fingers never leave his hair. Using the grip to maintain your control as you slide your body close to his.
âYouâve been distracting me all night, Jamie,â you accuse him. You tilt his head back slightly, forcing his shadowed blue eyes to stay locked onto yours. âSitting there on the bed, just staring at the back of my neck while Iâm trying to work.â
âI couldnât help it,â he admits. âI couldn't help it, doll... you're right there. You're so close to me all the time, and it's killing me. I need you. I just need you so bad.â
With a sudden movement, you push Bucky backward, catching him completely by surprise. For a boy who spends his days fighting on the rough streets, he offers absolutely no resistance against you; he lets out a breathless gasp as he stumbles over his own feet, falling onto the mattress with a soft groan.
You follow him onto the bed instantly. You position yourself over him, pinning his body down under your weight while keeping that unrelenting grip tangled in his hair. The glossy strands twist around your fingers, locking his head against the pillows as you look down at him from above.
âI'm paying attention to you now, Jamie,â you whisper against his skin. âTell me... is this the kind of attention youâve been wanting all week?â
His thighs buck up beneath you. He arches into your weight, his large hands finally coming up to grip the mattress on either side of his head.
âYes,â he gasps out, the word breaking into a helpless sob. âYes, doll...thank you.â He repeats it over and over again. He is begging, entirely unmade by your attention.
âBe still,â you command and he freezes instantly. The desperate motion of his hips halts mid-air, and he drops flat against the mattress, just because you told him to. You sit up over him, shifting your weight on his lap, feeling the thick, hard outline of his bulge pressing firmly against you through his trousers.
Slowly, your hands trail down from his hair, your fingertips sliding over the smooth skin of his jaw before resting against his chest. His heart is hammering like a trapped bird beneath your palms.
âTake your shirt off,â you tell him.Buckyâs breath hitches. His hands shake noticeably as he releases his grip on the bedsheets and reaches up to the remaining buttons of his shirt, his movements clumsy and hurried because he is so desperate to please you.
Bucky manages to get his shirt off, he shoves the lightweight cotton fabric off his broad shoulders, leaving it discarded somewhere in the dark corners of the mattress. In the golden fringe of the desk lamp, his bare chest looks striking.
You look down at his exposed skin, a satisfied smile playing on your lips as you slide your palms over the smooth contours of his chest.
âYou behaved so well all week, Jamie,â you comment. âKeeping your distance, letting me work. Such a good boy.â
âI tried so hard,â he whispers, his voice thick with honesty. He lets out a defeated whine, his hands flattening against the sheets. âJesus, I tried so hard to be good for you... it was killing me.â
âI know it was hard,â you murmur back, your hands slowly trail down the rigid lines of his stomach, your fingertips drawing a lazy path until they find the high waistband of his wool trousers.
The moment your thumbs slip just beneath the fabric, brushing against the skin of his hips, Buckyâs entire body goes completely stiff under your weight. His breath catches in his chest, his hips twitching in a tiny buck against your palms.
You slide your thumbs beneath the thick fabric of his wool trousers, your movements agonizingly slow. One by one, you pop the high-waisted buttons of his fly. He arches his back slightly against the mattress, a tortured groan vibrating deep in his chest.
Once the fabric falls open, you don't reach inside to give him the relief he is starving for. Instead, your hand trails back up the sweaty expanse of his stomach, until your fingers find his throat.
You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your fingers wrap around his throat. Not enough to cut off air completely, just enough pressure to make him feel it.
Bucky just likes it wild,huh.
âEyes on me,sweet boy,â you say. Your thumb strokes along his pulse point. âYou don't get to come until I say so. You don't move withou my permission.You answer every question I ask, and you use your words. Understand?â
He nods, but you tighten your grip just a fraction, making him gasp. âWords,Jamie.â
âYes,â he breathes, voice already rough. âI understand.â
Your fingers slip inside the open fly of his trousers, brushing over the damp fabric covering his cock. He twitches under the touch, hips jerking slightly before he forces himself still.
You hook your fingers into his trousers and tug them down his hips, the fabric sliding over his thighs until it pools around his knees. Bucky shifts under you, his breath hitching. Your hand moves next, gripping the edge of his underwear and yanking it down in one motion.The head is already glistening with pre-cum that beads at the tip and starts to drip down the shaft.
You wrap your fingers around his throat again, applying that steady pressure he craves while your other hand points directly at the leaking head. âLook at that,â you say. âAlready dripping all over yourself. Such a mess before I've even touched you properly.â
Bucky's cheeks flush deeper, his cock twitching visibly under your gaze. You ease off his lap, sliding back until your feet touch the floor beside the bed. He stays where he is, propped against the pillows, trousers and underwear shoved down to his knees.
You take a deliberate step back and start with your blouse, peeling it up and off in one smooth motion. The fabric drops to the floor. Next come your skirt, unbuttoned and pushed down your hips until they pool at your ankles. You step out of the fabric slowly, letting him see every inch of skin revealed. Your underwear follows last, sliding down your thighs until you're bare in front of him.
Bucky's eyes track every movement, pupils blown wide. His cock jerks hard. âYou like this, Jamie?â you ask, voice low and teasing as you stand there naked, letting him look his fill.
He swallows hard, throat working under the faint red mark your hand left earlier. âYes,â he breathes, voice rough. âFuck, yes,doll.â
You settle back onto his lap, thighs bracketing his hips as you reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock. The shaft is hot and slick, pre-cum coating your palm the moment you close your fist around him. You give one slow stroke from base to tip, thumb dragging over the swollen head to spread the mess.
Buckyâs breath catches. His eyes stay locked on yours. âplease,â he whispers, voice already ragged. âPlease⊠fuck.â
You stroke him again, tighter this time, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. More pre-cum wells up and spills over your knuckles. He twitches hard in your grip, hips jerking once before he forces them still.
âPlease,â he says again, almost desperate. âThank you. Feels so good. Please donât stop.â
His cock throbs between your fingers, another thick bead of slick leaking out with every pass of your hand. You keep the pace steady, watching the way his stomach tightens and his thighs tense under you. Every time you squeeze near the head he lets out another shaky âplease,â the words tumbling out like heâs been trained to say them.
You lean in closer, your bare chest brushing his shirt, and keep stroking him while he repeats the words, voice cracking with need. âYou been thinking about this all week, Jamie?â
He swallows, then manages to nod. His hair is stuck to his forehead, dark strands plastered with sweat.That's not nearly enough for you. âWords.â You command.
âYeah,â he says, and his voice cracks on the single syllable. He clears his throat, tries again. âYeah, I â all week. Couldn't think about nothing else.â
You let your palm rest flat on his stomach, feel the muscle jump under your fingers. He's warm and shaking a little.
âI knew you'd be like this,â you say. Conversational. Like you're talking about the weather. âSaw you watching me at my desk all weeks.â
You curl your fingers, drag your nails light across his stomach, and his breath catches. âThat's what I mean. I knew you'd be like this. Desperate.Touch-starved. One week without my hands on you, and you're falling apart,sweet boy.â
His brow furrows. Something flickers across his. âYou... you knew?â
âMmhm.â You take him back in your hand, and the sound he makes travels right through your palm and up your arm. His hips tilt into the touch, and you let him have that half-inch of friction before you settle into a rhythm.
His head falls back against the pillow. âYeah,â he breathes. âYeah, that's...fuck â that's good,sweetheart.â
His cock is slick in your grip, and you use your thumb to spread the wetness down his shaft, and his hand shoots out.His fingers close around your waist,just above your hip.
And then he freezes.You see it the second he realizes what he's done. His eyes go wide, his hand stays where it is.
Your hand stops moving.âJamie.â
âI know.â It comes out strangled. âI know, I just... I forgot, I didn't mean to, I justââ
âYou grabbed me without asking.â He closes his eyes. The hand on your waist is trembling now. âYes.â
Slowly, you lift your hand from his cock. Let it hover an inch away. Let him feel the absence of it. âNo, please,sweetheart.â
His hand slides off your waist and falls to the mattress.âI'm sorry,â he says again, and his voice cracks. âPlease. Please don't stop. I'll be good. I'll be so good, just, please, I need, I need your hand on me, I need it so bad, I can't ââ
His chest is heaving. His eyes are wet again, but this time they're searching yours, desperate for a sign, for a crack in the wall.âI'll be good,â he whispers. âI promise. I'll be so good for you.â
You place a finger on his lips, and he falls silent immediately, his breath hitching.âShh,â you murmur. âI know.â
He shudders beneath you, his hips twitching involuntarily. He's hard, aching, the length of him pressing against your thigh. But he doesn't move,he waits. He always waits.
You shift your weight, positioning yourself above him. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and he gasps, his hips bucking up instinctively before he catches himself. âPlease,â he breathes. âPlease, sweetheart, I'll be good. I'll be so good.â
You don't answer. You hold his gaze, watching the fear and want war in his eyes. Then, slowly you sink down onto him.
The sound he makes is broken. A sob and a moan tangled together, torn from the depths of his chest. His eyes roll back, his jaw going slack, and you feel him pulse inside you as you take him inch by inch, filling yourself with him. âLook at me,Jamie.â
His eyes snap to yours, wide and wet. There are tears clinging to his lashes, and his lower lip trembles.
âWhat happens when you break the rules?â
He swallows hard, his throat bobbing. âI get punished.â
âThat's right.â You begin to move, a slow, rolling grind that makes him gasp. His hands clench in the sheets, his knuckles white, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still.
âYou wanted to touch me,â you continue, your voice low as you rock your hips. âSo now I'm going to use you. I'm going to ride you until I'm satisfied, and you're going to lie there and take it. You're not going to come until I say so. Do you understand?â
âYes,â he chokes out. âYes, I understand. I understand.â
You pick up the pace, rising and falling on his cock, your hands braced on his chest. The sound of your bodies meeting fills the room.
He's so beautiful like this. So undone. His hair is splayed across the pillow, dark and disheveled. His eyes are fixed on you, worshipful and desperate. His mouth hangs open, helpless sounds escaping with every thrust.He lies there, taking it, letting you use him exactly as you please.
You lean forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips close to his ear. âYou're doing so well, Jamie,â you murmur. âTaking me so perfectly. My good boy.â
A sob escapes him, and a tear slips down his cheek. âI love you,â he breathes. âI love you so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.â
âI know.â You kiss the tear away, tasting salt. âI know you are.â You ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure now. His hips twitch beneath you, but he holds still, his restraint absolute. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his eyes never leaving your face.
âClose,â he chokes out. âSweetheart, I'm close. Pleaseâcan Iââ
âNot yet.â
He groans, but he nods.You take what you need, moving over him until the tension coils tight in your belly.
You rise slow, almost to the tip, and then sink back down just as slow, letting him feel every inch of your heat, every clench of your inner walls.
Beneath you, Bucky is a study in restraint.His hands are still fisted in the sheets, but his knuckles have gone white, the tendons in his forearms standing out like cords. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his ribs rising and falling beneath your palms. His eyes are locked on you, wide and glistening, pupils blown so dark there's hardly any blue left.
âPlease,â he whispers, not even knowing what he's begging for anymore. âPlease, sweetheart, pleaseââ
You ignore him. You take more. âShh.â You slow your pace, almost stopping, and he whimpers at the loss of friction.
You begin to move again, building the rhythm back up, faster now, harder. His cock slides in and out of you, slick with your combined arousal, and you can feel yourself climbing toward the edge, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.
You can feel yourself getting close. The coil in your belly is wound tight, ready to snap. You increase your pace, chasing the peak, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. âThat's it,â you gasp. âThat's it, Jamie. Take it. Take all of me.â
âLet go,â he whispers, his voice barely audible. âLet go, sweetheart. I've got you.â
The words break something inside you. The tension snaps, and pleasure crashes through you like a wave, fierce and overwhelming. You cry out, your body convulsing around him, your nails raking down his chest.
He watches you come undone with reverent, tear-filled eyes.When you still, panting, spent, he's still hard inside you, still trembling on the edge.
âNow,â you whisper, giving him the release he's been begging for. âCome for me, Bucky. Fill me up.â
His back arches, his mouth opening in a silent cry, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're still straddling him, his seed trickling down your thighs. His chest heaves beneath you, his eyes closed, his face slack with exhaustion and relief.
Then his hands come up to cup your face, so gentle. His thumbs brush away the sweat on your cheeks, and he looks at you with such overwhelming love that it steals your breath.
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you down against his chest, holding you close. His heart hammers beneath your ear. âI love you,â he murmurs into your hair. âMore than anything.â
youth pastor owen taylor came back from his trip from puerto rico, and you have the tendency to be a goody two shoe.
warnings; manipulation, reader is of legal age, age gap, innocent reader, virginity loss, unprotected sex, facial, corruption kink.
a/n; i have a recent obsession with lewis pullman. now if anybody watched the starling girl I DO NOT CONDONE HIS BEHAVIOR IN THE MOVIE. but in a perfect world, he is just a slight perv and is not doing illegal things.
3.1k word count
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You werenât trying to be someone that everyone hates, but god everyone hated you.
From primary school all the way to college, you sucked up to all of your teacherâs no matter what. Always striving to be the ace in class, always striving to be perfect. Nobody could blame you, you had the undying need for validation from whoever that even shows the slightest authoritative figure for you.
Itâs to compensate the fact that you have a deadbeat dad an emotionally unavailable mother.
You didnât have friends and you didnât need them.
All you need is for a figure to tell you did a good job and suddenly your whole life feels complete. For a second anyways and then the feeling would disappear and suddenly you are desperate for it again.
You were never a devout christian. You were not even sure if you believe in god. You werenât one until you were fifteen, but hearing praises from Aunt Clarice and Uncle Jones about what a good christian girl you were was enough to make you feel giddy inside. Fill up the void inside your body.
You were broken and easily manipulated. This led you to become fully committed to a faith your family doesnât even practise.
Then owen taylor came and everything changed.
He was young, he was good looking, he was nice and respectful.
He was the leader for your youth group.
Doesnât take long for all the little girls in your group to talk behind your back about how you will bat your eyelashes to him.
But thatâs the thing, you didnât.
You didnât know why but you just couldnât look at him. Every time your eyes met with his, you looked away. Every time he came up to you, youâd said yes and would walk away.
He was too intimidating. His height always towering on you, his eyes piercing into your soul and it seems that no word can leave your mouth when he is around you.
The other girls were shocked, for the first time you were not kissing someoneâs ass.
âDo you hate me or something?â A voice appeared behind you as you jumped, startled as you thought you were alone in the woods.
You almost dropped all the wood and sticks you collected, and your heart beats fast in your chest. As your mind turned blank and you didnât know what to do.
âI-no⊠Iâm just collecting fuel for the f-fireâ God werenât on your side and your grasp on the sticks and wood in your hand loosened and some of them fell onto the ground.
Owen bent down, chuckling to himself as he helped you picked up the pieces.
âIâm here to make sure youâre okay, itâs not good out here for a pretty girl like you to be out in the darkâ He muttered as he handed you the wood. âYou shouldnât have left alone, anything happens to you, Iâm responsibleâ
âIâm older than everyone there, Iâll be f-fineâ You tried to disregard what he just said and move on.
âAre you gonna ignore what I said? You seem to not like me very much. Word goes around saying youâre the nicest girl in this community. Breakâs my heart youâre not treating me the same wayâ In a way, he sounded condescending. You did not know if he was trying to tease you or if he was being genuine. However, the soft smile on his face tells you otherwise.
He steps closer to you, a little too close.
âIâm sorry if I ever did anything to offend youâ He muttered sincerely even though he hasnât done anything bad to you.
For a moment you felt bad.
He didnât say anything else to you as he turned and walk away with the sticks that he picked up.
You stood there in the dark, as you sighed. You walked back to the campsite with a frown on your face.
When you sat down, owen was already looking at you, giving you a small smile.
For the first time, you smiled back.
.
The next week, you had walked to his house despite it being a 20-30 minute walk, you enjoyed walking. It was a quiet town, everybody was nice to you and everybody knew you. You didnât feel any danger walking around. However, it wouldâve been best if you took your car because now the pie was gonna get cold. You clutched it tightly making sure to not drop it.
You tried knocking on his front door but no answer so your first instinct was to check out his backyard and luckily, he was there.
âHiâ You greeted as owen looked up, raising his brows in confusion, âIâm sorry to barge in on you, but I felt bad about how I acted since you came back. I would like to offer a gift as an apologyâ You held out your apple pie as he slightly laughed.
âThatâs uh⊠nice, you can put it on top of my porchâ He pointed out as you placed the pie carefully on the porch, covering it with the cloth and luckily it was still warm. You walked back towards owen as you just stood there looking at him tending his garden, his clothes were covered in dirt, his shirt clinging onto his body because of his sweat.
He stood up, as he rubbed off his hands on his jeans. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes with a lighter as he placed on between his lips. You watched as his sun-kissed biceps flexed, finding it eerily attractive for him to smoke. It should be a sin to be this good-looking, his muscles flexing without him even trying.
âGot something on my face?â He muttered the cigarettes still in between his lips as he took off his cap and adjusted his hair and put it back on, âYouâre staring, sweetheart. Donât you know itâs rude to stare?â
There it is again, you could never tell if he was flirting, teasing or if he was being serious. What comes out of his mouth was enough to make your stomach flutter but it was also enough to make you anxious as well. One of the reason you canât stand being around him.
You wished he would just stay working as a missionary.
âIâm s-sorry, Iâm just thinking a lot. I mean I always doâ Then he does that thing again, where he walks up close to you, looking down on you with so much concern. All you could do is look up at him with fear in your eyes, you didnât know why. He was not a scary person, nor was he a creep.
âWhat are you thinking about then?â He challenged, slightly tilting his head, his presence remains demeaning.
âItâs nothing, my mom is going to get worried⊠I should get homeâ You stepped away, as you clutched your bag. âItâs getting dark, I hope you enjoy your pieâ
âHmm, how did you get here?â He hummed.
âUh⊠I walked?â The statement made his eyes widened.
âYou walked?â He exclaimed, shaking his head. the thought of you walking the woody roads in this creepy town. No, he couldnât imagine it.
âYeah, I donât know I enjoy walking to placesâ He scoffed in disbelief, as he ran inside to grab his car keys.
âLet me send you back home, your momma wouldnât want a good girl like you to walk alone in the dark now, would she?â Your heart thumped in your chest. You thought about if he knew what he was doing. If he was aware of the words he was saying the effect he had on you. You tried hard to let it off your mind.
However, you had a thing for praises.
This is different. This was much different from your teachers and your townsfolk praising you. When they praised you it made you feel happy, it made you feel whole.
But this? This gives you the feeling that you rarely had. The burning pit in your stomach that travelled down to the most sinful part of your body.
The feeling you try so hard almost every night to get rid of because you knew god was watching.
You didnât want to argue with him, so you followed him to his car.
.
In the car ride, he was driving slowly. It seemed like he was trying to painfully drag the awkward silence in the air, or maybe he is just being careful.
You could tell he would steal glances at you every now and then.
Until he broke the silence.
âI like your dressâ You hummed in surprise as you look down at what you were wearing as if you had forgotten what you put on today. The yellow sundress, it was modest. It covered anything it needed to cover, however owen could still tell the cleavage popping out from your chest. You didnât need to know that.
âUh⊠T-thanksâ
And then it was silence again.
However, this time you were the one who kept stealing glances at him. Looking at his hands while he drives as you noticed the engagement ring on his left hand. You wanted to curse yourself for acting this way to a married man.
He had caught you in the act, eyes meeting with each other but this time you didnât look away.
Your throat ran dry, so did your lips. You instinctively darted your tongue out slightly to wet your lips, owenâs gave fell down to it as his jaw clenched.
Luckily, before he could say anything you arrived at your house.
You said you thanks to him, leaving in a rush as you ran inside your house.
owenâs eyes trailed behind you as he watched you disappear inside your house.
âFuckâ He cursed to himself, as he drove back.
This time it was much faster than before.
.
âOwen needs help cleaning his study, I canât since I have allergies. Can you cover for me?â
The request felt like something burdening. For the first time in your life. You never turn away tasks and chores. You do them, always. But as you were walking towards his office, you felt the sense of dread and impending doom. As if something bad was about to happen.
You knocked on his door as he yelled out for you to come in. When you walked in, he seemed shocked to see you.
âLeslie had allergies, she asked me to cover for herâ You explained as you sighed, looking at the cluttered mess. âAnything I need to know before I start?â
âUh⊠nothing much. Just arrange it like how you would clean your room. However, just make sure to tell me where you put stuffâ You nodded as you got straight to work.
So far, everything went well. Owen stayed in the other side of the room while you handled your side. He hasnât said anything to you. Which was great.
There were books that you wanted to place on top of the shelf, however the height was challenging for you. You tried to look for a stool for you to step on but before you did, owen stepped right behind you, taking the book in your arms as he placed it on top of the shelf.
You felt his back pressing on you, his bulge on your hips. Your heart was thumping hard in your chest and you didnât understand why he didnât move.
You turned around, as your faces were merely inches apart.
âOwen?â You muttered, your eyes never leaving his. His eyes keeps trailing up and down your eyes and your lips.
âYouâre gonna be the death of me, you know that?â He grumbled, as his face moved closer to the point where you can feel his hot breath on your face. At this point you felt like you surrendered. You surrendered to all the feelings and temptation deep inside. You closed your eyes, your breath was heavy.
And then you felt it.
His lips against yours, pressed softly at first as he groaned. You whimpered softly, you had never kissed anyone and you couldnât believe the one that took your first kiss was your youth pastor who was much much older than you.
He pulled away, grabbing your chin âBeen wanting to do that since the moment I saw you, who gave you the right to be this pretty hmm?â
"I-I've never kissed anyone before, I'm not good at it" You stammered, feeling the fear an excitement at the same time. It was wrong, you knew it was so wrong but you couldn't help it. If owen was kissing you right now, than that means you were so much better than his wife. It doesn't make you feel less bad, it's just the feeling of being better feels... better.
"Well, now itâs the time that you learn sweetheart. Hmm?â You nodded eagerly as you pressed your lips into his swiftly, âNo⊠no, why donât you be a good girl and listen to me while I teach you?â
You nodded again.
âSlowlyâŠâ
âNow pucker you lips slightly, follow what Iâm doingâ
âYes just like that, youâre such a good girlâ
âopen your mouthâ
âglide your tongue against mine softlyâ
âYouâre so good at this now, look at you babyâ
âIs this how you kiss someone?â You asked innocently, as his face turned into a scowl.
âNo baby, this is how you kiss me. No one elseâ He pointed out as you shuddered, you clenched your thighs together as the feeling from your core was getting unbearable. You didnât know what to do. Owen looked down at your clenched thighs as he smirked, âWhatâs got my baby so worked up? Tell meâ
âY-youâ He hummed, his fingers grazing your thighs as you whimpered. His hands slowly trailing from the back of your knee all the way to your inner thighs and when he was about to touch your cunt, your legs closed on his hands.
âTsk⊠tsk⊠be a good girl and open it up for me sweetheart, let me take a look at youâ You opened your legs slowly, owen scrunched your dress up to reveal your panties. That was soaked in the centre.
His fingertip found your bulging clit, slowly rubbing it as you whined. A feeling youâve never felt before. owen decided to put more pressure as you immediately caved in, thrashing around like a slut. His cock was at its limit, it was so hard it could pop out of his pants.
âSo responsive⊠Nobody good enough to get to touch you baby?â He teased, his head buried in your neck, peppering soft kisses on your skin.
âN-no⊠just y-youâ
âThatâs what I thought, god made this cunt for it to be mine. You hear that? You were sent down from god to be mineâ In a swift motion, he tore off your panties as you squealed. âNow let me take a very good look at your pretty little cunt, sweetheartâ
He kneeled down, spreading your pussy lips open as he growled.
âItâs fucking crying for me, youâre so wet babyâ Owen stood up, unbuckling his pants as his belt clattered to the floor. âI bet itâs fucking easy to put it in, itâs gonna be so slick because of how wet you areâ
âOwen, Iâm s-scared⊠The girls at the church says it hurts and I will b-bleedâ Suddenly fear overcame your senses, you started to sob. just the mere thought of the size of him makes you tremble. Owen, wide-eyed and shocked started wiping your tears.
âHey hey, itâs gonna be okay⊠donât cry babyâ He shushed you as he embraced you in his arms, âItâs not gonna hurt i promise you, itâs gonna feel so good, Iâm gonna make you feel so good babyâ
You winced when he started to rub his tip on your throbbing clit, you whined at the feeling as you couldnât deny how good it feels.
âLook at it baby, itâs hurting you know? It needs to be inside you to feel better. Arenât you a good girl? do you want me to be hurt?â You shook your head as you sniffled, âBecause youâre my best girl right? of course you donât want me to be in painâ
You nodded, as he wiped your tears again, âHow bout this baby, Iâll do it once and if you donât like it I will never do it again. Okay?
âO-okayâŠâ
Owen wasted no time trying to push his tip into you tight walls, even though you were sopping wet, your virgin cunt had never had something as big as him. Never even had anything inside.
âFuck youâre so tight, youâre so fucking tightâ
âOwen, it h-hurts, go slowly!â You exclaimed as your nails dug into his shoulders
âI know baby but youâre such a strong girl for meâ Owen pushed his throbbing cock inside your pussy slowly, stopping every now and then for you to adjust. He would wipe your tears when you were in pain, kissing the top of your forehead. âFuck itâs so fucking warm, feels so good sweetheart. Youâre such a good girlâ
Once it was fully inside the pain subsided. It started to make you feel so full, full of him.
Owen started thrusting slowly, letting you enjoy the feeling of his big hard cock rubbing against your tight walls. After that you started seeing stars.
Owen increased his speed, boldly fucking you deeper and deeper until his movements were rough and sloppy.
He felt like cumming but he wanted you to cum first and so he rubbed your clit as he thrusted into you.
âOwen! Owen, somethings happening i feel like p-peeing!â You screamed out, you couldnât care less about who heard you however knowing how late it was nobody was there.
âLet it out, let it all out baby. Youâre gonna feel so goodâ You had mistaken your first orgasm as something completely different. Your toes curled as you sunk your teeth inside his shoulders to suppress your screams.
âFuck Iâm gonna cum, I canât take it anymoreâ In a swift motion he pulled out and shoved you down so you were kneeling. Your knees burned as you looked at him pumping his cock furiously.
Beads of cum showers your face as you whimpered in surprise. Owen had his head tilted back, groaning out of pleasure as he paints your face white with his cum.
Owen grabbed your chin, tilting your head up as he admired his work.
âNow, will you be a good girl for me. Promise not to tell anyone, alright sweetheart?â
Summary: An unexpected pregnancy test forces Bucky and you to confront your deepest fears. Amid silences, doubts, and fears that neither of you can fully articulate, youâll both discover that starting a family may be the hardestâand most importantâbattle of your lives.
Tags: Post-TFATWS, Established relationship, accidental pregnancy, miscommunication, angst, hurt/comfort, fear, trauma, mentions of HYDRA, mentions of abortion, mentions of reader with irregular periods, mentions of Sam, mentions of Bucky working with Sam, Bucky emotionally constipated, Bucky afraid of fatherhood, Bucky crying, reader crying, no y/n, happy ending. My native language isn't English (I apologize if there are any mistakes).
Masterlist.
Notes: Hi! I should really be working on the drafts I have, but this idea just popped into my head and helped me get past a little writerâs block.
Youâd been trying to pay attention to Bucky for almost half an hour.
With his usual calm demeanor, he was telling you how that dayâs mission with Sam had gone. He talked about a chase that ended sooner than expected, his partnerâs constant jokes, and a plan that had gone surprisingly well. You nodded from time to time, even smiled out of sheer habit, but in reality you hadnât heard half of what he was saying. Your mind was trapped in a single thought that repeated itself over and over, impossible to ignore.
The positive pregnancy test.
The little plastic strip was still tucked away in your sock drawer, as if its mere existence had upset the balance of your entire life. You felt it took up a lot of space, even though it barely took up any at all. Ever since youâd seen it that morning, emotions had swirled inside you in a way that was impossible to sort out: fear, uncertainty, nerves, surprise, and a strange sense of hope that you still didnât dare to accept.
You had no idea what to do.
During your early dates, the two of you had talked about starting a family. It had been a calm conversation, without arguments or promises. Bucky had admitted that he hadnât imagined himself as a father and wasnât even sure he could ever be one; after everything heâd been through, the idea of bringing a child into the world seemed too overwhelming to him. You, for your part, didnât feel it was the right time either.
And yet, there you were.
Facing a situation neither of you had planned for.
The silence between you began to stretch because you had stopped responding several seconds ago. Bucky finished speaking and waited for a reaction that never came. That was when his senses picked up on what your words werenât expressing.
Your heart was beating too fast.
The rapid, irregular, and persistent rhythm made him turn his full attention to you. He noticed the slight furrow of your brow, the tension in your jaw, and the way your fingers nervously fiddled with the rim of the cup resting on the table.
His expression changed instantly.
âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?â he asked in a soft voice, full of concern, as he leaned slightly toward you.
His hand sought yours on the table and gently wrapped around it, giving it a light squeeze, as if to remind you he was there.
That simple gesture finally broke down the barrier youâd been maintaining throughout the conversation.
The words slipped from your lips before you could finish turning them over in your head.
âI think Iâm pregnant.â
Time seemed to stand still.
A complete silence settled between you, heavy and almost tangible. Buckyâs eyes widened slowly until they were wide with surprise, as the air left his lungs in a held breath. His fingers trembled slightly around yours, unable to hide the impact of the confession.
You lowered your gaze and let out an unsteady sigh, trying to control the lump that had formed in your throat and the anxiety coursing through every corner of your body.
âI took a pregnancy test because my period was later than usualâŠâ you murmured in a low, tense voice, feeling as though every word required an enormous effort. âI thought it would be a false alarm, but⊠it came back positive.â
As you finished your sentence, silence once again enveloped the room with an almost suffocating intensity. The world seemed to have come to a sudden halt. Only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness, along with the rapid beating of your heart, which Bucky could still hear with absolute clarity. Each beat revealed the fear you were trying to hide behind a serene expression. They both remained motionless, realizing that a few words had been enough to completely change the course of their lives.
âWhenâŠ?â he whispered, almost to himself, his gaze lost somewhere on the table.
The question didnât seem directed at you, but at his own memories.
He looked down as he mentally reviewed every moment of the past few months, trying to find an explanation. Then he remembered. His expression slowly changed until it twisted into a small grimace filled with recognition and regret.
That night.
The only time they had both completely cast caution aside, convinced that nothing would happen, letting themselves be carried away by desire, closeness, and the heat of the moment.
In her memory, that slip had seemed insignificant. Now she realized that just once had been enough.
Her fingers tensed slightly before slipping from yours.
You parted your lips shyly, ready to say somethingâanythingâto break the silence or calm the growing anxiety that was beginning to settle in your chest. You wanted to explain that you didnât expect an immediate answer, that you didnât know how to feel either, that the two of you could work it out together.
But Bucky stood up before you could utter a single word.
The movement was so sudden that the chair slid a few inches backward, making a sharp clatter against the floor.
He ran a hand over his face, breathing heavily as he avoided looking directly at you.
âI need some airâŠâ he said in a low voice, though the weight of those four words fell on you like a slab of stone.
There was no anger in his tone, nor rejection, but there was no calm either. Just a confusion so deep that he seemed unable to stay another second within those four walls.
You watched him walk with hurried steps toward the apartment entrance. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack almost out of habit, without bothering to put it on properly, and opened the door.
For a moment, you thought he would stop, that he would turn his head to say something else or to reassure you.
It didnât happen.
The door closed behind him with a sharp click that echoed throughout the room.
You stood motionless, staring at the spot where he had disappeared, as silence once again took hold of the apartment. The pressure in your chest increased immediately, and fear began to make its way through all the thoughts youâd been trying to hold back.
â
The faint blue glow from the TV was the only light in the room you shared with Bucky. Images flashed one after another across the screen, accompanied by the distant voices of a show youâd been trying to follow for over an hour without success.
You were sitting on the bed, your back against the headboard and your legs drawn up to your chest, wrapping both arms around them as if that small gesture could hold you together while you felt everything else beginning to fall apart.
Your eyes remained fixed on the television, but they didnât really see what was happening on it.
Your mind kept returning to the same place over and over.
The positive test.
Buckyâs expression when you told him.
The way heâd let go of your hand.
And, above all, the door closing behind him.
It had been almost five hours since he left the apartment.
Five hours without a call.
Five hours without a reply to any of the messages youâd sent him with trembling handsâmessages that had gone from a simple âAre you okay?â to a worried âJust tell me where you are.â
The phone lay beside you on the sheets, completely silent.
You were worried about him.
You knew that the idea of becoming a father had never held an important place in his life. After everything heâd been through, the decades that had been stolen from him, and the burden he still carried for acts he hadnât even committed while in his right mind, starting a family seemed like a dream reserved for other people.
He had never told you he didnât want children, but he hadnât said he wanted them either.
And now the decision had gone from being a distant possibility to an unexpected reality.
Yet, as you thought about him, it was also impossible not to think about yourself.
About what that new life growing inside your body meant.
About how it would change your future.
About whether you would be able to handle it.
About whether you would be alone.
A lump formed in your throat as you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to return.
The only sound that managed to snap you out of your thoughts was the unmistakable turn of a key in the front door lock.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Then came the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the soft thud as it closed again.
And finally, the heavy echo of boots echoing through the apartment.
You lay motionless on the bed, your gaze fixed on the bedroom door, listening as those footsteps moved slowly down the hallway. Each one seemed to last an eternity.
The doorknob turned and the door opened slowly.
Bucky stood in the doorway for a few seconds before entering. For the first time since youâd broken the news to him, his eyes met yours.
Silence settled between you once more.
You couldnât help but notice the state heâd returned in.
His hair was more disheveled than usual, as if heâd run his hand through it countless times. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have deepened, betraying that he hadnât found peace during those hours either. His jacket was still on, slightly wrinkled, and his shoulders remained tense.
But what caught your attention most was the expression on his face. There was fear and guilt.
His eyes scanned the room until they settled on the only source of light: the television.
He was silent for a few seconds before speaking, in that deep, restrained voice that barely let his true feelings show.
âYouâre going to ruin your eyes like thatâŠâ
It wasnât a rebuke; it was the only everyday thing he could think to say.
He walked over to the light switch and turned on the roomâs light.
The warm glow instantly filled every corner.
You winced slightly at the sudden change in lighting and turned your face away a little, too late to hide what was obvious.
Your eyes were swollen and red. Dry tear stains remained on your cheeks.
Bucky stood still, his jaw tightening slightly. He looked down for a moment before looking back at you, as if heâd been struck by a silent blow.
He didnât say âIâm sorry.â He wasnât someone who found words easily, but the way he took a deep breath and stood motionless was enough to make it clear that he regretted leaving you alone for those hours.
With slow, measured movements, he took off his jacket, draped it over a nearby chair, and walked over to the bed.
The mattress sank slightly as he sat down beside you, leaving just a few inches between you and turning his back to you.
He didnât try to touch you, but he didnât move away either. He simply stayed there, his forearms resting on his legs and his hands clasped, staring at the floor as he searched, unsuccessfully, for the right way to sort through everything going through his head.
Silence settled in again, heavy and uncomfortable. Filled with questions neither of you dared to ask.
Several seconds passed before Bucky slowly exhaled.
âI walked down to the pierâŠâ he murmured without looking up. âThen I kept walking. I wasnât planning on going anywhere⊠I just needed my head to stop making noise.â
He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and fell silent again.
âI didnât answer because⊠I didnât know what to say.â
The words came out clumsily, forced, as if each one took an enormous effort.
âAnd because I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.â
You felt a twinge in your heart and could barely manage a shaky exhale as you watched his back.
âI was never good at this.â
He didnât specify what he meant, and you werenât sure what he was referring to either. Maybe he meant talking, feeling, imagining a future, or becoming a father. It was probably all of those things at once.
The distance between you was still just a few centimeters, but the real obstacle wasnât physical.
Your nails dug lightly into your legs before you began crawling toward him to gently take his chin and make him look at you.
He let you do it, and his eyes finally met yours. That blue you loved so much looked different; there was no anger or rejection, only a deep, silent fear mixed with an uncertainty that seemed to have robbed him of his breath.
For a moment, it seemed to you that you were looking at the soldier who had survived a war, not the man who always found a way to protect you.
You traced the rough line of his beard with your thumb.
âWhat do you want to do?â you asked in a barely audible whisper.
The question hung between you.
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, and his face twisted into an expression that was hard to readâa bitter mix of guilt, vulnerability, and resignation.
He was fully aware that this decision belonged solely to your body and your life. He also knew that he would never try to push you toward a choice that would benefit him over you. Even if he felt terrified, even if the idea of being a father overwhelmed him.
"I'll support you... whatever you decide." His voice was deep and low, almost hoarse.
It was the only certainty he had amid the chaos.
He paused for a moment longer before adding, almost as if he were struggling to get the words out.
"I don't know if I'll do this right... But I won't let you carry this burden alone."
â
The next day, the uncertainty was still there.
After a nearly sleepless night, you began to convince yourself that maybe that home test had simply been wrong. After all, even pharmacy tests could yield false positives.
It was a possibility, so you clung to it with all your might.
After discussing it briefly over breakfastâif you could even call a cup of coffee you barely touched and the untouched toast on the plate breakfastâyou decided to go to the hospital.
An ultrasound could provide answers almost immediately, and you wouldnât have to endure the endless wait for a blood test.
When they called your name in the waiting room, your stomach turned instantly.
You stood up, your legs trembling, and without even thinking, you reached for Buckyâs hand and gripped it tightly.
He remained seated for another second, motionless, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the floor. He seemed unable to force himself to walk through that door, not because he wanted to leave, but because he feared what he might find on the other side.
He stood up and walked behind you after you gently took his hand.
The office smelled just like the rest of the hospital: a clean, pungent mix of disinfectant and antiseptic products. However, the atmosphere was different.
The lights were warmer, and the walls were covered with informational posters about conception, birth control methods, fetal development, and drawings showing the approximate size of a baby week by week.
Your eyes lingered for a moment on each one.
Week 4âPoppy seed.
Week 6âLentil.
Week 7âChickpea.
Week 8âCherry.
Week 9âOlive.
And the weeks and illustrations went on.
The illustrations seemed absurdly small for the enormous change they represented.
You swallowed hard as you clung to Buckyâs hand.
Your fingers were cold, and so were his. The slight tremor in his fingers betrayed that he was just as nervous as you were.
He stood beside you with his shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the floor as if he found it impossible to look up at any of those images. His jaw remained tense.
When the specialist told you to lie down on the examination table, you obeyed with slow movements. You lifted the fabric of your clothes just enough to expose your abdomen.
Moments later, the contact of the cold gel on your skin drew a small, involuntary grimace from you. A shiver ran through your entire body.
Without realizing it, you squeezed Buckyâs hand tighter, and he reacted almost reflexively, interlacing his fingers with yours and holding them firmly.
The careful squeeze of his hand was enough to make you understand that, even though he was still emotionally lost and the words remained stuck in some corner of his chest, he had decided to stay with you until he knew the answer.
The room was enveloped in an expectant silence.
The doctor moved the transducer calmly over your abdomen while watching the screen in front of her intently.
To you, that mass of shadows made no sense at all.
To her, every little change seemed to say a lot.
You felt your breathing start to quicken, and Bucky noticed it instantly.
Without taking his eyes off the monitor, his thumb began to slide slowly across the back of your handâan almost automatic movement that he probably wasnât even aware he was making.
It was strange and overwhelming for him.
A man who had survived wars, experiments, and decades of violence was completely defenseless in front of an ultrasound screen.
The doctor remained silent for a few more seconds, and your imagination began to fill in the blanks.
Maybe the test had failed after all.
Maybe your period was just coming soon.
Maybe...
âThere it is.â
Her voice interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts.
She pointed to a tiny dot on the screen.
âItâs still very early, but we can see the gestational sac.â
You felt the air leave your lungs.
It wasnât a mistake.
It wasnât a false positive.
It was real.
Your eyes remained fixed on that tiny image, trying to understand how something so small could change two peopleâs lives so completely.
Buckyâs hand tightened around yours.
He didnât say anything and didnât even blink; he seemed to be holding his breath.
His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, as if trying to memorize every shadow despite not fully understanding them.
The doctor continued explaining a few things about the estimated gestational age, prenatal vitamins, and the tests that would be advisable to perform over the next few weeks.
Her voice reached you like a distant murmur. Neither of you seemed to be processing much; you just nodded.
At one point, the specialist smiled kindly, already accustomed to all kinds of reactions to this news.
âWould you like to hear the heartbeat?â
You turned your head toward Bucky, who remained completely still.
His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but for the first time since theyâd entered the office, he seemed to lose control of his expression.
He looked completely vulnerable.
And, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head before closing his eyes for a moment.
It wasnât a âno.â It was someone trying to muster enough courage for something he couldnât bring himself to say because of the weight of the moment and his fear.
âWe⊠We need to talk about this first,â you murmured, your voice strained by the wave of emotions.
The doctor nodded understandingly, printed out some images, and began wiping the gel from your abdomen before walking over to Buckyâs side, where her desk was.
âIt seems to be developing as expected for the sixth week,â she explained calmly. âWeâll schedule another checkup in a few weeks and proceed according to your decision.â
You nodded automatically and slowly sat up on the stretcher.
Bucky remained seated where he was, staring at one of the photographs the doctor had just placed on the desk. He seemed unable to take his eyes off that small gray smudge.
Finally, he stood up and slowly let go of your hand to pick up the image between his fingers with an almost absurd delicacy, as if he were afraid of breaking it. He looked at it for a long moment before carefully putting it away in the folder the doctor had given them along with all sorts of recommendations and informational brochures.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't ask any questions.
He just stayed by your side, supporting you when it seemed like the strength in your legs was about to give out.
â
The days that followed weren't easy.
Both of you tried to cling to a routine that no longer felt entirely your own, as if pretending nothing had changed might delay the moment of facing reality.
You made a conscious effort to carry on with your usual life. You went to work, tidied the apartment, read, replied to messages, and tried to fill every minute with some activity that would keep your mind occupied. There were moments when you even succeeded. For a couple of hours, you forgot the constant fear that had settled in your chest, the uncertainty about the future, and the enormous decision that was still waiting for you.
But those moments of calm never lasted long; something always came along to bring you back to reality, and anxiety would wash over you like a wave.
Things didnât seem any easier for Bucky either.
He kept taking on missions with Sam, though not as often as before. He started turning down smaller jobs and heading back to the apartment as soon as operations were over.
He didnât say whyâand probably never wouldâbut it was clear he wanted to be close to you, even if he still didnât know how to be there for you.
Many times he would sit on the couch while you read in silence. Other times you simply shared the same space without exchanging more than a few words, finding a strange sense of calm in each otherâs mere presence.
It was his way of saying he was still there.
There were days when the tension seemed to grant you a respite, and you looked like yourselves again.
Youâd curl up on the couch under a blanket to watch a movie neither of you paid much attention to, sharing a bowl of popcorn while Bucky complained about the main character and you ended up laughing at his comments.
Other afternoons, youâd cook together. He would chop vegetables with precision while you tried to steal a piece of carrot from him before it made it into the pan, causing him to shake his head and hide a barely perceptible smile before kissing your forehead.
They even resumed their habit of going for walks around the city. They wandered through familiar streets, small cafes, and parks where time seemed to move more slowly.
For a few hours, they managed to forget... Or at least pretend they did.
But the subject of the baby always found a way to come back.
It would surface when you caught yourself imagining how his life would change if you decided to continue with the pregnancy. When you wondered if Bucky could ever feel happy with that possibility. If the two of you could truly become a family.
It also came up during those walks when you passed a pregnant woman absentmindedly stroking her belly, a father pushing a stroller while a baby slept peacefully inside, or a little hand clutching its motherâs tightly as they crossed the street.
Then your steps would slow, your gaze would linger a few seconds longer, and the weight would settle back onto your shoulders.
Bucky never made any comments or asked what you were thinking, but he always noticed the change. He saw how your smile faded little by little, how your fingers unconsciously sought to rest on your abdomen, and how the sparkle in your eyes dimmed.
He could only walk beside you, keeping silent as he felt that familiar tightness settle in his chest.
The words remained trapped inside him.
He had learned to survive without uttering a single word for far too many years, and now, when he needed them most, they wouldnât come out either.
The nights were the worst.
There were times when the weight of the decision would end up crushing you.
Youâd wait until you were sure Bucky was breathing deeply before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving behind the warmth of the sheets and the arms that, even in his sleep, seemed to reach out for you.
Silently, you walked with the folder in your hands to the dining room and opened it once more to reread every brochure and recommendation with obsessive attention.
You read about prenatal vitamins, nutrition, hormonal changes, and medical checkups. Then you turned to the pages that talked about abortion clinics and the procedure.
You set them aside and always ended up doing the same thing: you held the ultrasound photo between your fingers.
The corners were slightly bent, and the paper had lost some of its stiffness from all the times youâd held it in the early hours of the morning.
You slipped out of bed again and again to look at that blurry image where you could barely make out a tiny white dot.
That was all.
A tiny speck.
And yet, it already occupied every corner of your mind.
What you didnât know was that those worn corners werenât just your fault.
Many nights, when he woke up and found your spot empty, Bucky would wait a few minutes before getting up and finding you sitting at the table.
He didnât interrupt.
He simply returned silently to the bedroom, and when you finally fell back asleep, he was the one who left.
He stood in front of the open folder for minutes, sometimes for over an hour, staring at the same photograph without moving, feeling a fear and vulnerability that were completely foreign to him.
A silent terror that no mission, no battlefield, and no enemy had ever managed to awaken in him.
He never told you that he also looked at that ultrasound.
He never confessed that he already had it etched in his memory.
You sighed softly as you held it between your fingers. With the tip of your index finger, you slowly traced the tiny, barely visible figure on the paper.
According to one of the posters in the doctorâs office, when you found out, it was the size of a lentil. Now it was close to the size of a cherry.
It was a tiny difference, and yet, to you, it meant that time was still moving forward.
For days youâd tried to imagine every possible scenario and had made mental lists, thinking about work, money, the future, fear, Bucky, and yourself.
Youâd tried to make a decision based solely on reason, but, for the first time since it all began, you stopped trying to convince yourself of an answer and simply listened to the silence.
Slowly, you brought your hand to your belly, which was still flat. Yet you felt a twinge in your chest at the thought of it being empty by your own choice.
You closed your eyes as you realized that the fear was still there, but it was no longer fear that was guiding your thoughts.
It was something else.
A small, fragile, and hard-to-explain feeling that had been growing almost without your noticing over those days.
It was hope.
Your lips trembled before forming a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and tears slowly rolled down your cheeks.
They werenât tears of anguish.
Not entirely.
They were the silent relief of someone who, after weeks of doubt, had finally found an answer.
âI want to get to know youâŠâ you whispered, your voice breaking.
The decision was made.
The fear hadnât disappeared; it had simply stopped being greater than love.
â
When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the bedroom curtains, drawing golden lines across the rumpled sheets, you slowly opened your eyes.
The first thing you saw was Bucky, who was already awake.
He lay on his side, his metal arm resting on the mattress and his elbow bent to support his head in the palm of his hand. Heâd been watching you in silence for who knows how long, with that almost hypnotic calm and intensity so characteristic of him, as if while you slept he were trying to read all the thoughts you were never able to put into words.
You blinked a couple of times before letting out a sleepy sigh.
The sound snapped him out of his own thoughts, and his lips curved into a faint, discreet smileâso small that anyone could have easily missed it.
âGood morning, sweetheartâŠâ he murmured in his deep, hoarse voice.
He leaned slowly toward you. First he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another at the corner of your lips, and finally a slow, gentle kiss on your mouth.
âGood morning, BuckâŠâ you replied, your voice barely audible against his lips.
For a few moments, everything seemed to return to normal.
It was the same tranquility as any Sunday morning. Those mornings when neither of you was in a hurry to get up and you could spend an hour or even two under the sheets, embracing without saying much, stroking each otherâs hair, sharing absent-minded kisses, or simply enjoying each otherâs warmth while the world kept moving on outside the windows.
A sanctuary that had always belonged only to the two of you.
But something in your expression made him slowly step back to get a full view of your face. His blue eyes scanned every inch of your face, searching for that look he knew so well.
It was the look you had when youâd already made a decision and were gathering the courage to say it.
The faint trace of his smile vanished.
The silence in the bedroom was broken only by the distant traffic beginning to fill the streets and the soft rustle of the sheets as you slowly sat up. Bucky did the same.
âI know what I want to doâŠâ Your voice came out almost as a whisper.
Bucky barely looked up, and there was something in his expression that broke your heart. He looked like a wounded animal trying to stay still so no one would notice how much pain he was in.
Your fingers sought his, and you wanted to intertwine them as you had so many times before, but he remained still, his hand unmoving.
You took a deep breath and spoke.
âI want to continue with the pregnancy.â
Your words came out soft, firm, and without hesitation, and yet they seemed to strike the air with impossible force.
Bucky remained completely still.
He didnât respond.
He didnât pull his hand away.
His expression didnât change.
He simply sat there in front of you, watching you as if he needed several seconds to grasp the meaning of those five words.
Then he slowly lowered his head, and his lips parted slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again, and only a muffled sound escaped.
His throat moved with difficulty as he swallowed, and his chest began to rise with deeper breaths than usual.
Fear had suddenly taken hold of his entire body.
It wasnât fear of the baby or of the decision youâd made. Because during those days, as he walked with you through the city or lay awake staring at the ultrasound in the middle of the night, heâd discovered a truth heâd never wanted to admit.
He wanted to be a father with you and no one else.
He wanted that pregnancy to continue.
He wanted it more than he ever thought possible.
He wanted to meet that little life.
He wanted to hear that tiny heartbeat at the next appointment.
He wanted to be with you as your belly grew little by little.
He wanted to hold your hand during every checkup and for the rest of his life.
He wanted to try to be better for you and for that little boy or girl.
He had even caught himself imagining a messy room with toys on the floor, little footsteps running through the apartment, and a tiny voice calling them âMom and Dadâ while they both laughed as they prepared dinner.
He had allowed himself to imagine a home.
And that was precisely why the fear was unbearable. He had never longed for anything so intensely since regaining his freedom, and he had never felt such terror at the thought of not being up to the task.
The questions began to crowd his mind, giving him no respite.
What if he didnât know how to be a father?
What if he wasnât truly free and one day lost control?
What if his past caught up with them?
What if she deserved a simple life, far from someone like him?
What if her children deserved a different father?
He looked down at his own handsâthe flesh-and-blood one and the vibranium oneâand studied them as if seeing them for the first time.
He remembered the wars, the orders, the HYDRA labs, the lives he had taken, and the names he could never forget.
When his gaze settled on the gleam of the dark, golden metal, all he could think of was the gray metal with the red star. An unbearable shame squeezed his chest.
How could he imagine holding a newborn with hands that had been used to kill for so long?
How could someone who still woke up some nights convinced he was still a weapon promise protection?
The weight of each of his thoughts kept him frozen and unable to speakâthat was why he was silent. It wasnât because he rejected your decision, but because he accepted it so deeply that fear had left him speechless.
He only returned to reality when he felt your trembling hands encircling his face with infinite tenderness. As he looked up, seeing the tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks, something inside him snapped, and an unbearable pressure squeezed his chest.
His silence had lasted so long that you began to interpret that absence of words in the worst possible way. You thought he didnât agree with your decision, that he could never accept that future... That, sooner or later, you would both end up going your separate ways.
That possibility, reflected in the pain in your eyes, was infinitely more terrifying to Bucky than any of the ghosts he carried with him.
For a moment, all the ghosts of his past fell silent.
Now there was only you, crying in front of him, thinking you were going to lose him.
His breath caught.
He raised a hand with obvious hesitation, as if even that gesture cost him an enormous effort, and ended up covering one of yours that you were holding against his cheek.
His fingers held you with desperate strength, as if he feared you were going to pull it away.
He slowly shook his head.
He tried to speak, but his throat kept closing up long before he could utter a single word.
The inability to speak made him feel more helpless than any enemy he had ever faced.
âNoâŠâ he finally managed to say, his voice breaking.
He swallowed with difficulty and looked down for just a second before meeting your gaze again.
âDonât think that.â
His thumb began to absentmindedly stroke the back of your hand. It was a clumsy, instinctive movement, the same one he made every time he tried to calm you down without finding the right words.
âI donât want⊠you to leave.â He took a deep breath before continuing. âI want the same thing you doâŠâ
That confession was so quiet it was almost lost amid the noise from outside.
âIâm scared. Really scared.â
He said it plainly, without trying to hide it; it was a brutal honesty that he was finally letting out into the open.
Bucky looked so fragile and vulnerable, until he finally broke down.
His eyes had filled with tears without warning, and a sob welled up from deep within his chest.
His hands wrapped tightly around your waistâbut without choking youâas he did his best not to cry like a little child on your shoulder.
You didnât hesitate for a second to cling to his body as you let yourself cry after all the fear and anxiety that was beginning to dissipate. You could finally feel relief knowing you wouldnât be alone.
Bucky let out a brief, bitter laugh, filled with disbelief in himself, and shook his head.
âIâve been imagining it for days,â he confessed, almost ashamed, his voice breaking slightly. âI see you walking around the apartment with the baby in your arms.â
For the first time, a tiny smile appeared on your face through your tears as you heard him.
Bucky looked up fully. His eyes were glistening with small, unshed tears, and there was an obvious, immense fear, but there was also a certainty he was finally ready to voice.
âI want to meet our little one.â
The words hung between you.
Bucky seemed surprised to have said it out loud and without trembling, as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.
âI want to hear his heartbeat at the next appointment.â His lips trembled as a smile full of emotion appeared on his face. âI want to watch him growâŠâ
His gaze slowly drifted down to your still-flat abdomen, and with reverent slowness, he brought his vibranium hand to rest upon it. The tremor running through his fingers was entirely human.
âAnd I want to be there when the baby is born.â His voice broke again. âI want to hold him.â
He fell silent for a few seconds to compose himself.
âI still think you deserve better than me.â He admitted in a whisper.
You shook your head quickly. You searched desperately for his gaze as one of your hands reached out to touch his face again, but his metallic fingers gently caught your hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.
âIâll probably think that for a while,â he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. âBut Iâm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you both deserve.â
You threw yourself at him without thinking, and Bucky barely had time to react before wrapping both arms around you with absolute firmness. You buried your face in his shoulder while he buried his in your hair.
They stayed like that for several long minutes.
Without speaking.
Without moving.
The future remained uncertain, but for the first time since that positive test forgotten in your drawer, the two of you stopped facing it alone.
They would face it together.
And for someone like Bucky, who clung to the idea of not making grand promises and was used to showing love through presence rather than words, standing there, holding you as if he wanted to protect you from the whole world, was the most sincere way of saying that he had chosen to stay with you.
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â modern! luke skywalker/city girl reader
â modern! luke skywalker headcanons
â modern! luke skywalker bedroom hcs
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wc: 5.3 k words
cw: brief mentions of alcohol consumption and partying, very bratty reader, brat taming, age gap (reader is in college, no age specified, Jack and Robby are however old they are), fingering, thigh riding, unprotected p in v, double penetration, creampie, oral (m receiveing), mean!robby, soft dom!jack.
a/n: thank you guys sooo much for 1k followers!! I love u all so much...I'm so happy the pitt is back and I can be a whore about it!! I am very very very open to making this a series...mhm... also lowkey shoutout to @rotteninthepitt's dp w rabbot post for inciting me to finish this...
contains: you go to spend the summer to your childhood home, seemingly on your own, but after having witnessed your partying habits during the winter, your father decides to ask two of his closest friends to watch you. The tension snaps the first night you spend together.
Coming home just a couple of days before the summer holidays, the only weight you carried was that of the bag slung over your shoulder; there was nothing to worry about now except the presents you had to buy and the friends you were going to miss.
You felt it as soon as you opened the door, the house lacked the emptiness you had been preparing yourself for. Your father always took a trip during the summer, to Kenya or the Bahamas, frankly he went wherever his girlfriend of the month wanted to go, and you usually held fort in your childhood home, on your own. It was good to be on your own for a couple of days, good to see old acquaintances, good to go out to the bars with nobody waiting for you to come home, to tell you how late you were, how bad drinking was. But that evening, the house was warm, and as you walked through the hallway you could hear the faint hum of the TV, two male voices chatting over it.
You froze in the hallway. You recognized those voices, they were the same voices that told you to wear your shin guards during soccer practice if you didn't want to sprain your ankle again; the same voices that joked about school and summer jobs if you misbehaved, voices of the men that had sewn up countless childhood injuries, laughing lightheartedly at your despair. Voices of adults who hovered at the edges of your childhood like guardrails, never distant enough to forget them.
Hearing them now, after two years, felt strange. Scary, in a very childish way. For a second there you missed your father, you wished he didn't travel during your summer break. If he was there he'd make everything better, less awkward.
Jack was saying something about the game on TV, about a ref who needed glasses. Robby hummed in response, noncommittal, that familiar sound that meant he wasn't really listening. The sound, deep and coarse, slid straight under your skin like it always had.
You stood there longer than necessary, keys still in your hand, coat half-unbuttoned, already starting to sweat. You hoped, stupidly, that the stillness would change something, that you would also hear your father's voice, telling you he hadn't actually left with his girlfriend on vacation, that it was all a ruse, that Jack and Robby were only there for dinner. But you knew better than that.
When you finally stepped forward, the hallway seemed too narrow, like it had shrunk while you were gone. You felt as if, actually, the whole house had shrunk during your absence, as if a semester in college had turned you into Alice and your childhood home into wonderland.
Jack noticed you first, as always. His head snapped up, eyes widening. You'd grown. He let his eyes roam freely, hungrily, before his face rearranged itself into something carefully appropriate. Robby followed a second later, slower, his gaze landing on your legs and lingering just long enough to feel heated before he looked away.
You were acutely aware of how different everything was, how different you were. Alice in wonderland, you thought.
"Hey," Jack said finally, softening his voice like he was approaching something skittish, a fawn or a bunny.
"Hey," you echoed.
You should've felt annoyed at their intrusion, and for a second you almost had, before their eyes landed on you, and you felt a tight, unfamiliar flutter low in your stomach.
"Didn't know you were getting here so soon." Jack said. It was merely an observation, a simple comment, but it made something in you stir uncomfortably.
"Yes, I, uh...had no class, so..." You nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line.
"Right, college schedules." Robby murmured from his place on the couch, barely lifting his eyes to look at you.
You shrugged, suddenly aware of how young you must have sounded, how juvenile, how stupid. Once again feeling like you hadn't caught up to reality yet. You told yourself it was from driving too long, and not from seeing Jack and Robby like this. You were no longer a kid, you told yourself, yet you felt like one beneath their careful eyes.
"I thought the house would be empty", you said finally, because the silence had grown too thick to ignore. Jackâs expression shifted almost imperceptibly, something tightening around his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "About that," before he could go on, Robby stood up, slow and deliberate, his voice cutting in with none of Jackâs earlier cushioning.
"Your dad asked us to be here," he said, slowly, plainly. He spoke as if you already knew you deserved this, as if he were telling you these were simply the consequences of your own actions. "While youâre home."
Just like that, all your hopesâall your expectations for this summer, which had been simmering for so longâvanished. No partying, no late nights bleeding into early mornings, no freedom. You were back to square one, back to the way things had been when you were a teenager. It was infuriating. Sure, you liked to party more than most, and yes, you drank when you went out, but it wasnât a problem. Maybe, deep down, your father knewâbut he was so terribly protective of his little girl, sometimes he forgot you weren't so little anymore.
It had been in the winter, during your holidays, that he'd come to be familiar with your going out routines. The too short skirts, the young men picking you up in their loud cars, the coming back in the morning, clothes on haphazardly and eyes hazy. He had told you then he found your ways embarrassing, no young lady should behave like this! he said. But all of your friends were the same, and your father was old...what did he know, anyway? It made no sense to you. You had believed it was over, there was no shame, no consequences to your actions. You had been so wrong.
"So thatâs it?" you said, your voice rising despite yourself. "He decides Iâm a problem and sends you two to keep me in line?" You huffed out a humorless laugh. "God, thatâs humiliating."
Robby didnât flinch. If anything, he looked more settled now, like this was the version of the conversation heâd been expecting all along. The only thing giving away his annoyance was the seriousness in his eyes and the tick of his jaw, "He asked us to make sure you donât do anything stupid again," he said evenly. "He had a reason to worry, kid."
"Wow..." You shot back, anger seeping beneath your eyes, stinging. "You talk to your residents like that? Tell 'em they're stupid?"
Jack stepped in immediately. "Heyâno oneâs calling you stupid. Thatâs not what this is."
"But it is" you said, eyes locked on Robby. "He just did."
Robbyâs jaw tightened, his voice raised. "We are here because youâve given your father a reason to worry."
You felt heat rush to your face, the tears prickle your lash line. "You donât get to say that! You barely know me, stop acting like you do."
"Oh, but I know enough," he replied. "Late nights. Parties. That call he got last spring at two in the morningâ"
"You werenât there," you snapped. "So donât act like you know what happened, Michael."
Robbyâs eyes narrowed slightly, lingering a second too long on your lips, watching the way you bit them nervously before snapping back up to your eyes, exasperated. The sharpness in your voice, your defiant nature, the furious rise and fall of your chest, all of it hit him somewhere deep and familiar, uncomfortable.
He was supposed to be the bigger person. He was supposed to be looking out for you. But instead, he was acting up. He felt the heat in his chest, the subtle awareness of how close he was standing, the way your perfume invaded his space.
You, for your part, felt it too. The way he lingered close to you, hands twitching angrily at his sides, the tilt of his head as he watched you breathe. It was impossible not to notice him, not as your dad's friend, not as an authority figure, but just as a man. Just as him.
Robby, who had once spoken softly and carefully as he picked a splinter from your palm, hands carefully caressing your skin, murmuring about how brave you were; Robby who had bandaged your sprained ankle, laughing with you about how you should maybe forgo running in stilettos. He had always been so sweet, so welcoming, watching you with wet, wide eyes. But you couldn't think of him like that, no. He was your dad's friend, what would people think? What would he think if he knew? You hated yourself a little bit for it, hated that even as you glared and barked at him, a small, absurd part of you was still drawn in, distracted by the bobbing of his throat when he swallowed, the heat under his gaze.
Robby exhaled through his nose, exasperated and tired. "I'm not here to argue with you, I'm here because a friend of mine asked me to be," he said, his voice colder now. "I'm going to bed. We can talk in the morning, when you've...cooled off." He was already halfway up the stairs when he finished talking.
You scoffed. "Donât flatter yourself!"
Jack stood up, rubbing his temple, looking suddenly exhausted. "He shouldnât have said it like that," he said carefully. "Heâs not good at...this."
You crossed your arms, heart still pounding. "At what? Treating me like an adult?"
"At remembering you've got perfectly good decision making skills, at not being overbearing with everyone around him...I've gotten used to it." Jack said, softer now, with that same careful edge, like he was trying to protect both of you from the tension that had just exploded.
Jack bent down and picked up your bags like they weighed nothing, ignoring your complaints. "I've got it, don't worry."
He followed you up the stairs, keeping his eyes glued to the floor no matter how much he wanted to trail them up your legs. He noticed the varnish in the stairs, the chipping paint.
It was strange being in your childhood room again, it always was. It served as a bittersweet reminder of the person you had once been, posters on the walls and photographs with people who no longer were in your life.
"Here," Jack grunted as he set the bags on the floor, "now, you should get comfortable, get some sleep...don't mind Robby."
You nodded, hummed in agreement and closed the door behind him. You peeled off your clothes unceremoniously, sick of them sticking to your skin with sweat. You laid in bed, wearing a flimsy tank top and shorts, trying to combat the heat and whatever it was you were feeling. It wasn't anger, not really, it was closer to shame. But you would never let Robby know that.
After rolling around nervously in bed for a bit, hearing the tv from the living room in the background, you mustered up the courage to walk downstairs, deal with whatever uncomfortable conversation the universe threw your way.
You were relieved to find Jack alone, tidying up the kitchen with the television as background noise. He looked up when he heard you, a soft smile spreading on his face. "Couldn't sleep?"
You shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "Was overthinking."
Jack set the last dish aside, wiping his hands on a towel before leaning against the counter. His eyes softened when they found you. "Want some company?" He noticed your eyes widen and quickly added "I mean, you can talk to me if you want, or we can sit in silence, watch tv if it helps take your mind off things."
A smile tugged at your lips. "I know what you meant. Sure," You said, stepping further into the room, sinking onto the soft cushions of the couch.
Jack sat beside you, throwing a blanket over the two of you. Without thinking, you moved closer, tucked your feet against his thigh, your shoulder brushing his. He didnât move away. Instead, he leaned a little, adjusting, until his arm curled at your shoulder. When you tensed he just pulled you closer against him, asking you what you wanted to watch. You rested your head lightly on his shoulder, the kind of position that was intimate enough to feel comforting but just casual enough to be innocent. Jackâs hand moved automatically, draping over your waist, careful. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body against yours, the steady beating of his heart beneath your ear.
The movie Jack had picked played on, but you paid no attention to it, too absorbed in watching the man beside you. The way his jaw set when he focused, the way the corners of his eyes lifted when he laughed at stupid one-liners. His hand rested heavy and warm at your waist, tracing slow paths up and down your armâmovements that could pass as mindless, innocent enough to make you wonder whether you had misread everything, whether it was all in your head.
"Robby was so mean earlier," you whined against Jack's chest, the vibrations making his skin heat up.
"I know, sweetheart. He just...he worries. We both do." Jack's thumb pressed against your side, more to ground himself than you. You felt him breathe, slow and deep; chest rising beneath your cheek. For a second you felt at ease, like your proximity was normal, like you should be there.
You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. "But you were not mean."
Jack tilted his head down to look at you, suddenly becoming aware of how close you were, how perfectly your bodies fit together, how warm your skin was. He told himself it was nothing, that you were anxious and needed the comfort, that he could blame it all on it being a late night, or on Robby's anger.
"I believe the punishment should fit the crime. You're young, you should be getting drunk with your friends, should be going out," he murmured, brushing a soft kiss along your hairline before continuing. "What you should not be doing is risking your health, or your life, for a good time."
You hummed, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. Jack swallowed, eyes flicking briefly to the staircase before focusing back on the television, which neither of you had been watching for a while.
You shifted slightly, pressing closer against his side. "You sound like my dad."
"I don'tâ" Jack huffed out a laugh, tilting his head back against the cushion.
"Oh, Iâve been such a bad girl," you teased, your voice low, almost breathless. "Are you going to punish me?"
You expected a laugh, maybe a snort, but all you got was silence. You noticed the way his breath hitched, the faint quickening of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It wasnât the reaction you expected, not the one you should be getting out of him, but it wasnât unpleasant, either. Pride bloomed warm in your chest at the thought that you could do this to him, make him flush and falter, just like you.
"It's late, you should go to bed." He cleared his throat and began to untangle his arm from your body.
Shit. Youâd misread everything. The jokeâwhich hadnât even been that funnyâhad fully gone over his head, mistaken for something flirtatious. You could live with that. He was a good looking man, sensible and gentle too, it wasn't too far fetched to have a sliver of a crush on him. He just happened to be your father's friend, and you couldn't sleep with your father's friends, so you would take your curiosity to the grave.
What you couldnât live with, however, was Jack being uncomfortable, thinking youâd come on to him like some weirdo. Youâd gone too far. The week was going to be awkward and tense, terrible. If he hadnât been slightly cold earlier, he certainly would be from then on. What kind of man would be okay with a girl half his age coming onto him? What were you even thinking?
You cleared your throat, trying to salvage some of your dignity. "Iâm so sorry, Jack," you said, feeling your cheeks burn. "was just messing aroundâyou know, like usual. Iâ"
"I know, I know. But it's late, and we are both tired. We should go to bed before we do something we regret, okay?" He craned his neck to meet your gaze, hooked two fingers beneath your chin to tilt your face up when you refused to look at him.
When you finally looked up at him, with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, you were shocked to find Jack smirking at you, his eyes narrowed with amusement. His thumb traced your bottom lip, his gaze still glued to your eyes. Shit, he had asked you a question. You nodded, mouth slightly agape.
"Yeah? You're not even listening anymore, are you, baby?" He cooed, mocking you.
You shook your head, no. Your pulse hammered when his fingers brushed your throat.
His gaze dropped to your lips, his thumb still tracing their curve. Without thinking, you sucked it into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you held his gaze. He was so close, invading all of your senses, turning your already tired brain into mush.
Jackâs eyes darkened, his breathing turning labored as he watched your mouth glide along his thumb, your tongue curling at the tip. The sight made his gut twist, all the frustration and desire heâd been keeping under lock and key rising to the surface.
His thumb slipped free from your lips with a wet pop, and before you could even gasp for air, you kissed him. Jackâs lips were chapped, and they tasted faintly of beer, which you only noticed when you deepened the kiss, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth.
You felt his fingertips trail down the sides of your waist, felt the palm of one of his hands press against your stomach and push your shirt up, the other graze the waistband of your shorts, right below your navel. His touches were teasing as he licked inside your mouth.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows and moved to straddle him, your thighs straddling his much thicker ones. His hands cupped your breasts as he kissed a path down your neck, stopping to lick at your sternum. Your fingers tangled in his curls when he took one of your nipples into his mouth and tugged when his teeth grazed your sensitive skin.
Jack's hands moved down from your breasts to play with the waistband of your pants again, fingers barely dipping below it.
"Jack-" You whined, grinding your hips against his hand, trying to chase whatever friction you could, and he let you, dipping a finger between your folds tentatively.
He pumped two thick fingers in and out of you, slick dripping from them down to his palm, your thighs, the couch cushions. Neither of you seemed to care about the mess, or the noise, or the fact Robby was upstairs and could have heard it all. You had no energy to think about that then, all you could focus on was his touch, or his lips on yours quieting your cries.
You came quickly, your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave. It must have been from the exhaustion, you thought as you cuddled up to Jack's side. He grinned, taking his drenched fingers and sucking them into his mouth.
"You okay, honey?" He drawled.
You just hummed, nodding your head in agreement. You weren't sure what kind of noises would have come out if you attempted to speak then, probably high pitched and whiny blabbering.
"You should go talk to Robby," He pressed a kiss to your hairline, "at least just to say good night, hm?"
The walk upstairs was treacherous when your legs felt like a fawn's, but you ignored the ache and put one foot in front of the other until you reached the room where Robby was staying. You knocked on it twice, softly.
"Hey, uhm...it's me. I don't know if you're asleep yet, but I wanted toâ" You didn't have time to finish the sentence before the door swung open.
The sight you were met with was nothing short of striking. Robby leaned against the doorframe, arms over his head, his sleep shirt riding up just enough to catch a glimpse of his happy trail.
"Apologize?" He finished your sentence for you, smiling. You could never tell if he was joking or laughing at you, it was infuriating, it made blood rush to your cheeks and arousal pool in your stomach.
"No. I wanted to say goodnight," you sighed before continuing, "and ask you if I could maybe come in to talk. I don't like arguing with you, uncle Robby...it's just..." You stopped yourself with a shallow breath.
He let you in shortly after that, led you to sit on the bed with a hand at the small of your back, dipping beneath your shirt. You felt awkward then, sitting all alone in such a big room. You were pretty sure Robby had heard you and Jack, but he wasn't saying anything, all he did was sit beside you and place a hand atop your thigh.
You avoided his gaze like the plague, suddenly interested in the guest bedroom in your childhood home, as if you hadn't seen it enough times. You noticed the paint chipping, the sun setting outside the window, the yellowish tint on the lampshade, all before he uttered a word.
"You know why we're here," He spoke matter-of-factly, "and you know it's for your own good, so what's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter, Robby." You muttered, your gaze fixed on the ground.
"Can't you have fun with Jack and I, hm?" He tilted your face upward slightly, not to force eye contact but to see the embarrassment in your face. He was practically confessing he had heard you, practically begging for a taste.
"I guess I can, yeah."
"Okay, so then we have fun." He flashed you a sleazy smile and, before you knew it, you were sat atop his thighs, grinding your clothed cunt against his leg, whining against his neck.
His hands gripped your waist with enough force to bruise as he moved you on his lap, his cock hardening beneath you. He kissed you with force, tongue sliding across your lips, licking into your mouth. Your fingers gripped at the hairs at the nape of his neck pulling slightly when the buildup in your core became noticeable.
"You had your fun with Jack already, did you?" He spoke between labored breaths.
You just nodded your head in response, your movements never faltering.
"It's only fair I get a turn now." He spoke before flipping you over and pinning you to the bed.
He quickly stripped you of your pajamas, your sweat soaked shirt and arousal drenched shorts ended up discarded in a corner of the room, shortly after joined by his own clothes.
He was big, bigger than you'd expected. It wasn't like you had thought about it a lot, but he was an attractive man, and so commanding, you sometimes wondered what it would be like to work for him, to call him doctor. You wondered what he would look like in scrubs, groaning during a procedure, and you wondered what he'd look like out of them, groaning in bed with you, fucking you deep against the mattress.
Your days of imagining and wondering were now over. He was lining his cock up with your entrance, his eyes seeking yours for approval, a hand caressing your cheek. "You okay?"
"Michael, if you don't fuck me right now I willâ" Your words were cut off with a loud moan when you felt him thrust all the way inside you. A hand wrapped around your throat, with enough pressure to make your breathing labored, your vision blurred.
"Watch your tone, little girl." Robby's voice was loud, dripping in feigned anger. Or maybe it was real, and he was actually mad at you, and he cared about you enough to be angry and prove it to you, liked you enough to do it by fucking you.
"'m so-sorry," you gasped, wide eyed with your pupils blown, drool pooling at the sides of your mouth, dripping down your chin with every harsh thrust. "But you were mean earlier...so unfair."
Robby dipped two of his fingers in your mouth, they pushed against the back of your tongue, making you gag around them. You were so argumentative, so talkative, he couldn't even shut you up by choking you.
"I wasn't mean, baby, I was worried. Worried you would end up dead in an alley with some drunk." Robby panted, his thick cock sliding in and out of you. He was practically yelling at you, his free hand gripped your waist with so much force he would bruise you.
You gargled around his fingers, a choked complaint, an attempt to argue. You could hear faint footsteps in the hallway, heavy and unevenâ Jack's, but laying right there beneath Robby you couldn't bring yourself to care.
Two knocks on the door and an "everything okay?" from Jack were not enough to snap either of you from your daze. You kept panting, biting at his fingers, attempting to argue.
He opened the door with urgency, expecting to break up an argument, expecting to have to put some distance between you, to have to carry you to bed, but the sight he was met with made him stop in his tracks.
You were spread out on the bed, bare skin glowing with sweat and drool, slick coating your thighs. Robby laid on top of you, one of his hands at your hip, the other in your mouth. He watched as you sucked on his fingers, he watched Robby's flushed cock go in and out of you.
"Jackie?" You called for him, whiny and high pitched, reaching a hand out for him, seeking comfort.
He ignored your pleas, walking over to the side of the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. "What the fuck, brother?" He drawled, cocking his head to the side.
Robby slowed down his thrusts, his fingers leaving your mouth to grip the sides of your face as he looked up at the other man, a smug grin on his face.
"Youâre free to join if you want, man.â He drawled out, picking up his pace, thick fingers trailing down your face to wrap around your throat, the pressure was enough to make you moan with pleasure.
He didn't need to be told twice, his cock already straining against his pants, hot and leaking. He made quick work of pulling down his pants, jerking himself twice over your face. You leaned over to your side, mouth open for him, panting.
Your tongue slipped out almost unconsciously, soft lips wrapping around his pink tip. You licked a bold stripe down his shaft before taking him in your mouth as far back as you could. Jack's hands moved to grip your hair, not to push you but to steady himself. "fuck" he breathed out, voice low and raspy.
You moaned around him as you took him deeper, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth every time you gagged. Robby slowed his rhythm to watch you and Jack, focused on the way you moaned around him, on the way your tits bounced when you moved. He trailed his hand up to your chest, squeezing one of your tits, making you keen around Jack's shaft.
Robbyâs grip on your hips tightened as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your chest. His cock throbbed inside you, buried to the hilt as he rocked shallowly, letting you adjust around him. "Fuck, you take me so well," he growled, voice rough with want. "Like you were made for this."
Robby felt your walls tighten around him, felt your breathing pick up and heard your moans get louder. You gave up sucking on Jack's cock as you got closer to your peak, your orgasm making your vision blur. You were not quite sure who's hands were on you anymore, as they lifted you up and set you on the bed on all fours, gripping at your waist to keep your wobbly legs from giving up on you. You heard them speak behind you, heard the rustling of bedsheets.
Jack chuckled from above you, his fingers brushing your waist. "Bet she could take us both at once," he mused, watching the way your legs shook, the way you shuddered and arched your back at his touch. "You wanna try that, baby? Show us how good you can be?"
You gasped when Jackâs palm landed sharp on your ass, the sting making you arch. "Pleaseâ"
"Please what?" Robbyâs breath was hot against your ear as he leaned over you, Jack stood beside him, his hands gripping at your thighs. "Use your words, baby. Tell us exactly what you want."
You whined with embarrassment. "Both of youâfuckâ want both of you to fuck me."
Jack groaned, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. "Greedy fucking girl." But his hands were already guiding his cock to your sopping hole, sinking in slowly, inch by inch until he bottomed out. Not long after, Robbyâs fingers dug into your waist as he pressed in beside him, filling you completely. The stretch burned, overwhelming, their cocks pressed together inside you, making your vision blur.
Tears pricked at your lash line when they began to move, not really thrusting, more like grinding inside you. Strong hands pressed you to the mattress.
Your breath came in shattered little gasps as they moved, slowly, every inch of them against your oversensitive walls. Robbyâs groan was ragged in your ear, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle it as Jack cursed above you, his fingers twisting in your hair to keep your head angled back.
You could feel both of themâthe way Robbyâs cock twitched against Jackâs inside you, the way Jackâs thighs trembled where they pressed against yours, both of them fighting to keep the pace slow and steady.
"Fuck, sheâsâ" Jackâs voice cracked, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he forced himself back to that grinding rhythm. "Robby, moveâ"
Robbyâs response was a dark chuckle, his hand sliding down to rub tight circles over your clit as they finally, finally picked up speed. The stretch burned so good, their thrusts now uneven, desperateâJack driving deep while Robby pulled nearly all the way out just to slam back in, over and over until the only thing you knew was that you were full and tired, tears streaking your cheeks as pleasure coiled tighter in your stomach.
Jack's rhythm stuttered, hips jerking erratically as his fingers tightened in your hair, tight, stinging. The bite of pain sharpening the pleasure coiling low in your belly. "Fuckâ" His voice was raw, gutted, as he buried himself to the hilt and held there, pulsing inside you, spilling with a groan that sounded almost pained.
Robby wasnât far behind. His thrusts turned punishing, the slick slap of skin deafening as he chased his own release. "Look at her," he snarledâat Jack, at you, you werenât sure. That was your undoing; your walls clenched around them both, dragging a ragged curse from Robby as he came, his cock twitching against Jackâs inside you, both of their hands dug bruises into your skin, bruises you would surely love to see in the morning, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a sleepy smile.
For a heartbeat, the room was nothing but panting breaths and the drip of cum and sweat onto the sheets beneath you.
Then Robbyâs grip eased, his palm smoothing over the marks heâd left as he murmured, "see? I knew you could behave." against your spine.
$ log - the extraction goes south, but bucky barnes doesnât seem to care as long as he has a perfect view of you on stage!
$ warn --sfw --suggestive --fem!reader --enamoured!bucky --pole-dancing-on-the-mission --youre-testing-steves-patience
$ wc -w 1.5k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo âomg i js canât stop writing cutie-awkward!bucky with a stupid curious crush on youâ > authors-note.txt
$ vi patching-up (companion piece)
The mission brief was simple: observe, blend in, and extract intel. Steve had delivered the order with the specific, calm authority of a man who believed implicitly in his team. It was a standard infiltration â get in, get the data, get out before the target realised the security was compromised.
He had not accounted for you.
"Iâm just saying," youâd said earlier that evening, tilting your head toward the elevated stage in the corner of the club, where a chrome pole caught the light like a beacon, "it would be a natural cover. Nobody actually looks at the dancer. They look past them. Iâll be invisible in plain sight."
Steve had looked at the stage. Then he looked at you, his brow furrowed in mounting concern. Then he had looked at Bucky, who had the good sense to study the ceiling of the van with intense, scholarly interest, his metal arm resting heavy on his knee.
"You are not," Steve said, very evenly, "going up there as a disguised go-go dancer."
"Why not? I took pole dancing classes a few weeks ago for the core workout. I want to see if I still have the rhythm."
Steve froze, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to find the words to explain the absurdity of the situation. "Pole dancing workout classes? Try it out in your own time, not the mission â"
"â I want to recreate that scene from Sin City," you interrupted, grinning, entirely too pleased with yourself. "Ooh, I hope they give me a prop. I want a whip."
Steve looked like he was contemplating immediate retirement. He pressed two fingers to his temple, closing his eyes tightly and taking a slow, shaky breath to regain his composure. He was the Captain; he was the leader; he was currently losing the battle of wits against his own team. He looked like a man trying to solve a complex equation while someone threw glitter at him.
Bucky sat in the corner of the van, hands resting on his thighs. He didn't speak, but his fingers drummed a steady, rhythmic beat against his pant legs. He watched the bickering with a faint, unreadable expression.
He didnât know what Sin City was â it sounded like some post-war film heâd missed out on, something loud and sharp â but he noted the title away in his mind. If you were talking about it fondly, it was worth remembering later. He kept his gaze fixed on you, silent and watchful, just waiting for the green light to move.
"Fine," Steve finally bit out, his voice strained. "Keep your earpiece in. And for heaven's sake, keep your eyes on the VIP booth."
The music inside the club had teeth. It was low, heavy, and rhythmic, the bass moving through the floorboards and up into Buckyâs boots. He stood at the edge of the crowd with a drink he wasn't touching, trying his best to look like someone who belonged in a place where people actually enjoyed themselves.
He knew he didn't belong here. The lighting was garish â pulsing reds and deep, synthetic blues â and the noise was chaotic. The crowd moved in a fluid, loose language heâd only half-learned since coming back from the dead â elbows brushing, nobody clocking the exits, bodies swaying in a way that made him itch.
Bucky, however, was still clocking every exit, every shadow, and every shift in the air pressure. He was a creature of habit, and his habit was survival.
But then the stage lights shifted, and the air in the room seemed to pull toward the center.
He hadnât meant to look. He tried to keep his gaze on the VIP booth where their target was currently sweating through a silk shirt, but his eyes betrayed him.
You didn't just walk onto the stage; you claimed it with each step. You caught the pole with one hand, a seamless transition into a slow, deliberate spin that sent your hair fanning out like a dark halo. You were moving like the music was a language you spoke fluently.
You twisted, climbing the chrome with fluid, disciplined strength, your muscles bunching and releasing beneath your skin. At the peak, you arched your back, hooking a leg around the pole before dropping into a controlled, breath-taking slide that had the entire room holding its breath.
You were twirling, rotating with a centrifugal grace that made the physics of the pole look effortless. You were putting on a show for the room â confident, a little showy, completely in control of what you were offering â and Bucky stood there feeling something loosen in his chest that he hadn't noticed was tight.
He knew this. Not this exactly â not the chrome pole or the particular cut of your outfit â but the shape of the moment.
Before the war, Brooklyn had its dancers.
There had been a girl at the Ritz who could hold a room still just by walking across it, and he and Steve used to sit in the back, nursing watered-down beers, watching the flappers move and feeling like kings just for being allowed in the room. Burlesque theatres downtown, where the performers were deliberate and bright, and the audience understood they were watching a craft.
You were doing exactly that.
It wasn't the way he sometimes felt around people now: that low-level hum of threat assessment that ran underneath every interaction. It wasn't the other thing, either â not the heat or the sudden spike of want that usually came with club settings â but something older and quieter.
It felt less like Bucky Barnes, the asset, the ex-assassin who was still learning how to exist in a room without cataloguing the exits, and more like James. Just James. Twenty-two years old, leaning against a wall with a drink in his hand, watching a girl who knew exactly how powerful she was.
He hadn't felt like James in a long time.
The weight of the mission â the extraction, the intel, the target in the VIP booth â felt miles away. He watched the way the light caught your skin, the way you threw your head back, the way you seemed to thrive in the centre of the chaos. You were magnetic.
Bucky felt a flicker of something almost possessive, a sharp, sudden desire to clear the room, to walk up there and pull you off the stage just so youâd stop looking at everyone else.
He didn't, of course. He just stood there, mesmerised.
You caught his eye while mid-spin, flashing him a grin that was bright and smug. Buckyâs mouth did something involuntary at the corners. He looked away, embarrassed by his own reaction, then immediately looked back. The mission was entirely off his radar and had been for approximately four minutes.
In the corner near the bar, Steve had both hands pressed over his face.
His earpiece was on. He could hear, faintly, the thumping bass of the club. He could not hear any mission-relevant information because neither of his operatives was doing anything mission-relevant.
Heâd paired them together because Bucky had made a friend. His first real one since coming back. Steve had been quietly, carefully glad about it â the way you talked to Bucky like he was just a person, the way Bucky had started showing up to things he used to avoid, hovering near doorways less and sitting down more.
He had thought: This is good. They work well together. I'll put them on the next op.
He had not thought: And then sheâll do this, and heâll make that face.
Steve took his hands off his face and looked at the stage. Then he looked at Bucky, who was standing at the edge of the crowd, stock-still and completely obvious, watching you with the focused, reverent attention of someone trying to memorise a masterpiece.
The contrast between Buckyâs usual guarded stance and his current, unguarded softness was so stark it made Steveâs chest ache.
He put his hands back over his face.
They were not getting any intel tonight. He already knew this. He was going to write a debrief that said 'situation assessed, no actionable intelligence gathered.'
Sam was going to read it and ask questions Steve didn't want to answer. Nat was going to smile at him from across the room in that way she had, and Bucky was going to be fine. Actually, a little more than fine.
Steve exhaled, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. He flagged the bartender down and ordered something that wasn't water.
He could tolerate one night of uselessness. He supposed, watching Bucky finally take a sip of his drink while refusing to take his eyes off you, that the mission had been a success in every way that mattered. The intel could wait for another night.
Right now, seeing the tension drain out of Buckyâs frame, seeing him look less like a weapon and more like a man, was worth the failure of the extraction.
He leaned against the bar, nursing his drink, and let himself watch, too. If Bucky was going to be distracted, Steve figured he might as well enjoy the show.
You turn up to pole-dance core workouts, but not his scheduled training schemes?!
Pairing David!Clark Kent x Wife!Reader
Summary A quiet night turns contemplative when Clark asks a question that lingers longer than expected. What follows is reassurance. (good parent + swapped - so hot when you talk like that)
Tags 18+, mdni, Dom!Clark (kinda?), reader on top bby, pussy talking, orgasm delay, its poetic bc I couldn't bring myself to finish the full smut, married idiots in love, brief talks of pregnancy/parenthood, insecure!Clark, breathe if you think Clark's a DILF
WC 4k
Eh, tried to write this when I was laid up in the ER all night a few days ago, tomatoes are at the door
Galentine's #7 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace | Mrs. Kent Diaries
You were tucked into Clarkâs chest, legs tangled, one hand curled over the center of his bare chest. His arm lay heavy over your waist, palm warm on the sliver of skin beneath your shirt, fingers drawing thoughtless shapes over your side.
Youâd been exchanging hushed stories about the day. His lips twitched when you told him about the plumbing incident upstairs. He kissed your laugh lines, and mentioned Pa called him 'just because' during lunch.
But now, there was a lull. A silence. Restless, uncomfortable silence.
You could feel the way he breathed against you that something was eating away at him.
"Clark?" You tilted your head toward his. "You've gone quiet on me."
You expected the usual from him. Maybe a lazy joke, a hum in your ear, a quick brush-off he gave when he was too full of love to make it into words. Instead, a deep sigh left him, and what followed was nothing you were prepared for tonight.
"Do you think Iâd be a good father?"
The question sliced through the air like it had been waiting inside him for quite a long time.
It wasn't an 'if'.
It was a 'would'.
Freezing, you didn't answer. At least not right away. Not because you didnât know, of course you knew, but from the sincerity of his worry.
The fact that this man who gave everything, who held the world together with two hands and a heart too big for his broad chest, could still doubt heâd be good at something as natural as love.
He hadnât moved beneath you as you thought. As if any rustle of the sheets might scare you from answering. Like maybe he regretted saying this sliver of insecurity aloud.
Finally, you shifted until you were propped up on your elbow across his chest. His hand slipped from your waist in the movement, fingers brushing down your thigh to hold you still. The moonlight caught the planes of his faceâcheekbones faintly flushed, jaw shadowed in softness, lashes low.
"Baby, what brought that on?" you asked softly.
Your fingers found his cheek, your thumb brushing warm skin and stubble until he turned into it slightly.
He blinked, summer sky blues flicking to yours for a second before sliding away again.
"There was this rescue earlier today. Apartment fire. Young family. The dad didnât even hesitate to run straight back in for his son."
You nodded, remained silent.
"I got them out. Theyâre okay," he added quickly, because he knew that would be your first concern. "But later, I kept thinking: I wonât always be there. Not for everyone."
Sighing, you attempted to save him from his thoughts. "Oh, babeâ"
"Then I thought: what if that was me. What if Iâm out there handling something halfway across the planet, and youâre home alone, raising our child, managing everything. What if Iâm chasing after another emergency that canât wait? That's not fair to you and them."
"Babyâ" you cut in softly again, aching for him, but he kept going, needing to let it out.
"I keep wondering if Iâm being selfish," he went on, louder now, voice cracking slightly. "Wanting you. Wanting a family, knowing what I am. What I bring. What could follow me home and hurt you. What might happen if I fail to protect."
"Clark Joseph."
He looked at you then, full-on. Eyes a little wet, layered with doubt he never let anyone else see. Not even Lois. Not even the Justice Gang. But heâd let you in. He always had.
"You're an incredible husband, I married you knowing everything that came with the symbol," you started without flourish. "You'd also make an incredible father. Our child will grow up feeling safe with you, not just provided for."
His brow furrowed, just faintly, ready to counter.
"They would," you repeated, firmer now. "You care so deeply. You listen. You see everyone, even the ones that don't deserve it. You treat children like they matter. Like theyâre already whole, not waiting to be useful."
You traced the worried wrinkles between his brows. Then his temple. The warm shell of his ear.
"Iâve seen how you hold the neighborsâ babies like theyâre made of gold. How you stop to play peekaboo when you think no oneâs looking. How you kneel in the street to speak to kids after disastersâalways eye-level. Always kind."
You leaned forward slowly and kissed his forehead, then the corner of his mouth, then the spot where his pulse beat beneath his jaw.
"You already give everything you have, Clark. You hold the world together because you care so deeply. And the fact that youâre even thinking about thisâworrying about how to protect our child that doesnât even exist yetâthat is exactly why youâd be a damn good father."
You moved your hand to his chest, right over where his heart beat strongest. He kept listening.
"I trust you and know youâd never leave us without making sure we were safe first. Youâd never put the people you love second if you could help it. Thatâs not who you are. Thatâs never been who you are. You have more love in you than anyone Iâve ever met. You just have to trust that, too."
For a moment, neither of you moved. The quiet stretched between your words like acceptance sinking in, letting the weight of your assurance settle behind his sternum where your hand rested.
Then slowly, his hand rose, fingertips brushing along the nape of your neck, coaxing you higher and closer.Â
When he kissed you, it was slow and fully laced with an answer that didnât need language. One that said he was still afraid, but less so now. Not with you by his side.
Not with your words still echoing in his ears. Not with your faith.
The quiet that followed was a better kind than before.
Your chest felt looser. His grip around you had softened. Moonlight angled lower across the room now, shifting against the floorboards, and one of your feet brushed his calf beneath the blanket, and he didnât pull away.
"Are you still thinking about it?" you murmured, cheek pressed to the firm stretch of his chest.
A hum rolled through him, vibrating against you. "Just⊠letting it settle."
"SettleâŠ" you echoed, your fingers across the crease where the sheet had bunched between your torso. You played with the fabric idly. "Good settling or anxious spiraling?"
"Bit of both," he admitted, staying thoughtful, fingers grazing your hip. "Still donât know if Iâd be any good at the discipline part."
That made you lift your head, expression twisted in disbelief.
"Excuse me, what?"
Completely unbothered, he spared a side glance at you. "What? Iâm serious."
"So you think Iâm going to be the strict parent?"
His mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh again. "You get that voice when I donât separate the whites!"
"Well, you know better!" You swatted his shoulder. "But which one of us gives stern, disappointed dad lectures to supervillains mid-fight on live-TV? On the daily?"
That made him laugh. Full-bodied, caught off guard. It rocked through his chest beneath your palms, made your stomach flip from the sheer sound of it.
"What? No, I donâtâ"
"You do!" you shot back. "You used your Superman voice to stop a toddler tossing gravel at the ducks last week."
"Hon, she was chucking rocks! Those animals were defenseless!"
You shifted higher on his chest, kissed just below his jaw, smug.
"Face it, baby. You have The Voice and righteous authority act down. Even misbehaved toddlers flinch."
He rolled his eyes. "Didnât know being a decent person and saving ducks from being stoned counted as parenting."
"Oh, it does." You kissed him again, slower this time. "Honestly, it kind of turns me on."
That caught him off-guard.
Clark blinked, slow and confused. "Wait, turns you on?"
Brows lifting, you shrugged with faux-casual ease, biting your lip. "Itâs so hot when you talk like that."
Still propped on your elbows, one hand coasted the center of his chest, featherlight, feeling the way his muscles tensed and twitched under your palm. You let your nails scrape lightly on the way back up, and he swallowed hard.
"That voice," you drawled, closing your eyes and moaning a bit almost in pain. "The one you use when giving orders. Clearing buildings. Protecting people. The one that makes everyone shut up and listen."
Clark stayed quiet, his free hand tightening slightly on the sheets. He was more aware now. Watching. Listening. Humor had faded from his expression entirely.
"You know the one," you added, tone light, but your body already reacting to the memory of it. Your eyes flicked to his mouth, then lower, then back to his eyes.
"Every time I hear it, I squeeze my thighs together."
That earned you a sharp breath from himâa low, barely-there groan like heâd tried to swallow it too late.
"Itâs not just the tone, " you went on, shameless. "Itâs the confidence. The command. It does things to me. Gets under my skin."
You felt heat and slick bloom between your thighs even now, just talking about it. His hand had stopped moving entirely.
Your voice dropped lower, soft and teasing. "Itâs not like I want to be turned on when youâre dealing with, like, a four-alarm fire, or telling Gardner to shut up and fall in line. But itâs like clockwork. The second you take command like thatâŠ"
Shifting a little to swing one leg over his, you made sure he felt the evidence of your bodyâs response. You werenât trying to be coy anymore.
"I get so wet. My nipples get painfully tight. My cunt clenches around nothing, wishing you were already inside me," you rambled it like you were commenting on the weather.
Clark exhaled through his nose, sharp and shaky, and gripped the back of your thigh with one hand. You leaned forward on your elbows again, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. His breath hitched when you bit lightly at his earlobe.
"When the time comes, when we have our first baby? You'll officially earn 'Hot Dad' status," you whispered gleefully against his skin. "Especially when you talk like that."
He frowned slightly, brain fogged. "Whatâwhat does that even mean?"
"It means youâd be a DILF, Clark."
"Again, what does that even mean?"
"D-I-L-F," you spelled it slowly, savoring it. "Dad Iâd Like to Fuck."
The sound he made was somewhere between a sputter and a loud, exasperated groan. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist like he didnât know whether to steady you or flip you.
"Jesus, honeyâ" he mumbled, flush climbing up his neck and spreading fast.
"Oh no, weâre not praying now!"
"Thatâs not real. People donât think that'sâ"
"No, it's true," you tilted your head, smug now, fully sprawled across his body. "Youâre already halfway there. Incredibly hot, stern, heroic. Sexy public-facing voice. You do know women out there think about you, right? Superman?"
His mouth opened like he was about to deny it, then closed again when he clearly couldnât.
"Used to bother me when they'd go gaga over you, but then I started thinking," you tapped his chin, mischief evident in your gaze. "That Iâm the one you come home to. Iâm the one who gets that voice in my ear, in this bed, in me. "
Bedsheets rustled in the corner of your vision, and you caught the obvious tenting between his thighs. You bit your lip, holding back a delighted coo.
"Ohhh, Iâve thought about it so often," you confessed with more enthusiasm, trailing your nails down his chest again. "What it would be like to hear you talk like that in the bedroom. Not in the suit. Not saving the world. Just here," you leaned closer, lips brushing his cheekbone.
You kissed just beneath his ear, whispered, "Commanding me."
His cock twitched beneath the sheets.
"You want me to use it in here?" he whispered back, eyes gone half-lidded. "Really?"
Nodding enthusiastically with a grin, you parted your lips and thighs in tandem like you were already waiting for the next order.
He looked into your eyes for a while. Something in his gaze shifted, unspoken. It wasnât fully playful anymore. Sure, it was still gentle, still him, but sharper. Focused.
It was a married look in the quietest, most ruinous way.
A warm, broad hand slid to the back of your neck. The other gripped your hip harder.
When Clark spoke again, it wasnât the register he used in everyday conversation. It was the one reserved for when lives were on the line, when something big needed to obey, now.
"Come here."
Hearing it aimed at you made heat bloom fast and sharp through your body, straight to the places that already felt too awake.
Your response was immediate.
Crawling into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the cotton sheets twisted beneath you with every frantic shift of weight. You hovered just above him, close enough to feel the heat of his straining cock between your legs, but not touching yet. You braced your palms against his chest, heart pounding, eyes on his mouth, ready for what came next.
Sitting up a little more, Clark rested his hands lightly on your thighs.
"Take your clothes off."
Oohhh, the way he said it. Your skin prickled.
You stripped fast, fingers slipping under your hem and beneath your waistband. You peeled your clothes and tossed it aside, baring yourself fully in the moonlight. The air in the room hit your nipples before his eyes did, and he reached out, brushing a thumb across the swell of one breast. You gasped at the contact.
"Do you like that?"
You nodded, breath shaky, back curving toward him to give him more purchase.
"Use your words, sweetheart," he coaxed, low and patient. "I want to hear it from your pretty mouth. Your pretty voice."
The pet name fell differently in that register. You squirmed in his lap, cunt tightened hard, already dripping.
"Yes," you whispered. "God, yes. I love it when you talk like that."
His free hand reached out, thumb grazed your lip, coaxing your mouth open, and you kissed it without thinking. That look was still in his eyes, cataloging reactions.
"More, please," you breathed, already trembling.
Clarkâs grip on your hips tightened as he pulled you forward. Your knees slid closer, bracketing his ribs, and your thighs burned from holding yourself up, but you didnât stop. You wanted the ache. You wanted to be good.
"Keep your legs open for me."
You spread wider with a desperate, impatient sigh, hips instinctively tipping forward. Your cunt throbbed, swollen and aching with how close and untouched you still were.
"That's my girl," he praised easily. "Stay just like that."
The words hit harder than anything else. Your head lolled with a whine, torso folding forward as if his attention alone was enough to pull you apart.
Clark leaned up on his elbows, soft lips brushing the swell of your breast before he took one nipple into his wet mouth, tongue dragging slowly over the peak while his hand cupped the other firmly, deliberate, circling the areola until your back arched and you couldn't help but rock once.
"Hey," he warned, pulling back just enough to speak. "Stay still. Let me take my time with you."
So you froze, arms shaking, knees burning, breath coming shallow and broken. Soft sounds spilled from your mouth as you hovered there for him, aching, needy, obedient.
His hand slid between your thighs, palm hot as his fingers spread you open with a few firm strokes.
"Ohâwow," he breathed, openly pleased. "Sheâs already soaking for me. Just like you said. She's so eager, sweetheart."
Two fingers pressed into your cunt to the last knuckle. You choked on a raspy gasp as the stretch made your walls clamp down hard.
"Easy," he hissed, "she's a little tense. Pretty girl needed this bad, huh?"
You sobbed out something that was meant to be his name and failed.
"Come on now," he hissed, thrusting deeper. "Let me hear you again. I know sheâs got something to say."
"C-Clark!" you whimpered his name. Stuttering and soft at first. Then again, louder and bolder as he thrusted faster. "F-fuâhmmâAh!Yes!"
He fucked you with his fingers with patient, ruthless precision, curling them up into the spongy spot that made your whole body tense and your head fall back.
"Look at that," he said, in awe. "Sheâs talking, hon. I want to hear her sing for me."
The squelch of your cunt grew louder, wetter, messier, the harder he pressed. You trembled above him, trying not to move, but your hips twitched with every delicious thrust.
"She missed me, huh?" he panted, dragging his mouth along your chest. "She missed this."
"Sheâshe needs you," you gasped, near tears. "God, damn it Clarkâsheâs so fucking emptyâ"
"I know," he soothed, kissing your breastbone, curling his fingers harder. "Iâll take care of her soon. Always do."
Your pussy clenched again at the promise, fluttering around him, leaking down onto his wrist. It was shamefully loud and filthy the way your cunt slicked his hand, weeping for more.
"Mmmâfuckâyesâsheâs yours, babyâsheâs so yoursâ"
"Thatâs my good girl," he praised again, firmer.
"IâI'm close!" you choked out, voice high and panicked as your hands pawed his wrist and forearm. "So closeâpleaseâfuck!"
He thrust his fingers a little harder, then eased them out without warning, watching your face as your cunt grieved the sudden neglect. You nearly sobbed at your collapsing pleasure.
Clark quickly shifted beneath you, just enough to slide his hands down, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. You sat back slightly, breath caught, watching as he eased them down over his thighs, lifting just enough to slip them off completely.
His cock sprang freeâheavy, flushed, already wet at the tip from how long heâd been holding back. It rested against his stomach, thick and full and twitching faintly.
You moaned under your breath, hips twitching toward him.
He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, thick fingers closing at the base, stroking once, long, steady, letting you see every inch slide through his grip. Pre-cum smeared across his thumb, shining.
"I want you to look," he commanded, voice still low. "Look at what you do to me."
You did. God, you did. And when you reached for him without thinking, he caught your wrist gently. Not stopping you, but guiding. He pressed your palm to his cock, wrapped your fingers where he wanted them, made you feel how hard he was, how hot.
"Now do this nice and slow," he murmured. "Stroke me, sweetheart. Just like you always do."
You obeyed, using one trembling hand to slid up and down his length, feeling him throb against your palm. You watched the way his pretty eyes fluttered close and his hips flexed just barely as you pumped him again, slower this time, thumb circling the head, smearing the slick there.
"Thatâs it," he praised, his voice shifting now, more breathless. "That's my girl. J-just like that."
Once he was fully slick with your touch, he pulled your hand away, kissed your knuckles one by one. You were still soaked. Still shaking.
"Feel this first," he breathed, gripping the base of him. "Just close your eyes and feel."
Eyelids fluttering shut, you felt the blunt head of his cock glide through your swollen folds, feeling it drag up and down your sopping cunt, letting it circle your clit, to then tease your entrance.
It was so close, so hot, so hard. You whined, hips tipping forward, desperate to sink down on him.
"Easy," he reminded, hand firm at your waist. "Not yet. Stay right there."
You rocked just a fraction, clit brushing the underside of him, sparks shooting through your body.
"OhâG-godâ!" Your breath caught in your throat.
"Do that again," he grunted, voice gone thick. "S-stay right there for me."
Your resolve shattered.
Your hips began to move in small frantic rolls, just your clit against his cock, chasing friction, chasing release, teasing your entrance every few strokes.
"Shit," you whimpered, thighs shaking. "Iâm close, Iâm close, I'm so closeâ"
"Thatâsâit," he urged, Supermanâs assertiveness through and through. "Let go fâme, hon. Don't hold back. Iâve got you."
"Okay, yeahyeahyeahâOhhh fuck, babyâI love youâfuckâlove youâ"
Your orgasm broke like a high feverâviolent, helpless, pulled from the weight of his voice, the molten heat of his cock gliding along your soaked folds, the way he made you hold still and listen. You shattered with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave dragged you under, hips jerking forward on instinct, slick pouring down your thighs like a confession you couldnât hold back.
It was messy, overwhelming, too much and not enough. Pleasure blurred the edges of your vision. He groaned deep in his throat, hands gripping your ass with bruising certainty, anchoring you to him as if afraid you might fall apart completely if he let go.
Even then, he didnât take you.
Not yet.
You collapsed against him, forehead pressed to his neck, panting, lips chapped against his skin. His hands smoothed over your sweaty back, slow and calming, grounding you through the aftershocks.
When you lifted your head again, hair mussed, eyes glassy, you begged.
"Please," you gasped, strained. "Inside. Want you, need youâ"
You werenât playing anymore. This wasnât part of the game.
"Iâll be good, I swear," you urged, frantic. "Pleaseâpleaseâ fill meâ"
Lifting you just enough, he sank you down onto him, slow and steady, letting you take every thick inch until your hips were pressed flush and your whole body was full.
You gasped with every slight push in, mouth falling wide open in a series of broken moans.
"Gosh, sweetheart," he groaned, eyes squeezing shut as his voice faltered a beat. "You feelâso goodâSo perfect for me."
Panting, your cunt gripped around him, stretching, fluttering, adjusting to his size, greedily pulling him in deeper.
One broad palm settled against your ass. "You wanna ride me?" he asked, a little breathless. "Or you want me to do the work?"
Mouth agape, you just blinked at him, too dazed, brain-fogged to make a decision.
Clark bit the inside of his cheek to tame an amused chuckle threatening to spill. His hips flexed up once. Sharp, deep, enough for the head of his cock to brush against your cervix.
You cried out, head thrown back, hands clawing at his abs, your answer clearly shaking loose, dressed up in your pretty voice.
And Clark grinned, still breathless, already starting to move.
.
Afterward, the room stayed hot.
The summer breeze and mind-blowing-knee-breaking sex worked against your body, struggling to calm down. Your skin still tingled and itched with leftover adrenaline, and your limbs felt like youâd sprinted uphill in a dream you werenât ready to wake from.
You were boneless, breathless, and babbling, cheek pressed to Clarkâs sweaty chest again, your mouth working faster than your lungs could keep up.
"Holy shit, baby. Weâyouâwe have to do that again. Like in an hour! You were fucking incredible."
His chest shook beneath you, his fingers dragged in slow, absentminded circles along the base of your spine. His lips found your temple.
"I didnât really do much?"
You shifted a little, one hand smoothing over the firm plane of his stomach, the other nudging his bicep.
"Liar! You did plenty! You said a lot. Give yourself more credit!"
Tilting your head up, you smiled smug and sleepy and in love in the way that made everything feel light again. He looked flushed, satisfied, but not nearly as flustered as he should be.
So you went on, intending to rectify that: "When you said, âkeep your legs open for meâ, and 'stay still' in The Voice, I just! Argh! Can't explain it!"
Clark groaned softly, covering his face with one hand. "Hon, you kept moving! I had to say something."
"It was so hot. So serious. I could barely think straight. You called my pussy âpretty girl', and I almost came right there!"
Pushing yourself upright, you ran your fingers through his damp curls, kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and kept going:
"Iâm just saying, if you talked to me like that during any argument, weâd never finish one. You could say âsit downâ and Iâd just fold. Iâd sit. I'd beg. I'd probably get on my knees. Ohh, I know you'd like to see that."
Clark threw a forearm over his eyes with a dramatic sigh. "Youâre unbelievable."
"Youâre unbelievable," you shot back, grinning. "Big, bossy, DILF energy. Youâre gonna be such a hot dad. Like... aggressively hot, withâ"
"Stopâ"
"âthe stern voice, the control, the disciplineâ"
"Fine, fine!" he relented, dragging a hand down his face. "I get it! No need to circle back!"
He looked at you like he was praying silently. You softened a little, smiling into the corner of his mouth, then kissed the space behind his ear. Quieter now, but still playful.
"Seriously though, youâre going to be an incredible father, babe. You already carry the world in your hands. Youâll carry our kid the same way. When that happens for us. I can't imagine sharing this kind of life with anyone else."
The way his eyes softened, so delicate and tender, told you he believed it now. Whatever doubt heâd carried into the question had been worn down by your body, your voice, your trust.
There was no fear left in the space between you. Only peace. Only possibility.
Reaching under the blanket, Clark found your hand beneath it, and laced your fingers with his. He brought them both to rest over your stomach.
Nothing existed there yet. No child. No heartbeat. Just breath and skin and the maybe of it all. But his palm stayed, still and warm, as if promising heâd be ready. As if anchoring hope in flesh.
"Then Iâll do my best," he vowed, with more conviction than you thought possible. "Every day."
You leaned in and kissed the hollow just under his jaw, then the soft patch of his chest where you liked to rest your head. A whisper pressed into the skin just right over his heart.
"I know you will. You already are."
The silence that followed was softer. Weightless. Content.
...Until you ruined it.
Entirely too casual, you started, tipping your head up:
"So. Just checking: you've heard of DILF... would you hate it if I, like, maybe tried calling you daddy sometime?"
Clark blinked once. Then lifted his head very slowly to stare down at you, mouth agape. Eventually:
"Absolutely not."
You cackled at his firmness. "'Come on! Just a test runâ"
"Nope."
"Okay, fine, Iâll workshop it," you conceded, poking his chest dramatically. "Weâll start with sir, ease into it. Iâll get that knee to bend eventually."
He ran a hand up your back and squeezed you, words muffled against your temple.
"Sweetheart, the only thing bending is you, if you keep talking like that."
"...Can you say that again, but in The Voice?"
.
Thank you for reading! Please don't forget to leave reblog or comment! Any of these are forever appreciated, and keep fics like this alive and writers motivated!
Youâre not sure what wakes you in the end. Whether itâs a creaky floorboard, a rustling of your sheets or merely the change in the air that another person brings. Whatever the reason, you open bleary eyes and squint into the darkness, reaching for your phone to check the time. You only notice another presence in your bedroom when he clears this throat and steps forward to the end of your bed.
First Time in a Long Time - Drabble (Smut)
The Gardener - Series (WIP)
Thereâs someone in his yard.
Buckyâs gotta say, heâs been pretty pleased with his decision to escape from the city so far. Heâs been met with the kind of anonymity and dismissal from the small rural town where heâd chosen to lay his roots that heâd been craving for years.
Small-town America doesnât do strangers and interlopers all that well, and Bucky finds that with a couple of measured stares and his cold-shouldered non-attendance at the neighbourhoodâs 4th of July potluck heâs left pretty much to his own devices. Heâs been fully moved into his new home for two weeks and has found a haven in the bliss of being alone and being unknown. Until now, that is.
Because now â thereâs someone in his yard.
Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x Reader
An Afternoon Interlude on a Day Off (Smut)
When Bucky goes out for the afternoon, dramatically grumbling that someone needs to be an adult and keep the house stocked with groceries and first aid supplies, you figure youâve a duty to America, a duty to the world, to strip Steve Rogers down and ride him stupid.
Pre-Birthday Celebrations (Smut)
Bucky celebrates the evening before his birthday with his two favourite people
Road Trip (Smut) âš
Steve is driving, you're hungry, and Bucky is bored
summary: after over a year, you'd fully settled in with your lover, the mob boss. yet the domesticity and loyalty aren't enough for him. in a fit of jealousy he leaves you a ring with the intention of marriage and to keep you by his side.
warnings: mob!bucky, stockholm syndrome!reader, established relationship, smut, vaginal fingering, pussy spanking, p in v, creampie, hurt with comfort, dirty talk, use of nicknames (baby, doll), no use of y/n, not beta read, all mistakes are mine
author's note: i wrote this so long ago, it just kept getting longer and then i got writers block. fast forward to yesterday and realised it didn't need any more work, it was already finished. so here it is, i don't expect it'll do as well as it's predecessors, but i would like a wip out.
word count: > 7k words
credits: divider by diviniyae
SERIES MASTERLIST
It was to be a small affair, but it did naught to stop the unsettled feeling in your stomach.
You gaze into the mirror, the shoulder-less black velvet hanging from your body, the bodice covered in little white pearls. There were no gloves, no veil. Just a dress, some jewellery and an up do so tight you suspected youâd regret it later
It is what youâd agreed to. No church, no large event and no white dress.
That is what came with marrying a mob boss.
You had been hinting that you wanted to be tied to him for months, heâd done nothing, he was content with how things were.
Until he wasnât.
It started when a barista gave you a warm smile. His jaw had clenched, and remained that way until you were back in his penthouse.
He left hickeys on your neck that night, an attempt to mark you as only his.
Then it happened again, this time at a gala. A businessman had been talking to you as youâd sat alone at the bar.
He noticed. He always noticed. He ended up stalking over, strong, silent footsteps, and putting his arm possessively around your shoulders in a clear display.
You were his.
He didnât blame you. He confessed that he was no different, after all heâd desired your attention from the moment heâd met you also.
The next day had been when youâd found the little velvet box on the bed, where he had been, with a note.
Wear this.
Inside had been the engagement ring. A gold band embedded with diamonds, with a larger diamond in the centre. A blatant display that you were someoneâs.
There has been no proposal, no sweeping romantic gesture. Just a box and a ring in his place.
It had taken three months for him to quietly admit that there was going to be a wedding.
Heâd apologised then. Telling you he couldnât give you a big wedding with lots of family and friends, not someone in his position.
It had to be quiet, discreet. In the back of a church rather than at the altar.
The person presiding was a mobster, his former mentor - the closest heâd now had to a father. There was to only be the two of you, Sam and Steve.
You hear a tap on the door.
âCome in,â your voice is quiet, thick with nerves.
âHey, weâll be heading down in a few,â Sam entered, already tailored in his dark suit. His reflection in the mirror smiled. âArenât you a pretty picture?â
You scoff, and turn away from the mirror to face him.
âThanks,â you brush down the skirt, lips twitching.
âHey, hey,â he reached over, placing a hand on your arm. âItâs just a short ceremony, fifteen minutes tops. Then you and Bucky can make your escape to whatever exotic honeymoon resort he has planned.â
Sam chuckles as you roll your eyes at him.
âItâs not a resort, itâs a villa,â you say. âYou really think heâd allow us to have our honeymoon in the public eye?â
âGood point,â he nods sagely. âIâm sure you both want this over with. You finally get some time alone without interruption.â
âItâs not about that,â you murmur. âHeâs doing this so no one else can have me.â
âHe loves you,â Sam supplied, tucking his hands into his pockets. âI know it seems like he's doing this just to keep other men away, but you know how he feels. He wouldnât be doing this if he didnât, he certainly never did with any other girl heâs been with.â
You sigh, acrylic nails tapping against each other.
âLetâs get this over with,â you step forward.
âAlright,â Sam offers his arm. âSure youâre ready for this?â
âTo marry a mob boss? No,â you shake your head. âBut, I want to marry Bucky. I love him, Sam.â
Samâs lips twitch. âYou really have come into your own. You donât roll over for him any more.â
âSometimes he needs taming,â you shrug.
He laughs, throwing head back. âYes, yes he does. I am glad he found you.â
âEven though you killed my ex?â You raise an eyebrow, amused.
âI did us all a favour with that,â his tone was dismissive. âNo one misses that motherfucker.â
âMm, true,â you smile then. âThanks,â you nudge him with your shoulder. âI always give Bucky the credit, but you pulled the trigger that freed me. So, thanks.â
âAnytime, girl,â he pats the hand on his arm. âYou know weâd all kill to keep you safe, and not just because you are the bossâs girl. The boys all like you, you've earned their respect and admiration. Hell, if Buck ever hurt you theyâd probably mutiny.â
âThatâs an exaggeration,â you smirk.
âMaybe, but worth it to see you smile,â he grins. âCome on, girl. Letâs get you hitched before your man comes looking.â
The backroom isnât what you expected. It was small, stone floors and walls with light flooding through a large strained glass window.
You freeze for a moment, taking in the sight before you.
Steve stood to the right, at the back was the man presiding over the whole thing, and near the front was a Bucky himself.
His arms were behind his back. You could see his attire was nearly all black, blazer, waist jacket, trousers, socks and shoes. His shirt was a dark blue and tie shades of grey with silver. The only colour was the gold of his tie clip and cuff links, cuff links that were studded with diamonds - matching your own engagement ring.
The light through the window directly behind him, making him appear as if he was glowing.
Sam guided you forward gently, and Buckyâs eyes met yours. You catch a glimpse of his lips twitching up, close to a smile.
Once you were close enough, you let go of Samâs arm, allowing him to drift to the left.
You reach out, taking Buckyâs hands into yours.
âWhat do you think?â He asks.
âItâs pretty,â you breathe.
âI canât give you a big fancy wedding, but I want it to be memorable,â he squeezes your hands. âI want this to mean something.â
You donât speak, lost for words - youâd assumed all these plans were to keep you at his side.
âShall we proceed?â The man presiding.
Bucky nods. âThis is William Fairbairn. My old mentor.â
Mr Fairbairn nods, expression serious whilst his eyes appear curious.
âI will begin,â he starts, all business. âRogers, Wilson, you have the rings?â
âI have them,â Steve responds, reaching into his jacket, and keeps his fist clenched as if fearing of losing what was in his palm.
âGood,â he nods. âLetâs begin.â
Mr Fairbairnâs announcement to kiss almost fell upon deaf ears. Youâd kept your eyes on Bucky the whole time, fingers interlocked with his holding you secure. There was something about Mr Fairbairn that put you on edge, and you could not fathom the reason for it.
Bucky let go of your hand, reaching to cup your cheek and gently pull you forward to press his mouth to yours.
The kiss was gentle, soft and not at all like usual. You hear Sam and Steve cheering as he moves his lips against yours for a moment longer before parting.
His hand glides down to hold your waist. The blue of his eyes are sharp, eyes unblinking as they remain on your face. He wordlessly begins to guide you out of the room, his face expressionless as you walk down the corridor onto the side street behind the church.
âBucky?â You whisper.
âYeah, baby?â
âYou okay?â You chew your cheek in worry.
âYeah,â his lips twitch into a half smile. âI wanted out of there.â
âWas it that bad?â You whisper.
He pauses in front of a dark car, one your recognise as being from one from his own personal collection. Eyes flicker across your face, and the back of his hand runs along your cheek before opening the passenger door.
âGet in,â his voice is quiet. âWe can talk inside.â
You obey him, buckling your seatbelt as he shuts the door, walks around and enters.
He is quick to fasten himself in and get the car moving, his breath is heavy in the silence for several minutes until you are miles away from the church.
âI wanted this,â his voice is quiet, as if in confession. âI wanted to marry you, to tie you to me in every way I could. But, you deserve better.â
You twitch, realising Bucky had been feeling as you had â heâd wanted more from the wedding too.
âIt wasnât safe, I know,â you say softly.
âMm,â his tongue clicks. âYou were uncomfortable, I could sense it.â
Your eyes flicker out of the side window.
âHey,â a hand reaches over to tilt your chin to look at him. âTalk to me, baby? Did I do something wrong?â
You shake your head.
âThen what? Your hands were shaking the entire ceremony,â he presses.
âI donât want to upset you,â
âThere is nothing you can do to upset me, baby,â he promises. âNothing.â
You take in his face, his eyes, the softness of his lips.
âMr Fairbairn was⊠terrifying. He looked at me likeââ you frown. âLike I donât deserve you.â
âAh,â he sighs, and face twitches. âItâs nothing like that, sweetheart.â
âThen why..?â
âYou remember when you had a mark on you when we met?â Bucky interrupts.
You nod. âHow could I forget?â
He licks his bottom lip, for the first time he seemed anxious. âFairbairn was one of the Mob Bosses looking for you.â
You make a noise that sounded like choking.
âAs I told you then, Thomas owed a lot of people,â his eyes stayed on the road. âFairbairn was one of them. He was more than willing to take you as payment.â
âAnd you were okay with that?â Surprise coloured your tone.
âFuck no,â his jaw tightened. âWe got into a fight over it. He wasnât willing to wait to legally acquire Thomasâs possessions. He took a broken jaw and several cracked ribs when he threatened you.â
You suppress a smile, and the unease began to fade.
Bucky chuckles when he notices your expression.
âWe made up after he got his share,â he admits, his voice thick with bitterness. âI gave up my share in exchange for him leaving you alone.â
âYou did that for me?â
âIâd fucking burn down half of New York for you, baby,â his hands tightened on the wheel. âFairbairn wasnât the only one who threatened you, and he wonât be the last.â
âYet you treat him as a friend?â
âI have no friends,â his voice is cold. âNot amongst the other bosses. We are all selfish arseholes who double cross one another for cash. None of them can be trusted.â
âI only allowed Fairbairn to preside over the wedding out of respect for his friendship with my father,â he continues. âI should have bribed a priest instead.â
âItâs over,â you murmur. âYou have me now.â
âYes I do,â he agrees with a smile. âThough I always did.â
His fingers brush your jaw, drawing a soft blush to your cheeks.
âMy girl,â he pauses. âMy wife.â
âMy Bucky,â you take his lingering hand and press a kiss to it.
You awoke to the feel of cotton pressing against your cheek, the thrum of engines in the background.
Bucky was leaning back in the seat with you half perched on him, his right arm casually slung around you to hold you in place and left metal hand holding a book to allow himself to read in comfort.
âHmm,â his head turns down and you shift slightly. âSweetheart?â
You grumble slightly against his chest, pressing your face where the buttons had been undone and inhaling the smell of his cologne.
He chuckles, a quiet sound that rumbles from his chest and places his book aside, near the round window.
Metal fingers press brush through your hair, holding you in place.
âCould get used to this,â he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
You tilt your head up slightly to glance at him. âCuddling?â
âNo, the quiet,â he squeezes your waist. âItâs just the two of us, like our movie nights, but there are no phone calls or last minute meetings. Just us.â
You smile lazily, still hazy with sleep as you kiss his jaw.
Moments like this were the Mob Bossâs weakness. Not the sex, or the fancy dinners. This. Simple domestic moments that he would never have had without you.
It was what had turned his simple lust to love. Watching you in his penthouse, making dinner, cleaning, doing regular household jobs as though he didnât have people to do it for him.
Over time it bloomed. He caught you standing on chairs wrapping lights around the bannister of the spiral staircase at Christmas. Youâd been putting plants in corners, and flowers in vases on tables.
On his birthday youâd practically covered the floor in balloons, heâd had to hide his frustration at first, until heâd used his switch knife to pop one - youâd giggled in pure joy. It had melted his heart, just enough, heâd forgiven you and spent two hours competing with you to see who could pop the most.
âWe will be landing in less than an hour,â he broke the silence.
âAnd from there?â
âA short drive up the mountainside,â the cool metal of his thumb brushes your chin.
âMountainside?â You repeat. âI thought we were going to a villa?â
He smirks. âYou thought we were going somewhere hot?â
You shrug. âTraditionally, itâs what people do.â
âI donât do tradition, you know that,â his lips brush your forehead. âWeâre going to a place I own in the Alps, itâs quiet, secluded. The locals donât know me as a mob boss. We can walk down to the village, ski, and visit the hot springs.â
âThat sounds really nice,â you admit. âBut thereâs a problem.â
His eyes widen. âOh?â
âI canât ski, James,â you say nonchalantly.
Bucky laughs, his head falling back against the headrest. âI can teach you.â
You snort. âI didnât expect weâd leave the house much, in truth.â
His lips twitch, still amused.
âFor the first day or so,â he agreed. âBut, you might need a break from it.â
âMm,â you make a soft contented noise, fingers reach to twist into the dark hair at his neck. âIâm surprised you've held out this long.â
âI donât always want that,â he shrugs loosely. âItâll be more fun this way. Iâm sure you can feel it, the tension, the desire,â his eyes drooped slightly. âIt means youâll be desperate for me by the time we reach the bedroom.â
You shiver slightly, eyes falling away from his face as you buried your face into his shoulder.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
âWonât that make things worse?â You mutter. âIn the past, it has meant that we both finish far too early.â
âYouâre assuming Iâm aiming for one round,â his fingers brush through your hair, and your eyes flicker to meet his. âI donât plan on letting you out of bed until we have thoroughly consummated our marriage.â
You bite your lip. Youâd heard that tone before, the dark firm one that was thick with desire. Usually it was kept only for when you were in the bedroom, where he had absolute control â even when you were on top.
âThereâs plenty we havenât tried yet,â he continues. âWe can go slow if youâd like, take rests between each round. You can sit on my face whilst you fill your mouth with my cock. I can finally get you over my knee for every time you've been a brat.â
Your lips part, face going red.
âThereâll be plenty of toys to use. Iâll make sure all your holes are filled. Hell, I might even let you put a strap on and fuck me for once,â he gives you a tight grin.
âBucky,â your face is crimson. Youâd done some dirty things with him in the past, a lot of it involved cum play â his favourite, or being performative â him watching you pleasure yourself over and over before filling you, leaving you sobbing from the intensity of multiple orgasms. But, the idea of letting you wear a strap, and fill him. You never thought youâd see the day.
He laughs. âDid you forget who I am?â He raises an eyebrow. âI own multiple brothels, baby. Iâve done things that youâll have never imagined.â
âI know,â you murmur. âBut,â you struggle to say the words. âA strap?â
He smirks, knowingly. âDonât you like the idea?â
âI didnât expect it from you,â you admit.
âThatâs because Iâve kept our sexual encounters fairly vanilla,â he shrugs. âIâve kept my hands on the reins.â
âThen why let go now?â You wonder, allowing yourself to lean back enough to look at him. âThis,â you hold up your hand to show your wedding band. âDoesnât change anything.â
âNo it doesnât,â he agrees. âBut, last night was the first night I didnât sleep beside you in months. Itâs been over a year since we met, and in that time I have continued to fear your departure.â
Bucky sighs.
âWhen I laid there, alone, I didnât find myself consumed with thoughts that youâd never lay next to me again, but rather of when Iâd see you again,â his eyes drifted away from you. âAs you know I donât trust people. Yet in that moment the trust had replaced the fear.â
His eyes return to you. âI love you. I trust you. I believe youâre the only one I can loosen my grasp with.â
You blink, suppressing tears. He shakes his head.
âIâm making you cry, already?â He teases.
âIâll pay you back for it,â you joke weakly.
âOh, please do,â his lips brush yours again. âIâve been enjoying seeing you, finally, take some control for yourself.â
âGotten tired of the effort you put in?â Your voice was taunting, and you knew you might pay for it later.
âNo,â he voice went low. âI just enjoy seeing my girl come into her own. You donât hide in the Penthouse any more, youâve accepted that you are mine and owned it. You made yourself into the wife of a Mob Boss before I even give you a ring.â
âI wasnât really trying,â you admit.
âItâs your natural charm,â he smirks. âYouâre honest and genuine. Everything we arenât. Yet, you make those around you feel valued. They are incentivised through respect not fear.â
He is quiet for a moment.
âBuck?â You whisper, and he blinks for a moment.
âIt can scare me,â his voice is quiet. âHow you are the opposite of what I am. Some days I return home and expect you to be gone.â
His face smoothed. âThatâs why I left you the ring. I was not afraid of someone taking you from me. I was afraid of you choosing to leave.â
The plane hummed, a sign of its descent.
âYou could have just told me,â you brush tuck his hair behind his ear.
âIâm not good at talking about emotions, doll,â his voice was soft. âItâs not something I permit myself to do.â
âMob boss,â you sigh.
âYeah,â he agrees.
âWell,â you shift slightly. âThis honeymoon is the perfect opportunity for you to let go, be honest with yourself.â
His eyebrows come together as he considers this.
âAs for whether I leave,â you softly press a kiss to his cheek. âDo you remember what I said about how you made me feel when we first met?â
His eyes go distant for a moment. âYou said I made you feel warm and safe.â
âThat hasnât changed,â you promise. âIâm not afraid of a mobster grabbing me any more, but right nowââ
You nudge him playfully, and his eyebrows raise amused.
âI feel safe, even when I know you have a 9mm holstered under your jacket,â you smirk and he chuckles. âWhen you're with me, I know I donât have to be afraid. Not when you introduced me to your men, or when you showed me around your favourite club. I should have been afraid, but I wasnât.â
âCrazy woman,â he murmurs fondly, kissing your forehead.
The car moved uncharacteristically slow, Bucky kept the speed slow whilst making the steep climb, taking care for black ice.
You kick your feet, looking out of the window to the stunning view of the mountains.
âLike it?â He asks.
âItâs beautiful,â you admit. âBetter than a tropical beach.â
Your mind is filled with ideas. Bucky had spoken of hot springs and skiing, but you thought of long walks and picnics with a view.
âIâm glad,â his eyes return to the road. âI didnât wish to disappoint you.â
âYou could never disappoint me,â your head turned to look at him.
âMm,â he murmurs.
You watch him for the next few minutes, feeling the tension of the moment. Crawling ever closer to the house.
âHere we are,â he announces, the car turns up a small side road to a white building set against the mountainside.
You blink, then squint to take in its size. âItâs huge.â
He laughs. âNot all my houses are little apartments.â
âThe Penthouse is not little,â you defend.
Bucky grins. âYou adore the Penthouse more than you should.â
You shrug.
âYouâre going to have to let it go, baby,â his voice was soft yet had an undercurrent of warning.
He opens the his door.
âWhat does that mean?â You ask, the only response being the quiet slam of his door.
He walks around, opening your door for you.
Your eyes widen, but you exit the car, pulling your coat around you to defend against the cold.
âIâve made arrangements for us to move,â he admits, closing your door. âI have a Mansion on the Gold Coast of Long Island.â
You reach to take his arm, letting him guide you inside.
âIf you have a Mansion then why did you live in the Penthouse?â You ask.
âIt was more convenient. I was always in Brooklyn, and a stoneâs throw from Manhattan,â he shrugs and opens the door softly into the living room.
It was open plan, yet warm. A log fire burned in one corner. The entry led to the living area, to a dining area to a kitchen at the back.
âWhy move now?â You ask. âIâm happy in the penthouse, we donât have to move if it makes it hard for you to work.â
He chuckles, taking your face in his hands.
âItâs a rather large building,â he steps close. âLots of room to fill.â
Your lips part, heat rising in your cheeks.
âYouââ you stammer. âYou never mentioned you wanted that.â
âIâd never considered such things,â he pauses, inhaling softly. âBut thisââ he gestures between the two of you. âUs. I want it to be permanent. I want to be able to sit in the garden with you thirty years from now with our grandchildren playing.â
âIâd like a son to wrestle with me, and a daughter to spoil like a princess,â his thumbs brushed over your cheekbones. âAnd when they are old enough, I can retire and spend the rest of my days showering you with everything you deserve.â
âBucky,â your voice is quiet.
âBut for now,â his mouth is practically on top of yours. âI want you. Iâll take you slowly, delicatelyâŠâ
His mouth brushed yours, tempting you. Without even thinking you push forward against his lips.
He chuckles, using his grasp on you to tilt your face to kiss you softly, his lips moving across your own before pulling your bottom lip between his teeth.
âThink we can make it to the bedroom?â He murmurs.
âShouldnât we unpack?â
He shakes his head. âIt can wait.â
Bucky bends over picking you up with a quiet grunt that makes you giggle, and takes large strides to the stairs.
âThe coats were a mistake,â he mutters, hands tightening against the padding you were wearing.
It only takes a few more strides before you are in the bedroom, and he lowers you to your feet. He flicks his fingers as he speaks.
âClothes off,â his voice is low, already ripping his own coat from his body.
You start to remove your clothes, stealing quick glances at him as he did the same. You stop, taking a moment to glance at the cream lace of the bodysuit youâd chosen. It was transparent, allowing a view of your skin.
You allow yourself a glance up, to see him bare, irises wide but head slightly tilted.
âYour clothes arenât off,â he stalks toward you, hands landing on your waist, rubbing against the material.
âI wanted you to see this,â you tilt your head up, allowing him to see the pleading in your eyes.
âI like it,â his voice is gruff. âBut, I canât appreciate it properly. Get it off, before I tear it off.â
You knew from his tone that it wasnât a threat, just a warning. He was telling you to try again another time.
âHere,â you guide his hands to the zip on the back. âYou try.â
He makes a noise akin to a growl at your teasing, metal fingers tugging the zip down urgently. His hands move to your shoulders, hooking under the straps and pulling the lace down until it landed on the floor.
âBetter?â You ask.
âStarting to,â he steps forward, you automatically step back. He continues to pursue you until the backs of your knees knock against the bed.
You sit on the back and slide yourself backward across the sheets until you are perched against the headboard letâs spread slightly
Bucky chuckles slightly, enjoying the momentary chase, to crawl up to join you.
His lips met yours, his hands holding onto your hips, thumbs brushing softly against your skin â just as he said.
âMy wife,â he murmurs. âMy beautiful girl.â
You wrap your arms around his neck, keeping him close.
âMy mob boss,â your lips twitch teasingly.
Bucky grins, his metal fingers roaming forward between your thighs, gently brushing against your folds.
âAll yours, baby,â he promises, the right hand that bore his ring reaching and entangling with your left.
His lips are gentle, brushing yours over and over, taunting you whilst his metal fingers continue to gently brush against you, never quite touching where you needed them.
You squirm. âStop teasing.â
He chuckles. âI told you, Iâm going slow tonight.â
Something tugs in you, incessant, urgent. You reach up taking his face in your hands, pulling him down against you, kissing him with force.
The chuckle deepens into a moan.
âFuck,â his mouth moves over your cheek to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva in his wake. His fingers curl now teasing your entrance with their cold before pushing two fingers in.
Your body arches off the bed, body tingling at finally achieving some relief. His fingers begin to move, pushing in and out, dragging slowly against your walls
A groan tumbles from your lips. âBucky, please.â
âNo, baby,â he whispers by your ear. âWeâre going slow.â
You whine, feeling him withdraw his fingers before easing them back in.
If you didnât know better, youâd believe that he was torturing you. Giving you enough pleasure to crave more, but not enough to reach the peak. Time seemed to become endless, each moment dragging into the next and never quite being enough.
It was only when you let out a choked sob as he moved, one hand next to your head, watching as the tears fell sideways down your cheeks.
âBeautiful,â he presses a peck to your mouth.
A cold thumb then ran itself over your clit, eliciting a cry from you.
âThere,â he whispers. âItâs so much isnât it?â
âPlease,â you begged. âPlease.â
He grins. âYouâve been a good girl. Youâve earned this.â
His fingers began to move faster, tilting their angle to reach that spot that made your eyes roll. Soft moans were replaced with shouts, cries for more.
A soft slap filled the air, the ball of his hand landing on your clit, your body trembling in response.
âCome on, doll,â he encouraged. âLemme hear it.â
His hand came down again, harder this time. You let out a noise that is something between a moan and a scream.
âIâm close,â you choke when his hand lands a third time.
âLet it out,â he says, eyes fixed on your face. âCum for me.â
His hand lands again, the fingers of his metal hand pushing insistently inside and you fall. Your eyes roll, legs shake and you allow yourself a loud moan as you hit your high.
A minute passes before you feel coherent enough to notice Bucky still hovering over you, his hard length now pressing against you.
âShush,â his palms run over your cheeks, gently moving down to hold your legs open, fingers pressing softly against your skin.
âI love you,â his nose brushes yours. âDonât ever doubt that.â
He pushes forward, moving steadily until he is fully seated. He lets out a relieved groan as you sigh.
âI love you too,â you whisper back. âSo much it hurts sometimes.â
He starts to move, hips moving back and forth almost casually as you continue to talk.
âI get scared sometimes, that one day Steve will come in and tell me youâre not coming back,â you were babbling now. âThatâll wake up to find you stabbed or shot orâŠâ
Tears begin to fall again. He is quiet, focused on adjusting your thighs further up his body, allowing him to hit deeper.
You cry out.
âThere,â his voice is low. âYou think Iâd ever want out of this?â
His hips snap faster, forcing cries from you with each thrust.
âYou think Iâd ever allow myself to die knowing I have this?â He grits his teeth in concentration, grinding himself deeper. âKnowing you wait for me every night?â
âNothing can pull me away from this,â he thrusts again, so hard the bed smacks against the wall. âFrom you. So donât ever believe you will lose me, because I simply wonât allow it.â
His face lowers, and pressing his mouth to yours to suppress your scream when the wave of pleasure hits. The bed thuds against the wall one more time before you feel warm liquid deep into you, and exhale softly through your nose melting into another kiss.
The air is still, filled only with both of your heavy breathing. He remains inside you, even as your aching legs slide down onto the sheets.
âNo towels?â You tease quietly.
âIâm not finished yet,â he rumbles. âI told you I plan to thoroughly consummate our marriage.â
Your cheeks begin to burn.
âGoing shy on me?â He smirks. âYou werenât so quiet a minute ago..â
âOnly because you love edging me,â you respond.
âI do,â he agrees, now pressing soft kisses to your cheeks. âItâs more enjoyable when you fall apart when youâve been stuck at the precipice. For both of us.â
âMm,â you agree, eyes closing gently.
âDonât you dare fall asleep on me now,â he taps your cheek.
âI wasnât,â you respond weakly. âJust wanted to feel you.â
âYou can feel me on your hands and knees,â his voice was taunting, and he leaned down to press hot wet kisses over your chest.
âAlready?â You ask.
âYes,â his voice was firm. âRoll over, baby.â
You willed your tired muscles to shift you onto your front, and lift your legs to hold yourself up for him.
âRelax,â he murmurs.
You feel him press up behind you, hands move to your shoulders, kneading them gently, then moving down your back.
âBucky,â you sigh softly.
âGood?â
You close your eyes. âYeah.â
You hear him chuckle quietly. âI expect the same in return.â
âA massage?â You murmur.
âYes,â his thumbs press into your spine and you gasp slightly â feeling tingles run along your neck.
âTomorrow,â you promise.
âIâll hold you to that,â he allows his fingers to slide down to your backside.
His fingers trace your hips, holding you in place as you feel his hardening length pressing against you.
âIâll go slow,â he promises. âYouâll feel every inch.â
The head of him pushes against you, sinking in at an agonisingly slow pace.
You hear him groan, pushing forward further until he is fully seated.
âStill tight,â he grits his teeth for a moment.
âBucky,â you pant against the pillow.
âIâve got you, baby,â his voice is soothing.
His thrusts were slow, gentle. Both of you still overstimulated from the previous round.
âGoing to go all night,â his voice was low. âKeep going until it takes.â
He thrusts harder, hitting deep. You let out a choked noise as he grabs your hair, twisting it in his fingers and pulling your head back.
âShit,â you gasp, your eyes begin to sting.
âI canâtââ he pants. âGonnaââ
He begins to move faster, hitting just where you need it. Your hand grasps the bed frame, which now rocked in time to your bodies.
His free hand reaches around to rub against your clit.
âLet me feel it,â he growls.
Your eyes roll, sensation narrowing to his hand in your hair, fingers on your clit and the friction against your walls.
You wail as your legs begin to shake, fresh tears falling down your cheeks.
The bed rocks once, twice then he allows himself a moan as you feel warm liquid seep into you again.
Your body slumps onto the mattress, his own following suit to lay on top of you for a moment.
His arms wrap around your waist pulling you onto your side, keeping him buried in your warmth.
âGoing to keep me warm all night?â He whispers into your ear. You allow a soft moan in response.
âGoing to need it in this cold, baby,â he continues before grinding into you, desperate for more.
The sun seemed brighter here than in Brooklyn, or perhaps it was the lack of buildings. Regardless it shone unabated through the mountains into the room.
Your squint slightly at the sun, aware that Bucky is pressed against your back, metal arm around your waist and flesh one thrown casually over side.
A tiny shift in your body is enough to stir him. His arm tightens around you to keep you pressed against him.
You hear him breathe slowly before you feel his lips in your hair.
âMorning,â he murmurs.
âHi,â you whisper, turning your head to try and see him better. His right hand moves to your hips, thumb brushing soothing half circles into your skin.
âYou okay? Not too sore?â His eyes flicker over you in concern.
You nod. âA little. Taking a break for a bath was a smart idea.â
He chuckles. âThe hot tub is open anytime for you, baby, if itâs what you need.â
You roll, shifting to face him.
âAre you okay?â You wonder, your fingers reaching to brush along his jaw.
âYeah?â His eyebrows come together. âWhyâd you ask?â
âWe did goââ you pause, unable to recall how many times youâd consummated the marriage. âIt was a lot. You always check on me, but I never do the same for you.â
He silently chuckles, his frame shaking slightly.
âI can feel it a bit,â he admits. âAnd Iâll be sensitive for a while.â
You press your lips together in concern.
âThereâs nothing to worry your pretty head over,â he brushes hair from your face. âWeâve done this many times before.â
âYeah but notââ your face scrunches together as you recall.
âSix times?â He finishes. âI did warn you Iâd be thorough.â
âYou did,â you admit. âI didnât expect it though. We usually stop after three or four.â
âThatâs why we took a break for a bath,â he shrugged.
âYou really thought it through,â you shake your head in disbelief.
âMob boss,â he emphasised. âI think through everything.â
âEven our wedding night,â you tease.
âI did plan to have our belongings inside first,â he admits.
You giggle for a moment then remember. âOur stuff is still in the car!â
âNo, they are not,â he rubs your back. âI got the housekeeper to come and do it whilst we were sleeping. Our clothes have been placed in the next room.â
âOh,â you relax. âWe donât have to trudge in the snow then?â
âWe donât have to leave this building if you donât want to,â he promises. âWhatever you want, baby. You can have it.â
You give him a wicked grin. âYouâd buy me a new car then?â
âTake your pick,â he baits back. âI know youâd never use it. You enjoy being driven around too much.â
You playfully pout at him. âIt is one of the positives of being with you.â
âJust one?â He pulls you close, pressed against him.
âMhm,â you murmur. âShall we get up?â
Bucky nuzzled into your neck. âIâd like a moment longer.â
You wrap your arms around him tightly, a leg lifting to lay next to his.
âLetâs stay here forever,â he murmurs. âIâll run my mob remotely.â
You giggle. âItâs only been one night.â
âAnd itâs not enough,â he leans back, taking your face in his hands. âItâll never be enough.â
âJames,â you use his first name carefully.
âYeah, baby?â
âYou told me you want children,â you remind him. âThis isnât ideal for them.â
He blinks a moment. âI suppose not. Itâs perfect for us, though.â
His eyes go distant for a moment.
âWe could⊠make it a regular occurrence,â his tone was thoughtful. âIf you like it here. We could visit every anniversary, just have a week of just us.â
âJust us?â You repeat.
âYeah, just us,â he promises.
âThatâs all Iâve wanted,â you admit. âTo have you to myself, even for a day.â
âYou can have more than that,â his thumbs brush your cheeks. âIâd keep you in this bed for the rest of our lives if I could.â
You shake your head in disbelief, and cannot contain the smile on your face.
âStay,â he whispers.
âBreakfast,â you whisper back.
âThatâs what the housekeeper is for,â he leans forward, pressing his lips against yours.
You pull away. âYouâll complain itâs not my food.â
He pauses his pursuit, considering. âThatâs true. Youâve domesticated me, I need your food in the morning â nothing else will do.â
You giggle. âRemember when you had brunch at that hotel in Chicago?â
Bucky pulls a face. âNever again. Iâm bringing you next time.â
âTo a mob conference?â You tease, pulling yourself up.
âYouâre my wife,â he sits up and stretches, flexing the muscles of his arm and back. âI would like to show you off.â
You raise an eyebrow as you pull on a silk gown.
âShow me off?â You repeat.
He walks over to you, pulling on a cotton gown. His flesh hand reaches over to brush your hair over your shoulder.
âYouâre my wife now,â his eyes gaze into yours. âI canât keep you hidden any longer. Youâll have to play the part.â
You reach to his hand, threading your fingers with his and beginning to walk through the house to the kitchen.
âYou want me to pretend to be a woman who spends her husbandâs money, and is only with him for that?â You joke.
He chuckles. âNo, be yourself. Just donât let anyone intimidate you, if they do you get two choices. Handle it yourself, how you see fit - I will support you regardless. Or come to me, and I will handle it.â
âMmm,â now in the kitchen you roam around to start cooking. Bucky sits himself on a stool at the breakfast bar, eyes remaining on you.
âYou have nothing to fear from them,â he promises. âIn fact, they will be envious of you. That they do not have the loyalty and love of their wives.â
You spend a few minutes in silence as you work, until the pan sizzled, and you pour the mixture in.
âIs there something wrong with me loving you?â You wonder.
âNo, baby,â he promises. âEverything is right with you loving me.â
âMost mob bosses marry for political alliances, there is no love in it,â he sighs. âItâs about money, sex and having an heir to hand their empires over to.â
âYou donât care for the money,â he continues as you serve up the first pancake, moving onto the second. âBut, you are as insatiable in bed as I am, and you love me. Most of the princesses that these bosses marry want the money, donât care for sex and have no emotional attachment to their husbands.â
You push the pile of pancakes toward him, then start on your own.
âMmm, this is almost better than the sex,â he groans as he filled his mouth with pancake.
âAlmost?â You taunt him.
âMhm,â you barely hear him over his chewing, he then grins watching as you pop yourself next to him.
You start to eat, suppressing a smile as he watches from the corner of his eyes.
âWhat would you like to do today?â He asks, getting to his feet to take his plate to the dishwasher, then opens the fridge and fills two glasses with juice.
âI, uh,â your lips twitch. âYou are the one who plans everything.
He chuckles, pushing over a glass carefully to you. âDrink.â
You pick up the glass, the sight of the liquid makes you realise your throat tingles â sore from the night before. You tip it back, draining half the glasses with ease.
âGood girl,â he leans over the counter.
âI promised you a massage,â you say thoughtfully.
âYou did,â he agrees. âAnything else?â
âWe could go in the hot tub?â Your voice is uncertain and he begins to chuckle. âDonât laugh! Youâre always the one who tells me what we are doing.â
âI know,â he agrees. âI spend every day in control. If I am to loosen the reins, I would like to be your choice. For us to do things you enjoy.â
You blink. âI donât know how to do that.â Your voice is quiet. âIâve grown used to following your lead⊠keeping you happy.â
His lips part for a moment. âFuck,â he murmurs. âSometimes I forget how fucked up this is.â
âBucky?â Blood drains from your face.
He steps around the counter, not stopping until he is in front of you. His hands gently wrap around yours.
âI wanted you even though I stole you from your home,â he sighs. âAnd I kept you. I let you fall for me. If I were good or decent, I would have never allowed things to go so far.â
You squeeze his hands. It was clear to you he was not looking for pity or sympathy, but in his way showing how he valued you - that you chose him, despite it all.
âI donât want that, I want you,â you land on your feet, shuffling close to him to press yourself against him. âI want you to hold me.â
He lets go of your hands, putting his arms gently around you.
âLike this?â He whispers.
You nod.
âAnything else?â He adds.
âCould you⊠kiss me on the head?â
Bucky smiles, leaning over his lips softly brushing over your forehead. The feel of them sends soft tingles across your body.
âJust tell me what you would like,â his face inches closer to yours. âWe donât need to plan anything.â
âYou planned last night,â you point out.
âI told you, I wished to consummate properly,â he shrugs. âNow we can do whatever we please.â
âSo you donât want to go back to bed?â You tease.
âIf you want to,â he licks his bottom lip.
âMmm,â you lean in, pecking him on the lips and then stepping back.
Buckyâs blue eyes widen, the pupils brown wide.
âYou fucking tease,â he growls.
You giggle softly. âIâd like to just lay down,â you admit. âThen we could spend time in the hot tub, and Iâll give you that massage I promised.â
His face softens. âThatâs it? You donât want anything else?â
You allow your hands to fall, and give him a shy shrug.
âAll I want is peace and you,â your voice cracks slightly. âI donât want anything else.â
âI canât promise you peace,â Bucky speaks carefully, his fingers lingering on your back. âI can swear to be with you, always.â
You dip yourself forward, leaning into him entirely and allowing him to catch you with a quiet gasp.
âThatâs all I want.â
author's note: thank you all for having the patience with this series. i could have made this one longer, but i figured it was better to wrap everything up and leave the rest to your imagination. i am more than happy to write shorts on these two if i get the inspiration. <3
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a/n: pretty short but my first rygos smut so enjoy!
ryland grace x f!reader
ryland is up late grading papers. you want him to come to bed. you compromise.
No astrophage. Teacher/student relationship (ryland is a uni/college prof and reader is a college student), SMUT (18+ only pls), cockwarming, face-fucking, use of pet names, dom-sub themes, its pretty soft though, no use of y/n
Itâs late. Itâs late, and youâre tired. College work is kicking your ass - deadlines are piling up, and youâre trying your best to stay on top of them, but by the end of the day, youâre knackered.Â
Ryland insisted you get an early night, since youâve been working in the library day.
Yet the man himself is still sat at his desk, grading papers that definitely arenât due for another week. You know what heâs like. He likes to get things done or they play on his mind. But still, itâs almost midnight, and you want to sleep. You want to sleep with your hot boyfriend in bed next to you.
You huff as you throw the covers off yourself, getting out of the empty bed and padding downstairs. The house is warm - Ryland runs cool, so the heating is on a lot of the time. Itâs nice, cosy. You like it. And it means you can walk around in a vest, sleep shorts and no shoes without feeling cold at all.Â
You lean against the doorway of Rylandâs office, sighing as you catch sight of him. Heâs lit by the dim light of his lamp, casting his face in a warm glow. His glasses sit perched on the end of his nose, probably only minutes from slipping off, as his hand scratched his red pen against the papers heâs grading. Thereâs a big pile of papers to the right of him - finished, completed. But the pile to his left is only slightly smaller. Heâs nowhere near done.Â
You huff again, louder this time, and Rylandâs head jerks up, blinking rapidly as he turns to look at you. A small smile spreads across his lips, and he reaches up to push his glasses with the edge of his knuckle, rubbing his tired eyes at the same time.Â
âOh. Hey, baby. Why you awake?â He murmurs.
You pout. âWhy are you awake? Itâs late.âÂ
Ryland shrugs apologetically, gesturing to the stack of papers on his left.
âI justâŠI just gotta get these done, baby-â
âWhy?â You whine. Youâre aware that youâre being a bit pathetic right now, but god, you just want to cuddle up with Ryland in bed. You kept seeing him in the day, walking past the doors to the library, in that stupidly soft cardigan, hands full of folders and papers. Heâd catch your eye, grin, and then be off to his next class. And every time youâd be unable to get back to work for a good fifteen minutes, too distracted and flustered by the sight of your professor boyfriend strutting around campus like he owns it, not even realising how good he looks.Â
Ryland looks at you over his glasses.
âBecause Iâve got to get this done. Hey. Donât be a brat.â
Thereâs a hint of firmness to his tone. Itâs subtle. Barely even there. But it excites you a little, and maybe does the opposite of its intention. You just want him to come to bed even more now.
You bring your fingers up to your mouth, nipping at the skin at the side of your index finger nail. Itâs a bad habit, one that youâve always had. If itâs not your skin, itâs your nails, a pen lid, gum, a lolly pop.Â
Some might call it an oral fixation.Â
Ryland certainly does. And his gaze snaps immediately to your teeth worrying at your fingers, his brow raising.Â
âOhâŠyou need something in your mouth?âÂ
You flush, your cheeks heating up. You pull your finger from your mouth, rubbing your lips with the back of your hand, like a child caught with stolen candy.Â
You shrug, swallowing thickly.Â
Ryland sighs, pushing his chair back ever so slightly so you can actually see all of him, leaning into the leather cushioned back. Heâs wearing his jeans, god knows how he can sit in that material for hours without getting uncomfortable. You could never do it. His blue shirt lies against the planes of his abdomen, the top two buttons undone to expose the hollow of his throat, tie discarded a long while ago.Â
âI asked you a question, darling.â Ryland murmurs lowly. âYou want something in your mouth? Want to keep me company?â
Two separate questions. One combined solution.Â
You let out a low whine, and Rylandâs lips pull into a smirk. You can see his Adamâs apple bobbing. Even though he might not show it, he fucking loves this. Loves teasing you like this.Â
âWords-â
âYes. Yes.â You let out the confirmation with a sigh. Because you know exactly what heâs suggesting, and itâs possibly even better than going to sleep with Ryland next to you. Itâs even more intimate, just another way for you to show your devotion to him.Â
âAlright. Come here then.âÂ
Your cheeks flush more as he clicks his fingers, pointing with his index finger at the space under his desk.Â
Itâs a big desk. Long, oak, with storage sections on either side of it, housing all manner of Ryland Grace Clutterâąïž. Old papers, files, notebooks, his original thesis notes and coursework, folders dating back to his famed UNESCO days.Â
The space under the desk, where Rylandâs feet usually go, is obnoxiously large, and you could fitâŠwell, YOU can fit down there.Â
You shuffle over, watching as Ryland nudges something under there with his foot.
The pillow and blanket that he keeps folded down there, for situations exactly like this.
Because this isnât the first time that youâve spent a while under Rylandâs desk.
He straightens out the blanket, then reaches out with a palm on the small of your back, pressing down gently to guide you onto your knees, and into the cosy space.Â
You whine softly. Just the dimmer light down here, the smell of the blanket and Rylandâs aftershave, his large hand on your backâŠitâs making you lightheaded already. Sending you straight to that headspace, the place where all you care about is pleasing your boyfriend.Â
You snuggle in quickly, getting comfortable on the fluffy blanket. Ryland pulls his chair back in, his hand reaching to card through your hair as his long legs bracket you. You smile, practically purring. Youâre still sleepy, yes, but this is better than sleeping, so much better.
Rylandâs spare hand fiddles with his button and zip, and you reach up, trying to help him. He pulls you away carefully though, with his grip in your hair, humming lowly.
âItâs okay, baby. I got it.â
Then heâs unzipping himself, pulling the elastic of his boxers down, and tugging out his semi hard cock. Your mouth waters. You shuffle forward eagerly, his hand on the back of your head guiding you, while he pumps himself lazily.
âAlright, youâre just keeping me warm, okay? No sucking. No licking. No funny business.â
You look up, peeking at Ryland, and heâs looking down at you, eyebrow raised, a hint of a smirk on his lips. He knows you love this. The man handling, the talking down to you, the subtle commands. Months of sex and living with each other has made you hyperaware of each otherâs kinks, especially since youâre both fairly open people. And this just so happens to be one of yours.Â
You nod quickly, the words falling from your lips easily.
âYes, sir.â
Thatâs all he needs. He guides himself into your mouth, letting out a little whimper when your mouth envelopes him. Both of his hands rest in your head, and you can hear him breathing heavily, trying to control himself. His cock is heavy in your mouth, a firm weight resting on your tongue. Itâs musky, slightly salty. You can feel it twitching too, in tandem with Rylandâs soft grunts and huffs. Itâs not fully hard yet, and you try to breathe through your nose and let your jaw relax as it slowly fattens up.Â
Rylandâs hands leave your hair as his breathing steadies, and you canât help but let out a whine at the loss of contact, your jaw tightening. You shuffle a little under the desk, adjusting your position and gripping Rylandâs thighs.
His cock jerks on your tongue, and he growls lowly.
âSettle.â He warns, voice low.
You do as he says, getting comfortable on your knees, resting your cheek against his denim clad thigh, steadying yourself with two arms wrapped around his calf. Rylandâs legs shift too, bracketing you in, making it even cosier down there. And honestly, youâve never felt more content, more safe, than tucked up under his desk with his cock in your mouth. You can get away with some subtle suckling, since Ryland knows you canât be perfect all the time.
The professor starts marking papers again, the gentle scratch of his pen against the papers making your eyelids droopy. Now and then, his spare hand will come down to stroke your cheek, or brush your hair out of your forehead, maybe murmur a gentle praise about how good youâre being.
Itâs no surprise when you fall asleep. Itâs late, after all, youâre tired, youâre content and youâre comfortable. Paired with the melody of Rylandâs little hums when he reads a good answer, and his hand stroking your hairâŠ
When you wake up, itâs to the sound of Rylandâs soft voice. Well, itâs soft, but thereâs an edge to it, a little strain that you donât quite recognise at first.
âHey, baby. Sweetheart. There you are. Iâm done. Good girl, wake up for me.â
His words are sweet, but his tone is a little hurried, rushed, and as you wake up, you notice the feeling of his cock throbbing in your mouth. Your jaw aches, and you swallow in an attempt to soothe it. That makes Rylandâs hips jerk forward, a ragged groan falling from his throat.
It makes sense. Heâs been resting inside you for over an hour now, steadily growing harder, putting up with your suckling and snuffling, the little noises and movements you make in your sleep. Heâs so fucking sensitive. But he knows youâre tired, so heâs not just going to start fucking your throat while youâre half asleep. Not unless you ask him to anyway.
âOh my- babyâŠneed to.. Get up.â Ryland grunts, attempting to pull you off his throbbing cock.
But youâre not having that. You want him to feel good, and it won't take much. You push forward, taking him back into your mouth, trying to stifle your gagging as he nudges against the back of your throat. Your fingers claw against his thighs, and you let out a low moan. It only takes one look up to Ryland, eyes wide and needy, and he knows that you want it. He growls lowly, the sound rumbling in his chest, and his hands come to cup your face, big thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, fingertips under your jaw. His hips buck lightly, once, twice, and then a third time, deeper. You can feel the drip of pre-cum down the back of your throat, and you swallow again, your palate constricting around his cock.Â
Ryland thrusts into your mouth a few more times, his hips stuttering now, lifting off his chair as he tenses. You look up, and can only see his chin, the stubble on his neck, and he throws his head back, letting out a low groan.Â
He pulls your head down, until your nose is brushing against his wiry pubes, and his cock twitches in your mouth. You feel his seed before you taste it, the warmth coating the back of your throat. The sounds falling from Rylandâs mouth are practically melodic, whimpers, grunts, stuttered praises. His fingers pull on your hair, weaving it through his digits until youâre entirely entangled.Â
It takes a few moments for Ryland to come down from his orgasm, and he stays in your mouth, softening slowly, and you suckle at his tip, humming happily, swallowing the last of his spend. Ryland hisses gently, pulling you off him, finally.Â
âWowâŠcome here.â Ryland hums, his voice a little hoarse. He reaches down to haul you up from under the desk, supporting you fully when you wince from the pain in your stiff legs. He pulls you onto his lap, and you curl up against his chest, legs hanging over his thighs, his soft cock brushing against your soft skin.
You smile tiredly, leaning to press a kiss to the corner of Rylandâs mouth, and he kisses your forehead in return, arm tight around your back.
âWant me to return the favour?â He hums lowly.
You shake your head, eyelids heavy.
âT-tired. Tomorrow?â
Ryland nods, an easy smile on his lips, not pushing you for more words than you can manage. He sighs, pressing his lips back to your temple for a long few moments, before standing up, taking you with him.Â
He strides to the bedroom, finally, only two hours after you went to bring him to bed in the first place.Â
âLetâs get my baby to bed, hm?â He hums.
You couldnât agree more.
Iâm shit at ending these things but hope you enjoyed!! Feedback/reblogs appreciated. Come talk to me in my asks!!
Also thanks to my baby @pasdietrois for the header <3
âYou look nice,â Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
âI uh,â You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.Â
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.Â
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
âI just⊠I canât say no.â You lament. âIt would be weird.â
âWeirder than going?â Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. Itâs also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. Youâre pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man âworks from homeâ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
âI donât know. Maybe.â You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.Â
âWhatâs weird?â Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.Â
âWedding.â Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. Sheâs older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.Â
Ryland frowns. âYouâre already married.â
Heâs⊠well, Ryland's⊠actually youâre not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.Â
Heâs in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him âDoctor Graceâ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.Â
âMr Graceâ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes heâd brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.Â
âMm mm.â She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
âYouâre not getting married.â Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like itâs a scientific fact, one heâs so assured of.Â
âThanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.â You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.Â
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. âYou arenât, are you?â
âNo. My ex is, though.â You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.Â
âOh. That sucks.â He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. âHappens to the best of us.â
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like itâs happened to him. Rylandâs not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margotâs. Heâs never mentioned past romances, you donât think heâs been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. Itâs such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.Â
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. Thereâs a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. Thereâs a long window the length of the wall on the doorâs other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, itâs why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, theyâd never let up. âIâm considering the pros and cons of skipping it.â
âYou were invited?â He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. âI already said Iâd go too.â
âWhy?â Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time youâd caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.Â
âItâs complicated.â You say, biting at your cheek.Â
âBullshit.â Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.Â
âWe went out for maybe two months in college.â You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. âHeâs engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. Weâre⊠friends.â
Margot watches. âWith your ex or the sorority girl?â
âSorority girl. Daisy.â That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when youâd asked, gets me out of the classroom.Â
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.Â
âYou were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.Â
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. âI⊠Yeah? Thatâs the interesting part?â
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where theyâre slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. âNo, I just canât picture it.â
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. âWell Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. Sheâs nice. Works in PR now.â
âBut sheâs marrying your ex?â Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.Â
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. âI mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think itâs a little weird. I donât even know why I said Iâd go. Itâs going to be embarrassing.â
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. âWhy is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.â
âI was a little head over heels for this guy.â You admit, sheepish.Â
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. âYeah? How so?â
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion itâs easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. âI was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.â
âHot?â Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. âGod, his jawline. And his hair- it was so⊠ugh!âÂ
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. âI donât even know why I said Iâd go. Itâs dumb.â
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. Itâs not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. Youâd agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that youâd have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.Â
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVPâd for yourself in the first place. Itâs one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.Â
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like heâd been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.Â
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. âThen find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.â
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, âAre you trying to pimp your husband out to me?â
âOnly for aesthetic reasons, of course. Itâd be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.â
It would sting more if it wasnât so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.Â
âI mean, how good is his jawline?â Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. âAre we aiming high?â
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that theyâve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. Itâs the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.Â
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend whoâd never found âitâ, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. âYou can do better.â
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. âThis is your type?â
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. âThis is the hair that had you allâŠâ
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
âHe slicks it back now. It used to be⊠I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.â He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. âHe does have a good jawline...â
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now youâre kind of obsessed with the so-called â5-oâclock shadowâ Ryland sports on Fridays.Â
Itâs not something youâre likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way youâre able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.Â
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of âprofessional developmentâ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly youâre devastated about it all.Â
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bellâs long gone, as are the students. Heâs dressed like heâs on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. Youâre halfway through explaining your plan and the wording youâre going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.Â
âIâll go with you.â
Heâs a little breathless with it, like heâd been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.Â
âI know that Iâm not Margotâs husband with a âbetter jawline and better hairâ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If heâs a lawyer itâs gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you donât have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.â Rylandâs big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like youâre her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.Â
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.Â
âYeah. Okay.â You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.Â
His eyes donât move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
It isnât a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends youâre about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack whoâs obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who youâd told years ago to âgo for it, heâs a nice guyâ working under the assumption that sheâd only last a few months by his side too.Â
Youâre not sure which answer youâd prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.Â
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what youâre going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. Itâs sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.Â
âOkay, Iâll show you. Wait, hold on.â You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.Â
âItâs a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.â Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.Â
âHa ha.â You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.Â
Heâs up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what youâre wearing too so he can match. The inviteâs dress code called for formal attire in âdark coloursâ. On the facebook page sheâd made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how sheâd love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering thereâs some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated youâd slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.Â
So navy it was.Â
Youâd sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out âwoeâ- it had felt fitting when youâd stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasnât satisfied though.Â
Even your attempts to describe the dress youâd bought didnât work well enough.
âI mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from âfloor length' means?â he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. âI need all the data.â
âOh listen to you, Mr. Science,â You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. Itâs too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.Â
âI was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, donât you think?â He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.Â
Rylandâs dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on âCasual Fridaysâ as it is called in staff meetings. This oneâs dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. Youâve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though itâs not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as heâd explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.Â
Heâs at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. Youâve not actually been to Rylandâs apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.Â
Itâs just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but heâs stuck a desk there instead, his bed thatâs almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, heâs a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.Â
Rylandâs not brushed his hair, itâs all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug heâs been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though itâs just past ten. Heâs blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.Â
âIâm sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.â You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.Â
You flip the camera, showing him the dress heâs been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.Â
Itâs cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. âIs that velvet?â
âItâs fake satin. I think.â
âFake satin?â He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friendâs wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. Itâs got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.â
âOkay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.â That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like theyâre about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything. Â
âYeah, and here, the lace up back.â You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.Â
âIsnât that going to be a nightmare to put on?â He asks, squinting still.
âThereâs a zip.â You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. âSo itâs fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.â
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.Â
âCome on, youâve got the easy part.â You try, a little concerned heâs about to say he shouldnât go. âYou just have to put on a suit.â
âI canât just âput on a suitâ.â He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. âIâm supposed to be like, your big âfuck youâ to the girl who got with your ex. Iâm supposed to look good with you. I donât know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.â
âRyland. Itâs not about saying âfuck youâ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didnât want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.â You canât really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. âYou donât have to come.â
âNo, Iâm coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.â Heâs cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your âaesthetic appreciationâ of Ryland that youâd been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.Â
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities heâs got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.Â
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When heâd first arrived, youâd assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think heâs cool.Â
Over the years youâve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo youâd googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. Youâd sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, heâd left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shopâs online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where youâd asked him to come to the wedding, or where youâd already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.Â
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; heâd come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- âIn a suit? God, neverâ- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and heâd walk home or take another separate uber.Â
Thereâs talk about your âbackstoryâ, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him itâs not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends youâd not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.Â
âWe obviously would have met at school.â He says, like itâs a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, heâd turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before heâd decided the floor was his resting place. âMaybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.â
âWe did like trivia.â You agree, pointedly.Â
Itâs almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that youâre sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.Â
Heâs got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.Â
âMaybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?â
âIf youâd asked me to trivia as a date?â You glance up. Heâs already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
âYeah.â You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.Â
Ryland sounds⊠nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night youâd gone to. Heâd been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the barâs warm lighting. Heâd been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.Â
With the way heâs looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario thatâs beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, youâre starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.Â
âEnjoyed it, probably.â
âReally?â He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.Â
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when youâre halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Rylandâs not been to your apartment before, something youâd failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if youâd have to buzz him in.Â
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.Â
âSee,â You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. âMy door locks.â
âStill one less lock that youâre supposed to have.â he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.Â
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.Â
âYou look nice,â he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.Â
âI uh,â You pause, swallowing thickly.Â
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. Itâs the only thought spinning around your head. Itâs a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie heâd sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than youâve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.Â
Suddenly youâre reminded of all those times heâd complained about all the formal conferences and charity galaâs heâd attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.Â
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when youâd asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when youâd googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when heâs in his classroom, or tiny apartment.Â
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.Â
âYou look good.â You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. âHow long have you had this?â
âAges. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?â He tacks that last bit on, like heâs waiting with baited breath for your approval.Â
âIâll say.â You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. Heâs tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure itâs the same length, no doubt. Ryalndâs still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.Â
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. âRight, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.â
âDo you need a hand?â Ryland asks, and youâre about to turn, ask him, âwith whatâ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, heâs cold. From the outside air, where as youâve been nice and cosy with the heat on while youâd done your hair and make up.Â
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. âSorry, cold fingers.â
You swallow. âItâs.. itâs okay.â
âHow tight?â He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.Â
âBit tighter.â You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than youâd expected.Â
âThere?â He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.Â
âYeah, perfect.â It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.Â
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.Â
Rylandâs hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if thatâs why heâd opted for the style, if heâs here, dressed up as the guy with âbetter hair and a better jawlineâ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who heâs trying to be.Â
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. âWow, full gentleman experience.â
âI told you, I can't just âput on a suitâ. Itâs more than that.â He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didnât realise this was an option.Â
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota thatâs polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You donât talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.Â
Itâs nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road thatâs already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
âYou can just let us out here.â Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like itâs necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.Â
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since youâve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. Heâs got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. âI like these.â
He smiles, something a little smothered like heâs trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. âWell I like your dress, so I think weâre even.â
Itâs a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, youâd seen some lovely shots on the venueâs website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, heâs always suited it, even if the cityâs never had much to offer.Â
âNot too much for our first date?â You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. âFirst date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.â
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.Â
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when youâve got him like this now.Â
Together you sit about halfway down on the brideâs side, the pewâs nearly empty, only someone on the other end you donât know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's youâd guess extended family.Â
âSo whyâd you like this guy so much?â Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. Heâs glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where heâs talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.Â
âWhat?â
âHim,â Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. âWhat had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.â
âThey do.â You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where itâs dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Rylandâs eyes settle on you, like thereâs nothing else to look at. âHe made me feel like the only girl in the world.â
âThatâs a cliche.â He refutes. âAnd a song lyric.â
You smile. âIâm serious. Heâs like that with every girl he went out with. Heâs like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.â
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, itâs almost as if heâs scared what he might find. âWhat'd he do? To make you feel like that?â
Itâs cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Rylandâs bed. You smile at him, wondering if heâs thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.Â
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldnât stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.â
âI canât.â Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and heâs looking at you like youâve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.Â
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?â
âStop looking at you.â He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. âI can do the other things though.â
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. âYeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?â
âIf itâs with you.â He amends.Â
âAnd slow kissing? You like that too?â
âYeah I do.â Heâs not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.Â
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. âGood. Really good.â
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like itâs all rushed straight to his head.Â
âHey Macey, good to see you.â You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.Â
âOh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasnât it?â She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and itâs good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. Itâs nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Maceyâs always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Rylandâs been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.Â
âIâm Macey, nice to meet you.â She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.Â
Thereâs a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a âcoming soon to a theatre near youâ caption under it.Â
âI suppose it will be your wedding next then,â You tease, âWhereâs Jamie?â
âOh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.â Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamieâs name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.Â
âSo Ryland,â Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. âHowâd you two meet?â
âWe teach at the same school,â He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. âA little cliche but I donât mind.â
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like thatâs just soooo romantic. âWhat do you teach?â
âScience, opposites attract I guess.â
âPlease tell me you used that line.â She practically swoons.Â
Ryland huffs a little laugh. âNo, the kids threw that one at me actually.â
âReally?â You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory heâd been cooking up all week.
âOh yeah. You should hear them. âMr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. Theyâre relentless, I swear.â
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you canât help but giggle a little.Â
âTheir heads might explode when they find out.â Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. âGod- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.âÂ
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. âOh my god, I forgot about that.â
âProfessors of yours?â Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
âYeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!â Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.Â
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. âA car wash fundraiser?âÂ
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. âOh? Donât you know? We were a little wild in college.â
You scoff. âA little?â
âOkay, a lot.â She corrects. âThe car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. Thereâs definitely pictures. I have pictures.â
âMacey.â You scold, mostly joking.Â
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. âHey- Iâm just reminiscing on good times. Donât you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-â
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesnât do anything but laugh to herself.Â
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like heâs on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?â
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Rylandâs chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. âTell you about it later, handsome.â
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest youâd ever seen, looking a lot like heâs about to kiss you now, when thereâs a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.Â
Itâs beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time youâd all made âvision boardsâ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life sheâd like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. Youâre happy sheâs finally arrived there, that she has a man whoâs willing to give her everything sheâd dreamed of.Â
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. Itâs a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.Â
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. Thereâs a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jackâs lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of itâs beautiful.Â
Itâs heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You arenât really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. âCare to dance?â
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.Â
Itâs littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.Â
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Rylandâs shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. Heâs warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. âI know this isnât the kind of dancing you meant, but itâs the best I can do for now.â
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you werenât even aware he knew. âI think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.â
Rylandâs lips tick up into a smile. âYeah?â
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried heâs not one for such public displays of affection. âLeft my wild nights behind in college.â
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. âA shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.â
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. âMight do a private showing. Just for you.â
âYou going to wash my car?â He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.Â
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, âYou donât have a car.â
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly werenât speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. âGuess weâll have to go with the kissing booth then.â
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where heâs smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. âOh, what a shame.â
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords heâd tied up so perfectly for you.Â
For you, all of it. His nice suit heâd dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.Â
âYou got plans after this?â You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once itâs left your lips.Â
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Rylandâs voice. âThought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?â
âThink I can manage it,â You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that youâve both been pretending couldnât happen, wasnât there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.Â
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. âWanna get out of here?â
âBit forward, Ryland,â You tease, âweâve not even taken photos yet.â
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before heâs pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.Â
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, thereâs a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.Â
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while youâre grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.Â
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as youâre preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.Â
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. âWhichever one you donât put up there, Iâm keeping.â
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.Â
He grins like heâs won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroidâs back.Â
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Maceyâs left.Â
Rylandâs got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.Â
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.Â
The night air is crisp and the second youâre outside, waiting for the uber thatâs just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if heâs been waiting to do it all night.Â
You look at him and raise a brow, but donât say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. Itâs almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.Â
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that youâre not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalndâs phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the tripâs destination.Â
âPresumptious.â You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. âHow are you going to wash my car if we donât go to my place?â
âYou donât have a car.â You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.Â
âRight,â He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say âdrat, there goes that planâ. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, âWhat was the back up plan again?â
âYou are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.â
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. âMore so when I know I'm right.â
âAnd what, pray tell, are you right about?â
âThat you like-like me.â He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.Â
But you donât want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. âYou gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?â
âThatâs very forwards of you.â He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. âAll scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.â
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. âYouâve been seeing other scientists? Iâm heartbroken.â
âGive yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.â
âEarsdropping, huh? Didnât think you were the type.â He looks far too pleased by the idea that youâve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever heâs saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
âIâll Tell you exactly what type I am in,â You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. âfour minutes.â
He nods and you wonder if heâd get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. Itâs something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once youâre both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldnât return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. Youâre still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.Â
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something youâve not felt in a long time. Thereâs not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before itâs too late.Â
Ryland though, heâs here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.Â
âSoooo,â He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like heâs suddenly nervous.Â
âSo?â You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when heâd turned up at your apartment that afternoon.Â
âItâs been four minutes.â He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one heâd picked out just for you.Â
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
âIt has.â You lick your lips.Â
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap youâd never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.Â
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.Â
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.Â
Itâs slow kissing, itâs dizzying and itâs want. Everything heâd promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.Â
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.Â
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. âRyland,â
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.Â
âIs your doorway where you take all the girls?â
âThere are no other girls.â He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than youâd been prepared for.Â
âJust me?â
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. âYeah.â
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems itâs been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.Â
His bedâs unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight youâve dreamed about far too many times.
Thereâs pressure there, against your ass, a hard length thatâs tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know heâs so turned on by the slow kissing youâd been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow heâd tied himself. âBeen thinking about this for too long.â
âYeah?â You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. âSince you laced it up?â
âSince you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.Â
The dress doesnât fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but itâs a damn near thing. One of Rylandâs hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease thatâs maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.Â
You try to turn but heâs got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that itâs not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.Â
âOkay,â You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. âCome on, donât you wanna fuck me?â
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.Â
âNeed to remember this bit.â He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.Â
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet youâre beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.Â
âNext time, Ry-â He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. âRyland, come on. Need you.â
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and itâs like youâve said the magic words. Heâs turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.Â
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Rylandâs hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.Â
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so youâd gone without. You had assumed that heâd figured that one out, given how heâd both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that itâs out of the way, heâs looking at your chest like he hadnât expected to see it so quickly.Â
âYou mean it?â He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. âI.. I get a next time?â
âYeah.â You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. âAs many as you want.â
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Rylandâs hands move from where theyâve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didnât know you understood so well until tonight.Â
âLet me.â He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.Â
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.Â
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.Â
His hairâs spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse thatâs begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.Â
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.Â
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when youâre about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.Â
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. Heâs gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence heâs treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.Â
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. âAre you⊠Can I-â
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. âWhat is it Ry? Youâve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.â
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. âIf you say so.â
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle thatâs still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.Â
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.Â
Itâs maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like itâs the best thing heâs ever tasted. Heâs been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.Â
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but itâs got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way youâd expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.Â
Itâs a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and itâs highly plausible that heâs leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. âYou said I could fuck you, right?â
âYeah,â you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. âYou can.â
With your head still spinning from the attention and care heâs taking with you, itâs a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.Â
Rylandâs above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. âLike this?â
âJust like this.â You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.Â
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.Â
Youâre getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, heâs still got his briefs on and youâre still wearing your underwear.Â
âOff,â You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.Â
Rylandâs head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.Â
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.Â
Warm and heavy in your palm, heâs bigger than youâd expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, thereâs so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.Â
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand heâs not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.Â
âCondoms. I need-â He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. âI need a condom.âÂ
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand thatâs not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.Â
It doesnât go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. âI was going to do that.â
He sounds a little bit thrown, like heâd really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.Â
âYou were also going to fuck me.â You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.Â
âNot fair.â He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. âNext time, you let me take my time, okay?â
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. âWeâll take turns.âÂ
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than youâd heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.Â
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.Â
Itâs a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
âGod,â he pants. âYou feel so good, baby.â
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.Â
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Rylandâs tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.Â
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. âFuck, thatâs perfect- so good.â
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. âY-yeah?â
âYeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.â The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.Â
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. ââM not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.â
âSâokay. Let go, baby.â You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.Â
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.Â
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.Â
âCouple more.â You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. âAlmost there.â
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.Â
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so heâs sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.Â
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. ââS a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.â
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. âMight? What happened to ânext timeâ?â
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. âWell, I donât wanna push my luck.â
âYouâre not pushing anything.â You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.Â
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Rylandâs now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan. Â
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.Â
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. âYou want a shirt?â
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. âOnly if itâs one of your nerdy ones.â
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.Â
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.Â
âThis okay?â He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.Â
âMore than okay.â You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. âBeen thinking about this.âÂ
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like youâre so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just canât help but let him know.Â
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. âHaving sex with me?â
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasnât where you were trying to go with this though. âSleeping in your bed. With you.â
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. âOh.â
âI think our next date should be trivia.â You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. âSo we can get it right this time.â
âDeal.â
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
THE CASE OF A GRUMPY PEEPING TOM
older neighbor!bucky barnes x female!reader [15.3k]
â âą SUMMARY: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door and he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience. everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you arenât really that far behind.
â âą WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; set in summer; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s but itâs only mentioned that she is younger than him); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky; loner!bucky; size difference (bucky is taller + beefy); theyâre both perverts; possessiveness & jealousy; obsession; stalker-ish behavior; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (đââïž); sexual fantasies; dirty talk; masturbation (f & m); fingering; oral (f receiving); squirting; brief spanking; sexual acts in âpublicâ; pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; slight degradation; a few uses of slut & he calls himself old multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; creampie.
A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark đ jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, itâs one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... đ„”
sorry for any typo and for the âunpolishedâ smut but Iâm really tired and studying for my uni exams.
hope youâll enjoy it đ
The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that itâs the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.
Bucky Barnes doesnât wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.
Heâs in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at armâs length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.
This only makes him more noticeable.
He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesnât chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he seesâinvitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.
He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone elseâs expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesnât suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.
His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didnât require one of them becoming someone else.
See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.
As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.
He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because heâs trying to be petty, he simply doesnât understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol carâs lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.
He files complaints when someoneâs dog wonât stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about âparticipationâ and âneighborly effort.â
Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.
He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.
His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless itâs an emergency. They donât expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked doorâsolid, immovable, uninterested in whatâs on the other side.
And it works. Until your arrival.
The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long heâll give them before complaining about the noise.
Then you step into view.
Youâre carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someoneâa friend, maybeâreaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. Itâs an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.
Buckyâs frown deepens.
Youâre younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfairâsoft, bright, lively. Youâre wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look⊠happy, comfortable.
The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.
Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich coupleâfresh off their last noise complaintâwave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitmanâthe same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtainsâshows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesnât sort his recycling âcorrectly.âÂ
He just observes, and thatâs when you notice him.
Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.
You lift your hand and wave.
âHi!â You call warmly.
Bucky doesnât wave back. He doesnât smile, doesnât say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.
From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself youâre just another neighbor, another disruption⊠another reason the street wonât be as quiet as it used to be.
Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.
The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. Heâs just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.
âOh, hi!â
Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didnât completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.
He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just⊠noise.
âIâm your new neighbor.â You continue anyway, as if that wasnât painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.
You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood⊠anything.
However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.
âOkay.â You draw softly, but recover quickly. âWell, nice to meet you.â
You wait another second yet his gaze doesnât move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.
That somehow makes it worse.
The next few times, he tells himself itâs just bad timing.
Heâs leaving for work when youâre coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like itâs reflexive.
âMorning.â
He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride.Â
Two days later, heâs unloading groceries when youâre struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.
âShit.â You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.
Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind.Â
He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, youâve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.
âThank you.â You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.
Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.
You donât stop greeting him after that.
At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.
On trash day itâs like youâre waiting by the window for him to walk out, because youâre always there. Sometimes youâre early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.
âHey.â You greet him softly one evening.
He doesnât answer.
âYou donât talk much.â You add eventually, not accusatory.Â
He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.
âSorry,â you rush out. âI didnât meanââ
Heâs already walking away.
That interaction bothers him more than it should.
The next time you meet there, itâs early morning, the air still crisp, and Buckyâs barely awake to deal with existence. Heâs dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag thatâs almost spilling onto the pavement.
He stops without meaning to.
You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.
âOh! Good morningâsorry, I think this thing hates me.â You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.
He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.
With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.
Your eyes widen. âThank you! I really appreciated that.â
Bucky shrugs, already turning away.
âHave a nice day!â You call after him.
He doesnât answer, but this time, he doesnât feel as justified about it.
By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesnât take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.
Mrs. Reeves canât stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple bragsâloudlyâabout you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.
Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when heâs trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.
âSheâs exactly what this neighborhood needed.âÂ
Buckyâs nostrils flare.
How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and Godâyour lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.
And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasnât ignored you a dozen times over.
Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.
Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesnât fit anywhere he has known until now.
On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. Heâs been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows.Â
He doesnât look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.
âHi.âÂ
His hands freeze.
Youâre standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like youâre bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.
Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.
âWhat do you want?â He asks flatly.
You donât flinch, and that surprises him.
âI just...â You hesitate, then let out a small breath. âI wanted to ask if I did something wrong.â
That gets his attention.
He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.
âYou donât like me,â you continue softly. âAnd thatâs fine, you donât have to. I justââ You sigh, dejected. âIâd like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if Iâve ever done or said something to offend you.â
His jaw tightens.
âYou didnât do anything.â He mutters reluctantly.
You tilt your head, studying him. âThen why wonât you talk to me?â
The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.
âEveryone says you like to be left alone,â you go on carefully. âI respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasnât crossing a line.â
âIt was.â He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.
You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.
You nod once. âOkay.â
Your eyes drop to the ground.
âWell, Iâm sorry.â Your answer is no louder than a mumble. âI didnât mean to make you uncomfortable.â
That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.
That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.
The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didnât push, didnât accuse, didnât demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.
Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesnât feel as satisfying as it used to?
Itâs later than Buckyâs usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. Heâs standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.
Thatâs when a light flicks on across the street.
He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.
At first, it doesnât register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes thatâs your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.
Straight into your world.
Youâre lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.
Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.
An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesnât remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.
He shouldnât be watching.
The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like heâs been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.
Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.
When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isnât worse than he thought, youâre holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but itâs not hard to pretend. Heâs heard it before anywayâthat soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness. Â
Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.
He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.
The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he wonât look.
He looks anyway.
Your window is lit once again and youâre stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever itâs playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.
His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.
Itâs almost⊠fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.
And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.
The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.
Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, thatâs all.
He doesnât move until your movie ends and your light goes out.
Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.
When he does catch you, youâre on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence.Â
Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?
Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if youâve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open.Â
When youâre thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.
When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you donât want to miss the feeling.
Background noise is your best companion: a TV show youâve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. Itâs a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no oneâs watching.
Itâs summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.
You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way youâre always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.
You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When youâre tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstandâsomething to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.
Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they arenât.
Tonight, you are definitely not home.
Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didnât check it merely two minutes ago. Itâs past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and itâs a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasnât quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.
This doesnât stop him from perking up like a dog at his ownerâs arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.
Youâre not alone.Â
Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. Itâs almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesnât know. Itâs only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companionâs face.
Itâs a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as youâre half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the manâs hair as his head works under your eager guidance.
Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss.Â
He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.
The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight.Â
Still, an itch burns deep in his chestâan ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.
Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.
The worst part is that Bucky doesnât stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesnât know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he canât stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, heâd need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.
In theory, there isnât anything wrong with what heâs doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when youâre riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.
The worst is that Bucky likes to pretendâin some deeply disturbed part of his mindâthat you know heâs there, that you want him to hear. Itâs not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.
What a miserable, old man. Itâs so pathetic that at his age heâs been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. Itâs humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.
As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.
That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. Itâs unreasonable, he knows that. Youâve been living in this town for almost two months now and youâve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little helloâs and good morningsâ.
But these boys donât know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until youâre balanced just right. They donât see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.
They donât know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.
Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness.Â
And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesnât recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usualâshorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he canât smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.
The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.
The first time he talks to you after his fiasco itâs late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.
Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because heâs already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. Youâre wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes itâs coconut sunscreen.
Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.
âCâmon.â You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.
Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyedâat the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.
He cuts his own engine and gets closer.
âThat mowerâs flooded.â He comments offhandedly.
You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didnât hear him approach, thatâs obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.
âSorry,â you mumble quickly, then hesitate. âI didnât know you wereââ
âPulling it like that wonât help.â He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.
You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked.Â
You sigh. âI donât really know much about engines.â
He crouches beside the device. âMost people donât.â
Thereâs a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line.Â
âYou donât have toââ You start.
âI can fix it,â he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. âIf you want.â
You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like youâre trying to understand if heâs either onto some cruel joke, or if heâs going to make you pay real money for it.
âAre you sure? I donât want to bother you.â Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.
âItâs fine.â He mutters.
Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. Heâs acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.
When heâs done, he stands and nods toward the handle. âTry it now.â
You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.
Your face lights up. âThank you so much.â
He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.
Or maybe not close enough.
âUm,â you say, then smile sheepishly. âThis is kind of embarrassing, but⊠I donât actually know your name.â
His body stills completely.
âI mean,â you fret. âEveryone just calls you Barnes, and I didnât want to assumeââ
âJames.â The word comes out before he can stop himself.
You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. âJames.â
He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.
âMost people call me Bucky, though. My friends.â
Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.
âAlright. Well, itâs nice to finally know.â
Thereâs another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.
âYou can call me whatever you want,â he adds quickly. âJames or Bucky. Doesnât matter.â
Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.
âThank you, Bucky.â You answer gently.
After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.
Like the day your car wonât start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesnât own a car.
And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.
Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesnât like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.
Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.
âMove.â He grunts.
The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.
âBucky, hi. Whatââ
âIâll take care of it.â He mutters simply.
He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like theyâre longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.
Your eyes donât stray away from your neighbor.
âI really appreciated it.â You quip. âYou keep saving me.â
He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. âIâm just good at fixing things.â
Sometimes itâs a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that wonât stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you canât lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldnât carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like itâs coincidence, as if he wasnât stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.
He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you donât complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.
There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldnât come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.
Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like heâs been caught doing something illegal.
You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You donât hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when heâs done. You donât invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.
Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.
He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.
Still, his knee didnât stop bouncing under the booth.
Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Buckyâs thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.
He stilled for exactly ten seconds.
Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. âYou got somewhere to be, Barnes?â
He grunted. âNo.â
Itâs a blatant lie, and they all knew it.
The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though thereâs nothing on itâno messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.
Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.
Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Samâs pointed remark, âYou sure youâre okay, Barnes?â and Natashaâs knowing smirk.
The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.
Itâs been a week. Seven days since heâs seen you with anyone. And the fearâthat sharp, ugly thing moving in his chestâhasnât still gone away. Itâs just been waiting.
The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.
Empty, except for your car.
Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.
Still, he didnât trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadnât even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Buckyâs hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldnât have to play chauffeur for idiots who donât know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.
He parked, cut the engine, and didnât linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.
Your light is on, and there you are.
No one else in your room, just youâalone, safe, winding down.
Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.
Heâs in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.
The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.
Heâs seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.
You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending itâs someone elseâs toying with your turgid peaks.
Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.
What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?
Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.
He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.
âFucking hell.â He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.
A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.
Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.
Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.
Bucky canât help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.
When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.
When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.
His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.
His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.
He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.
His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.
Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.
His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he canât, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.
Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. Youâd be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.
They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.
Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldnât care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.
Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?
Bucky growls out a curse.
He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.
When you finally come, itâs completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... Itâs a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.
With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his handâsome even land on the wall by the window. He doesnât stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.
When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.
Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.
That Sunday morning you hear on the news that itâs going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.
By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.
You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. Itâs not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.
A second rumble follows several minutes later.
Then a third.
And rain starts shortly after.
At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.
The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.
You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.
Itâs the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.
For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.
The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.
The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.
Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.
Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.
âAre you alright?â
You blink, caught off guard by the question. âHi, Bucky.â
His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. âAre you alright?â
There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.
âYeah,â you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. âYes, Iâm alright.â
His eyes briefly scan your face as though heâs verifying the answer for himself.
âDid the branch hit the house?â The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.
âWhat?â
âThe one that fell in your backyard.â
Your eyes widen. âWhat the hell?â
A small frown appears between his brows. âDidnât you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.â
âOh.â
Thatâs what that noise was.
âDid it hit anything?â
Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. âI donât think so...?â
One of his eyebrows lifts. âYou donât think so?â
Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. âWell, I havenât exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weatherâs been making that a tad difficult.â
For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you canât quite explain, that realization warms your chest.
Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.
Buckyâs blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.
âMy electricityâs still on.â He blurts out, the words almost sound as though theyâve escaped by accident.
You blink. âOkay?â
His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.
âIf you want,â he starts, oddly careful. âYou could come over until they fix it.â
Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way youâve grown accustomed to over the past months.
If anything, he seems uncomfortable.
Itâs such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months youâve known Bucky, youâve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but youâve never seen him hesitant.
The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.
For the first time since youâve moved in this small town, Bucky doesnât look like a man trying to keep everyone at armâs length.
He looks like a man hoping you wonât say no.
Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.
You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.
The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.
Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.
The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.
The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.
Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.
Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.
âWell,â you murmur to yourself, moving closer. âThis feels promising.â
The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasnât determined to dismantle.
The psychology section catches you by surprise.
At first you notice one or two titles.
Then five turn to ten.
Soon youâre standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.
Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.
âNo.â A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.
You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.
âOh, Bucky.â
You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.
The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.
You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and thatâs when something slips free from behind it.
The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.
Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.
Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.
You only glance at the page because youâre trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because thatâs your name written inside.
The handwriting is unmistakably Buckyâsâor well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.
The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.
You read the first few lines without fully understanding what youâre looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.
She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I donât think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.
As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.
Every entry is about you.
Every. Single. Day.
Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.
She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I donât like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didnât even stop to check the mail as usual.
As usual?
How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?
Your eyes move lower.
I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didnât. She probably wouldnât appreciate that.
The entries continue. Page after page after page.
The yellow sweater again. I still think itâs her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?
She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.
Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldnât hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.
You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.
Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still donât understand why she lets people walk all over her.
Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh.Â
Itâs been weeks from your last date, and though itâs not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you donât quite know how to explain.
You havenât heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.
You know dating is messy, and chemistry isnât guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missingâan ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.
Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if youâd imagined the connection at all. Until youâd started to wonder if the problem was you.
You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.
She came home smiling, but it wasnât real. I know the difference.
You gasp at the next paragraphs.
I couldnât stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.
I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.
His girl?
The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these arenât mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.
She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.
I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.
This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?
There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably donât register until you are the one telling them. Things you donât notice about yourself but that completely make sense.
This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.
Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.
I should stop looking for her every night.
The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.
I should stop wondering who sheâs with when she doesnât come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when Iâm trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.
I should stop. But I donât want to.
By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.
When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.
The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.
âJames.â
This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expressionâfurious, eyes blazing.
âWhat is this?â Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.
That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.
Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.
âYou werenât supposed to see that.â He replies tiredly.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. âThatâs what you have to say right now? Seriously?â
His expression tightens. âNo.â
âYouâve been literally documenting my entire life like Iâm some kind of lab project.â
His jaw tightens. âItâs notââ
âDonât,â you cut in sharply. âDonât start minimizing it.â
He swallows thickly.
âYouâŠâ Your voice shakes. âYouâve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?â
âI didnâtââ Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he canât find a version of that sentence that could help him. âI wasnâtââ
âYou werenât what?â You laugh, caustic and humorless. âDo you have any idea of how I feel right now? Itâs fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.â
His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.
âDo you do this with everyone?â You press, words coming faster now, sharper. âIs this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start⊠what, cataloguing people?â
His jaw clenches, but he doesnât interrupt.
âYou are so fucking confusing.â You continue, voice rising. âOne minute you wonât even look at me, and the next youâre mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like itâs your jobââ
âI just wanted to help you.â
ââand for fuckâs sake, you were threatening my dates!â You shriek. âWhat do you want from me, Bucky?â
The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.
Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly⊠and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.
âI just want you safe.â He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.
You scoff. âFrom what? Dating?â
âFrom them.â He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. âFrom men who donât deserve you.â
You blink astonished. âYou donât get to decide that.â
âThey take what you give them and then run away,â he shoots back. âThey leave before morning like youâre something theyâre ashamed of. Like youâre disposable.â His voice lowers, growling with conviction.
You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.
âThat still doesnât make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.â
âI know,â he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. âBut watching you give your time so easily to guys who donât even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminalsâwho canât see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention⊠sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.â
You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. âYou donât even know them.â
âI know enough.â Bucky answers fiercely. âI know none of them are good enough for you.â
Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
âI didnât ask for... whatever you are doing.â You whisper eventually.
âI know.â
âThen stop deciding things for me!â You bark. âStop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!â
Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but thereâs something far too dangerous curling underneath it.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.
âEvery time you bring home someone,â he starts quietly. âI tell myself itâs none of my business. Every damn time.â
âAnd yet.â You mock ironically.
âAnd yet,â he admits through gritted teeth. âI lose my fucking mind.â
Your heart stutters. âYou donât get to be jealous.â Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.
âYou donât get to act like this when youâve never given me anything back.â
His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like itâs taking all his restraint to not touch you.
âIâm trying,â he hisses. âI swear to God, I am.â
âTrying what?â Your jaw clenches.
âTo stay away from you.â
You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. âThen why are you still standing here making excuses?â You provoke, slightly tilting your head.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Buckyâs brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad ideaâyour anger, his obsession, the line heâs already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.
But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. Heâs spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now youâre right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.
His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everythingâor change it beyond repair.
God, he wants you so bad.
He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isnât just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That itâs been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.
He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like itâs instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.
âTell me to stop.â His voice is rough, and thatâs when you really notice how close he is to losing control.Â
His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desireâitâs so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake heâs about to make.
Buckyâs been fighting this longer than you have, and every step heâs taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.
His sanity.
And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.
Because you need this.
You want the man whoâs been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.
Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that youâve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out heâs begging for.
The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.
The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything heâs been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like heâs afraid youâll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certainâone still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself.Â
Itâs rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.
You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan.Â
Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until thereâs nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.
Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure youâre real.
âShit.â He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though heâs trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.
His hands wander everywhere they shouldnât like he canât decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.
âYou know how hard it was watching that?â He speaks against your lips.
You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens.Â
âYou have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...â His jaw flexes. âDo things I could only live in my wildest dreams.â
You press a hand to his chest, firmly. âBucky.â
For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks.Â
âI started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.â He swallows. âI didnât mean to watch you at first. It just⊠happened one night. And then I couldnât stop.â His voice drops, raw and shaky. âEvery night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you werenât.â
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. âI know.â You admit softly.
âI apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing itââ He stills, eyes widening slightly. âWhat did you just say?â
âI hoped you would.â Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. âEvery time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.â
Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.
âWhat was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?â He pants against your mouth. âAll this time Iâve been beating myself up over it.â His lips move on your neck, making you gasp.Â
âAn old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.â You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind.Â
âBut you are just as filthy as me, baby.âÂ
Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment.Â
His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. âAm I right?â
Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You donât stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little.Â
âBucky.â You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. âSâSomeone might see.â You protest weakly.
He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich coupleâs house.Â
âBetter stay quiet then.âÂ
And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass.Â
Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure.Â
âThere we go, sweetheart.â
You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker.Â
âHow were they?â He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. âDid they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?â
You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.
âAnswer me.âÂ
âNotânot like you.â You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. âOh my God.âÂ
âGood girl, right answer.â He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. âThatâs why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards werenât satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy olâ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.â
Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.
âDonât be so full of yourself.â You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.
âHm, Iâve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.â He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.
Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you.Â
âWhat? Cat got your tongue now?â His hot whisper tickles your ear. âThatâs right, feel it sweetheart. Thatâs all for you, look what you do to me.â He grits out.
His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips.Â
âQuiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.â He murmurs against your mouth. âUnless you want him to see you like this.â
You canât elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Buckyâs attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.
âCâmon, doll.â He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. âCome prettily around my fingers and Iâll let you touch it.â
Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. âIâfuck!â You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.
âThis is what you wanted?â Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.
He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didnât just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.
You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Buckyâs breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes.Â
âNeed more.â
He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.
âStay put.â He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill.Â
His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway.Â
âSuch a messy girl.â He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs.Â
He promised he would let you touch it.Â
âDonât whine. I have to make sure sheâs ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?âÂ
You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You canât believe youâre really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. Itâd be pretty obvious to anyone walking by whatâs going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnesâ houseâthe same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human beingâand your lips keep parting around shameless moans.
It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.
âBet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old manâs dick.â He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. âSuch an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.âÂ
His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. âI knew youâd taste fucking delicious.â
âCareful, old man.â You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. âAt your age you canât go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything canâBucky!â
Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.
âAh.â He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. âYou just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?â
You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. Itâs incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.
His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face.Â
âSheâs so pretty.â Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. âLook at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.â
You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.
âPerfect pussy,â he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. âPerfect ass. Perfect tits.â He squeezes your butt. âYouâre perfect everywhere, doll.â
A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.
Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.
âSheâs all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?â
You nod even if he canât see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. Itâs only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan.Â
He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.
âDid they fuck you raw?â He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.
âGood girl.â Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. ââM gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.â
The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.
âBig.â You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut.Â
Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.
His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.
âYou can take it.â
Buckyâs breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.
âLook how well you accepted me.â He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot.Â
You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur.Â
However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.
âItâd be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and theyâd catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.â
You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fastâjust how you like it.
âSome of them could be watching right now.â He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family.Â
Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. âYeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.â
You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Buckyâs palms are weathered and callused from his jobâheâs always been a little gruff, so thereâs nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.
Itâs primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.
âFeeling good, hm?â His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. âMy pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jusâ need a thick cock inside her and sheâs gushing like a little fountain.â He snickers.
Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. Youâre pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.
âYes yes yes!â You mumble deliriously into your arms. âRight there, Bucky.â
He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.
âGonna come, oh God, please please donât stop.â You whimper.
âFucking hell.â He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. âSweetheart, if you keep clenching like that Iâll make you leak for daysââ
âPlease!â You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that youâre getting fucked raw for anyone to see.Â
Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.
âThatâs it,â he draws out. âThatâs it, sheâs tightening so good around me. Now itâs my turn, gonna fill you up so good youâre gonna feel me for days.â His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.
âYouâve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty titsâŠâ He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.
âSheâs all full now, hm?â He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. âBut I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.â
âBuckyâŠâ You mumble lightheaded. âGonna come again.â
âYeah?â His smile is depraved. âCreaming my cock once wasnât enough? Need to mark whatâs yours, babygirl?â
âYes!â You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.
This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.
âIâm coming too, baby. Shitââ He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.
You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.
Maybe you were rightâŠ. maybe he really did get a cramp.
When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long youâve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.
A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldnât be more satisfiedâanother reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.
âTook me so well, sweetheart.â He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.
He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.
âFinally mine.â
The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now itâs just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.
Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, itâs some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.
And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, itâs not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.
You, Din Djarin's daughter, are kidnapped by one of his enemies out of revenge. You don't want to admit it, but the person who helps you escape is far more interesting than you expected.
This was a request!!! â
(Before starting, I want to clarify that this fanfic contains explicit content, so minors, do NOT interact. Honestly, I don't know how I've written so much, it's the longest fanfic I've done in my life, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it, bye!)
Shoutout to all strong and capable women.
Being the daughter of a bounty hunter was no easy thing. Let alone being the daughter of Din Djarin -- the Mandalorian, whose name made criminals tremble across the Outer Rim. He was the kind of man who never removed his helmet for anyone, yet whose gaze behind the visor was as cold as ice.
The man who taught you to shoot before he taught you to read, who left you alone in cheap motel rooms while he carried out contracts, and who only grunted whenever you tried to ask him about your mother.
The one who would glance at you out of the corner of his eye when he thought you weren't looking, as if, for just a moment, he forgot that you had to grow up in his shadow. The one who, when he spoke to you, kept it short and straight to the point, because in his world, words were worthless and actions were everything.
And... the one who believed he could protect you from ever being used as a bargaining chip.
That last part had held true until... a couple of days ago.
As any good bounty hunter would, Din had enemies, many, too many. And some of them were twisted enough to go after the one thing that mattered most to him. You.
Because in this galaxy, revenge was everything to a great many people, and there was one person in particular who hated your father with an intensity that went beyond reason.
It could have been a former client he'd left hanging, or a rival in the bounty hunters' guild nursing a wounded ego. Maybe even a mercenary he'd robbed of a fortune. But it didn't matter either way, because you weren't sure.
The only thing that mattered was that whoever it was, he had found you.
He took you when your guard was down. You had been walking through a market on Coruscant, feeling the sun brush softly against your face, taking in the music drifting in the background, the voices of creatures and citizens all around you, haggling over prices, arguing, complaining about the unbearable heat. But you were simply enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by ordinary people for one day. A day where nobody knew who you were, where nobody cared in the slightest.
Your father had strictly ordered you to stay aboard his ship while he worked-- yes, he had. But you'd left anyway, because you were young and you were done doing as you were told. You needed fresh air, you needed something resembling a normal life.
You needed, just for a little while, to do whatever the hell you wanted.
It had seemed perfectly logical at the time, you'd felt good, free, but now you were sitting in a cold cell, somewhere lost in the galaxy, listening to the hum of engines belonging to a ship you didn't recognise.
You knew your father would come -- everyone knew Din Djarin never abandoned his own -- but you also knew that whoever had you wasn't looking to negotiate. They wanted to hurt him; they wanted him to suffer.
You knew this because the bastard had made it perfectly clear to you roughly a hundred times since you'd been there. And yes, you regretted your little walk now, but how were you supposed to know they'd been following you? How were you supposed to know that the eyes of that filthy man and his crew had been fixed on you for quite some time?
You knocked your head against your hand over and over, as if that was somehow going to change anything about your situation. Stupid, stupid, stupid... You're so stupid...
But now you had no choice but to wait, try not to die of boredom, and also try not to fall asleep if that man came to talk to you, because getting shot by his blaster wasn't exactly your ideal way to go.
You heard noise. Someone approaching down the corridor, their boots echoing against the metal floor, though these footsteps were softer, more deliberate, less arrogant.
You sat up on the tiny, impossibly hard bed that felt more like a slab of stone, rubbing your aching back. They'd probably sent someone else to bring you food today, which you were grateful for, because you were absolutely starving.
Or maybe not that much after all, you needed to try something first; you had nothing to lose.
You got up and moved to stand beside the door, pressing yourself against the wall. You were set on waiting for whoever walked in so you could throw yourself at them and at least find out where the hell this ship was taking you.
The door began to slide open, and without a second's hesitation, you launched yourself at the hooded figure in the doorway, your fist raised and aimed at his face, but it didn't move. Your body simply refused to obey you, and within seconds, the figure was no longer beneath you on the floor; he was standing upright, calmly smoothing out his clothes as if nothing had happened.
"What did you do to me? Why the hell can't I move?" you demanded, panicked and furious.
"Calm down. I came here to--" he said, his voice unhurried and composed. But you were livid, and you weren't about to let him finish.
"Calm down?! I'm locked up in here because of you people!" If you could have moved, you wouldn't have hesitated to throw yourself at him again -- and this time, with any luck, you'd manage to get your hands on one of his weapons.
"My name is Luke, and I'm here to help you. There's no need to panic," he said, pulling back his hood to reveal a composed, striking face. He was handsome-- his hair a warm shade somewhere between chestnut and blonde, slightly tousled, and his eyes were a pale, clear blue unlike any you had ever seen.
Then, just as suddenly, you felt the invisible grip release you. Your hand drifted up to rub the back of your neck, a little embarrassed, and then it clicked. "Luke... Luke Skywalker?"
You'd heard the name before; your father had mentioned something about knowing him, some loose version of a friendship, though you'd never paid much attention and had certainly never pictured him like this. You'd expected someone... older.
He nodded and extended his gloved hand to help you up. It was cool to the touch. "I see your father has told you about me."
"Uh... yeah... You could say that... he's mentioned you, a bit." An awkward silence settled between you for a moment. Your eyes drifted over him. He was dressed entirely in black, and at his hip hung... was that a lightsaber?
"Wait, are you actually a Jedi?" Luke smiled and gave a small nod. You'd never seen one in person. You'd always half-assumed your father made them up just to get you to listen to his stories. You thought they'd all died out years ago.
"Come on. We can't afford to waste time."
Reality snapped back into focus. You were still on that unfamiliar ship, in an unknown location, surrounded by strangers who, now that you thought about it, you hadn't heard a single sound from -- and now you were standing next to... what exactly? A new acquaintance?
You fell into step behind him as he led you through the ship toward the hangar bay, where his vessel was docked. It was a standard X-wing.
"Where is everybody? I could have sworn--" But he cut you off, there was no time for questions right now.
"I've taken care of that -- but not for long. Come on, get in." You climbed aboard and settled into the co-pilot's seat. It wasn't your first time in one of these, but you weren't exactly familiar with them either; your father always flew his N-1 Naboo Starfighter, which you had always thought had a far more elegant design.
Suddenly, you began to hear voices, and you understood exactly what Luke had meant.
"Over here!!" The thunder of boots against the metal floor was getting closer by the second.
"How could you let her escape, you useless idiots!"
"But sir, it was a Jedi, he-"
"I don't want excuses! Get them -- both of them -- right now!"
Within seconds, roughly ten people came rushing into view, weapons drawn, some already firing. Luke was up and in his seat in an instant, and the ship roared to life beneath you. In moments, you were tearing away from that place and into open space.
"Maker!" You laughed, buzzing with adrenaline, but Luke stayed fixed ahead, eyes locked on the stars. "That was insane."
As the rush began to fade, you turned your attention to the interior of the ship. It was almost immaculate; you could tell he was someone who liked things done properly. Your eyes wandered across the controls, trying to figure out what each button did. Ships had never particularly interested you, if you were honest, but with nothing else to do, you figured you might as well try.
Once you'd put enough distance between yourselves and that place, you finally felt like talking again. You glanced over at him; his gaze was still fixed on the expanse of space ahead.
You cleared your throat and propped your feet up on the seat. "So... thanks for the rescue and everything... But what exactly are we supposed to do now? They're probably going to come after us, no pressure or anything-- I'd just really prefer not to get our asses blown up."
He looked over at you, caught slightly off guard, but quickly let his expression settle and stayed quiet for a moment. He seemed unused to being spoken to with such casual familiarity -- or maybe you were just a little foul-mouthed.
"Alright... The original plan was to meet your father back on Tatooine, but the main route still has Imperial remnants along it, so we'll have to take a longer way around. It'll add about a day."
With that, Luke set the ship on course for the desert planet. As he'd said, it was a long journey, so you had no choice but to try and keep some kind of conversation going, fill the space between you with something.
"I've never actually seen a real Jedi before... Do you actually have powers?"
"Mm... kind of." He wasn't much of a talker, that much was clear, but you had a feeling that with a little effort, you could get him to open up. There had to be more going on behind those blue eyes than he let on.
Getting people around you to feel at ease had always come naturally to you, somehow. One of your greatest gifts was knowing how to talk to people.
Time passed, and you kept at it -- asking questions, feeding your curiosity -- and with each one, his answers grew a little longer, a little less clipped. He seemed to be slowly enjoying the novelty of talking to someone without any agenda behind it, without anything at stake.
Somewhere along the way, you'd also managed to eat something, finally.
"Hey."
"Hm?"
"Do you know why the scarecrow got a promotion?"
"..."
"Because he was outstanding in his field."
"..."
"Come on... that was funny."
"That is the worst joke I have ever heard in my life."
You laughed softly. "Alright... let me try another one."
"I'm so tired of people making jokes about the apocalypse... It's like there's no tomorrow."
You went quiet, watching him from the corner of your eye, barely holding back your own stupid grin, and for the first time all day, you saw something genuine break across his face. A real laugh.
"Alright... that one was better."
"You're boring, Jedi Skywalker."
---
When Luke noticed your eyes closing on their own and that you'd finally run out of things to say, he brought the ship down on the nearest planet and, careful not to draw attention, the two of you made your way to the first open motel you could find and asked for two rooms.
The friendly Twi'lek at the front desk handed over the keys, and you headed up the stairs to the guest floor. The place had seen better days; it was worn down by time in the way only old buildings can be, but it was warm and oddly welcoming despite it all.
When you reached your room, you looked at each other one last time.
"Goodnight," you said, stifling a yawn.
Luke gave a small nod. "If you need anything, come find me. I'm in room 340, one floor up."
You shut the door and, exhausted, peeled off your clothes down to your underwear, washed your face at the small sink, and slipped under the sheets of the surprisingly spacious bed. You turned off the light, and sleep took you almost instantly, the tension that had been coiled tight inside you for days finally letting go, your mind sinking into silence.
---
A strange noise pulled you out of a deep sleep. It was the window; maybe something had been thrown at it, or a bird had flown into the glass. Still half-asleep, you opened your eyes and sat up to see what was going on.
The drowsiness evaporated fast when you felt something cold press against your temple. A weapon, aimed directly at you. The room was lit only by the faint glow filtering through the window, and you could barely make out the figure standing over you.
"Try to scream and I'll blow your head off."
You nodded, much as it pained you to, but you weren't ready to die today.
He pulled the weapon back slowly and reached for a rope at his belt. "Get up," he said, grabbing your arm roughly.
"Can I at least get dressed first?" You tilted your head slightly, hoping whatever expression you were pulling might get through to him. A few seconds of silence stretched between you, then you felt him step back just enough.
"Make it quick."
You moved slowly toward your clothes and began to dress, feeling uncomfortably exposed. For once, you were grateful the lights were off.
You were almost certain he was one of the henchmen working for whoever had taken you the first time; something about his voice was familiar, like you'd heard it before.
You were far too vulnerable to fight back; you had no weapon of any kind, and that left you with one option.
Run.
You didn't even stop for your shoes. In the blink of an eye, you threw the door open and bolted down the long corridor, sprinting toward the staircase, toward the floor where Luke was sleeping -- but the bastard fired.
Pain, pure, white-hot pain. You'd never been shot before, and you were absolutely certain you never wanted it to happen again. From the sound, you knew it was a blaster -- and it had gone clean through your shoulder. You hit the floor and looked up at him with pure hatred. If you were going to die, at least it would be with some dignity.
"I'm done with you," he said flatly, and you watched the barrel of his blaster swing toward your head. You were done for. You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching your shoulder with a trembling hand.
Maybe this was the galaxy's way of getting even with you, for being so insufferably reckless sometimes, for disobeying your father, among the many other things you'd managed to do across your not particularly long life.
A loud sound tore through the air, and you braced yourself, but nothing came. When you opened your eyes, Luke was crouching in front of you. The other man was on the floor. No longer a threat... No longer anything.
Luke was speaking to you, but you couldn't make out the words. He moved carefully to lift you into his arms, but the pain was too much, too overwhelming. Bit by bit, your vision blurred at the edges and... everything went dark.
---
Consciousness crept back to you slowly. You were lying on something soft -- no longer on the floor. You opened your eyes, blinking until the blur gave way to clarity.
You took a slow breath when you confirmed all your limbs were still where they were supposed to be. Then you tried to sit up, and a sharp, searing pain tore through your shoulder. You winced, and it all came rushing back.
You didn't recognise the room. A medical droid stood beside you, arranging instruments with quiet efficiency, so you assumed you were in some kind of medical facility.
"You should not be getting up," the droid said. "You are recovering from a serious wound. You need to rest." A moment later, the 2-1B unit turned and left the room.
You ignored it entirely and tried to sit up again, this time successfully, managing to pull yourself into a decent upright position.
The door opened again, and this time the face was one you knew better than any other. Your father. The first thing he did when he stepped inside was remove his helmet, revealing a face full of relief and lingering worry.
He crossed the room and sat down beside you.
"Dad."
"Hey." You felt his eyes move over you carefully, making sure you were real, making sure you were whole. "Thank the Maker..."
You gave a small smile. "It wasn't that bad. I'm fine." You didn't want the moment to feel too heavy; it made you uncomfortable. You had always hated the idea of people seeing you at your lowest, so you had long made a habit of keeping that sort of thing to yourself.
"Come here," Din said quietly, opening his arms. You sighed and gave in, resting your head against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him; metal and leather and something that had always just meant home.
"Where exactly are we?" you murmured, and he pulled back slowly, hands resting on your shoulders.
"Ossus. This is Skywalker's Jedi temple."
"And... why are we here instead of Tatooine?" You frowned. Knowing him, this couldn't be straightforward.
He held your gaze and spoke plainly. "I have some unfinished business to take care of." He didn't need to say more, you already knew what that meant -- but you tried anyway.
"Right. Fine. Then let's go," you said, scanning the room for your things. There was nothing, just a few empty cots and some scattered medical equipment.
"Absolutely not. You're staying here and recovering."
"But-"
"No buts. You're in no shape to go anywhere with me. You'll only end up worse."
"So you're just going to leave me here, on an unknown planet, with someone I barely know? Brilliant, Din." You were irritated, and it felt entirely justified.
"Luke is the person I trust most right now, especially for what needs to be done. So that's how it is. I need someone to keep an eye on you, and I know he'll do it right."
"But-"
"I said no. You know I'll come back for you when the job is done. And besides, you need to learn to handle yourself better. There's no better teacher than a Jedi."
"Are you calling me weak?"
"I'm saying you have room to improve."
"Are you aware that everything I know, you taught me?"
"...I should get going."
You looked down and said nothing, pressing back the tears that were quietly threatening to spill; you refused to let him see that.
Knowing better than to push when you got like this, he stood and looked at you one last time. "You'll thank me for this. And I will come back for you -- I've already told you that."
"I hate you."
"Take care of yourself. And do me a favour -- listen to Luke."
"I'm not ten."
With that, he walked out the door and left you sitting there, as if a blaster bolt hadn't torn through your body, and you hadn't spent two days as someone's captive. But deep down, you wouldn't have him any other way.
You listened to the N-1 lift off and fade into the sky, and felt a deep, quiet pang of envy. You'd give anything to fly away from everything sometimes -- just you, and no one else.
After a few minutes of grumbling quietly to yourself, you finally got up. There were clothes folded on the small chest by the wall; you dressed carefully, wincing at the pull of the wound with each careful movement. The clothes were nothing like what you were used to. Simpler, more formal in feel, not unlike what you remembered Luke wearing, but more understated. You didn't feel quite like yourself in them.
You took a couple of slow, steadying breaths and stepped outside. The room opened directly onto the outdoors, and the structure was built from timber and sat along a wide mountain ridge. Wonderful, you were stranded in a valley, which was almost certainly in the middle of nowhere.
You walked for a little while, listening to the birds and the wind moving through the trees. The nature around you was lush -- deeply green and alive in a way you weren't used to. You had to admit, grudgingly, that there was something genuinely peaceful about it. Far removed from the chaos that had made up most of your life.
If this was what you were in for, it could be worse.
You kept walking and spotted a figure sitting some distance ahead. No question who it was.
"Hey," you called out -- then immediately felt a small pang of guilt, realising you were probably interrupting something.
You approached quietly, trying not to make much noise. He was sitting with his eyes closed. Was he meditating? Curiosity got the better of you and you sat down across from him, studying the calm of his face. More accurately, you stared for quite a while before he finally opened his eyes and found yours.
You looked away quickly, pretending you hadn't been watching, but it wasn't convincing in the least, so you did the only sensible thing and started talking.
"Do I have to do that too?" you asked, with genuine uncertainty in your voice. He gave a slight smile and shook his head.
"It's not required."
You smiled back, your fingers brushing idly through the grass beside you. It was damp. "I didn't know you taught as well. Where are your students? Are they children? I didn't see anyone on the way here."
You noticed the question landed somewhere tender, though he was very good at keeping his reactions contained. "You're the first person I've had here. I haven't been running things for long."
"But I'm not even one of you!"
"That doesn't matter to me. I'd just appreciate some company around the place. There's plenty I can teach you that has nothing to do with being a Jedi."
"I am not being your guinea pig."
"I'm not asking you to be."
"And I'm not calling you 'Master' or anything like that either."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
You cleared your throat. "Right... and in all seriousness...thank you. For the other day. If you hadn't shown up when you did, that man would have put a blaster bolt through my skull."
It didn't come easily, admitting that you'd needed help, but the least you could do was acknowledge what Luke had done for you. He hadn't been obligated to do any of it -- he'd done it because he'd chosen to.
"It's nothing, looking out for others is what I'm here for."
A brief silence settled between you before he spoke again.
"I owe you an apology, though. For not being able to prevent what happened." His eyes dropped briefly to your shoulder, then back to your face. "I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough."
"That's not on you. You'd already done more than enough."
"...How are you feeling? Does it hurt much?"
"It hurts. But it's manageable."
"If you need me to, I can take a look at it."
"I'm alright, but thank you." You'd rather avoid the awkwardness of that particular situation.
He nodded. "Don't worry -- 2-1B will have you back on your feet quickly. It's a good unit."
"I hope so." You exhaled with a small smile, then added, "Well, I don't want to keep you. Would it be alright if I went and had a look around?"
"Of course. Make yourself at home... As for quarters, pick whichever one you like; they're all the same. I'll bring you clothes and anything else you need later on."
You weren't sure how someone could be that naturally generous without seeming like they were trying, but you found that you liked it.
"Thank you," you said, getting to your feet.
"I'll see you at dinner."
Right -- dinner. You hadn't thought about that. You gave him one last smile and walked away.
You spent the rest of the day exploring. The temple was modest, little more than a main stone structure with a sloped roof. At its centre was a circular room you assumed was used for meditation and whatever else Jedi did with their time.
A few smaller outbuildings surrounded it. You stepped into each one and found that the first was a shared dining area, and the second was the dormitory block, where you gathered that both you and Luke would be sleeping before long.
It was all clearly still in the process of being finished. The bones were there, but it lacked the decorative touches and finer details that would make it feel complete.
There were no great libraries, no towering columns. Just a quiet, unassuming temple in the middle of the jungle. You were going to miss the constant movement of life on the road with your father.
You picked a room at random, as Luke had suggested. It held a tall wardrobe, a single bed, and a desk bolted to the wall with a chair pushed beneath it. Bare and functional, but tidy, and enough.
That night, after the medical droid changed your bandage and applied a fresh bacta patch, you rested as best you could. Your body was still worn through, and your mind refused to fully let go, too many loose threads, too many things left unresolved.
Keep an open mind, you told yourself. Luke was kind -- genuinely so -- and if anyone could teach you something worth knowing, it was probably him.
---
The days on Ossus were quiet, and though the lack of action grated on you at first, as the days passed you found yourself settling into it.
Luke rose at dawn -- something you were entirely unaccustomed to, and took considerably longer to manage. When you finally dragged yourself out of bed, you'd make your way down to the small kitchen and put together something simple for breakfast: fruit, toasted bread, or whatever light thing he or the cooking droid had left out the night before.
You usually sat beside him at meals -- both lunch and dinner -- and it was one of the few times where silence was just allowed to exist. Only a handful of words passed between you.
When your wound had healed enough to handle things that required real effort, Luke would be waiting for you in the dojo after breakfast, which was really just a clearing in the forest.
You'd spend hours there working through the basics: stretching, balance, slow and deliberate movements with training sticks. It was nothing like the way your father had trained you, where everything was fast and rough and unforgiving. Here, everything was controlled, almost meditative, and it frustrated you more often than you wanted to admit. But Luke held to his usual calm, correcting your form with steady hands.
His fingers would settle at your waist or your shoulders with a frequency you couldn't quite ignore, and however hard you tried not to react, it was impossible to deny that his touch stirred something in you.
He, for his part, seemed not to notice. Or at least, he never let on that he did.
---
Luke was sitting across from you, the morning sun falling softly across his face. He'd talked you into trying to meditate with him -- much against your better judgment --, and now you sat there attempting to follow the quiet, unhurried instructions of his voice.
"Good... You need to bring your full attention -- complete and absolute -- to the present moment. Let go of every chaotic thought, every attachment, every fear..."
Try as you might, you couldn't get your thoughts to leave. They refused to drift past like clouds the way he described; they just sat there, stubbornly lodged, giving you no peace whatsoever. Luke made it look so effortless that your failure to manage even a fraction of it was genuinely irritating.
"What is this even supposed to do for me?" you said. You didn't mean to sound dismissive, but stepping outside your comfort zone just wasn't always a pleasant experience.
He answered in the same unhurried tone. "For me, it's how I make decisions. It's the only time my mind truly rests, when I can think without anything getting in the way. And I know you're capable of it."
Part of you appreciated that, the other part felt oddly out of place at how composed he always sounded. You drew a slow breath and tried again, and, surprisingly, you managed to brush the edges of something close to what he'd described.
But the feeling dissolved almost immediately.
You gave up on trying and let yourself watch him instead, hoping he wouldn't notice how often you did this. Simply watching him. Though with Luke, you could never be entirely sure what he noticed.
"I know you're not trying."
You felt your face go warm and closed your eyes again.
---
In the afternoons, you went out into the surrounding land together. Ossus was a planet thick with ruins and vegetation, and you helped Luke gather herbs and wild fruit; some for cooking, some for medicinal use.
On these walks, he would tell you about the Jedi -- their origins, their legacy -- weaving it together with his own experiences. It was a subject that clearly lit something in him; whenever he spoke about his mission, there was a different quality to his eyes, something alive and certain that wasn't there in ordinary conversation.
You also noticed, in quieter moments, that he carried more weight on his shoulders than any one person ought to. There were things he kept to himself -- things he didn't tell you --, and you understood that completely, because you did exactly the same.
More than once, you caught his eyes resting on you, and when you looked back, he would simply offer a small smile or let his gaze drift away, but the tension was there, unmistakable, hanging in the air between you.
Some days, the conversation came easily, flowing from one thing to the next without effort. Other days, the silence thickened, and neither of you moved to break it. But slowly, steadily, something was building. You were no longer two strangers making the best of a situation. You were two people who, somehow, were beginning to understand each other.
---
Two months had passed since you'd arrived.
You woke when the sun came up; you'd finally managed to make a habit of it, not that you'd had much choice if you wanted to keep pace with Luke. You'd stayed up late the night before, turning things over in your mind that probably didn't deserve that much thought, but you had enough in you to face the day.
You washed your face, dressed in the black clothes you had somehow, slowly, begun to not mind, ate something light, and went to find him as you did every morning, feeling the early breeze move against your skin.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, without turning around. He hadn't needed to look to know you were there, and you'd genuinely tried to be quiet this time. It was one of those things about him that never stopped catching you off guard.
"What kind of question is that?" you said, raising an eyebrow. He smiled to himself.
Something else worth noting: Luke's methods worked, and they worked faster than you'd expected. He was wise and selfless in a way that felt entirely natural to him -- deeply faithful to his principles and his purpose --, and because of him, you had improved in ways you couldn't have predicted when you first arrived.
His teaching style was unlike anything you'd known. He rarely gave you clear instructions or told you exactly what to do. Instead, he'd offer short phrases -- sometimes cryptic ones -- and trust you to find the meaning yourself. He taught you to observe, to listen, and to feel what was around you.
None of it had changed who you were, though. That was never going to happen. For better or worse.
"Shall we test what we worked on yesterday?" you said, stepping back and putting some distance between you.
You were eager to push yourself, to find your limits and press past them. That was the only way to actually improve. And maybe, just maybe, you were also a little curious to see how far Luke was willing to go with you.
He nodded and bowed, the same quiet greeting you always exchanged before beginning.
"Whenever you're ready."
When you sparred, it was all technique. You had no desire to genuinely hurt him, and it was clear he felt exactly the same. Every move he made was measured and precise, demonstrating his skill without a trace of arrogance, which was more than you could say for most people you'd trained with.
Even so, holding your own beside him was no easy thing.
"Too slow," he said, sidestepping your strikes for what felt like the tenth time. You were starting to tire, your breathing ragged and heavy. You swung again, but he caught your arm, turned it with clean precision, and left you screwing your eyes shut against the sharp discomfort.
"I could dislocate your shoulder right now. You need to be more careful when you commit to a direct strike like that." He released you after a moment and reset his stance.
"Wait -- what's that?!" you said, eyes fixed on something behind him. Luke turned, genuinely puzzled, and the moment his guard dropped, you grabbed his arm and used your back to throw him to the ground. He trusted you completely, without a flicker of doubt. That was his undoing.
You hit the floor with him, but you were quick, and within seconds, you were on top, straddling his hips.
"You know what your problem is? You trust people too easily. The person closest to you can be the one who turns on you -- you should never let your guard down like that. Not for anyone."
Luke looked up at you from the ground, momentarily speechless, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement.
You grinned, riding the satisfaction of your small, underhanded victory. You were so absorbed in it that you didn't notice his hands lying uncertain at his sides, unsure where to go. You didn't notice how his breathing had shifted, or the faint flush that had crept into his cheeks. It was as if you could almost feel the beat of his heart beneath you.
You didn't understand why he looked so tense and flustered â until you glanced down, and then you did.
There was a noticeable bulge pressing lightly against you. After a beat, you composed yourself as best you could, cleared your throat, and got up.
Luke was mortified; you could see it plainly. As soon as he was able, he stood and attempted to handle the situation with as much dignity as he could manage.
"I apologise. That was completely inappropriate -- it wasn't intentional."
"Luke-"
"I need... I need a moment-" He didn't give you the chance to say anything. He apologised once more and left you standing there alone.
You knew it had been involuntary. And you couldn't help feeling guilty for having put him in that position -- it was the last thing you'd wanted. But you couldn't deny that it had made you feel something. Something you hadn't been able to shake, and honestly, it wasn't the first time.
You'd never felt this way about anyone before. You didn't quite know what to do with it, but you knew one thing: you didn't want to let something this real get ruined over a moment like this.
Luke was different from every other person who had ever shown interest in you. He wasn't after what all the others had wanted. He made you feel safe. He treated you like an ordinary person, not like the daughter of a wanted bounty hunter, not like a name that came with baggage.
And that meant something.
Maybe you hadn't known him that long. Maybe there was still so much about him you didn't know. But you weren't going to let that stop you from acting on what you felt.
If he didn't feel the same, you'd understand. You would.
You stood there for a few minutes before finally making up your mind to go find him.
You moved through the forest, which somehow seemed larger now than it ever had before, but you didn't stop. You headed toward the small valley where Luke meditated every morning, where you knew he went to think, or simply to be. He'd be there, Luke was easy to read, sometimes.
You stopped in front of him. He was sitting with his gaze fixed on the ground, but when he felt your presence, he raised his eyes -- those clear, quiet blue eyes -- and looked at you. This time, though, his expression held none of its usual calm or resolve.
You sat down beside him on the rock and let a few seconds pass before speaking. But, surprisingly, he was the one who broke the silence first.
"Please forgive me. I'm so embarrassed," he said, and his voice was genuine enough that it ached a little to see him this distressed.
"Don't say another word. It's not your fault -- and I don't mind. I don't mind at all." You placed your hand on his back, hoping it would reassure him.
No more words were needed for Luke to understand exactly what you meant. You watched his shoulders slowly relax. In some quiet way, this made sense of all the nights he'd spent thinking about you -- only you -- and all the ones where he'd felt unbearably guilty for it, for letting his thoughts drift toward someone who trusted him, someone he felt responsible for.
But now, at last, he could breathe.
You had no idea what was going through his mind, and now that you'd laid everything out, it didn't sound quite as smooth as it had in your head.
"Look... I'll just head back to my quarters and leave you alone." You moved to get up, not wanting to make a fool of yourself in front of someone you respected this much, but he answered quickly.
"Don't go."
You stopped, caught off guard, and sat back down. You held his gaze for a few good seconds-- then decided, once again, to follow your instincts.
Your hands settled gently on either side of his face, and you leaned in slowly, your lips grazing his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and finally his mouth, which was soft and unhesitating.
You let the contact stay light for a few seconds before you finally kissed him properly.
Your lips moved together, soft at first, then gradually deeper. Luke's hands found your waist and held firm, and you shifted to sit in his lap, feeling all of him against you.
You had kissed someone before. But it had never felt like this.
Your fingers found their way into his hair, and when you finally broke apart to breathe, your lips traced a trail of open kisses from his jaw down to his neck, drawing a quiet sigh from him.
Your hips began to move against him, slowly, and his breath caught. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on your waist.
You knew exactly what you were doing.
You pulled back from kissing him and started working at the top half of his robes -- which was no straightforward task --, but he caught your hand gently.
"Not here."
You looked at him with a smile, not entirely patient. "You're not some kind of celibate, are you?" Even in moments like this, you couldn't help yourself.
He shook his head firmly. It wasn't hard to see that the poor man was thoroughly worked up.
You climbed off his lap and he took your hand, guiding you back toward the dormitory block. You stopped outside his quarters -- a door you had never crossed before --, and without a word, you both slipped off your shoes before stepping inside.
Luke's room was exactly what you'd expected: identical to all the others, which only confirmed what you already knew about him -- he didn't think himself above anyone. The air carried a faint scent of spiced tea and cedarwood, and everything was immaculately arranged. You noticed a small collection of miniature ship models on a wooden shelf -- the kind that might have belonged to a boy who once dreamed of flying.
"Everything alright?" The question pulled you out of your own head. You'd been studying the room more than you'd been looking at him, and you felt warmth creep into your cheeks.
"Sorry," you said, "I've always wondered what your room would look like."
Luke smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with quiet attention. You stepped closer, let your fingers trace the folds of his robes, and raised an eyebrow.
"Now -- may I?" And when you saw him smile and shake his head in that helplessly fond way, you got to work.
The dark fabric fell away, and you let it. His chest was everything you'd imagined; strong, his arms toned but not overwhelming, exactly the way you liked.
Your eyes moved without meaning to across the scars, starting from the centre of his chest and spreading outward along his arms and across his back, as though lightning had struck him once and left its mark on him forever.
He noticed where your attention had gone, but you didn't want him to feel exposed, so you kissed him briefly, smiled, and gave him a gentle push back. He caught himself on his elbows, and you watched his chest rise and fall slowly.
"You're beautiful." You settled over him, your fingers and lips tracing the pale lines across his chest, quietly determined to make him feel it.
Your kisses travelled down to his lower abdomen, and there you looked up. He was watching you with an expression that was equal parts attention and pleasure -- and somehow that look made you feel more self-conscious than you expected.
You didn't want to rush it. So you moved back up his body and kissed his lips again. "When was your last time?" you asked, genuinely curious.
"It's been a while," he said, honestly. You smiled. You liked that. The thought that you got to be his first time in a long time felt like something worth having.
You undid his belt and slid his trousers off, leaving him in just his boxers. It felt unfair to be so much more dressed than he was, so you pulled your black shirt over your head and dropped it with the rest of his clothes, left in just your bra.
His eyes moved slowly -- along your collarbone, your chest, and then to the scar the blaster bolt had left on your shoulder, almost fully healed now.
Knowing how you had him, you slowly unclasped your bra and let it fall. His gaze settled on your chest, but he didn't want to stare, so he shifted positions, and you ended up beneath him.
The bed was single-sized, so you fit together snugly, just barely enough, but it sufficed.
His bare hand traced up your torso until it reached your chest, stirring feelings within you that you couldn't quite name.
You sighed at the sensation of his touch, caressing and squeezing gently. This man was going to drive you wild, and you hadn't even taken off your trousers yet.
He lowered his head and began to kiss your breasts tenderly-- his lips felt soft against your skin, making it prickle and your nipples harden. You let out a low moan and dropped your head onto the pillow, which, by the way, smelled like him.
The time and attention he devoted to the smallest details was admirable, and the slow drag of his thumb across your skin kept you sighing relentlessly.
When he finally pulled away, his hands went to undo your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him rid you of them, impatient.
Now you were truly even.
"Are you sure about this?" You appreciated his concern, but right now, all you wanted was to feel his touch, to feel every part of him.
"Please."
His hand slowly slipped beneath your underwear, and when you felt his fingers brush against your most intimate place, you swore you could see stars.
He began to explore you with steady, deliberate movements, his fingers gliding with ease and precision. All the while, he remained attuned to your expressions, making sure they reflected nothing but pleasure.
You were a wreck of sighs and moans, your legs trembling and threatening to close around his hand, your back arching involuntarily. Damn, he was good.
Not even two minutes had passed, and you could already feel that familiar pressure on your lower stomach. "Luke- fuck, I-"
"It's okay. Just let go."
You noticed his touch grow more insistent, the speed of his fingers increasing. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone before moving up to your neck.
He was careful, though, he always was.
Your hips began to move subtly, instinctively seeking more contact, and your hands came up to rest on his broad shoulders.
"That's it -- breathe." His voice sent waves of pleasure straight to your core, and with one final circle of his fingers, you reached the peak. You bit your lower lip hard and felt the waves of ecstasy wash over your body, felt yourself clenching around nothing.
Then you collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Luke withdrew his hand slowly and lay down beside you while you recovered.
"That was fucking incredible," you said, looking at him.
"I should hope so."
You laughed, breathless, and soon pulled him close again, tugging impatiently at his boxers. He nodded and sat up to get rid of them, just as you did with your underwear.
You couldn't help but admire him; he exceeded your expectations by far. He was beautiful. There was definitely not a single aspect of him you didn't like.
He positioned himself over you again, and you couldn't resist the urge to kiss him once more. You pulled him closer with your hands in his hair, and you made out for a long moment. You felt yourself recovering from your last orgasm, pleasure beginning to build once again.
The inevitable brush of his length against your body drew soft sighs of pleasure from his lips.
"You think you can handle it, Skywalker?" you said when you finally parted, teasing him.
"I think I can." A smirk tugged at his mouth. He brought his hand to your cheek, his thumb grazing over it one last time before he positioned himself at your entrance with care. He held still for a moment, looking into your eyes.
"We can go slow if you need-"
"I'm okay," you said quickly, and at your impatience, he slowly began to push forward.
You sighed heavily, feeling your inner walls flutter around him, adjusting to the new sensations. Then you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, your nails lightly digging into his skin as he filled you.
Luke groaned softly as he slowly pushed himself deeper inside you, and once he was settled, he took a moment to admire your beautiful face, drinking in every detail.
He ran a tender hand along your side, marveling at the curve of your hip and waist, and finally, he began to move, setting a steady rhythm. He kept his pace unhurried, determined to savor every second of your intimate connection.
Each thrust brought a breathy moan from both your lips and his. He peppered feather-light kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat, occasionally nipping at your pulse point.
"You're doing so good," he praised as he saw your face clouded with pleasure. He kept the same rhythm for a few minutes, and soon you were arching your back and pressing yourself close to him, moaning without any trace of shame.
Attuned to every shift in your expression and the pleasure building within you, Luke redoubled his efforts and began to increase his pace, hitting all the right spots with every deep thrust. Soft grunts and moans escaped his lips as he lost himself in the sensations, the sound of skin against skin filling the room.
"I'm so close," escaped your lips, and it wasn't intentional, but you knew you'd leave marks on his back. Your hips were trying to meet his pace again, and you were clenching around him; the pressure making him moan quietly every time.
He could feel the coil of tension building low in his abdomen, too, and he wanted nothing more than to bring you to the same peak of pleasure.
"Come on, let go, it's okay," he managed out, leaning in to kiss your cheek.
And then...
"Oh, stars," you said when you felt that final thrust that sent you both over the edge. His name fell from your lips as waves of pleasure crashed through you, each one more intense than the last
Luke respectfully pulled out and emptied himself wherever he could. He exhaled slowly, shifting to lie beside you once more. You couldn't quite understand how he still looked so composed while you were lying there breathless and completely spent -- though at this point, you'd stopped being surprised. Some things about Jedi, you decided, were simply unfair.
You rested your head on his chest, and you stayed like that for a while, simply enjoying each other's presence. Your hand traced over his stomach and sides, smiling when his skin prickled from the ticklish sensation you caused.
"I like you, Luke," you said, sitting up to look at him properly. His arm had been resting across his eyes -- he moved it slowly to meet your gaze.
A small smile formed on his face, and his hand began to move gently through your hair. "I like you too."
"I think I've already figured that out," you said, teasing.
"I'm not that obvious," he protested mildly.
"If you say so..." You held his gaze with a smile before finally getting up.
You both showered, changed, and you helped Luke tidy his room back into order.
The rest of the day, you took it easy; there had already been more than enough exercise, you decided.
You spent it talking about nothing in particular, and inevitably, you couldn't resist asking whether he'd been thinking about you all this time you'd been living here together -- and in what way -- but Luke was reluctant to let you into his private thoughts, so you let him off the hook. For now.
You helped him with small, ordinary things -- trying to fix a broken construction droid, sorting materials and tools back into their proper places...
"These go in the green box -- they're for welding," Luke said, giving you instructions. You nodded, but your mind kept drifting back to what had happened that morning, and every so often you caught a stupid smile spreading across your face -- which you immediately tried to get rid of. You weren't the sentimental type.
All in all, it was a perfectly ordinary day until you heard a familiar sound you hadn't been expecting. Not today, of all days. Luck had never particularly been on your side, it seemed.
The sound of a ship grew steadily closer, and not just any ship, your father's N-1. The day had come, at exactly the moment you were feeling your best and wanted to leave the least.
Luke looked at you, and he already knew. You simply exhaled and dragged a hand across your face in disbelief. You wanted to see your father -- of course you did -- but you weren't ready to go. Not just yet.
The engine cut out. You knew you didn't have much time, so you made the most of it. You stepped toward Luke and pulled him into a firm hug -- something he hadn't expected --, but he held you back, tight, one hand resting on your head.
"I'll talk to him -- I just need to find the right moment," you said as you pulled away, cupping his face gently before pressing one last, lingering kiss to his lips.
He trusted you. In the time you'd spent here, you'd shown him exactly the kind of person you were -- capable, strong, and clear-headed.
"I'll be waiting for you."
You both stepped outside as though nothing had happened. Your father was waiting by the ship, leaning against it with easy confidence. A smile broke across your face the moment you saw him, and you couldn't stop yourself from running to him -- however much you always tried to seem indifferent, you couldn't pretend you hadn't missed him.
"I missed you, Dad," you said, pulling back and checking him over to make sure he was in one piece. With your father, you never quite knew.
"I know. I missed you too," he said, ruffling your hair -- which you complained about, mildly.
Luke greeted your father with a long, firm handshake.
"Thank you, Skywalker," Din said, and his voice was genuine. "I owe you one."
"It was nothing, Din. It was my pleasure."
You smiled inwardly at that.
"Can I offer you something to drink?" Luke asked.
"We should get going -- but thank you,"
As a farewell, you gave Luke a single small nod, quiet and respectful. He returned it without hesitation.
You had nothing to collect. There was nothing here that was really yours -- not in the conventional sense -- so you climbed aboard the ship that felt so familiar, that you had missed in your own way.
Your father followed, and in the blink of an eye, you were airborne, lifting away, your life returning to what it had always been. You caught one last glimpse of the Jedi temple below -- growing smaller and smaller until it was swallowed entirely by kilometres and kilometres of green, nothing but nature in every direction.
---
The days passed, and you couldn't stop wondering whether Luke was thinking about you. Whether he genuinely hoped you'd come back to him -- to Ossus -- whether he wanted the chance to know you better and build something real with you.
You hoped so. Because that was all you could feel right now.
You'd spent hours trying to work out how to put it into words for your father -- what you wanted-- and you'd only grown more frustrated each time it refused to come together clearly in your head.
You hadn't been a child for a long time. You were capable of making your own choices. Up until now, you'd been content to stay close to your father -- the one person you truly loved and admired -- but it was time, somehow, to begin finding your own way.
You didn't know what the future had in store. You didn't know whether things with Luke would lead anywhere, or whether going back to him was really what you needed. But you held onto everything he had taught you, and above all, you carried with you the desire to start something new.
And all that stood between you and that -- was a few words.
Hiii, if you have any constructive criticism that I could apply to improve my writing about Luke, or in general, I would appreciate it ⥠(This is the second time I write about ROTJ Luke and I do a SMUT of him in general đ«Š)
Used this lovely redit picture to write about the Jedi Temple. đ
Also, I know the jokes suck a lot, I got them straight out of 'The Last of Us' joke book.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: In your relationship with Bucky, you have come to learn he doesn't really have a thing for costumes. Until you both watch one particular movie.
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, porn with absolutely zero plot, established relationship, a little bit of apprehension and self doubt from reader (that is quickly dealt with), oral f! and m! receiving, face sitting, unprotected p in v (please be safe out there friends), a little bit of restraints, but they're flimsy (like the plot), bit of soft dom!Bucky and sub!Reader if you squint, lots and lots of checking in, no use of y/n, no descriptions used for reader
Word Count: 4.3k
Chirps: Happy Halloween! Here's what was supposed to be a short little thing that grew as I wrote it. Just an aside as I can already hear some of you go 'but I won't look good in that...' Listen. I say this from the bottom of my heart as a curvy girlie who has worn this for her nerdy husband: if someone truly loves you (as Bucky does in this fic!) they will absolutely eat it up. You're perfect as you are. Also, stay till the end for a stupid deleted scene I was not able to make fit, but giggled at it every time I passed it in the outline.
Masterlist | AO3
Every man has a guilty pleasure costume.Â
You were no stranger to it. Previous partners had requested all manners of things. Playboy bunnies, nurse outfits, cops, it ran the gamut. One guy asked you to dress up as Mrs. Claus for Christmas while he dressed as Santa once. Requesting you sit on his lap while feeding him cookies and milk. Which was probably the weirdest so far, but the things you put up with for what you thought was love could fill a fairly long list.
Bucky Barnes, however, came from a different era. The one time you wore lingerie for him in the beginning of your relationship, it didn't seem to strike as deeply as the others. "Sweetheart, it's just packaging. I appreciate it, and you look amazing, but I'm just trying to get to what's underneath. You don't need to dress up unless you want to."
So, you discarded all of the itchy costumes and sultry lace garments that were sometimes barely more than two pieces of fabric sewn together . If he didn't expect it, you weren't about to strap yourself in for your own benefit. Especially not when your soldier seemed to appreciate the ease of sliding one of his shirts over your body and taking what was his.
And it really wasn't until much later in your relationship when you discovered something. Something that you figured this man tried so hard to keep hidden.
Bucky Barnes, behind all of his muscles and scars and imperiousness, was a nerd. Like in a different life that wasn't war-torn and bloodied he would have perhaps been a family man with a garage that housed inventions or machinery that he would've taken apart just to figure out how they tick. Or he would've spent his days getting lost in comic books, collecting action figures just to watch as their value increased, and debating on Reddit whether or not the Hobbits could've just used the eagles to get to Mordor.
You played into this new side of him, of course, once you figured it out. No matter how embarrassed he seemed to be about it.
Finding fantasy books that had maps at the beginning (for whatever reason this man had a thing for fictional geography). Subtly suggesting places to eat where you would need to walk past a comic book shop to get home or to the subway, and act interested so he would go in. Finding pieces of media he hadn't watched yet due to his past.
Which is how you ended up here. Legs thrown over his lap while his hands massaged your calves, wrapped in one of his hoodies, a large bowl of popcorn balanced on your knees, and the closing credits for Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back playing on the screen. Domesticiscty incarnate while you reveled in the privilege of being able to see someone experience Star Wars for the first time.
Yawning, you stretched your arms overhead, glancing at the clock. "We should head to bed, it's â"
Just as those words were out of your mouth, Bucky's hands were on the remote, already queuing up the next movie. "Kinda want to watch the next one if that's okay with you?"
You understood. Kind of. Whereas you have seen all of these movies several times, could quote a few of the bigger scenes, and knew what was coming, Bucky Barnes did not. How he had managed to avoid spoilers of one of the greatest movies of the 80s even once he came back into a normal life was beyond you.
"FineâŠ" you sighed, snuggling further into the pillow behind you. "I'll try not to snore too loud."
Bucky gave an unamused huff, but he was already reading the moving lines flowing across the screen.
You must have dozed off somewhere around when C3PO and R2-D2 wandered into Jabba's palace, because the next thing you hear is the screeching of the Sarlaac pit and Bucky tapping more incessantly on your knee to get your attention.
Groaning, you peeked at him from beneath a barely opened eyelid. "Yes? I was having a good dream about young Harrison Ford."
"SweetheartâŠ" he started, voice deepening in a way that somehow always spelled trouble for you.
"Okay, sorry, it wasn't Harrison Ford, I was imagining â"
"No. That's not what I'm not worried about right now," he sighed, pausing the movie so he could be heard.
You opened your eyes more, seeing that familiar look that meant he was processing through the words he wanted to ask you.
"Do youâŠremember when we first stated dating and I said I wasn't into those costumes you had?"
A slow smirk spread across your face as he tried to be subtle, the paused scene flickering on the tv all but gave him away. "Princess Leia and her gold bikini got you, huh?"
Even in the dark room lit only by the blue of the tv screen you could see the blush rising up to his cheeks and ears. "How didâŠ"
"Fairly common," you assured, eyes slipping closed again. "I don't have one at the ready, but they're easy to find. If you want me to."
"You're notâŠbothered byâŠ?"
"Every man has one."
"Poor Carrie, how did she film in one of these?" you grumble towards the mirror as you adjusted the gold metal around your hips, purple fabric barely concealing that you weren't wearing any panties. The bra was another issue, digging awkwardly into your ribs and chest. But you had done a lot more for men who didn't love you half as hard as your soldier did.
You thumbed across the flimsy metal shackles that the costume came with, discarded on the bed. You'd donned weirder things for past partners, butâŠgiven the sensitive nature of who your boyfriend currently was and his past you doubted they would be used. Still though, you wanted to give him the option. Even if they had all the sturdiness of cardboard.
You didn't, however, give him the option of knowing when this little outfit was going to make an appearance. After the initial request, you had put it on the back burner. Given it had been asked for while you were half asleep and still slightly in a dream of young Harrison Ford.
Knowing Bucky was already embarrassed to have even asked after explicitly telling you there was no need for dressing up kind of made you want to make this a surprise anyway. In all seriousness, there was a chance he thought you forgot.
Zero chance considering how little he asked of you. Gold bikini, two sheets of fabric, and a bit of uncomfort would be traded for a hungry look in your boyfriend's face. One that would most certainly bring about pleasure was not something you would brush off.
You heard the sound of the key in the lock just as you sat at the edge of your shared bed. And just as you fluffed the skirt panel around your hips and overthought the sitting position, a strange kind of unease settled over you as you waited for him to come in.
What if he didn't want this? What if he changed his mind? What if he was just kidding? What if he had a rough mission and this was not a welcomed surprise? Why you began second thinking this now when there really was no way to go back was beyond your comprehension, but hey here you were.
Halfway to the closet to get a robe to cover yourself was when your soldier graced the entrance to your bedroom. For an initial second you both stared at each other, like you had caught the other doing something untoward.
"Hey." The deep baritone of his voice shattered the silence.
"Hi." Your voice higher than it usually was.
His equipment bag hit the ground, not at all where he carefully placed it. The heavy sound of unused ammo and weaponry bounced off the walls and landed in the pit of your stomach.
"How was the mission?" Your exposed skin was starting to tingle under the weight of his stare. And it felt like he hadn't blinked since he had laid eyes on you.
"Fine," his voice came out low while eyes of ocean blue lapped up and down your figure. "What are you wearing?"
Your fingers gathered the purple skirting out of anxiety, twisting it hard enough the smooth fabric bunched between your knuckles. "I, umâŠwanted to surprise you. And then, well, I kinda got into my head about â"
"Surprise me, or make me forget how my legs work?"
Oh. The fabric dropped from your fingers, pooling again around your thighs and brushing the floor.
"Uh, the first one? I guess? I just started to feel silly, because what if you had a hard mission or â"
"Sweetheart," Bucky interrupted you again as he stepped forward slowly, already working to discard his leather jacket. "The mission could've been the worst of my life and the hardest thing would still be me holding myself back while you're wearing that."
You cleared your throat, knees hitting the mattress as Bucky stalked closer, eyes locked on yours. "Take it you like it then?"
He hummed, a low sound that could be more akin to a growl as you sat on the bed, head tipped back so you could meet his eyes. He cupped your jaw, thumb tracing your bottom lip as you felt the desire radiate off of him. Bucky always was insatiable when he returned to you from missions, but this felt different. Like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. He leaned down, crowding your space so you could see the hunger in his eyes firsthand.
"I love it," he murmured, the words almost lost as his lips brushed yours. "Thank you."
The kiss was nothing short of desperate and claiming, his tongue sliding between your parted lips. All doubts you had vanishing into the air along with your voice. "I take back every negative thing I said about wearing costumes." He mumbled as he slid a knee between your thighs, spreading you open so he could settle over your body. The rough texture of his tactical gear directly on your skin had sparks already shooting straight to your core.
"Told you," you gasped when he pulled back, mouth nipping at your collarbone, " we just had to figure out what worked for you."
Bucky chuckled against your skin, stubble dragging along the valley of your breasts. "This is really working, sweetheart, you have no idea."
His hands skimmed up your sides, your back arching up into him out of instinct so he could pull you closer. Just as he was about to push aside the panel of fabric covering your soaked pussy, his fingers brushed the restraints you'd tossed on the bed that had once been forgotten. Bucky pulled back slightly, lips swollen from where they'd sucked on your exposed skin, eyes flicking between your face and the cuffs.
"They came with the costume," you explained, sitting up on your elbows, watching him play with the flimsy metal. "Meant to just throw them away, butâ"
He let one shackle dangle from his Vibranium finger, a dichotomy of strength on full display. His flesh hand had done more to hold you down than those things could. "Do you want to try them?"
"Do you?" Your eyes met his quickly. Sure you had no issue being tied down, least of all in something even you, a civilian, could probably break.
"I think it wouldâŠenhance the experience," he whispered, hesitating, twirling the cuff in around his finger slightly. "But only if you're comfortable."
You sat up further, offering your wrists. "I trust you, Buck."
He paused with the metal on your skin, meeting your eyes to look for any flicker of doubt. "You'll tell me to stop if you're not enjoying it at any time?"
You nodded, and that was all the confirmation he needed.
He wrapped the cuffs around your wrists, a cool shock to your skin soothed by the warmth of his lips as he pressed a kiss to your pulse points. He gave a gentle tug, just enough to test the strenght of the metal â and maybe your willingness â drew your hands forward until you had no choice but to move to the edge of the bed.
Next came the collar, buckled at your throat but on a notch loose enough for him to slip two fingers easily between the leather and skin. "Good?"
"Good," you affirmed, pulse now fluttering with anticipation.
He twirled the length of chain connecting your wrists and neck, testing it, then gave a strong tug. The surprise of the sudden pull brought you smoothly to your knees at his feet. A thrill raced up your spine as you looked up at him with wide eyes.
A slow smile spread across his features as he took in the obvious change of your heartbeat, the dilation of your pupils, and the thunder in your pulse. "Did you like that?"
"Mhm," you nod as his shirt is discarded to the hamper. A small smattering of faded bruises along his ribs are the only indicator that he's fresh from a mission. And despite you having seen him in various forms of undress countless times, it never failed to take your breath away when it happened.
Another pull on the chain lifted your bound wrists to his belt. The meaning clear without him needing to say anything. Your fingers made quick work of the buckle and the zipper, easing his hard cock from his boxers. Already leaking and flushed with need as you gently took him in your palm.
He kept a lazy hold on the chain as the rest of his clothes were shrugged off, but his gaze never left the way your hand moved along his length. You stroked in slow, teasing passes, reveling in the way his jaw clenched, how his hips jerked inot your touch. Each small movement that he tried to keep at bay a testament to how much he'd missed your hand wrapped around him.
Your thumb swiped over the top, spreading the precum beading into your hand in slow circles and sliding down once, then twice. Tearing your gaze away from the mesmerizing way the taut muscles of his abs twitched at the flicks of your wrist, you glanced up to see his chest rising and falling on already ragged breath.
Leaning in, you let your tongue peek through your lips before maneuvering closer and allowing the tip to rest there. "I missed you," you teased, your breath warm against his skin. Your hand continued the slow strokes that you knew wouldn't get him close to any sort of release where your mouth wasn't yet reaching.
"Missed you too," he groaned as your mouth finally closed around him. But even then, you moved slow, hollowing your cheeks and letting him feel every inch as you slid down.
You pulled back just enough to drag your tongue along the sensitive underside, smiling as he twitched in your mouth and his whole body shivered. A low, drawn out moan fell from his mouth as you reduced him to trembling.
He couldn't take it. One impatient tug of the chain, and suddenly your lips slid deeper until your nose hit muscle. A flicker of an unnecessary apology crossed his eyes, but your hand slid up his thigh, gentle in reassurance at the taste of him. Something that had your brain completely rewired from the first moment you had ever been granted the privilege of this.
A low fuck falls from his lips, the chain being abandoned as that hand slides to the back of your head as a guide. The curse alone has your blood thrumming in response, nails digging into the muscle of his thighs as he hit the back of your throat.
After a particularly slow pass of your tongue, his hips jerked hard enough that he almost lost it, and he nudged you back. "Too good at that sweetheart. Keep that up and this'll be over way too soon."
He caught the chain again, hauling you up for a gentler kiss. Soft, grateful for more than just your sinful mouth, but still buzzing with need. He spun you both to lay on the bed, guiding you to straddle him. Your thighs bracketed his hips, fully intent on finally getting to sink down and relieve the ache of need that had settled low in your belly. Until Bucky pulled on your tether to get your attention.
"Uh-uh, not yet, up here," he said, voice rough as he tugged again, coaxing you higher. His hand helped guide you forward, sliding up your hip and to where the golden bra dug into your sides as your knees tucked in on either side of his head.
His gaze softened slightly, other hand joining in soothing where the bra had made marks on your skin from wear. Without warning, he undid the band that you had spent the better part of ten minutes getting latched, letting it slide off your chest. It was tossed to the corner, fingers and thumb circling your nipple, sending sparks of lightning through your body. A shiver wracked through your muscles, involuntary as a soft sigh fell from your lips.
"Come on baby, let me taste you," he murmured as he pushed aside the fabric of the skirt to reveal your already glistening pussy.
A low hum vibrated through his chest at the sight, his fingers now digging into your hips trying to bring you forward.
"So bossy," you teased, still hovering over him, thighs trembling in anticipation.
"Just hush and enjoy," he gave one last impatient pull at the chain connecting your neck and wrists and just like his patience was about to do, the thing snapped. Tiny pieces of metal rained down on Bucky's face and bounced onto the bedspread. The sudden loss of tension had you tumbling forward, hands just catching yourself on the headboard.
"Those didn't last long," you laughed looking down and brushing some of the gold flecks from Bucky's hair.
To his credit, even after getting pelted by the cheap chain, his fingers slipped back to your hips continuing his quest to have you on his tongue. "If you liked that, we can get stronger ones for next time. But I'm begging you sweetheart, just come here, please. Let me give you the princess treatment."
And honestly? Hearing someone of his stature reduced to begging for you completely shattered the last of your nerves. You let him guide you down, resting your weight as his tongue slid between your folds. A dual sound of pleasure cracked from each other your mouths as you braced one hand on the headboard in front of you. The other flew to his hair for balance just as his tongue grazed your clit in a relentless rhythm.
Sure it had only been a couple of days since you had been in a similar position, but Bucky Barnes always acted like he was starved for your taste if he had been deprived of it due to missions. His fingers tightened on your thighs as your hips surrendered to the need, circling just enough to make you lightheaded.
You released your iron grip from the headboard, leaning back just as his strong hands slid up to your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Your hand reached behind you, finding his thick cock still dripping onto his stomach. Wrapping your fingers around him, you slid down in time to the sinful movements of his tongue against your clit.
The buildup to the edge of your release started slow, a simmering flame that grew to a wildfire the second your wrist flicked on his length and he moaned between your thighs. His hips jerked up into your touch, while thumbs massaged just under your ribs as he tried to hold you steady.
"Bucky, I'mâ fuck right thereâŠ" you gasped, hand gripping both his hair and cock harder as you finally fell off the edge. A wave of white hot ecstasy surged through your body, thighs trembling as his lips sealed over your clit in the final moments of your orgasm. Your hips stuttered, another loud moan gracing his ears as you came apart above him, with stars bursting behind your eyes.
Aftershocks continued to travel along your limbs, bursts of light danced at the edges of your vision as Bucky gently eased you back. You slid down his chest with a shaky laugh, the purple fabric of your skirt trailing over his skin like a flag.
Your thighs still trembled, allowing yourself to be guided to Bucky's lap as he sat back against the headboard. Your chest pressed to his, feeling his heart pounding in time with yours, both of you still breathless.
"Hi," he whispered, hands sliding up your sides as you settled your thighs on either side of his hips. Lips brushed against your cheek, sending a new wave of aching need through the very fibers of your being. His cock was still straining hot and hard against your stomach beneath the fabric now pooled at your waist.
You grinned, fingers gently guiding his mouth to yours. "Hi," you murmured back, against his lips before closing the gap in a kiss you immediately deepened, tasting your own arousal on his tongue. The thick press of him pulsed desperately against your skin as his arms wound around your waist to drag you in closer.
"Fuck, I missed you," he breathed, once he pulled back, stubble rough against his jaw as he trailed his mouth to your collar bone.
Your answer caught your throat as he gently sunk his teeth into your shoulder, hips shifting to let his cock slide between your slick folds. "Missed you too," you finally sighed, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. Your hips continued the slow, torturous drag, pulling a string of pleading curses from him at the barest hint of friction. His fingers dug deeper into the flesh of your ass, his own hips trying to buck up; a plea to stop teasing.
Bucky groaned, forehead resting at the crook of your neck. "Don't tease, princess, please. Need to feel you."His voice half-destroyed with want and barely concealed restraint as he urged you up so he could guide himself in.
"You never call me that," you chuckled, shifting above him.
He managed a shaky laugh, hands gripping your hips and guiding you higher. "Comes with the costume, I guess."
You sunk down, savoring the stretch; inch by perfect inch. The air momentarily left your lungs as he bottomed out, a gasp leaving both of your lips in unison. No matter how many times he filled you so completely, you never would tire of the way his eyes rolled back and the tightening of his arms around you. Desire sparked beneath your skin as his eyes burned into yours, pupils blown wide in hunger.
Then his hands trailed up to your throat, brushing the gold band that still hung limply at your neck. He easily undid the clasp of it as you instinctively began to move above him. He tossed the collar aside, then moved to your wrists. His thumbs soothed over the marks before unclipping each one, kissing the barely there welts as the restraints fell away.
"My perfect girl," he whispered in your ear. His hands worshipful as they slid back up your arms; your heart squeezing in your chest at the praise. Your body moved in waves, thighs still aching from where you had sunk on his mouth, but needing to feel every inch of him.
His hands found purchase on your hips, impatience once again for his own release nearly winning out as he started to move your body to his will. Soon you knew nothing but the ragged rhythm of his cock driving up into you, the gentle nips of his mouth at your throat, and the sound of your skin on his.
"Look at you, so fucking pretty in this flimsy costume you wore just for me. Falling apart with my cock in your pussy." The drag of your clit over his pelvis and the whispered praises he growled in your ear was winding you tighter and tighter until you nearly shook in his arms.
"Gonna come for me again, aren't ya? Can feel her squeezing me," he rasped, one hand sliding under your skirt and giving a light tap on your ass.
"Fuck, Bucky â I can't â please don't stop, I'm gonna â" Your nails dug into skin and metal shoulders at the sudden sensation, his name a broken plea on your lips as you surrendered to the pleasure he was pulling from your body with each deep thrust.
"That's it baby, fuckâŠ" he groaned as he followed not far behind you, finally hitting his release with one last desperate jerk of his hips into your tight walls that still pulsated around him. The hot spill of him had your breath stuttering in gasps, as he stayed buried to the hilt. You continued to ride out the final throbbing moments together, determined not to stop until he was spent.
Bucky's head fell back against the headboard with a soft thunk, a ragged sigh falling from his mouth as he regained control of his breath. Arms wrapped your waist now in a desperate motion to get you to stop from dragging your perfect cunt over his overstimulated cock.
Then, he let out a low, dazed laugh, looking at you with a newfound light in his eyes. "If you could surprise me like that every time I come back from a mission, I think I'd break the sound barrier in the jet just to come home to you."
â.Ë Bonus â.Ë
Bucky: "So, does Leia end up with Luke or Han?"
You: "What are you talking about?"
Bucky: "Well, she kissed Luke but then told Han she loved him soâŠ"
You: "You didn't finish the movie�"
Bucky: "No, we went to bed after that one scene remember?"
You: Right. "You really need to finish it before you start asking me questions."
See? Told you it was dumb lol
If you'd like to be added to my taglist, comment on this post.
After Chirps: I'm not a fan of Halloween (I know, I'm sorry). It brings up a lot of negative emotions that I won't trauma dump. Thanks dad. So, if you want to make me smile, I'd love to hear your thoughts about my silly little self indulgent fic. Comments, reblogs, likes are all very much appreciated. I'm also cooking up something for the holiday season which will hopefully fill me (and you? if you want?) with much more joy than October has. Until next time êšïž
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Summary - Things come to a head with Lee. But will you make it out unscathed?
Warnings - Noncon, Daddy kink, painal, unwanted orgasm, controlling behavior, coercion. 18+ Only! My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk!
Word Count - 4k
Find Man Of The House 1 Here
Find Man Of The House 2 Here
"You sure this is okay Arvin?" You sighed, clutching your duffle bag in front of your legs with both hands, as you looked around the run down motel room he'd booked for you.
The wallpaper was peeling off and the whole place smelt of damp, but it was still better than being at home.
"O'course darlin'." Arvin smiled back softly, "Whatever you need okay?"
"Thank you. It's been a lot..I just need...just one night....to fuckin' think ya know?" You rambled on, crossing into the small space to dump your bag in the single chair there.
It had been a long few weeks dealing with Lee. After the first night he'd fucked you, he seemed to have relentless energy. He cornered you at every opportunity, taking your mouth or pussy on a daily basis, sometimes multiple times a day and you were just exhausted.
Your mama remained completely oblivious as usual, looking at him with stars in her eyes while she drank herself towards an early grave and passed out early each night.
"Yeah I get it." Arvin sighed, "Your stepdad seems like a piece of work and your mama..."
He shook his head sheepishly before dipping it away from you.
"Shit sorry," He mumbled apologetically, "I shouldn't be sayin' those things to ya."
"No it's okay, you're not wrong." You replied, pressing your lips together, "I just dunno what to do. I tried savin' up money from my job so I could skip town but well... Lee found out and he wasn't pleased."
You dropped onto the edge of the bed with a humph, blowing air out of your cheeks.
"What he do?" Arvin said with a tense jaw as he came to stand in front of you, "Did he hurt you? I swear to God if he hurt you.."
"Arvin it's okay, I'm okay..." You reassured him, reaching out to take his hands in yours, not wanting him to get tangled up in this mess anymore than he already was, "Please, you don't have to do that, not for me."
"I do darlin'." He promised, fingers twitching around ours, "My sister, god rest her soul, I couldn't help her when the wrong man hurt her, but I can help you."
You had no doubt that if you revealed just how deep the issues with Lee went, Arvin wouldn't hesitate to storm over to your house and pick a fight, a fight you weren't sure he'd win, so you did what you had to, lying to protect him.
"He...hasn't hurt me...not physically okay?" You promised as convincingly as you could, "He just...took the money an' won't give it back."
You saw the anger flick over his face, before he sighed and his face softened as he spoke, "You tell me if that changes though right?"
"Yeah I will." You nodded with a flat lipped smile.
"Promise?" He pressed and you felt the guilt kick you straight in the gut.
"Yeah, sure." You mumbled before dropping his hands.
Arvin had been so good to you after that first date. He appeared at your work and promised that Lee wouldn't stop him from seeing you. So you've stolen moments together, getting to know each other as he appeared at the diner counter daily with a smile and a new tale to tell. You hadn't seen each other outside of that, until you had broken down crying earlier that day, revealing how exhausted you were from being in the house with Lee and he'd come up with the motel to help you out.
"Come on let's get some sleep." Arvin offered, pulling you from your thoughts, "I'll take the floor."
"No, we can share the bed, if you want?" You offered shyly as Arvin's face flushed red.
"You sure?" He asked with widened eyes.
"Yeah, I think I'd like to be close to you ya know?" You smiled, watching as his lips curled into a wide smile.
"Well okay then." He grinned.
You changed in the small bathroom, into a thin white nightie, before climbing into the rickety old bed. Arvin had already removed his jeans, settling down in his white underwear and shirt.
He immediately opened his arms for you, letting you settle against his side, close enough to smell the dirt and grime that still clung to his skin from work, but you loved it, it was the smell you looked forward to each day.
Your mind finally felt calm for the first time in weeks. You weren't worrying about Lee getting home from work, about what he'd expect from you. You weren't worried about your mama being drunk and having to help her passed out form get to bed, you were at peace, or at least some small version of it.
Before you knew it you were softly snoring against Arvin's chest, mouth agape, dribble collecting on his shirt while he drifted off above you with his arm snug around your waist.
You didn't know how much time passed before you woke abruptly to a loud banging, shooting to sit on the bed with your palm over your hammering heart while Arvin jumped out of the sheets, darting across the room to peak through the blinds.
"Open up!" Came Lee's voice and you looked at Arvin fearfully, clutching the sheets to your chest as he continued pounding on the door.
Arvin looked back at you, placing his finger to his lips and telling you to stay where you were.
"Open this fuckin' door right now!" Lee yelled again.
Arvin walked over to the door, casting another look back at you worriedly.
"Open the fuckin' door!" Lee screamed, causing you to flinch in fear.
Arvin gripped the handle, pulling the door inward but keeping his body flush against it, so that the bed and you were completely hidden from view.
"Jesus mister what's wrong with you..." Arvin ranted, feigning just waking up, "Oh... Lee... Mr Bodecker sir, what are you doin' here?"
"Where is she?" Lee yelled, fists clenching at his sides.
"Where's who?" Arvin responded in confusion, furrowing his brows at the taller man.
"Don't play dumb with me boy, I warned you to stay away, now get out of the way." Lee ordered roughly, attempting to step over the threshold of the room but he was halted by Arvin's unmoving form.
"Can't do that sir." Arvin said firmly, "See, I don't know where your daughter is, but I do got a lady in there and well...you kinda scared the bejesus outta her..."
You could only sit silently and listen, hoping and praying that by some miracle ltee would believe Arvin's lies and leave you be.
"Listen here Arlen..." Lee spat as he closed the gap between his face and Arvin's, pointing his finger at him aggressively.
"It's Arvin.." Arvin responded smugly.
"I don't really give a damn, so you listen to me." Lee growled furiously, spit flying from his mouth, "I know she's with you, I know you're hidin' her in there and for your sake I better find her clothed and untouched or jail will be the least of your worries."
"With all due respect sir," Arvin replied unfazed by the muscular man in his face, "You can't do nuthin' to me, it wouldn't be right, you bein' an officer of the law an' all."
"That's where you're wrong boy," Lee sneered, "I'm the god damn sheriff, I am the law, now move."
Before Arvin could protest, Lee's fist was flying towards his face, hitting him straight in the temple with such ferocity that he dropped to the floor, dizzily clutching at his head while Lee stormed into the room.
His eyes darted around before landing on your quivering form, cheeks now dusted with tears. His eyes narrowed, jaw clenching and nostrils flaring as he took in your state.
"You!" He yelled, pointing his finger out of the door, "Get your god damn ass into my car right now."
"Lee...Daddy please...I just..." You began to beg, clambering from the bed to grab your bag.
Lee's eyes raked over you, taking in your short, thin nightie and bare legs, growling deep in his throat in annoyance.
"I don't wanna hear no excuses outta your slutty little mouth." He yelled once more, "Get in the fuckin' car!"
Your tears began pouring more drastically, and you froze in your spot, shaking your head. You couldn't do this anymore, you wouldn't.
"You sayin' no to me?" Lee sneered, wrinkling his nose in anger when you remained unmoving, before he let out a menacingly chuckle.
"Well okay then." He chuffed, "Let's take this up a notch huh?"
His hand slipped behind his back, gripping at the gun tucked into his belt and he pulled it free, keeping his eyes on you while his gun pointed straight at Arvin, who suddenly stilled his subtle attempts to stand, eyes widening as they locked on the gun.
Your eyes widened, your heart hammered and your hands shook as you looked between Lee, Arvin and the gun now threatening his life.
"You've got to the count of Five." Lee ordered, "One."
Your eyes searched his, looking for any hope that he was bluffing, that he wouldn't do what he was threatening.
"Two!" He yelled, eyes glaring back at yours.
Lee licked his lower lip and cocked the gun.
"Three." He sneered.
"Don't listen to him darlin', I'll be okay." Arvin called over to you from the floor, but your eyes were still locked on Lee's, desperation taking over.
"Four." Lee smiled wickedly, as the thought of shooting Arvin drew closer.
"Okay, I'm goin' I'm goin'." You panicked, shakily grabbing your bag from the chair, not even bothering to collect your shoes for fear it would make him more mad.
"Too fuckin' right." Lee grunted, tucking the gun back into his belt, despite wanting to shoot Arvin anyway.
You scampered around Lee as he snarled at you, quickly scuttling out of the door towards his cruiser.
"And you!" Lee yelled as he crouched down in front of Arvin, "I warned you, I don't wanna run into your skinny hide again or you'll be thrown in jail for a long time ya hear me?"
"Sure thing asshole." Arvin scoffed.
Lee's eyes narrowed, lips pressing together as he stood and swiftly kicked Arvin straight in the stomach, hearing him cough and sputter as he stormed out of the room and towards you.
You gasped as he grabbed your upper arm, dragging you to the back of the car, where he threw you into the back seats, slamming the door behind him, locking you in the car like you were just another criminal.
He didn't speak as he sped off into the midnight darkness, with his knuckles whitening around the steering wheel as he clenched it in his fists. You managed to straighten yourself out, folding your arms across yourself as you shivered from the cold and the fear.
A short while later, Lee pulled along a dusty road, tires creaking across the gravelly path until he came to a small clearing at the start of the woods.
"You're gonna learn a good fuckin' lesson today girl." He grunted as he pushed down the handbrake, quickly shoving his door open and pushing himself out of his seat.
"I'm sorry." You whimpered when your door opened and his palm was wrapped around your bicep once more, dragging you from the car into the cold open air, while your bare feet hit the cold dirt floor.
"Sorry ain't gonna cut it." He growled, "Not when you been shackin' up with that boy behind my back."
"I didn't." You begged, "I just needed a night away."
He came to a stop at the forest's edge, the only light being cast from the cars over head lights.
"Then you tell me and I'll take you to a nicer motel, hell I'll even spring for a meal if you're good." He offered sternly, as if he wasn't the reason you needed to get away in the first place, "Now tell me, did you open your legs for that boy?"
"No...I promise.." You muttered, eyes widening at the insinuation "We just...cuddled."
"Cuddled?" Lee scoffed, "What is this a fuckin' romance novel or some o' that shit you read? This is the real world honey, the real world ain't so kind. Sooner you learn that the better."
"Okay." You almost yelled as tears began pooling in your eyes again, while darting around the dense woods before you, dark and ominous, "Can we just go home please? I'm scared."
"Ha you think you're scared now." He chuffed, finally releasing your arm to take a step back away from you as a smirk appeared on his face, "We're gonna play ourselves a little game, right here in these woods."
"What?" You gasped, clutching your arms tightly over your chest as goosebumps spread over your bare skin.
"I'm gonna let you go, let you run free." Lee revealed, "Hell I'll even turn around, won't even watch where you're goin'."
"What? I don't understand..." You said with furrowed brows.
"Well you ain't the brightest are ya sweetie?" He chuckled, "Now you're gonna get a little headstart and then Daddy's gonna try to catch ya."
"What?" You gasped in horror, "I don't...I can't..."
"You will darlin'." He sneered, tucking his thumbs into his belt by his hips, "You'll run for your god damn life, cause if I catch you, I ain't gonna go easy on your sorry ass."
Your mouth opened and closed, throat bobbing harshly as your eyes grew hazy.
"Here's the deal." Lee continued, "You run. If you get away from me and survive 'til sunrise, I'll leave you alone, hell I'll even pay for you to leave town if that's what you want."
"What? You will?" You squeaked, unsure whether to believe him or not while he stood so nonchalantly before you
"But if I catch you," He growled, eyes darkening as they raked over your body, "You stop playin' games with me, you'll stop actin' like an ungrateful brat and start bein' good for your daddy, we got a deal?"
You gulped harshly, mind running at a thousand miles a minute as you looked between him and the trees. Could you do it? Could you survive the few hours til sunrise and finally be free? Could you accept your position if you lost?
"Haven't got all day to decide darlin'." Lee drawled, watching you with amusement, "We haven't got long til the suns up."
"O..okay." You stammered, deciding to take your chances, "Yes..deal."
"Well look at that," Lee chuckled with a smile, "You got some fight in ya after all. Well alright then sweetheart, times tickin', off you go."
You didn't waste a single second, quickly sprinting off into the dense trees as sticks and stones stabbed into the flesh of your feet.
You could do it. You just needed to find somewhere to hide, somewhere you could remain quiet, to not let him track you by making noisy footsteps.
It was getting darker and darker the further you got in and even as your eyes adjusted, all shapes around you were distorted, you knew you had a chance, you could win.
You gasped as you almost stumbled over a small ledge, body wobbling to steady yourself as you heard laughter in the distance, the sound of your capturer making chase.
You carefully lowered yourself down the ledge and settled yourself on the ground, flattening your back against the ledge with your knees pulled up to your chest and your arms desperately holding them to try and keep yourself warm while you waited Lee out.
"Oh darlin'." Lee drawled from somewhere in the distance, branches crunching under his heavy boot steps, completely uncaring that you could hear him, "Where are ya baby, Daddy's cocks already hard and waitin' for ya."
You stared silent, gripping your legs so harshly that your own fingertips were sure to leave marks on your skin.
The steps drew closer, gravel kicking over the edge of the ledge you had taken shelter by, scattering against your body.
"Mmm I know you're close sweetheart," Lee smiled, "Can smell that sweet perfume ya got soaked in your pretty skin."
You let out a silent sob, clamping your hand over your mouth as tears spilled down your cheeks.
You heard a shuffle above you, before a large body jumped from the ledge, landing in front of you.
"Boo." Lee laughed as your face turned white.
"Ahh..." You screamed, clambering to your feet and trying to get around him but he was too quick, he closed the distance easily, clamping his arms around your waist from behind and hauling your feet off the ground.
"Ah ah ah, I don't think so baby girl." He smirked smugly, "You're mine now. So stop jerkin' around and take what your daddy gives ya."
"Please...Daddy...." You gasped breathily, "Please don't hurt me."
"Oh baby, it'll only hurt for a minute, then ya might even enjoy it." He chuckled and you knew there was no use fighting, he was too strong, too quick, he had you, he'd won.
He dropped to his knees with you still in his arms before pushing your torso down into the dirt and hiking your backside up onto your knees, grunting as he quickly ripped your panties off beneath your nightie that he pushed over your hips.
He hurried to release his hard cock from the confines of his jeans, quickly pushing them down to his knees along with his underwear before he began groping your ass cheeks harshly in his palms.
You inhaled sharply, ready for the stretch his cock always provided your pussy, breath faltering and eyes widening in panic when you felt him drag the head of his cock over your other hole.
"What are you doin'?" You squeaked, trying to pull your hips away from him but he was quick to drag you back, landing a hard slap to your ass cheek as a warning.
"Oh baby," He laughed mockingly, "Did you think Daddy was gonna give your pussy attention after the way you been behavin'? Not a chance, Daddy's got another hole right here just waitin' for me to stretch it open."
He pushed the tip to your hole again, tongue hanging over his lower lip as he watched the way it wrinkled before him.
"Please..." You sobbed, shaking your head in the dirt as your hands grasped at the ground.
"I do love it when you beg darlin'..." He groaned, forcing himself forward until the tip of his huge cock was stretching you out.
"Oh god...it stings...stop!" You cried.
He slapped your ass again while his tip stayed nestled inside you, this time even harder, sharper, leaving a pain that shot through your spine and had you gritting your teeth.
"We had an agreement!" Lee yelled, "You're mine, you fuckin' agreed, now you stick to your fuckin' word and be a good girl for me while I take what I want."
You let out a whimper, bottom lip wobbling as your chest heaved.
"What was that?" He coaxed in annoyance, taking your hips in a bruising grip.
"Yes Daddy." You said in a low squeak, eyes clenching shut in preparation for his assault.
"Better." He mused with a smile.
He returned to his mission, pushing forward to stretch your ass even further, not giving you a chance to breath as he forced you to take more of his cock.
"Oh shit baby, god it's so fuckin' tight." He moaned in pleasure, "Maybe if you'd been a good girl I woulda worked it open for you nice and slow, but nah, you had to be a little brat."
He snapped his hips forward, forcing the rest of his cock into your ass with a snarl. You let out a silent scream, crying into the ground at the throbbing pain.
"There we go. Fuck." He grunted, "Oh god, feels like fuckin' heaven."
He began pulling his cock from you, only to thrust back into you again as you whimpered beneath him.
"You feel that baby?" Lee teased, "Daddy's all the way up in your little asshole. Feels good doesn't it, givin' in."
He started fucking you without abandon, snapping his hips against your ass cheeks while you writhed and cried.
You were glad when the pain eased off, precum seeping from Lee's cock to lubricate your hole.
His balls slapped against your folds and clit with each pound and suddenly your head began to feel strange, your body began to wind up like a spring preparing to bounce, as tingles spread through your core. You'd never experienced this with Lee before and you didn't want too, especially now, not like this.
"Things are gonna change now baby." Lee grunted as he tightened his hold on your hips, rocking back and forth into your ass, completely unaware of the storm rolling through your body.
"Gonna divorce your useless mama," He announced, "Get her put in some junkie hole and me and you are gonna have ourselves a little weddin'."
Your eyes widened and you gasped at his announcement, unable to speak as he kept slamming into you and working your coil tighter and tighter.
"Yeah, gonna be together properly, out in the open." He continued.
You let out a squeak as you sobbed, all the while your brain was screaming but your body was delighting in the way it was being used.
"You didn't think I actually liked your mama did ya?" Lee chuckled as his breathing became harsh from the exertion.
"Hell no baby." He mocked, "Saw you at the station come to collect her, god you looked so sweet, but you're a tough one to crack, couldn't get away from me fast enough."
You bit down on your lip, tears soaking through the gaps onto your tongue as you processed his words, that he'd planned this from the beginning.
"Your mama was desperate though," He continued, "Easy enough to work my way into your life that way. All worked out in the end didn't it, now you're mine and always will be."
Despite everything, the things he was telling you and how much you hated him, your body spasmed, coil snapping and heat searing through your skin as you came with a loud groan, "Oh god!"
Lee's movements eased slightly, eyes widening as he looked down at you in surprise before a smile spread across his face.
"Well shit baby, did you just come?" He teased in amusement.
You couldn't respond, too busy riding out the waves of bliss from your unwanted orgasm.
"Just came with nothin' even stuffed in that pussy, just from Daddy destroying your ass." He snorted, "See your body has accepted it darlin', time for your silly little head to catch up."
He growled low in his throat, snapping his hips against you a few more times before he buried himself to the hilt, moaning as he began to fill your ass with come, "Fuck. That's it. Shit."
Lee pulled out with a hiss and a smug smile on his face, tickling his finger along your ass to prod at the come leaking from you.
"Well would you look at that..." He grinned, "Now all your holes have been filled with my come. I own you now, you understand?"
What could you say? There was nothing you could do. Nothing but to accept that there was no escape, you'd agreed to this, your body responded to this, you would never be free, never.
"Yes..." You whispered.
"Louder baby." Lee growled as he pushed himself to his feet and began tucking himself away, "I know you got better manners than that."
"Yes Daddy, I understand." You swallowed, forcing your words to come out louder than before.
His hand wrapped around your arm, pulling you up from the ground as he planted himself in front of you. He took your chin in his palm, pulling your dirty and tear stricken face up to his.
"Good girl." He grinned, "Come on then, let's go home and tell your mama the good news."
âŠBucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!âŠ
âŠsummary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.âŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of readerâŠ
âŠwc: 7.5kâŠ
âŠAuthor's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?âŠ
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, youâre perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You donât have any powers, and youâve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. Youâre a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If youâd consider it. The whole hero thing. Youâd laughed and shaken your head. You told him that youâre not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that youâd be good at it.
Youâd smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you canât be normal about anything.
Youâre not casual. Youâre obsessive, and quietly insane. You donât become the top of your field like this while being anything else. Itâs easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in itâs order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and itâs never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesnât praise you. Who doesnât treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, heâd looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
Youâd been a fucking goner.
Buckyâs handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. Youâd made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the worldâs most handsome men, youâd maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
Youâre not weird around him. Youâre not a stalker, and youâre not that kind of insane. Youâre perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You donât react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
âYou ready to look at his arm?â Tony asks, and you hum.
âThink so. Just maintenance?â
âYes, maâam.â Tony sighs. âIâd work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,â he shrugs. âDonât look like you wanna throat chop him.â
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. Itâs not a big deal. Youâre the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, whoâs qualified to work on Buckyâs arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. Heâs there. Heâs right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
âHi,â you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
Heâs staring at you. He mustâve said something that you didnât hear. Fuck.
âWhat?â
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
âYou the one workinâ on me today?â His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if thereâs any part of him that isnât addictive.
Youâre here for a job. Youâre here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
âTony has bad bedside manner,â you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, thatâs worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
âHe does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time Iâm here,â he mutters, crossing the room. âDonât even know what that means.â
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. Heâs sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. Youâre normal. âArnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.â
âAh.â Bucky pauses. âSam calls me that, too. It a good movie?â
âItâs fine.â You shrug. âIf you like stuff from the 80s.â
âI donât know things from the 80s.â
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Buckyâs eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
âI think youâd like some of it.â You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. âI mean, any decade will have itâs ups and downs.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. Itâs a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and thereâs only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
âYou want me to go?â
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. âNo- No- I- Iâm just-â
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. Heâs fucking with you.
âShut up,â you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. Itâs going to be the death of you.
âItâs just- Itâs amazing technology.â You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
âI can tell, from the way youâre eye fuckinâ it.â
âEye fucking.â You shake your head, biting back your smile. âHow do you even know what that means?â
âToo much time with Sam.â
âHm,â you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscleâhe should be thanking Shuri even more, she didnât have to give him bicepsâlooking for a panel. âTony told me you werenât going to talk.â
âTonyâs got that bad bedside manner,â Bucky shrugs with his good arm. âYou gonna be nicer to me, doll?â
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Samâs already gotten him to watch, and what Steveâs trying to get him to watch next, and what Steveâs saving so they can look at it together.
âIs Star Wars any good?â He asks, and you snort.
âDo you like cowboys?â
âIâm neutral.â
âDo you like space?â
âYeah,â he pauses, then mutters, âI wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.â
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. âYeah?â
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. âI heard we got up there eventually.â
âWe did. A few times.â Itâs hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. âBut now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less⊠Coveted.â
Buckyâs lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
âI think youâd like Star Wars.â Youâre still whispering. You donât know why.
âAlright,â Bucky says. And thatâs it. He just⊠Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like Iâm under surveillance. You roll your eyes and donât respond. It doesnât feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So youâre not special. Youâre just another person in his line of sight.
âI tried those donuts you were talkinâ about,â he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
Itâs the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. Youâre normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
âLiked them,â he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. âDid you have the cookies and cream?â
He nods. âJust like you told me to.â
You smile despite yourself. Itâs those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
âSam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.â
âSamâs right.â
Bucky sighs. âHate it when that happens.â
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
âYou should try cotton candy ice cream,â you murmur. âItâs fucking crazy.â
âThat is my favorite kind of thing.â
âI know.â
Buckyâs lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. âYou got a good place? For ice cream?â
You shrug. âThe grocery store?â
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you donât understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then youâre in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Buckyâs massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. Heâd shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble heâs been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
âAll for me?â Heâd murmur, and youâd nod helplessly. âYou just walk around, pussy leakinâ because of how bad you need it?â
And youâd whimper. You do. Thereâs nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingersâsmaller than Buckyâs, but all you haveârub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that itâs Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Buckyâs would.
âMessy girl,â heâd coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until youâre trembling beneath him. Youâd try to push up into his hand, but heâd shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
âBuckyyyy...â You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
âThere you go, babydoll,â heâd kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. âThatâs it. You like that, donât you. Like fallinâ apart on my fingers.â
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you canât hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
âI know,â Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. âI know, sweet girl. Câmon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.â
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after youâre done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, youâre going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But youâll see him. And youâll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he canât see it just under your features. That all heâd ever need to do it touch your head, and youâd fall to your knees.
Youâre devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and heâs not your boss, but heâs boss adject, and thereâs nothing about him thatâs accessible. Thereâs no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, youâre going to fantasize. You canât hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
Thatâs what youâll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
Itâs all just a fantasy.
Youâre perfectly professional about it. Itâs not Buckyâs fault that heâs so handsome it feels like you shouldnât be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. Youâll be good, and youâll act sane, and that will be it.
Heâs been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
Youâve developed an easy friendship. Thatâs all youâll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When youâre working on his arm, you donât think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until youâre alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and heâd act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then heâd kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. Heâd coo about what a good girl you were for him, and youâd whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
âWhatâre you thinking about?â Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but youâve never been this lost in anyone but him. Itâs a miracle no oneâs noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly youâre all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. Itâs pathetic. You canât stop.
âNothing?â Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
âNope.â
âYou looked like you were thinkinâ about something.â
âI wasnât.â You look back to the sandwich youâd been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. âNothing going on up here, Barnes.â
Buckyâs lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like heâs just like some holy kind of candle.
âI donât believe that,â he murmurs, and you shrug.
âYou donât have to.â
âWell, I donât.â
âGood for you.â
âIt is, isnât it,â he chuckles. âIâm gonna love being right.â
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. âBeing⊠Right?â
âI know youâre thinkinâ about something.â He shrugs. âIâll figure out what.â
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what youâre thinking about. âItâs not anything interesting,â you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
âAh. So itâs something.â
âI- Thatâs-â You sputter. âWhy do you even care-â
âI like knowinâ what youâre thinking,â he shrug. âItâs always interesting.â
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and youâre sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
âCâmon. Tell me.â He leans closer. Thereâs a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you wonât tell him. Thatâs against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, heâs looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
âIâm hungry,â you whisper, and Buckyâs brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. âYou should⊠Uh- Eat.â
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
âYou ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?â He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. ââS a really good movie-â
âChew then swallow, doll.â Buckyâs lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
âItâs a good movie,â you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. âSorry.â
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, heâll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and itâs making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you werenât rooting in place, you think youâd fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Buckyâs nostrils flare.
Thereâs something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that mustâve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
âCrumbs,â he mutters, and you nod.
âYeah.â
âI- Uh-â He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You donât know what you expected. Hell, youâve told yourself what to expect. Youâre not allowed to be disappointed by him. Youâre not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
âSamâs been tryinâ to make me watch it,â he mutters, and you blink.
âWhat?â
âPrincess Bride.â
âOh.â Youâre still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and itâs fogging up your brain. âCool.â
Bucky nods. âWeâre gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.â He gives you a sideways look. âI never see you at those.â
You shrug. âIâm not an Avenger.â
âStark says you get invited.â
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend heâs fucking you stupid.
âYouâre invited to movie night, too.â He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You canât go there. Youâll lose your mind.
But heâs looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. Thereâs no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
âOh- Okay.â
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and youâll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. Itâs dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
âYou get messy,â he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldnât have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now youâre going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. Itâs easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
âI know, doll. Too much, isnât it?â
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
âToo much,â he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. âIâm barely even touchinâ, and youâre already about to fuckinâ fall apart for me.â
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
âDirty girl.â He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. âLook at that, pretty little pussy fuckinâ shining for me.â
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, itâs with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
âWhat a mess, baby.â He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because itâs just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you couldâve ever imagined.
You show up, and itâs just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
âStevieâs on a mission,â Bucky says, staring at you like heâs seeing an angel. Like he didnât invite you.
Thereâs an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe heâs just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesnât smirk on his face. You donât think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesnât know shit.
âBuck told me youâd be cominâ. I didnât believe him.â
âSam.â Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
âWhat? I didnât.â He grins at you. âYou never leave your lab-â
âShe leaves her lab.â Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
âNo, heâs right. I really donât.â
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. Youâre going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, theyâll think somethingâs wrong, because no oneâs ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. Youâve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. Youâve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. Heâs sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But youâre supposed to be watching the movie. Heâs supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Buckyâs knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. Heâs warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and youâre already wet.
The movie isnât even a third of the way done.
Buckyâs fingers rest on your shoulder. Itâs so light, so casual, youâre not even sure he knows heâs doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. Heâs gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesnât react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. Youâre not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they canât stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Buckyâs hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Buckyâs right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need thatâs clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. Itâs slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
âMessy girl,â he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, youâre lost in a daze. Buckyâs pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
âCâmon, doll,â he beckons. âShow me what you can do.â
Almost in a trance, you nod. Buckyâs eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.Â
When you look at him, thereâs nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that itâs all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
âRelax, baby,â you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. âLittle hard to do that right now.â
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. âIs it? Hard?â
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so youâre eye level with his dick. Heâs pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You donât want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
âDollâŠâ Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. Heâs a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. âDonât tease- Jesus-â
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Buckyâs shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
âSo- So fuckinâ warm-â He chokes out. âHoly- Youâre somethinâ, sweetheart- God-â
You hum, and Buckyâs hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. Heâs using you, god, heâs using you, and itâs the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
âSomething on my face, doll?â
You blink, and Buckyâs cock isnât in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
âHm?â
âYou were, you were- Uh-â He clears his throat, then shakes his head. âNever mind.â
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
Youâre so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and youâre always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How theyâd feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
âYou feelinâ alright?â Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
âYeah. Just- Just tired.â
He looks at you like he doesnât believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, youâd be avoiding him. But youâre not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Buckyâs in your office and youâre examining his arm, itâs purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
âCareful,â he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
âUh huh,â you breathe out, and you couldâve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Buckyâs nostrils had flared, and heâd helped you up to your seat. Youâd already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. Youâd tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then youâd looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And youâd been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. Heâd stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He wouldâve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. Youâd watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
âSorry,â you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
âYouâve been kinda out of it, lately.â His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
âJust getting lost in thought,â you murmur, and he hums.
âAnything I can help with?â
You shake your head, because if you speak youâll start begging. Please, please, please, heâs the only one who can help you, youâre going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
âMovinâ usually helps me.â He offers softly. You almost donât hear him. âYâknow. Using my body. Remembering that itâs mine.â
âYeah?â You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You canât read that expression. Youâre not sure you want to.
âYeah,â he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you donât trust your own mind anymore. âYou wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ainât bad.â
And you should say no, but you canât help it. You nod, and Buckyâs lips twitch, and God, what you wonât do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Buckyâs too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way thatâs more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. Heâs lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think youâd be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
âCome on,â he offers you a hand. âLemme show you something.â
And you canât say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
âBucky, I canât-â
âYeah, you can.â He raises his fists, nodding to your own. âUp, doll.â
You sigh, raising them slowly. âYouâre going to kick my ass-â
âI am. And then youâre going to get better.â
You scoffâheâs ridiculousâbut listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but heâs too fast. Youâre pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
âBucky- Get off-â
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. Youâve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever couldâve imagined.
Heâd been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-â
âUp,â he beckons, and you swallow.
âI- I donât know-â
âYeah, you do.â He gives you a playful smile. âGet up.â
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. âGetting competitive?â
You shrug. âYou wanted me to.â
Something flashes in his eyes. Youâre not sure how to read into it.
âDamn right I do,â his voice is lower. Youâre not imagining that.
You donât get time to think about it, before heâs moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Buckyâs broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon youâre more play wrestling than doing anything else. Youâre giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
Heâs hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. Itâs one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Buckyâs face is redder than youâve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isnât a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and itâs so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
âBetter.â He offers you a hand. âThat wasâŠâ
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
âAh,â he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. âLemme hear you, doll.â
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. âGood girl.â
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. Heâs big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
âNo,â Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. âNothinâ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.â
You hum, and take a deep breath. Youâre grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face. Â
âThatâs my girl,â he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. âThatâs it. Just take it for me, just like that.â
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. Heâs met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But thereâs nothing else to be expected. Not with how Buckyâs using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so youâre pressed against his chest. Youâre pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. Youâre limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like youâre drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
Youâre so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he canât help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
Itâs not as warm as youâd be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how youâd feel, molding around him. About how youâd sound right in his ear, how youâd get smiley and drool, and heâs feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. Youâd moan around them, and heâd thrust up into you so hard heâd knock the damn worries out of your head.
Itâs his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. Heâd never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because heâs a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
âŠEnd note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with itâŠ
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