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Summary: Bucky had never met someone quite as relentless as you. You’d been after him for months, always demanding answers for some thing you were writing on whatever topic. He didn’t care about specifics. Bucky had never seen you but he did turn you down each time on the phone. After all, he was a busy man. He didn’t have time for some random reporter or her random article. And you knew he would never give you the time of day if you just keep asking politely. So you played by his rules – laid a harmless little trap and waited until he fell in it perfectly. Oblivious, unguarded, and unsuspecting. Or was he…?
Themes: smut, explicit language, mob!bucky, reporter!reader, mild degrading kink, praise kink, soft!dom!bucky, spicy photography (??? idk how to tag it), bucky’s a bit of a dick in this lowkey but we love him, mild daddy kink
Was it wrong of you to con your way into one of his clubs, pretending to be one of his girls, all just to get answers you needed out of him for an article you were writing?
Maybe.
But his world was full of cons, thieves, liars, criminals and bad, bad people. Your little lies, and cunning little plan was nothing compared to what he did.
Bucky Barnes. Who didn’t know him? He was everything. A terrible man to some. A benevolent anti-hero to others. He gave back to the people, he protected his territory and all those living within it. He was ruthless to his enemies. But most of all, Bucky Barnes was untouchable.
Well. Untouchable to most.
To you, as you sat on his lap, he wasn’t. In fact, to play your part well and make it as believable as you could, you couldn’t stop touching him all over. His neck, down the bit of skin on his chest that was left exposed by his undone top buttons, up and down his arms where you could feel the muscles beneath the fabric of his black shirt, down his torso and stopping right at the buckle of his ridiculously expensive belt.
Bucky, as you had planned, mistook you for just another one of the many girls at his club who was desperate for the boss’ attention. And all it took was a coy look, and a shy smile earlier that evening and Bucky folded.
Typical. Men, no matter how powerful, were always so easy. You kept your smirk to yourself, partially hiding your face into the crook of his neck as you breathed in his scent. Bucky’s metal hand drew mindless shapes all over your exposed thigh while he answered a work related phone call. Your hands roamed all over him too, but you held on to every word he spoke. You’d need it after all, for your article.
So far you had gathered that he was sort of stressed out over some shipment. You didn’t know what it was yet, or where it was coming from. And the unanswered questions were killing you.
When he finally ended the phone call, you couldn’t help but ask, “What’s stressing you out so much?” You kept your voice steady, making sure to sound barely interested at all. Which was hard because nothing professional had ever required this much acting before. But also, his touch was distracting. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have goosebumps all over your body each time his metal hand caressed your warm skin.
Bucky sighed. You finally looked up at him. He was a gorgeous man. Terrible he might be, but Bucky Barnes was as beautiful as an angel. The pictures they posted of him online, or on the news, didn't do him justice. He was so… perfect.
Even his beauty was distracting. But you forced yourself to pay attention the moment he began talking.
“Just… work.” He groaned, his hands pulling you closer, placing you right on top of his crotch. “You know how it is sometimes.” He looked at you with those cool, gentle, but deep blue eyes. “Don’t you, pretty girl? Hmm?” He tilted his head to the side, looking at you curiously. A simple movement. It shouldn’t have made your heart skip a beat like it did.
“Mhmm.” You traced a finger down his cheek as a distraction. “Something about some shipment I overheard. What’s that about?” You ran your fingertip along his lower lip mindlessly.
Bucky smirked. “Some people are being difficult, doll. They’re refusing to give me what I paid for well in advance.” His hands grabbed you by the thighs, pressing you further into him. “Can’t have that now, can we?”
You smiled, unconsciously leaning into him a little more. “No.” You answered, leaning further in and brushing the tip of your nose with his. “But like, what shipment are we talking about? Weapons and stuff? Where is it coming from?”
You tried your hardest to sound dumb and uninterested, but you weren’t convincing enough apparently.
Because Bucky wrapped his metal arm around your waist, making sure there was no escape, and chuckled.
Your body froze as he spoke, his lips dangerously close to yours, “You know, you’re not as subtle as you’re desperately trying to be.” He whispered. “Did you think I didn’t figure who you were the moment I saw you in my club, little miss reporter?” Bucky laughed.
Shit.
You gasped when the shock wore off. You tried to get off his lap but he didn’t let you.
“Ah. Don’t you dare run.” He warned, staring deep into your eyes as your struggle slowly died down. “Now that you have me exactly where you wanted me, you have nothing to ask?”
Your heart was racing. But then again, if he wanted you dead you’d be dead already.
Fine. No running.
“Why did you play along?” You asked, mentally trying to find the quickest way out. If needed.
He smirked again. “You looked so adorable trying to blend in here.” He leaned in and whispered into your ear, “Like an eager little puppy, trying to get my attention.” He pulled away to watch your reaction. He liked how you squirmed in embarrassment. Right on top of his crotch too. “Keep moving like that, and you might just get what you came for.”
“What?” Another soft gasp escaped your mouth. “I didn’t–”
“Really?” He cut you off. “You don’t want anything? Is that why you wore a matching set under this very see-through dress to come and see me? Hmm?” He looked so smug. Pure male arrogance.
It should’ve pissed you off. But it didn’t. It suited him so well, all that arrogance as he sat there manspreading on the couch in his dimly lit office, with you barely clothed on his lap.
You squirmed again, trying to get out of his ridiculously warm and comfortable embrace. “I’ll go.” You said. “I won’t bother you anymore.”
Bucky chuckled. “Oh no we can’t have that. It took so much work to get here. Tricked my guards, made friends with the girls who work here, you worked so fucking hard to get my attention. Now you wanna leave? Absolutely not.”
“Well–,” You began arguing, then you stopped upon realising that this wasn’t a regular man. He was actually a very dangerous criminal. He could have you killed, and buried with no trace left behind if he wanted to. “Please.”
He must’ve picked up on it. Judging by the way your body tensed up. “I won’t hurt you.” He said, letting his warm hand drop to your exposed thigh. He caressed your skin. “Don’t be scared.” Then he looked down and smirked. “And if you would stop grinding on me maybe we could talk about that little article you’re writing.”
Damn it.
You tried to pull away again, but Bucky caught you just in time. “Come on, doll.” He was having too much fun. You could tell. “Be a good girl and sit still. I won’t hurt you.”
You remained still. Just as he asked.
“Now,” He sighed, “Can we talk? Hmm? Wanna tell me what you’re working on?” His fingers didn’t stop caressing your skin. And his touch felt… oddly calming in a way that only familiar touches feel. Seeing you weren’t answering, he added, “Come on, baby. Talk to me.”
And that low, deep voice of his made you tremble.
“I… I need that article.” You sighed, “I want to be taken more seriously. At work. I mean, I want my articles to be taken more seriously.” You blinked, trying your hardest to make sense. “And you, well, nobody dares to write in depth about you or what you truly do, so…” You took a deep breath. “I figured if I do, then maybe it would be– that maybe I would be noticed.” You kept your head lowered, unable to understand how you managed to get that real and vulnerable around him.
He was a stranger.
Or, maybe not. You’d been researching him for months now. Maybe your brain got so used to him that opening up was no big deal. Perhaps it was also because you realised he wasn’t gonna hurt you. Either way you surprised yourself by being truly honest.
Bucky was quiet. Maybe thinking. After a long pause he asked, “Are you lying?”
You looked up immediately, finding yourself staring into glacier eyes. “No. Why would I lie?”
His metal slowly travelled up your body, from your thigh, up your torso, until he slowly wrapped his fingers around your throat. It was supposed to be a menacing move, threatening. But it wasn’t. It was just as grounding, mind-melting, and intense as his stare.
“If I find out you’re lying, or you’re some kind of spy sent to me in a pretty little package… baby, I’m not gonna be so nice. You hear me?”
You nodded, suddenly under a trance. “I’m not lying. Look, I get it. I shouldn’t have done this. I’ll go, I promise. You’ll never hear from me or see me ever again.”
Bucky faked a pout. Almost like he was mocking you. “Now, when did I say I wanted you gone? Huh?” His pout slowly turned into that feline smirk he always had in most of his pictures in the tabloids or in the newspapers. “I think I know why you’re here. And it has almost nothing to do with your article.”
Huh. That caught your attention. “What do you mean?”
“I think you’re here for answers.” He stated, like he was having the most casual conversation with someone. “But not for your writing. I think you’re here for yourself. Because you’re curious. Because you secretly like my world.”
“I… I do not.” You were quick to say. Sounding almost offended.
Bucky raised an eyebrow at you, again in that mocking manner. “Oh? So all those months of stalking me was for what? You want me to believe it was for some random article?” He scoffed. “You could’ve written whatever you wanted, people would’ve believed it like they do everything else in the news. But why the thorough research, huh? Why the scheming and pretending? Why take such a huge risk?”
His metal hand unwrapped itself from around your throat, and he slid it so easily in between your bodies, cupping you down there, letting his fingers press against your throbbing clit. You gasped in surprise, but you didn’t move an inch to get away.
Bucky’s smirk grew. “You see.” He moved his fingers gently, teasing you through your thin lingerie. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? You wanted me.”
Your heartbeats quickened when he easily slid your underwear to the side and touched you properly with slow teasing strokes. Cold metal fingers against your heated skin. “That’s not…” You held back a moan, “True.”
Bucky was having too much fun watching you gasp, and trying your hardest to not moan, or to not grind against his fingers. He didn’t remember the last time he had such genuine desire to make a girl lose control. Usually the women he slept with did everything they could to please him. It was almost never the other way around.
But you… oh. This was going to be a fun night, he thought.
“Are you going to write about this?” He asked, gently sliding a finger inside you. He loved how you trembled. “Hmm?” He leaned closer, lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he slid another finger in, slowly fucking you with them. “Are you going to write about how good my fingers feel inside you?”
Your hands instinctively found their way around his neck, you held onto him as he touched you like he had all the time in the world to play with your body and earn your reactions. And you simply let him.
“Look at you.” He taunted, noticing the little movements you did with your hips in desperation. “You really did your best to try and blend in, huh? You even got this little see-through number on.” He chuckled. “But the expensive lingerie under it gives you away, baby. Girls in this part of the city don’t wear nice things like this.”
That comment made you mad for some reason. You found yourself frowning at him and asking, “How the– fuck, oh my god,” You cried out when he slid his fingers deeper, “How the hell do you know if it’s expensive lingerie or not?”
He gave you a smug, boyish grin. “I’ve taken enough off to know.”
You gasped, both in pleasure and disbelief. “You’re disgusting.” You managed to whisper.
He laughed. “And look at you, loving it.”
You opened your mouth to sass back, but he shut you up by abruptly sliding his fingers out of you and shoving them into your open mouth. You barely registered as it happened. Your brain only caught up when he began talking again.
“Do you feel disgusting now?” He asked, his voice as triumphant as always. “Have I spoiled you? Hmm? Did my touch make you dirty?” He kept his eyes on yours, knowing damn well your pussy was begging for his touch.
Hell, you would’ve begged him if he didn’t have his fingers into your mouth.
“You don’t belong in my world.” He stated, moving his fingers gently along your tongue. “You’re too… clean. Too tidy and nice.” He said it like it was an insult. “But you want it, don’t you? To belong? Here?”
You kept that soft suction on his fingers as you nodded.
He smiled. A genuine, proud smile. “Yeah? You want daddy to make you one of his girls?”
You nodded again, this time whimpering as he pulled his fingers back and out of your mouth. Leaving you empty and throbbing and fucking desperate.
“Now, be daddy’s good girl and take all that off.”
You moved immediately, delirious with anticipation and pleasure. And within the next few seconds, you were off the couch, off his lap, and stripping. You didn’t bother to put on a show either. Bucky preferred that. The whole performative stripping was getting boring.
Once done, he guided you back over on his lap. “Good girl.” He murmured, looking up at you with those blue gorgeous eyes. His hands continued exploring your body, now bare. And he was shameless. Touching everything, everywhere. His hands, warm and cold all over your body.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” He whispered along your collar bones, kissing and licking your skin. “And you smell so fucking good.” You inched closer to him, rubbing your crotch against his clothed but erected cock, making yourself gasp and moan.
Bucky just chuckled at your impatience.
“I should be kicking you out.” He said. “I should have a couple of my guys keep an eye on you and make sure you never bother me again. But I can’t.” He tightened his grip on your waist just a little and pulled you closer to him, nuzzling your neck again. “How can I when you look so fucking good and fit so perfectly on my lap?”
You couldn’t help but whisper, “Please…”
“Please what?” He smirked against your skin. “What do you want, baby?” He wrapped his arms around you, grounding you on his clothed cock in the process, “My fingers again?” He reached up to grab the back of your neck, tilting your head back so he could kiss and whisper against your skin, “Or my cock?”
Would it be wrong to admit that you wanted him? Desperately. Shamelessly. You wanted him, all of him. You wanted his warm, muscular body pressed up against you while he fucked the brains out of you.
“Your cock, please.” You begged, gasping for breath already as he playfully bit your throat. You didn’t remember the last time a man had you this hot and bothered.
He chuckled, letting his hand rest at your butt, bringing your body closer to his. “Well then you have to work for it, doll.” He said, amused. “I love a woman who goes for what she wants.” He confessed. “You worked so hard to get here, didn’t you? Well go on then, work some more. Take my cock out and put it in you.” He said, then leaned back to watch you.
He was so fucking mean. It only turned you on even more.
Now what? He’s just gonna sit there and watch. How borderline humiliating. Damn him.
But you were needy enough that you didn’t have time for shame.
Bucky carefully watched each one of your moves. The desperation in your eyes, how your eager, trembling hands rapidly undid his pants to free his throbbing cock. He smirked, radiating pure male confidence when he caught the way you whimpered under your breath at the sight of him.
You lifted your eyes up, staring into his as you wrapped your hand around him, slowly stroking his veiny cock, making him groan under his breath. “I said put it inside you, doll.”
You whimpered helplessly as you did, lifting your body off of his lap and aligning the tip of his cock to your hole and then slowly, slowly sinking down on him. You moaned, watching his cock disappear inside of you. Filling you up.
“Come here,” He growled once he was nice and deep inside your warm, wet hole. Grabbing you by the throat, Bucky pulled you closer and kissed you hungrily. Growling into your mouth about how good it felt to be inside you, “Good job. Look how pretty you look, filled with my cock. Do you realise how pretty you look?”
You said nothing back. You just focused on breathing and feeling.
“Come on,” Bucky struggled to hold back. He wanted nothing more than to just fuck. But he needed to tease you a little more. “Don’t you wanna remember this? For when you write your article, huh? Give me your phone.”
That part confused you. “What?” You cried out.
Bucky chuckled. “Where’s your phone, huh?” He looked around, and it was discarded and long forgotten in a corner of the couch. He reached for it and immediately opened your camera. “I want you to remember every detail. It might help with your writing.” He angled the camera down, neither of your faces visible but your bodies… oh it was a sight.
Your body pressed up against his. Him fully clothed but you were completely naked, with his cock buried deep inside you. You whimpered and hid your face into his neck as Bucky clicked multiple pics.
“Aww, what? Now you’re shy?” He taunted. “What about when you had plans to seduce me and get info out of me earlier, huh? You didn’t seem so shy when you basically threw yourself at me.”
You melted, immediately grinding your hips against his, desperate for some friction. For any kind of movement. Just needy.
“Please…”
He tossed your phone aside carelessly. His hands grabbed you by the hips as he carefully helped you lift your lower body up and then slowly, lowering you down his cock again.
“That feels good, doesn’t it, doll?” He sounded different. Rougher.
You nodded, looking down to see where your bodies connected and the sight of it, of his cock stretching you out was just sinful.
“You feel perfect, you know that?” Bucky grabbed and held your hips in place, gently thrusting his hips up, making you moan as he filled you up, “Just a perfect girl for me, aren’t you?”
Bucky leaned in to kiss your open mouth. His kiss was punishing, while he moved your body gently, rocking you back and forth on his cock to get you to get used to the girth of him. His cock throbbed against your walls, causing the tiniest bit of friction which drove you insane and turned you into a teary, mumbling mess.
“Please, please, please…” You pleaded.
“Aww baby, what is it? Is it too much? Hmm?” He teased, placing his thumb against your clit and rubbing it slowly while still moving your hips back and forth. “But isn’t this what you wanted? When you dragged me all the way here earlier, whispering dirty secrets in my ear… wasn’t this what you had in mind?”
You looked into his eyes with your teary ones.
Bucky smirked, “Poor baby, so hungry for cock. Isn’t she?” He let go of your hips, no longer helping you to move. “You were willing to fuck me and get what you wanted out of me for the sake of your little article, weren’t you? Go on then, take what you want. And make it good for me.”
You lifted your lower body slightly, before sliding back down on his cock. Now that he wasn’t helping you, it was way harder than earlier. You struggled to make him fit for a moment.
You whimpered and he groaned once he fit snug inside of you again. The tip of his cock reaching sensitive places you never knew existed. And suddenly, you never wanted to be empty ever again. You wanted to stay there forever on his lap.
“That’s good, baby.” Bucky murmured, caressing your thigh. “Fuck.” He swore. “With a cunt that good you could get whatever you want out of me.” He chuckled to himself, “I’ll fucking write your article myself.”
You looked right at him as you began riding his cock as best as you could before you finally found the right pace and rhythm. His words gave you the confidence you needed to move faster, impaling yourself down on his cock each time, whimpering shamelessly as you felt him filling you up completely with each thrust.
“That’s it. Take it, take all of me in that tight, perfect little cunt…” He whispered as he leaned in, biting down and tugging at your bottom lip while you sped up, his cock stretched you out each time he filled you up.
His hand circled around your waist, his muscular arms caging you in and he pulled your warm body closer to his. You were nothing but a moaning mess at this point.
“This is all you wanted, wasn’t it?” He asked breathlessly, teasing you while you rode him. “All those months of endless calls and emails, research, and this is all you wanted. I know that look in your eyes, that pleading look, those fuck-me eyes. This is how you wanna be treated, huh? Like a dirty little whore all for me to use?”
Even his taunts were hot.
You bounced on his cock moaning and whining, feeling him stretch you out as you stared into his ocean blue eyes. Guess you hadn’t been that subtle after all.
Bucky held you at your waist and rhythmically thrust his hips up each time to match your movements. Brows furrowing and panting while you rode his cock, throwing his head back and growling in pleasure.
“You feel so fucking good, baby…” He tried to contain his grunts, “Oh fuck, I’m gonna need this all the time now. And you’ll give it to me, won’t you? You’ll be daddy’s good girl and every time I ask you to bring this cunt over so I can fuck it, or taste it, or both, you’ll do it won’t you, baby?”
“Yes,” You whined, nodding helplessly. “Yes, I will.”
He chuckled, kissing down your neck and whispering against your skin about how perfect you felt around him. He panted against your skin, kissing you all over, “All mine now, you hear me? All fucking mine.”
“Yes…”
You didn’t slow down when you felt your orgasm wash over you, and Bucky kept thrusting his hips up into you even as your eyes rolled back and you moaned out loud as you came.
“Oh fuck!” You cried out, your walls squeezing and clenching around him as you came undone, all that pressure exploding in a hot, satisfying way.
Bucky came right after you, pulling out just in time, his cum spilling all over your thighs as he kept his arms around you and pressed your trembling body closer to his.
“I think we should have more meetings like this. To discuss your article, of course.”
You nodded. And you knew, deep down, no matter the excuse you would keep coming back. Whenever he wanted you to.
summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!
word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)
authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)
you are responsible for your own media consumption. don’t like? don’t read
song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics
masterlist
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone
Just the one, two, I was just counting on
That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again
Let's be more than, more than this
You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked.
Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.
And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.
The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.
Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.
He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.
He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.
You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.
The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.
His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.
When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.
While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.
You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.
Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.
Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.
And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.
Uncomfortably so.
He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.
Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.
He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.
Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.
And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.
The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.
Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."
Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.
He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.
Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.
The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.
Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.
The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.
"You got this, sweetheart."
Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Better luck next time, angel."
What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?
Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.
God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.
The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.
Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.
"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.
You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."
"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.
His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."
You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.
Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."
"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"
"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.
Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."
Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.
You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."
He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"
You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.
"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."
He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.
"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."
"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."
The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.
The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.
You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.
You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.
"What do you want now?"
"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.
"No."
The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."
You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."
"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.
Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."
You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."
Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"
You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."
Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.
"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."
He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."
Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.
Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.
Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.
"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.
Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"
"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.
"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.
"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."
"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.
"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.
He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.
"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."
Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.
Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.
"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.
Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."
Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.
You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.
"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."
You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."
Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."
You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.
"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."
You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.
She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."
Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.
"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.
She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.
"Is it…am I really that obvious?"
She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."
She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.
You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.
Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.
Don't screw the crew.
The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.
"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.
Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."
You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"
Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.
You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."
You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.
"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."
Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"
Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."
You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.
You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.
Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.
Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."
"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."
He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"
A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.
Your girl.
Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.
Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.
Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"
"…Shrek 2."
Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.
"It's the soundtrack, right?"
You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."
You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.
Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.
"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."
The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.
"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.
"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.
"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.
Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."
You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."
The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.
Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"
You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"
"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."
You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."
Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.
You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.
Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.
She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."
"What?"
She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."
Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."
Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.
"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."
Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."
"We don't even know if it's about me!"
"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."
"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.
"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.
You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.
The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.
James B.
★★★★★ a month ago
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
Oh.
That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.
You don't know if it's about you.
You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."
Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.
"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.
"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."
"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."
Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.
It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.
"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"
"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"
"Or we could just ask who he is."
Something about that made you uneasy.
After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.
Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.
"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."
Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.
Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.
You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.
A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.
Bucky had company.
Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.
Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.
The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.
You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.
You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.
You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.
Inhale. One, two, three, four.
Hold. One, two—
It didn't sound like she was faking it.
The breath rushed out of you quickly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.
Inhale. One, two, three—
Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.
You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.
Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?
The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.
Did he call her sweetheart, too?
You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.
Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.
The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.
A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.
You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.
Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.
You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.
Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.
"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Yes—god, so much!"
"You feel so good, baby."
Thump, thump, thump.
You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.
It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.
You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.
You fucking hated giggles.
By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.
No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.
The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.
The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.
When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.
What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.
"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.
"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"
Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.
She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.
The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.
It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.
You're a fucking fool.
She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.
Big mistake.
Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.
"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.
"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.
Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.
You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.
You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.
Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"
You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.
A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.
You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.
At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.
You walked into your shift the next day with another request.
You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.
You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.
Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.
And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.
You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.
The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.
She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.
You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.
"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.
She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."
Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."
Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."
He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.
Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.
Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"
You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."
"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.
You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"
She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."
Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.
Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.
"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"
Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.
"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."
The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.
"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"
You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.
"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.
That broke you.
Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.
You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.
You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.
"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.
You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.
"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.
Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.
She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."
Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.
Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."
"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.
Thursday 6:18pm
Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…
You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)
Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x
You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!
Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(
You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx
"I'm moving out."
It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.
Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.
"What?" She asked softly.
You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"
You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.
"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"
"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.
You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"
That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"
He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.
Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.
Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."
Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.
"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."
Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."
"Great idea," Sam mumbled.
"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."
Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."
"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."
That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."
You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"
"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.
"Bucky," Nat warned.
"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.
"Buck—"
"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.
"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.
The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.
"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.
Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."
You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.
Bucky was radio silent.
Tuesday 5:36pm
Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?
You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)
Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx
You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol
Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(
A month passed before you saw Bucky again.
You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.
Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.
Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.
But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.
It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.
You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.
Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.
You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.
"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.
A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.
Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.
"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.
He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."
You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I—uh—how, how have you been?"
You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."
"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."
You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.
You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"
Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."
What the fuck did that mean?
"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"
"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."
It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.
Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."
Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."
Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."
If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.
And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."
You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.
"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.
You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.
You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.
You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.
"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."
"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."
A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."
You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"
A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"
Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"
You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"
He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.
James B.
★★★★★ 13 hours ago
Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.
Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.
What the fuck?
"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.
"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."
"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.
"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.
Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."
"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.
Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.
Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."
You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."
You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.
"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."
"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.
The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.
"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."
An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.
"Honey, there is no new roommate."
You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."
"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."
"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.
"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."
"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.
"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."
Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.
Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.
You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."
You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.
"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."
It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.
Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.
His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.
He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"
"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.
You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.
"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.
He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.
"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"
"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.
Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"
He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.
Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."
His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"
A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.
"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."
You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.
"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.
"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."
"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"
You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.
"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."
"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.
He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.
"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."
His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."
The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.
"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."
You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"
"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.
"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.
"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."
He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."
"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."
He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.
He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"
You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.
The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.
The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.
His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.
"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.
"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."
A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.
"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."
Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.
"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"
The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.
"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.
"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."
Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."
Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."
"Why didn't you reach out, then?"
He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."
You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.
You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."
"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.
The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.
He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.
"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.
He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.
You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.
He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."
"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.
His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."
He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.
You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.
"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.
He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."
You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.
He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.
"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.
"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"
You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"
You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.
"What was that?" He asked smugly.
Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.
He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."
His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.
He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."
You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.
"Bucky, please."
He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.
He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.
"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."
He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.
"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.
He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.
He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.
Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.
"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.
The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.
Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.
You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."
He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.
"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."
You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.
His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."
He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.
You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.
He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.
Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.
"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.
"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.
He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.
Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.
He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.
Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.
"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"
"Yes, Buck. Only yours."
He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."
He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.
"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."
A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.
He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.
Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.
The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.
"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"
You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.
A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.
"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."
With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.
Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.
"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.
"Need'a minute," you slurred out.
His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.
"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.
One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.
You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.
"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.
"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.
"Are you clean?"
His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.
"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."
His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.
"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"
That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."
He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.
He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.
He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.
"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.
He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.
"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.
"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.
He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.
He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.
"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.
"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.
He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.
His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.
You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.
"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.
The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.
"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.
"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.
"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"
You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.
He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.
The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.
Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.
He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."
His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.
Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.
Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.
"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.
His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.
He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."
You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.
"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.
Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.
"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.
"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.
Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.
He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.
You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.
"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.
He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.
"I love you too."
"When can we move your stuff back in?"
Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.
You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."
His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"
"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."
"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."
You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"
He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.
"So, you're James B? This whole time?"
His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"
"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"
You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"
"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."
Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."
Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.
"…Are you jealous?"
The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."
Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?
"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."
Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.
You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."
The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.
"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"
a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
pairing: 40s!stucky x childhood best friend!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn no plot, light banter, m!masturbation, oral (m receiving), facials, size difference, innocence kink, cucking, sub!steve, soft dom!bucky, stucky homoeroticism, dirty talking, praise, pet names: "doll" "my best girl"
a/n: missing stucky hours + listening to my 40s bucky playlist inspired this fic (totally not another shameless playlist self plug)
word count: 10.1k
masterlist
synopsis:
After Steve is injected with the super soldier serum, Bucky decides to show his best friend what it truly means to be a man—and what better way to do that than through you, their lifelong childhood friend?
“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head with a glass of whiskey cold in his hand. “Look at you. Those muscles are practically busting out of your uniform.”
If it weren’t for the dim light of the bar, Bucky might’ve caught the flush creeping up Steve’s neck. Steve shifted, gripping his own glass before bringing it to his lips.
“I don’t know why we’re even here,” Steve said, draining the amber liquid in one go. “I can’t even get drunk.”
“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I can, so we’re drinking. Just admire the notes of oak or whatever.”
Steve scoffed, but he couldn’t stop a smirk from tugging at his mouth. It was impossible to stay moody around Bucky. “It tastes like gasoline.”
Bucky threw his head back, letting out a hearty laugh. As he straightened up, his eyes involuntarily drifted over Steve’s frame. Ever since the serum had transformed his friend, Bucky found himself constantly cataloging the… substantial changes.
Steve’s chest strained against his white T-shirt, his biceps flexing against the tight sleeves every time he moved. His jaw was chiseled now, his features sharper. Back then, Steve would have choked on a sip of cheap whiskey; now, the burn barely seemed to register. Bucky watched, mesmerized, as Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.
“So, tell me what this serum is actually doing to you,” Bucky asked, his laughter dying down. His eyes trailed down to Steve’s chest. “Other than making you outgrow your damn clothes… how are you feeling?”
Steve let out a long, grounded sigh of satisfaction, setting his glass back on the scarred wood of the table with a thud.
“I feel… good. Like everything is heightened—” he raised a hand to chest level, “—up to here. Both inside and out.”
Bucky raised his glass, blue eyes peering down to Steve’s lap just over the rim. “That so?”
“Yeah.”
Bucky took a slow swallow and set his own drink down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Explain it to me. What exactly is it about you that’s heightened on the inside?”
Steve shifted, the wooden chair creaking under his new, heavy weight. His brows furrowed as he searched for the right words.
“It’s like a mental amplification. Everything that feels good feels… great. And everything that feels bad feels that much worse.”
He swallowed hard, his fingers beginning to fidget against the tabletop—a nervous habit the serum hadn’t managed to take away. He hesitated on whether to keep going.
Bucky, ever attuned to Steve’s patterns of hesitation, leaned in closer, trying to gauge the rest out of him.
“And?” Bucky prodded softly.
Steve parted his lips, his face coloring slightly, before pressing them thin and shaking his head. “That’s about it, really.”
Bucky raised a brow, noting the flush as it crept over his friend’s chiseled features. There was clearly something internal Steve wasn’t mentioning—something he was actively holding back. It felt wrong. Usually, Steve was an open book around Bucky.
“Alright, well,” Bucky muttered, deciding not to pry—at least not yet. He pushed himself off the barstool with a grunt. “Let’s go show our girl your new look, yeah? She should be waiting at the park.”
Steve’s lips quirked into a faint, lopsided smile. He took one last sip of the whiskey—for courage, Bucky suspected—and stood up, his frame nearly blocking out the overhead light of the bar.
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Let’s go.”
After the two men settled their bill, they stepped out of the bar and into the crisp night air. They made their way toward the park, the streetlamps casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement.
There you were, sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath the sprawling branches of an oak tree. You looked like a vision pulled straight from the pages of a fashion magazine, dressed in an off-white collared blouse and a long, pleated skirt, with a simple cardigan draped over your shoulders.
The soft glow of the moonlight caught the curve of your smile as you finally looked up from your book, noticing Bucky and Steve approaching.
“Bucky!” you beamed, standing up and snapping your book shut. “Steve!”
As you drew closer, Steve stopped dead in his tracks.
It felt as though the air had been kicked right out of his lungs. His heart, now amplified by the serum, hammered frantically against his ribs. He had seen you a thousand times before, but seeing you now—with every sense dialed up to ten—was like a man seeing color for the first time.
Your scent—a fragrance he used to only catch when he was standing right beside you—carried on with the breeze, finding his nostrils instantly.
His eyes fluttered shut for a brief, dizzying second as he breathed you in.
Bucky slowed to a halt a step behind him, noticing the way Steve’s shoulders locked and how his gaze became hopelessly anchored to you.
Deep down, Bucky had always known Steve had a soft spot for you—hell, everyone did. Even Bucky had one, and he was shameless about it. But there was something different in the way Steve stiffened this time, and Bucky couldn’t help but wonder just how much that serum had changed him on the inside.
“You guys had me waitin’ forever,” you met them halfway, smiling eyes darting between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got yourselves drunk.”
“Never that, doll,” Bucky offered you a tipsy, lopsided grin. “Our boy here couldn’t get a buzz going if he drank the whole bar dry.” He gave Steve a pointed nudge with his elbow. “Notice anything… different about him?”
You blinked, eyes drifting up to meet Steve’s. You tilted your head slightly, book held close to your chest. “Did you get taller?”
Bucky snickered as your gaze began a slow, bewildered trail down to Steve’s torso. “And since when did you suddenly start working out?”
“Jeez, you really need to start picking up the morning newsletter, doll.” Bucky laughed, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulder and hauling you into his side. You stumbled slightly against him, rolling your eyes at his familiar theatrics, but he kept you tucked firm under his wing. He pointed a triumphant finger at Steve. “This man right here just got injected with the Super Soldier serum.”
“Super soldier?” you repeated with a soft gasp. You stepped out from under Bucky’s arm, looking at Steve wide-eyed. “Steve, what on earth…?”
Your book was now tucked under one arm as your free hand reached out, hovering for a second before your fingers finally made contact with his bicep. The fabric of his usually loose T-shirt was straining and spreading tight across his muscles.
“Is that really you in there?” you teased, your hand sliding up his shoulder, then tracing the broad and wide expanse of his chest.
The propriety of your actions didn’t even cross your mind; you were simply enamored by the sheer mass of him.
You gave his forearm a squeeze, marveling at how your fingers couldn’t even meet halfway around it anymore. Just a few weeks ago, you had been the taller one—now, he was a mountain of a man, looming over you with a shadow that felt protective.
“Steve, you look great… you feel great, too—I mean, how are you feeling?” You blinked up at him, pressing your palm against his to compare their sizes.
Steve looked like he was about to combust on the spot.
The sensation of your small, soft hand wandering over his new frame and resting in his own rough palm was an absolute assault on his composure. Everywhere you touched felt like it was catching fire, the serum amplifying the friction of your skin against his until his blood felt like it was boiling.
He tried to speak, but his throat had gone bone dry. Bucky, of course, noticed immediately.
“I… yeah. Thanks. I feel good,” Steve stammered, nodding firmly as he looked down at you, a stray blond lock falling over his eyes. “I feel really, really good.”
You giggled at his familiar stuttering, finally pulling your hand away from his palm to tuck a stray hair behind your ear.
Steve, meanwhile, felt a sudden warm ache pooling in his lower stomach—a physical reaction so intense it made his head spin.
Your giggle, your scent, the way you looked at him—everything he had loved about you before the serum was now heightened to an overwhelming pitch.
He shifted awkwardly, his trousers becoming uncomfortably, visibly tight, but there was nowhere to hide in the moonlight.
Bucky, standing just a few feet away, watched the flush deepen from Steve’s neck all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes drifted down, catching the unmistakable, growing bulge that pushed against his friend’s trousers.
Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from howling right there in the park.
“Steve, you’re shaking,” you said softly, completely oblivious to his predicament as you moved your hand to the center of his chest to check his heart rate. “Is the serum making you sick? Your heart feels like it’s going a mile a minute.”
“N-no! No, I’m—I’m fine,” Steve choked out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. He was terrified that if he actually touched you back, he’d lose all of his self-control. “Just… feels like a lot of energy. It’s a lot to take in.”
Bucky cleared his throat, a wicked little smile tugging at his lips as he stepped back into the conversation. “Yeah, I’d say he’s got a lot of energy built up right now. Might be a biological side effect—right, Steve?”
Steve returned his words with a glare, and Bucky only snickered louder.
“Let’s not stay out too late,” you said, looking around the quiet park, your voice airy and warm. “My mother baked a fresh batch of gingersnaps before she headed out for the evening. She left them on the counter and specifically told me to share them with you both.”
“Gingersnaps?” Bucky’s grin widened. “My favorite. Your mother always did have a soft spot for me.”
“For us,” Steve corrected, his voice low and territorial. He looked back at you. “We’re excited to try them, sweetheart. I’m quite hungry, actually.”
You laughed softly, playfully beckoning them with a wave of your hand as you turned on your heel.
You began leading the way toward your apartment building just across the street, calling back, “Come on! They’re probably still warm.”
As you walked ahead, the long, pleated skirt of your dress swayed with every step. The fabric clung and released over the curve of your hips in a rhythm that felt far too provocative for Steve’s new, heightened senses.
He couldn’t look away.
His gaze was hopelessly locked onto the way you moved, his mind clouded with feelings that were a mixture of protectiveness and something… unfamiliar and hungry.
Bucky nudged him hard in the ribs, leaning in close enough to whisper, “Careful there, Steve. You keep staring like that, you’re gonna burn a hole right through her skirt.”
Steve stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, his face flushing. “Shut up, Buck,” he hissed, though his eyes darted right back to you the second he regained his footing.
“I’m just saying,” Bucky chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he sauntered beside his friend. “Usually, you’re the one lecturing me about being a gentleman. Now look at you—standing there like a dog watching a steak dinner.”
You glanced over your shoulder, raising a brow at their whispering. “What are you two plotting back there?”
Steve stood up straighter, and Bucky shook his hand in a dismissive wave despite the smile he tried to fight. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, doll. Just lead the way—we’re right behind you.”
You frowned playfully, but kept on walking anyway. “I don’t like it when you two keep things from me.”
Steve felt his heart leap in his chest at the sight of your lips turned into a little pout. He was still struggling to keep his walk natural, his trousers feeling tighter with every step he took behind you.
“Trust me,” Steve said, his voice coming out a pitch deeper than he intended. “It’s nothing a girl like you would ever want to know. Just… stupid locker room talk.”
He waited until you turned your back to them before leaning toward Bucky’s ears.
“Behave,” he whisper-yelled in warning.
“Oh—come on,” Bucky smiled, adjusting his jacket as he met his friend’s panicked eyes. “I’m a saint, Steve.”
Once the three of you reached the building, you led the way up the narrow, dimly lit staircase. The rhythmic click of your heels on the creaky wooden steps was the only sound in the quiet hall.
Bucky leaned back slightly as he climbed, his gaze hooked shamelessly on the sway of your skirt.
A look of pure appreciation settled on his face, his tongue darted over his lower lip as he considered just how much his best childhood friend had grown up.
Steve, walking right beside him, felt a sharp surge of protectiveness at the way Bucky was cataloging your every move. He jutted a heavy elbow into Bucky’s ribs—a blow that, with his new strength, nearly sent Bucky over the banister.
“Be respectful!” Steve hissed, his jaw locked.
Bucky wheezed quietly, clutching his side.
“Jeez, Steve… watch the hardware,” he grunted, trying to catch his breath. “And don’t give me that lecture, pal. You’re looking just as hard as I am.” His eyes drifted pointedly down to the front of Steve’s trousers. “Probably harder, considering you’ve got the vision of a hawk now.”
You paused in front of your door, fishing the keys out of your purse. You raised a skeptical brow at the two of them. “What is going on with you two?”
Steve caught his breath, smoothing his expression as he closed the distance between you. He forced a stiff smile.
“Nothing,” he said. “We’re just excited for those cookies. Been thinking about them all the way here.”
Bucky let out a muffled snort behind him, but Steve ignored it, keeping his focus on your eyes.
You chuckled and shook your head, pushing the door open. “Well, don’t just stand there like statues. Come in.”
Steve crossed the threshold with Bucky lingering right behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, Steve realized that coming here so soon after the serum had been a mistake.
The apartment was a sensory trap. Away from the biting wind of the street, your scent was no longer just a trace on the breeze—it was everywhere. It was in the perfume lingering on your soft skin, the traces of your familiar vanilla scent in the kitchen, and on the lived-in warmth of the sofa.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” you said, heading straight for the kitchen.
Steve didn’t move.
He stood in the center of the living room, his body as rigid as a bag of bricks. Every muscle in his legs and back was coiled like a high tension spring. His hands were balled into fists at his sides just to keep them from shaking.
You returned a moment later, carrying a ceramic plate of gingersnaps and tea to the coffee table.
To Steve, you looked effortlessly domestic, the soft light of the floor lamp catching the stray flyaways of your hair like a soft halo.
As you sat on the sofa, you crossed one leg over the other, causing the hem of your skirt to hike up an inch or two higher than usual. It revealed the smooth line of your calf, covered only by a flimsy, sheer stocking that Steve felt he could easily rip with the slightest twitch of his hands.
A roar of blood rushed to Steve’s ears. He felt himself straining very painfully against his trousers, his fingers twitching with a desperate longing to touch you.
“Sit down, Steve,” Bucky prompted, giving his friend a nudge in the back toward the sofa. “Relax a little.”
Bucky sank into the armchair, leaving the spot on the sofa right next to you wide open. He looked at Steve, then at the empty cushion, and finally at Steve’s visible predicament, his eyebrows rising in amusement.
“Yeah, come here, Steve,” you said, scooting over and patting the empty space next to you.
Steve swallowed hard, taking long, stiff strides until he finally sank onto the small sofa.
The cushions dipped precariously and the wooden frame groaned under his heavy weight. He found his knees sitting much higher than usual, making him look even more like a giant in a dollhouse.
“Man,” Bucky laughed, lifting a cup of tea to his lips. “You’re gonna break the damn furniture, Stevie.”
Steve mumbled a shy, “sorry,” his face burning.
You just shook your head, ignoring Bucky’s usual teasing. You picked up a gingersnap and brought it to Steve’s lips, cupping your other hand beneath it to catch any stray crumbs.
“Say ah.”
Bucky nearly choked, a spray of tea flying back into his cup.
Steve had turned a shade of red that was impossible to hide, the color racing from his collar to his hairline until even his ears were glowing. He sat there frozen—his jaw hanging slightly as he looked from the cookie in your hand to the teasing glimmer shining in your eyes.
“Well?” Bucky taunted, leaning forward in his armchair and clattering his saucer down on the table.
He was enjoying this far too much.
“Don’t keep the lady waiting, Steve. Go on. Say ‘ah’ for the misses.”
Steve pressed his lips together, giving Bucky a hard glare from across the couch.
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Steve,” you teased, nudging the gingersnap closer to his mouth. “You said you were hungry, didn’t you?”
Bucky let out a low, wicked whistle. “He’s real hungry, doll. Starving, I’d say. Just look at him—he’s already drooling for a bite.”
“Bucky—” Steve’s jaw dropped in indignation at his friend’s shamelessness, and you seized the opportunity to slide the edge of the cookie past his teeth.
“There,” you hummed, reaching out to catch a small crumb off his bottom lip with a slow swipe of your thumb. “Was that so hard?”
Steve wished the worn cushions would open up and swallow him whole—because hard was exactly what he was. The simple graze of your thumb swiping over his lip was enough to make his whole body shudder. The feel of your lingering touch tingled on his lips, the sensation only making him dangerously need you more.
“Hell,” Steve muttered through the quiet munching. “Would you… please excuse me—”
He stood up so abruptly the sofa groaned. He kept his back turned to you, his hand dropping to swiftly, desperately adjust the painful bulge pushing up against his pants. He took stiff, heavy strides toward the bathroom, each footstep making the delicate floorboards thud and creak under his heavy body.
After Steve disappeared around the corner, you turned to Bucky. He was leaning back in the armchair, looking entirely too smug for his own good.
“Is everything okay with him?” you asked softly. “He’s been acting so… jumpy. Is the serum hurting him? Maybe he needs a doctor.”
Bucky let out a dry chuckle, swiping a gingersnap from the plate. He took a slow bite, savoring the sweetness before his eyes met yours, something mischievous and knowing behind those orbs.
“Hurting him? No, sweetheart. I don’t think ‘pain’ is what Stevie’s feeling right now,” Bucky said, his gaze drifting toward the hallway. “The scientists told him the serum doesn’t just change the muscles. It amplifies everything inside—his heart, his nerves, and his…” He paused, his eyes landing back on yours, “… instincts.”
You blinked, still not quite catching the drift. “Instincts? Like his reflexes?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Bucky replied with a casual shrug, dusting the crumbs off his fingers. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees to bridge the gap between you. “See, Steve was always the type to keep to himself when it came to women. But that serum? It turned him into a real man—in every sense of the word.”
You tilted your head curiously, and Bucky chuckled at your naivety before pressing on.
“Everything he sees, everything he smells… everything he feels… it’s all ten times more intense than it used to be.” Bucky paused, raising a dark brow. “You followin’ me, doll?”
“I’m trying to,” you murmured, though a slight heat was beginning to prickle at your cheeks.
Bucky glanced toward the closed bathroom door. “Usually, Steve’s got a lot of willpower. But you sitting there, feeding him and touching him like that?” A wolfish grin tugged at his mouth. “I bet it’s taking every ounce of strength in that new body of his just to remember how to be a gentleman.”
You followed Bucky’s gaze toward the darkened hallway, your lower lip poking out in a slight, troubled pout.
“But… is he hurting?” you asked, your heart aching at the thought of Steve in any kind of distress. “If the serum is making things that intense, it sounds… painful.”
Bucky chuckled. “Oh, you’re so innocent doll. That’s why we love you.” He shook his head, leaning back as he watched the gears slowly turn in your head.
“Listen to me,” he continued. “Steve is a gentleman. Always has been, always will be. He’d sooner jump on a grenade than be disrespectful to a lady—but at the end of the day, he’s a man. And a man has certain… needs. Especially when he’s sitting inches away from the person he’s been head over heels in love with since we were all knee high to a grasshopper.”
Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your eyes went wide to meet his. “Steve… Steve likes me? Like that?”
Bucky gave you a boyish grin.
“Like doesn’t even begin to cover it, sweetheart. He’s had it bad for you for about a decade,” he teased before he tilted his head and gave you a slight pout. “Now, don’t go getting me too jealous, either. I’ve got a heart too, you know.”
A deep, hot flush crept up your neck and nestled into your cheeks. You could hardly wrap your mind around the idea that Steve… kind, stalwart Steve, actually liked you.
Between that revelation and the way Bucky was staring, you found yourself shifting restlessly on the cushion, rubbing your legs together subtly as if to soothe a sudden warm itch.
Bucky’s eyes dropped, tracking the way your skirt shifted over your thighs. He let out a low amusing hum at the way you wriggled beneath his scrutiny, his own expression darkening with interest.
“If he’s feeling… uncomfortable around me,” you started, your voice small and flustered, “is there anything I can do to help him? I don’t want him to be in pain.”
Bucky watched your legs work together for a moment before dragging his eyes back to yours. “You want to help him, do you?”
“Of course,” you nodded earnestly, meeting his stare with wide, sincere eyes. “I’d do anything to help you two if you were in distress. You’re my best friends.”
Bucky’s grin shifted, wider and somehow more predatory. He leaned in an inch closer, his voice dropping deeper. “Anything, sweetheart?”
Steve walked back into the living room. He looked slightly more composed, though his hair was damp at the temples where he had splashed his face with cold water.
His shirt was tucked in tight—perhaps too tight—and he kept his arms stiff at his sides as he approached the sofa. He stopped in his tracks, his frame large in the small room, when he saw how closely Bucky was leaning toward you and the stiff, flustered way you were sitting.
“Everything alright?” Steve asked. His eyes darted suspiciously between his smug best friend and your embarrassed expression.
“Are you feeling alright, Steve?” you asked softly, looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Bucky said the… um, the serum… it might be making things difficult for you?”
Steve froze.
He stared down at Bucky, his eyes blown wide with a mix of shock and betrayal. He opened his mouth to stammer out a polite lie—to tell you he was perfectly fine and that Bucky was just talking nonsense—but Bucky didn’t give him the chance.
“I told our girl here all about your little predicament, Stevie,” Bucky interrupted with a gravelly purr. He leaned back, relishing the way Steve’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. “Told her how all those new nerves of yours are screaming for a bit of... relief.”
Steve’s face went from pale to a scorched, blistering red. “Buck, shut it—”
“And the best part?” Bucky continued, ignoring the warning as he looked up at his friend with taunting eyes. “She’s a real sweetheart, Steve. She told me she’s willing to do just about anything to help you out of your distress. Isn’t that right, doll?”
Steve’s gaze flickered down to you, searching your face as if he were waiting for you to deny it—or perhaps, secretly hoping for your confirmation.
“Anything,” Bucky repeated for you, his voice low and suggestive. “She’s got a real generous heart, Steve. I think she’s just waiting for you to tell her exactly what a big, strong soldier like you needs to feel better.”
Steve’s chest felt like it was closing in on his heart. Your eyes—still wide and guileless—never broke away from his, and it only made his restraint weaker.
“What do you need from me, Steve?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “If you’re hurting… if there’s something I can do to make this easier on you, just tell me.”
If you could be any more innocent, Steve swore he would lose his mind. He had a sudden, violent urge to pin you down on the couch and fuck you right there.
“I… I don’t…” Steve stammered, his voice trailing off as he heard Bucky push himself off the armchair.
Bucky stepped up behind Steve and reached out and to give Steve a firm nudge toward you, forcing his large frame even deeper into your personal space until he was practically looming over your lap.
“Look at her, Steve,” Bucky cooed next to Steve’s ear. “You’ve got the girl of your dreams sittin’ right in front of you, offering her help, and you’re not gonna accept it?”
Steve felt like he could burst right through the seams of his trousers just from looking at you. Your eyes kept flicking down to the heavy, undeniable bulge in front of you before darting back up to his, your teeth nervously strumming over your bottom lip as you fought the urge to stare.
Bucky noticed.
Of course, Bucky noticed.
He let out a sly grin before reaching around and flattening his palm directly over the straining bulge in Steve’s pants. He had done it so casually that you almost believed this wasn’t the first time he’d handled his friend.
“Fuck,” Steve’s eyes snapped wide, head turning to Bucky’s in shock but not pulling away. “B-Buck—!”
“Look at this, doll,” Bucky hummed darkly. He didn’t break eye contact with you as his fingers flexed, squeezing the length of Steve’s cock through the fabric. “You see how hard he is? How much he’s shaking just because you’re lookin’ at him?”
Steve let out a low, involuntary whimper—a sound so ungentlemanly it made his face burn even hotter. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and desperate, pleading for you to either stop this or finish it.
“P-please…”
Bucky gave Steve a firm squeeze, his fingers curling around Steve’s bulge. The pressure made Steve’s head roll back, a deep, broken groan vibrating out of his throat as his body betrayed him.
A dark, damp circle began to bloom against the front of his light-colored trousers, the fabric darkening as a heavy bead of pre-cum soaked through, marking him right where Bucky’s thumb was pressing.
Bucky let out a low, dark chuckle as he relished the way his friend was falling apart beneath his hand.
“Look at that, doll,” Bucky urged, voice raspy.
He shifted his palm slightly to smear the growing dampness into the cloth, making the stain even more obvious and Steve even more shameful. “See what you’re doin’ to him? He’s so worked up for you, he can’t even keep himself dry.”
Steve was trembling where he stood, his massive shoulders shaking as he looked down at his ruined pants before his gaze snapped back to yours—raw and shamelessly.
“Buck… stop,” he whined. It was a pathetic, needy sound, and despite every ounce of strength in his new muscles he could use to push Bucky off, he didn’t. He stayed rooted to the spot, leaning into the touch. “You’re… you’re scaring her…”
“Scaring her?” Bucky chuckled. “I’m not scaring her. Look her in the eye, Stevie. She wants you just as bad.”
Bucky glanced over at you, tilting his head with a flash of innocence that didn’t match the way his hand was still working Steve through his trousers. “Isn’t that right, doll? Don’t you want to help our poor, big Stevie?”
“How should I…” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked up at the two large men looming over you. “What should I do?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a predatory smile tugging at his lips. “Get down on your knees, sweetheart. A man loves to see his woman on her knees for him.”
A small gasp escaped you, and you looked up at Steve as if waiting for his approval. He didn’t deny it—his brows were pinched together and his jaw hung open as his chest heaved in deep, heavy breaths. Finally, you slid off the cushions and sank onto the rug. From this angle, Steve looked like a titan, and the damp stain on his trousers sat right at eye level.
Steve swore he could bust right then and there just from seeing you on your knees.
“Now,” Bucky commanded softly. His hand finally let go of Steve’s cock to rest on top of his head, his fingers threading firmly through Steve’s blonde hair. “Open ‘em up. Nice and slow.”
“Slow?” Steve whined.
Bucky clicked his tongue. “He’s been waiting a long time for this, he can wait a little longer.”
With trembling fingers, you reached for the buttons of his trousers. The fabric was strained to the limit, and as you worked them free one by one, the rigid, pulsing heat of him began to push through the opening.
When the last button gave way, Steve’s cock snapped free, heavy and thick.
You gasped at the size. You weren’t sure how it was going to fit in your hand.
“There he is,” Bucky cooed, his hand tightening in Steve’s hair as he forced Steve's head down to look at you. “Now, wrap your hand around him. Take a good grip so he knows he’s yours.”
You reached out, your small hand barely able to meet around the girth of him. The feel of your warm, amateur palm wrapping around his skin made Steve’s eyes shutter closed instantly in pleasure.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve cursed, his hips instinctively bucking forward for more.
“Look at that,” Bucky chuckled.“Can’t even fit her whole hand around you—but it feels good, doesn’t it? So much better than your own hand.”
“So…” Steve moaned, his hips drawing back slightly before he thrusted himself into your palm, “much… better. Fuck—”
You tightened your grip, swiping your thumb over the pre-cum that gathered at his tip and over his cockhead. The friction of your palm against his over sensitized skin made Steve’s knees buckle, his large frame swaying as he looked down at you through his haze of lust.
“See that, doll?” Bucky rumbled above you. “Steve’s a man now—and a man like this… sometimes a hand just isn’t enough to please him. Isn’t that right, Stevie?”
Steve didn’t, couldn’t, give him a coherent answer. He was busy babbling broken, desperate sounds into the air, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest. “God… please,” he breathed. “Her hand.. it’s so soft—so warm.”
Your face was on fire. You could feel yourself wetting your panties with every heavy breath and grunt that escaped Steve’s lips. And the way Bucky was shamelessly watching you, that wicked little knowing grin plastered on his face, only made you feel smaller—utterly helpless under both of them.
Bucky’s cock was practically jumping out of his pants as his eyes were fixed on the way your small hand looked against Steve.
“Shit. I think he needs more, sweetheart.” He breathed. “I think he needs more, sweetheart. Stick your tongue out. I want you to use that pretty tongue of yours. Lick it—all the way up—and then I want you to take as much of him as you can into your small little mouth.”
You hesitated, your breath hitching as you stared up at the two men.
“I… I’ve never... sucked before—” you confessed, tiny and trembling.
The admission made you sink back on your heels, suddenly overwhelmed. You had Steve right in front of you, practically panting for anything you were willing to give him, which should have made you feel confident—but the performance anxiety was taking its toll.
You were terrified you wouldn’t be able to satisfy Steve, and the weight of Bucky’s watchful and critical gaze only made it worse.
But Bucky didn’t look disappointed.
In fact, his grin grew wider.
“Even better,” Bucky purred. He leaned over Steve’s shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours. “That just means Stevie here gets to be the one to teach you. And don’t you worry, doll... we’re gonna make sure you learn exactly how to take care of a man.”
Bucky’s hand slid down Steve’s forearm, his grip tightening as he nudged him toward you. “Help her out, Stevie. Grab her hair.”
Steve hesitated. His eyes dropped to the plump curve of your lips, and his cock twitched as he imagined the heat of your mouth wrapping around him. Slowly, as if expecting you to pull away, his thick fingers tangled into your hair.
When you let out a soft, shaky sigh at the feel of his touch, Steve took it as the only permission he needed. He tugged a little firmer now, guiding your face closer to his hard length until you stumbled forward on your knees with a small whimper.
“Tell her, Steve,” Bucky urged, his eyes fixed on your trembling lips. “Tell her exactly what you want her to do with that pretty mouth.”
Steve’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip, with a hand tight around the base of his cock, he guided himself right to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darted out at the pre-cum collecting at his slit, and Steve’s entire body shuddered with every effort it took from slamming his cock into your mouth.
“How does it taste, sweetheart?” Steve breathed, gauging your expression.
You looked up at him, your eyes a little hazy as the salty taste of him settled on your tongue. It was a completely new sensation—warm, strong, and undeniably masculine.
“It’s… a little salty,” you admitted gently “Is it supposed to taste like that?”
Bucky chuckled darkly, his hand coming up to grip Steve’s shoulder as he pressed himself into his back, his cock subtly rubbing up against the cleft of Steve’s ass through the fabric of his own pants. “Aw. Isn’t that cute? Just a little taste and our girl’s already curious.”
“Open… please,” Steve rasped.
Between the sight of your waiting mouth and the insistent pressure of Bucky behind him, his senses were completely overwhelmed.
“Open your mouth all the way for me, sweetheart,” Steve let out a shaking breath.
He guided his throbbing, slicked head of his cock back to your lips, his fingers tightening instinctively in your hair. “I need to feel how warm your mouth is… I need you to take me.”
Shyly, you parted your lips. At the sight of your tongue, Steve took it as a final invitation to lose himself. He nudged your head closer to his cock until your lips stretched over his sensitive head. Already overwhelmed by the sensation of your plump lips sliding over his sensitive flesh, Steve let out a low, guttural growl and tossed his head back.
“Oh, hell…” he cursed, bucking his hips forward without warning.
Steve’s cock slid over your wet tongue and buried itself deep in your mouth. Your eyes went wide as you let out a muffled, helpless choke around his length. That small sound only made your throat tighten around his shaft, and the combination of your sweet, pained noises and the warmth was enough to shatter Steve’s last bit of control.
“Shit… that feels… fuck,” Steve whined, his hips snapping deeper into your mouth. “Feels too damn good—”
“Whoa, Stevie,” Bucky chuckled, though his own breath was hitching as he watched. He reached down, his hand landing heavy on Steve’s hip to try and still him. “Slow down, pal. You’re gonna choke the poor girl if you keep lunging like a wild animal. Take it easy.”
“I—I can’t…” Steve gasped, his head rolling back against Bucky’s shoulder.
His eyes were blown wide and glassy with a terrifying haze of lust. His thrusts became more frantic, his heavy cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a wet, vulgar slapping sound.
“Fuck, Bucky… do you see how she’s looking at me?” Steve grumbled, his voice a wrecked, low vibration.
He looked down at you, watching the way your eyes stayed locked on his even as you struggled to accommodate his size.
“She’s chokin’ around me… I can feel her throat squeezing me… but she’s not looking away.”
He glanced back at Bucky, blonde hair falling over his sweat beaded brow in messy, golden strands. “That—that means she wants it, right? She wants me to keep goin’?”
Your eyes grew wide and teary, your warm, wet throat closing in tight around him as he drove himself in to the hilt. You choked and coughed, drooling helplessly around his thick shaft as his pelvis collided with your nose with every thrust.
The mere idea of it—the very woman he had sought after for years, now pinned on her knees beneath him, servicing his cock—was too much to bear. Your eyes, usually so wide with wonder and kindness, were now glassy and teary as your mouth stretched to accommodate him.
The sight of your vulnerability was the final spark. It was enough to make him cum on the spot.
“Fuck… I can’t—shit, not when she’s looking at me like that…” Steve groaned, rocking his hips faster against your mouth.
“Ste—ve—mmph..”
“You like this, don’t you?” he breathed, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at the messy, beautiful ruin of your face. “My girl… my best girl… taking all of me.”
And then you nodded—a small, subtle little movement you managed to get out despite the possessive grip Steve had on your hair. That tiny invitation made his cock throb violently inside your mouth, pulsing once, twice, before his release finally consumed him and your mouth.
“Look at her, Buck!” Steve beamed, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest as he drove himself into your throat one last time. “She’s so… fuck… she’s so perfect. God, I’m cumming—!”
Bucky watched, enamored, as Steve’s thick seed flooded your mouth. Steve held your head down, his fingers still tangled in your hair, as his release seeped around the stretch of your lips and down your chin, dripping obscenely onto the floor.
Your face—usually so pretty, soft, and composed—was now fucked to filth. Tears streaked your flushed cheeks, and your lips and chin were smeared with a mask of saliva and Steve’s cum.
It was a sight vulgar enough to make Bucky almost feel bad for you.
Almost.
The sensation of Steve’s salty, warm, and thick cum hitting the back of your throat was like a drug filling your head. His cock throbbed tiredly in your mouth, Steve finally coming down from his high. He let out a long, shaky breath and pulled out of your wet, sore mouth with a heavy, sloppy pop.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Steve rasped, his voice filled with regret as he took in the sight of you—kneeling on the floor, breathless and covered in his mess. “Look at you. I ruined you. I didn’t mean to be so—God, please let me help you up.”
He started to reach for your shoulders, his large palms open and trembling, but he was cut off by the sharp sound of Bucky’s belt being unbuckled.
“Get up, Steve.”
Bucky’s voice wasn’t a suggestion but rather an authoritative command that made no move for arguments. He nudged Steve back with a firm, steady hand, his eyes never leaving your messy, dazed face.
“That’s not a way to treat a woman now, Steve,” Bucky purred, finally extending a hand to you. His fingers were steady, a contrast to Steve’s shaking frame. “Our girl has never sucked a cock before—and yet here you are, slamming your pelvis down her throat and ruinin’ her.”
Steve’s face flushed with embarrassment and shame. His eyes flickered to Bucky’s briefly before looking back at yours with guilt.
“I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I… I lost control.”
You reached up, wiping the corner of your mouth as Bucky’s hand closed around yours, pulling you to your feet. “It’s okay—”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Steve,” Bucky interrupted with a sharp click of his tongue, shaking his head.
He pointed to the seat directly behind Steve—the one Bucky had just vacated. “Sit down. Since you don’t know how to pace yourself, I’m going to show you how to properly please a woman.”
Steve swallowed hard, watching your debauched face blink up at Bucky with a dazed curiosity. His heartstrings pulled knowing how brutally he’d just fucked your face, and reluctantly, he took a seat as instructed.
You felt Bucky’s warm breath hit the back of your neck as he pressed up behind you—his bulge rubbing firm against the fabric of your skirt as his hands circled from behind you to your front, undoing the buttons on your blouse one at a time.
“You have to take your time with a fragile woman like her,” Bucky said raspily, his nose finding the crook of your neck and pressing soft, wet kisses between each sentence. “You need to savor this moment—undress her slowly as if unwrapping a delicate present.”
Your blouse was finally undone, and you heard the small gasp that left Steve’s lips at the sight of your lacey bra.
Swiftly, as if he had done this plenty of times before, Bucky undid your bra in one quick moment, the lace hitting the ground.
“Oh—!” you gasped as Bucky’s hands immediately found your nipples, giving them soft and teasing tugs as he circled his digits around the sensitive flesh.
In reaction, your back arched against his chest, only making your ass rub up against Bucky’s straining cock even more.
“Bucky…” Steve breathed from the couch, his hands already working at his half-hard cock. “What’re you… doing…”
“You’ve gotta play with her for a bit,” Bucky explained, giving your nipple a harsher tug that made you squeal. “Hear that, Steve? Means she likes it.”
He nuzzled his nose closer to your face, blue eyes piercing through yours.
“Do you like it, doll?”
“I… I do…”
You were cut off with Bucky’s hand sliding up to your chin and giving your cheeks a firm squeeze in his direction.
“Look at me when you answer, baby,” he warned. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, Bucky... I l-love it,” you whimpered as his hands continued their possessive roam over your body.
Bucky’s grin was dark and satisfied, his thumb grazing the corner of your swollen mouth. “Good. Eye contact is important. Now…”
He reached out, his hand hooking under your chin and firmly turning your face to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve looked completely spent, his blue eyes wide and glazed with a heavy, post orgasmic haze as he watched you from the couch, his hand resting lazily over the rise of his cock.
“Look Steve in the eye while I touch you,” Bucky commanded, his fingers digging slightly into your cheeks to keep your head still. “Tell him how good it feels.”
You shivered, your eyes locking onto Steve’s. He looked so vulnerable, yet so hungry, his chest heaving as he watched his best friend’s hands work over you.
“Don’t keep him waiting.” Bucky urged.
“It… it feels so good, Steve,” you breathed as Bucky continued to grope you. “Bucky’s hands… they’re so warm—I love how he’s touching me—”
Steve let out a choked sound at your words, one hand stroking his shaft while the other gripped the arm rest. “Jesus…”
“He’s got a lot to learn, doesn’t he, baby?” Bucky murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your skirt and unzipping the side, letting the fabric fall over your legs and hit the ground. “Tell him how it feels when I do this.”
A mewl escaped your lips the moment Bucky slyly slid his hand down the waistband of your panties, his fingers gently rubbing at your clit before delving deeper against your folds. He shifted around you, one hand groping at your chest,waist, and hips—while the other fingered your wet cunt.
“Ah—Buck!”
“My,” Bucky chuckled, clicking his tongue. “She’s so wet.”
Steve swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the sight of Bucky’s hand disappearing into your lace. “Is she?”
“Long before I even started touchin’ her, I bet,” Bucky explained, nudging his knee between your legs to force them to spread wider for him. “That’s all because of you, Steve. You worked her up so good—she’s dripping around my fingers.”
Still standing and completely exposed to both of the hungry men, you felt Bucky’s fingers probe against your entrance, giving you a few teasing strokes before he pushed firmly against the tight heat of your hole.
You arched your back, whining high in your throat as Bucky’s fingers sheathed completely inside you—at first stroking gently before he began to move roughly, enticing shamelessly wet sounds out of you.
“Oh my God—!” you cried.
You squelched around his fingers as he worked your slick folds. Steve’s eyes widened, his breath completely caught in his throat as he watched your body react so easily to Bucky’s hands.
“You hear that, Stevie?” Bucky groaned, increasing the pace in his fingers while rubbing himself against your back. “When a woman sounds like that—it means she’s ready. Ready to be fucked.”
With a sharp tug, Bucky hooked his fingers into the lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed and shivering in the center of the room.
He rested a heavy hand on your lower back, his palm hot against your skin as he guided you toward the couch.
“On the couch, doll. Front and center.”
You stumbled slightly, your knees weak and your inner thighs a slick, aching mess. You barely had time to settle onto the cushions before Bucky was already unbuckling his belt, his pants hitting the floor as he exposed himself completely.
He stepped in, his thighs nudging between your knees and forcing you to lay back until you were spread wide and vulnerable beneath him.
Bucky was big in ways that genuinely worried you.
If you could hardly handle Steve’s length in your throat, you weren’t sure of how your body would react to Bucky’s width.
He noticed the way your eyes widened as he hovered over you, his thumb tracing the seam of his own length as he rubbed his tip against your entrance. He let out a low, dark chuckle, completely satisfied with the way he had you squirming and the way he had Steve pinned to his seat, unable to look away.
“You see how she’s shaking, Steve? That’s what you want. You want her knowing exactly what’s coming for her.”
“Bucky,” you whined, your hands coming up to his shoulders for support—and Steve watched with a pang of envy, wishing it was his skin you were clinging to instead. “Please…”
Bucky laughed again, taking the head of his cock and dragging it slowly along your slit, coating himself in your heat. You let out a shaky breath, your hips involuntarily twitching, begging for the friction to turn into something more.
“She’s begging so sweetly, Buck…” Steve gave himself a gentle squeeze around his sensitive shaft at the sight of you. “You need to take care of her—”
“Even though she’s beggin’, you gotta make her wait.” Bucky explained despite the strain of holding back in his own voice. “You stretch her out bit by bit until she’s begging you to just get it over with.”
Bucky poked his tip against the soft, warm flesh of your cunt, pressing just enough pressure to make you gasp but not enough to penetrate all the way through.
“Tell Steve what you want, doll,” Bucky murmured, his hand coming down to grip your hip. “Tell him how much you want this.”
“B-Bucky, please,” you sobbed, your back arching off the couch as you tried to force yourself onto him, but he held his ground, as immovable as a mountain.
“That’s not an answer,” Bucky teased, his eyes darting to Steve, who was leaning so far forward he was nearly off his seat. “Is she asking for a kiss, Stevie? Is she asking for a blanket? I can’t tell.”
Steve’s throat bobbed as he watched the head of Bucky’s cock sliding against your entrance, the size of him making you look so small and fragile. “She wants you inside her, Buck. Just… fuck, just give it to her.”
“I want to hear her say it,” Bucky countered, giving you another shallow, teasing poke that made your toes curl into the cushions. “Tell us, baby. What do you want me to do with this?”
“I want you inside,” you choked out, your face warm with embarrassment. “I want… I want you to stretch me. Please, Bucky, fuck me!”
Bucky smirked, satisfied. “That’s my girl.”
With one hand propped near your head to hold himself up, he used the other to grip the base of his cock. He pushed deeper against your entrance, your cunt slowly stretching around him with every stinging burn. You could feel every ridge, every inch of his width forcing your tight walls to let him in.
“Shit,” Bucky hissed a curse, “she’s so tight.”
“Buck,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as he stretched you with every slide. “Too… too big, I don’t think I—”
“You can, baby,” Bucky countered. He hooked one hand underneath your thigh, hoisting it up toward your chest until you were pinned back, nearly splitting you. “Here—I’ll help you. Steve, I want you to watch me.”
A broken mewl left your lips as you tossed your head back against the cushions. Bucky was filling you—completely and deeply—and he hadn’t even begun to move before your legs were already shaking. With a deep grunt, he finally bottomed out, his hips slamming against yours with a wet squelch so vulgar it made Steve’s breath hitch.
“Her legs are shaking…” Steve pointed out, which only made your body warm even more in embarrassment.
You turned your head to look at him, and the sight made you clench instinctively around Bucky’s dick. Steve was at the edge of his seat, his toes curled into the floor as his large hand pumped over his cock. He was still slick from his own cum and the heat of your mouth, leaking profusely and looking every bit ready for round two.
“S-Steve…” you broke off into a whimper as Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened.
The sudden grip made your eyes flicker back to Bucky’s—his darkening at the way you were looking at his best friend. He let out a sharp, mocking huff.
“Moaning another man’s name while I’m buried this deep inside you, doll?” Bucky pulled back until he was nearly out, the slick wetness around his shaft filling the room before he slammed back in, making you cry out and the couch groan.
“If you’ve got enough breath to call for Stevie,” he growled, pulling his hips back again before thrusting even deeper, “then I’m not working you hard enough.”
The moment Bucky increased his pace, a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. You tried to hide it—to claw back any shred of composure—but you simply couldn't when you were stripped bare and taken so roughly while Steve watched every single second.
Every time Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix, it felt like your nerves were catching on fire.
You were parted completely by him, his width stretching you so thoroughly that your body had no choice but to acknowledge that you belonged to him.
“A-ah! Bu-Bucky… feels so good—!” you cried out, hands clawing at his back as he fucked you into the cushions.
Each thrust Bucky delivered seemed to synchronize with the wet pumping of Steve’s hand. Bucky looked over his shoulder, a dark smirk pulling at his lips as he caught Steve’s eye.
He nearly pulled all the way out, letting Steve see the wet and stretched out version of you before bottoming out again, filling you completely and making you cry out.
“Lying in your bed at night, wondering what it would like to hear her scream like this for you.” Bucky continued with a gritty rasp.
As shameful as it was—every bit of it was true.
Every day you had spent standing next to Steve—acting small and seemingly innocent—you never would have guessed that little ol’ Steve had the filthiest thoughts imaginable running through his mind.
He used to imagine what it would feel like to have a body that didn’t fail him, a body strong enough to pin you down and finally act on the dirty thoughts that made his blood sing. He’d lie awake in his cramped apartment, staring at the ceiling and picturing your hands on him.
Or better yet, his hands on you—forcing a cry just like the one Bucky was coaxing out of you now.
Every time Bucky’s cock slid out of your cunt, Steve imagined it was his own sinking back into your tight, aching heat. If your mouth had felt that incredible, he could only imagine how it must feel to be buried deep inside you. The thought alone made him pump his cock faster, his body leaking a copious amount of pre-cum thanks to the serum.
He was already on the verge of busting a second load just from the sight of you getting ruined.
“God… ah, fuck,” Steve whimpered, his eyes glazed as his cock became painfully sensitive under his own touch.
“Look at him, doll,” Bucky prompted, leaning down to hiss the words into your ear while he continued to relentlessly pump into you. “Look at how hard he’s working just to keep up with us. He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Watching his best friend ruin you while he sits there and plays with himself.”
Bucky pulled back almost to the tip, gripping your other hip and flaring you even wider for the audience.
“He’s imagining it’s him,” Bucky laughed, a dark, sexy sound that made you flare up. “He’s imagining he’s the one stretching you out, the one making you sob his name. But he has to learn how to take care of you first, right? He has to watch me finish inside you.”
Your eyes widened at the thought of Bucky pumping you full.
It was dangerous, but with the way he had you pinned, your body couldn’t help but react. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your heat.
“Oh—” Bucky grunted, his cock twitching violently at the feel of your soft thighs locking him in. “Jesus… fuck.”
“Finish inside her,” Steve pleaded. He was timing his own hand to Bucky’s thrust, body tensing as he was prepared to cum alongside his best friend. “Fuck, Buck… do it. She’s pullin’ you in—means she wants it. I want to see you fill her.”
“She’s—she’s so tight,” Bucky hissed, his head falling into the crook of your neck. He drew his hips back as far as your locked legs would allow before sliding back in. “She’s pulling me in… like she’s trying to drain me.”
Bucky pulled back slightly to look you in the eye, his eyes dark with hunger.
“What should I do, doll? Should I cum inside?” he whispered, rocking his hips in a slow, agonizing grind as he fought to hold back his release. “Should I show Steve how to properly breed a woman?”
“Yes!” you sobbed, your hips rising to meet him—trying to rip the orgasm out of him yourself. “Please, Bucky. I want it, please!”
Bucky’s face strained at your words, his hips losing rhythm as he fucked you until his cock twitched and pulsed.
“Christ… you dirty girl,” he grunted between clenched teeth, each thrust making the couch slide an inch against the floor.
Steve watched and listened, tracing the way your body shook and the way your moans pitched higher and higher with every wet slap of Bucky’s hips. He could see the exact moment you both started to go over the edge—and he was right there with you, his hand a blur as he prepared to cum too.
“Shit!” Bucky cursed. “Cumming—fuck—I’m cumming, baby.” He groaned, tossing his head back as you felt his cock twitch inside you, filling you up deeply.
“Oh my god—Buck!”
Your head swam with desire, the feeling of him pumping you full making you cry out as you came alongside him. Your walls clenched around his shaft as he continued to pump lazily into you, his release flooding your core.
Across from you, at that exact second, Steve let out a broken groan as his body jerked in the chair. His hand moved in a blur over his sensitive shaft, his cock twitching in his grip before spilling warm cum all over his fingers and stomach.
The living room that had once been warm with the scent of sweet cookies and tea now smelled of nothing but sex and sweat. Bucky stayed buried deep for a moment, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheek as the tremors in your legs finally began to fade.
“Good girl,” he murmured in soothingly. “You were such a good girl for me.”
Slowly, Bucky began to pull out.
The sudden loss of him left you feeling sensitive and vulnerable, and you could feel the warmth he’d pumped into you beginning to slick down your thighs, staining the worn cushion of the couch. Bucky reached for the floor, grabbing his pants and pulling them over his shins.
“Did you watch carefully, Steve?” Bucky asked, doing his belt lazily.
Steve didn’t say a word.
He just nodded, pushing himself up from the chair.
You were completely spent, your limbs feeling like stones against the couch, but your eyes went wide as you watched him approach.
Despite having just finished, Steve was already half hard again. You didn’t know how it was physically possible, but a man with his desires amplified by the super-soldier serum worked wonders in ways that even you couldn’t understand.
“I did,” Steve confirmed.
His chest was still heaving as he stood over you, his shadow falling across your trembling frame. He looked devastating—undone, messy, and still starving.
“S-steve?” you whimpered, weakly trying to sit up, “… are you okay? What are you doing?”
Bucky let out a dark, knowing chuckle at the shock on your face. He stepped aside, clearing a path as he looked from Steve back down to you, his hand clamping firmly on his friend’s shoulder.
“Good,” Bucky said. “Because it’s your turn.”
3 weeks since i posted my last fic 🚬 this has been in my drafts since jan and i'm glad i got to finally finish it! another stucky one, but from here on out you guys can expect to see more bucky fics soon (probably knight!bucky or model!bucky, depends if i'm feeling depressed or horny)
thank you guys for sticking around, and i hope you enjoyed!
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pairing: 40s!stucky x childhood best friend!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn no plot, light banter, m!masturbation, oral (m receiving), facials, size difference, innocence kink, cucking, sub!steve, soft dom!bucky, stucky homoeroticism, dirty talking, praise, pet names: "doll" "my best girl"
a/n: missing stucky hours + listening to my 40s bucky playlist inspired this fic (totally not another shameless playlist self plug)
word count: 10.1k
masterlist
synopsis:
After Steve is injected with the super soldier serum, Bucky decides to show his best friend what it truly means to be a man—and what better way to do that than through you, their lifelong childhood friend?
“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head with a glass of whiskey cold in his hand. “Look at you. Those muscles are practically busting out of your uniform.”
If it weren’t for the dim light of the bar, Bucky might’ve caught the flush creeping up Steve’s neck. Steve shifted, gripping his own glass before bringing it to his lips.
“I don’t know why we’re even here,” Steve said, draining the amber liquid in one go. “I can’t even get drunk.”
“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I can, so we’re drinking. Just admire the notes of oak or whatever.”
Steve scoffed, but he couldn’t stop a smirk from tugging at his mouth. It was impossible to stay moody around Bucky. “It tastes like gasoline.”
Bucky threw his head back, letting out a hearty laugh. As he straightened up, his eyes involuntarily drifted over Steve’s frame. Ever since the serum had transformed his friend, Bucky found himself constantly cataloging the… substantial changes.
Steve’s chest strained against his white T-shirt, his biceps flexing against the tight sleeves every time he moved. His jaw was chiseled now, his features sharper. Back then, Steve would have choked on a sip of cheap whiskey; now, the burn barely seemed to register. Bucky watched, mesmerized, as Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.
“So, tell me what this serum is actually doing to you,” Bucky asked, his laughter dying down. His eyes trailed down to Steve’s chest. “Other than making you outgrow your damn clothes… how are you feeling?”
Steve let out a long, grounded sigh of satisfaction, setting his glass back on the scarred wood of the table with a thud.
“I feel… good. Like everything is heightened—” he raised a hand to chest level, “—up to here. Both inside and out.”
Bucky raised his glass, blue eyes peering down to Steve’s lap just over the rim. “That so?”
“Yeah.”
Bucky took a slow swallow and set his own drink down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Explain it to me. What exactly is it about you that’s heightened on the inside?”
Steve shifted, the wooden chair creaking under his new, heavy weight. His brows furrowed as he searched for the right words.
“It’s like a mental amplification. Everything that feels good feels… great. And everything that feels bad feels that much worse.”
He swallowed hard, his fingers beginning to fidget against the tabletop—a nervous habit the serum hadn’t managed to take away. He hesitated on whether to keep going.
Bucky, ever attuned to Steve’s patterns of hesitation, leaned in closer, trying to gauge the rest out of him.
“And?” Bucky prodded softly.
Steve parted his lips, his face coloring slightly, before pressing them thin and shaking his head. “That’s about it, really.”
Bucky raised a brow, noting the flush as it crept over his friend’s chiseled features. There was clearly something internal Steve wasn’t mentioning—something he was actively holding back. It felt wrong. Usually, Steve was an open book around Bucky.
“Alright, well,” Bucky muttered, deciding not to pry—at least not yet. He pushed himself off the barstool with a grunt. “Let’s go show our girl your new look, yeah? She should be waiting at the park.”
Steve’s lips quirked into a faint, lopsided smile. He took one last sip of the whiskey—for courage, Bucky suspected—and stood up, his frame nearly blocking out the overhead light of the bar.
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Let’s go.”
After the two men settled their bill, they stepped out of the bar and into the crisp night air. They made their way toward the park, the streetlamps casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement.
There you were, sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath the sprawling branches of an oak tree. You looked like a vision pulled straight from the pages of a fashion magazine, dressed in an off-white collared blouse and a long, pleated skirt, with a simple cardigan draped over your shoulders.
The soft glow of the moonlight caught the curve of your smile as you finally looked up from your book, noticing Bucky and Steve approaching.
“Bucky!” you beamed, standing up and snapping your book shut. “Steve!”
As you drew closer, Steve stopped dead in his tracks.
It felt as though the air had been kicked right out of his lungs. His heart, now amplified by the serum, hammered frantically against his ribs. He had seen you a thousand times before, but seeing you now—with every sense dialed up to ten—was like a man seeing color for the first time.
Your scent—a fragrance he used to only catch when he was standing right beside you—carried on with the breeze, finding his nostrils instantly.
His eyes fluttered shut for a brief, dizzying second as he breathed you in.
Bucky slowed to a halt a step behind him, noticing the way Steve’s shoulders locked and how his gaze became hopelessly anchored to you.
Deep down, Bucky had always known Steve had a soft spot for you—hell, everyone did. Even Bucky had one, and he was shameless about it. But there was something different in the way Steve stiffened this time, and Bucky couldn’t help but wonder just how much that serum had changed him on the inside.
“You guys had me waitin’ forever,” you met them halfway, smiling eyes darting between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got yourselves drunk.”
“Never that, doll,” Bucky offered you a tipsy, lopsided grin. “Our boy here couldn’t get a buzz going if he drank the whole bar dry.” He gave Steve a pointed nudge with his elbow. “Notice anything… different about him?”
You blinked, eyes drifting up to meet Steve’s. You tilted your head slightly, book held close to your chest. “Did you get taller?”
Bucky snickered as your gaze began a slow, bewildered trail down to Steve’s torso. “And since when did you suddenly start working out?”
“Jeez, you really need to start picking up the morning newsletter, doll.” Bucky laughed, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulder and hauling you into his side. You stumbled slightly against him, rolling your eyes at his familiar theatrics, but he kept you tucked firm under his wing. He pointed a triumphant finger at Steve. “This man right here just got injected with the Super Soldier serum.”
“Super soldier?” you repeated with a soft gasp. You stepped out from under Bucky’s arm, looking at Steve wide-eyed. “Steve, what on earth…?”
Your book was now tucked under one arm as your free hand reached out, hovering for a second before your fingers finally made contact with his bicep. The fabric of his usually loose T-shirt was straining and spreading tight across his muscles.
“Is that really you in there?” you teased, your hand sliding up his shoulder, then tracing the broad and wide expanse of his chest.
The propriety of your actions didn’t even cross your mind; you were simply enamored by the sheer mass of him.
You gave his forearm a squeeze, marveling at how your fingers couldn’t even meet halfway around it anymore. Just a few weeks ago, you had been the taller one—now, he was a mountain of a man, looming over you with a shadow that felt protective.
“Steve, you look great… you feel great, too—I mean, how are you feeling?” You blinked up at him, pressing your palm against his to compare their sizes.
Steve looked like he was about to combust on the spot.
The sensation of your small, soft hand wandering over his new frame and resting in his own rough palm was an absolute assault on his composure. Everywhere you touched felt like it was catching fire, the serum amplifying the friction of your skin against his until his blood felt like it was boiling.
He tried to speak, but his throat had gone bone dry. Bucky, of course, noticed immediately.
“I… yeah. Thanks. I feel good,” Steve stammered, nodding firmly as he looked down at you, a stray blond lock falling over his eyes. “I feel really, really good.”
You giggled at his familiar stuttering, finally pulling your hand away from his palm to tuck a stray hair behind your ear.
Steve, meanwhile, felt a sudden warm ache pooling in his lower stomach—a physical reaction so intense it made his head spin.
Your giggle, your scent, the way you looked at him—everything he had loved about you before the serum was now heightened to an overwhelming pitch.
He shifted awkwardly, his trousers becoming uncomfortably, visibly tight, but there was nowhere to hide in the moonlight.
Bucky, standing just a few feet away, watched the flush deepen from Steve’s neck all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes drifted down, catching the unmistakable, growing bulge that pushed against his friend’s trousers.
Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from howling right there in the park.
“Steve, you’re shaking,” you said softly, completely oblivious to his predicament as you moved your hand to the center of his chest to check his heart rate. “Is the serum making you sick? Your heart feels like it’s going a mile a minute.”
“N-no! No, I’m—I’m fine,” Steve choked out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. He was terrified that if he actually touched you back, he’d lose all of his self-control. “Just… feels like a lot of energy. It’s a lot to take in.”
Bucky cleared his throat, a wicked little smile tugging at his lips as he stepped back into the conversation. “Yeah, I’d say he’s got a lot of energy built up right now. Might be a biological side effect—right, Steve?”
Steve returned his words with a glare, and Bucky only snickered louder.
“Let’s not stay out too late,” you said, looking around the quiet park, your voice airy and warm. “My mother baked a fresh batch of gingersnaps before she headed out for the evening. She left them on the counter and specifically told me to share them with you both.”
“Gingersnaps?” Bucky’s grin widened. “My favorite. Your mother always did have a soft spot for me.”
“For us,” Steve corrected, his voice low and territorial. He looked back at you. “We’re excited to try them, sweetheart. I’m quite hungry, actually.”
You laughed softly, playfully beckoning them with a wave of your hand as you turned on your heel.
You began leading the way toward your apartment building just across the street, calling back, “Come on! They’re probably still warm.”
As you walked ahead, the long, pleated skirt of your dress swayed with every step. The fabric clung and released over the curve of your hips in a rhythm that felt far too provocative for Steve’s new, heightened senses.
He couldn’t look away.
His gaze was hopelessly locked onto the way you moved, his mind clouded with feelings that were a mixture of protectiveness and something… unfamiliar and hungry.
Bucky nudged him hard in the ribs, leaning in close enough to whisper, “Careful there, Steve. You keep staring like that, you’re gonna burn a hole right through her skirt.”
Steve stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, his face flushing. “Shut up, Buck,” he hissed, though his eyes darted right back to you the second he regained his footing.
“I’m just saying,” Bucky chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he sauntered beside his friend. “Usually, you’re the one lecturing me about being a gentleman. Now look at you—standing there like a dog watching a steak dinner.”
You glanced over your shoulder, raising a brow at their whispering. “What are you two plotting back there?”
Steve stood up straighter, and Bucky shook his hand in a dismissive wave despite the smile he tried to fight. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, doll. Just lead the way—we’re right behind you.”
You frowned playfully, but kept on walking anyway. “I don’t like it when you two keep things from me.”
Steve felt his heart leap in his chest at the sight of your lips turned into a little pout. He was still struggling to keep his walk natural, his trousers feeling tighter with every step he took behind you.
“Trust me,” Steve said, his voice coming out a pitch deeper than he intended. “It’s nothing a girl like you would ever want to know. Just… stupid locker room talk.”
He waited until you turned your back to them before leaning toward Bucky’s ears.
“Behave,” he whisper-yelled in warning.
“Oh—come on,” Bucky smiled, adjusting his jacket as he met his friend’s panicked eyes. “I’m a saint, Steve.”
Once the three of you reached the building, you led the way up the narrow, dimly lit staircase. The rhythmic click of your heels on the creaky wooden steps was the only sound in the quiet hall.
Bucky leaned back slightly as he climbed, his gaze hooked shamelessly on the sway of your skirt.
A look of pure appreciation settled on his face, his tongue darted over his lower lip as he considered just how much his best childhood friend had grown up.
Steve, walking right beside him, felt a sharp surge of protectiveness at the way Bucky was cataloging your every move. He jutted a heavy elbow into Bucky’s ribs—a blow that, with his new strength, nearly sent Bucky over the banister.
“Be respectful!” Steve hissed, his jaw locked.
Bucky wheezed quietly, clutching his side.
“Jeez, Steve… watch the hardware,” he grunted, trying to catch his breath. “And don’t give me that lecture, pal. You’re looking just as hard as I am.” His eyes drifted pointedly down to the front of Steve’s trousers. “Probably harder, considering you’ve got the vision of a hawk now.”
You paused in front of your door, fishing the keys out of your purse. You raised a skeptical brow at the two of them. “What is going on with you two?”
Steve caught his breath, smoothing his expression as he closed the distance between you. He forced a stiff smile.
“Nothing,” he said. “We’re just excited for those cookies. Been thinking about them all the way here.”
Bucky let out a muffled snort behind him, but Steve ignored it, keeping his focus on your eyes.
You chuckled and shook your head, pushing the door open. “Well, don’t just stand there like statues. Come in.”
Steve crossed the threshold with Bucky lingering right behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, Steve realized that coming here so soon after the serum had been a mistake.
The apartment was a sensory trap. Away from the biting wind of the street, your scent was no longer just a trace on the breeze—it was everywhere. It was in the perfume lingering on your soft skin, the traces of your familiar vanilla scent in the kitchen, and on the lived-in warmth of the sofa.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” you said, heading straight for the kitchen.
Steve didn’t move.
He stood in the center of the living room, his body as rigid as a bag of bricks. Every muscle in his legs and back was coiled like a high tension spring. His hands were balled into fists at his sides just to keep them from shaking.
You returned a moment later, carrying a ceramic plate of gingersnaps and tea to the coffee table.
To Steve, you looked effortlessly domestic, the soft light of the floor lamp catching the stray flyaways of your hair like a soft halo.
As you sat on the sofa, you crossed one leg over the other, causing the hem of your skirt to hike up an inch or two higher than usual. It revealed the smooth line of your calf, covered only by a flimsy, sheer stocking that Steve felt he could easily rip with the slightest twitch of his hands.
A roar of blood rushed to Steve’s ears. He felt himself straining very painfully against his trousers, his fingers twitching with a desperate longing to touch you.
“Sit down, Steve,” Bucky prompted, giving his friend a nudge in the back toward the sofa. “Relax a little.”
Bucky sank into the armchair, leaving the spot on the sofa right next to you wide open. He looked at Steve, then at the empty cushion, and finally at Steve’s visible predicament, his eyebrows rising in amusement.
“Yeah, come here, Steve,” you said, scooting over and patting the empty space next to you.
Steve swallowed hard, taking long, stiff strides until he finally sank onto the small sofa.
The cushions dipped precariously and the wooden frame groaned under his heavy weight. He found his knees sitting much higher than usual, making him look even more like a giant in a dollhouse.
“Man,” Bucky laughed, lifting a cup of tea to his lips. “You’re gonna break the damn furniture, Stevie.”
Steve mumbled a shy, “sorry,” his face burning.
You just shook your head, ignoring Bucky’s usual teasing. You picked up a gingersnap and brought it to Steve’s lips, cupping your other hand beneath it to catch any stray crumbs.
“Say ah.”
Bucky nearly choked, a spray of tea flying back into his cup.
Steve had turned a shade of red that was impossible to hide, the color racing from his collar to his hairline until even his ears were glowing. He sat there frozen—his jaw hanging slightly as he looked from the cookie in your hand to the teasing glimmer shining in your eyes.
“Well?” Bucky taunted, leaning forward in his armchair and clattering his saucer down on the table.
He was enjoying this far too much.
“Don’t keep the lady waiting, Steve. Go on. Say ‘ah’ for the misses.”
Steve pressed his lips together, giving Bucky a hard glare from across the couch.
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Steve,” you teased, nudging the gingersnap closer to his mouth. “You said you were hungry, didn’t you?”
Bucky let out a low, wicked whistle. “He’s real hungry, doll. Starving, I’d say. Just look at him—he’s already drooling for a bite.”
“Bucky—” Steve’s jaw dropped in indignation at his friend’s shamelessness, and you seized the opportunity to slide the edge of the cookie past his teeth.
“There,” you hummed, reaching out to catch a small crumb off his bottom lip with a slow swipe of your thumb. “Was that so hard?”
Steve wished the worn cushions would open up and swallow him whole—because hard was exactly what he was. The simple graze of your thumb swiping over his lip was enough to make his whole body shudder. The feel of your lingering touch tingled on his lips, the sensation only making him dangerously need you more.
“Hell,” Steve muttered through the quiet munching. “Would you… please excuse me—”
He stood up so abruptly the sofa groaned. He kept his back turned to you, his hand dropping to swiftly, desperately adjust the painful bulge pushing up against his pants. He took stiff, heavy strides toward the bathroom, each footstep making the delicate floorboards thud and creak under his heavy body.
After Steve disappeared around the corner, you turned to Bucky. He was leaning back in the armchair, looking entirely too smug for his own good.
“Is everything okay with him?” you asked softly. “He’s been acting so… jumpy. Is the serum hurting him? Maybe he needs a doctor.”
Bucky let out a dry chuckle, swiping a gingersnap from the plate. He took a slow bite, savoring the sweetness before his eyes met yours, something mischievous and knowing behind those orbs.
“Hurting him? No, sweetheart. I don’t think ‘pain’ is what Stevie’s feeling right now,” Bucky said, his gaze drifting toward the hallway. “The scientists told him the serum doesn’t just change the muscles. It amplifies everything inside—his heart, his nerves, and his…” He paused, his eyes landing back on yours, “… instincts.”
You blinked, still not quite catching the drift. “Instincts? Like his reflexes?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Bucky replied with a casual shrug, dusting the crumbs off his fingers. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees to bridge the gap between you. “See, Steve was always the type to keep to himself when it came to women. But that serum? It turned him into a real man—in every sense of the word.”
You tilted your head curiously, and Bucky chuckled at your naivety before pressing on.
“Everything he sees, everything he smells… everything he feels… it’s all ten times more intense than it used to be.” Bucky paused, raising a dark brow. “You followin’ me, doll?”
“I’m trying to,” you murmured, though a slight heat was beginning to prickle at your cheeks.
Bucky glanced toward the closed bathroom door. “Usually, Steve’s got a lot of willpower. But you sitting there, feeding him and touching him like that?” A wolfish grin tugged at his mouth. “I bet it’s taking every ounce of strength in that new body of his just to remember how to be a gentleman.”
You followed Bucky’s gaze toward the darkened hallway, your lower lip poking out in a slight, troubled pout.
“But… is he hurting?” you asked, your heart aching at the thought of Steve in any kind of distress. “If the serum is making things that intense, it sounds… painful.”
Bucky chuckled. “Oh, you’re so innocent doll. That’s why we love you.” He shook his head, leaning back as he watched the gears slowly turn in your head.
“Listen to me,” he continued. “Steve is a gentleman. Always has been, always will be. He’d sooner jump on a grenade than be disrespectful to a lady—but at the end of the day, he’s a man. And a man has certain… needs. Especially when he’s sitting inches away from the person he’s been head over heels in love with since we were all knee high to a grasshopper.”
Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your eyes went wide to meet his. “Steve… Steve likes me? Like that?”
Bucky gave you a boyish grin.
“Like doesn’t even begin to cover it, sweetheart. He’s had it bad for you for about a decade,” he teased before he tilted his head and gave you a slight pout. “Now, don’t go getting me too jealous, either. I’ve got a heart too, you know.”
A deep, hot flush crept up your neck and nestled into your cheeks. You could hardly wrap your mind around the idea that Steve… kind, stalwart Steve, actually liked you.
Between that revelation and the way Bucky was staring, you found yourself shifting restlessly on the cushion, rubbing your legs together subtly as if to soothe a sudden warm itch.
Bucky’s eyes dropped, tracking the way your skirt shifted over your thighs. He let out a low amusing hum at the way you wriggled beneath his scrutiny, his own expression darkening with interest.
“If he’s feeling… uncomfortable around me,” you started, your voice small and flustered, “is there anything I can do to help him? I don’t want him to be in pain.”
Bucky watched your legs work together for a moment before dragging his eyes back to yours. “You want to help him, do you?”
“Of course,” you nodded earnestly, meeting his stare with wide, sincere eyes. “I’d do anything to help you two if you were in distress. You’re my best friends.”
Bucky’s grin shifted, wider and somehow more predatory. He leaned in an inch closer, his voice dropping deeper. “Anything, sweetheart?”
Steve walked back into the living room. He looked slightly more composed, though his hair was damp at the temples where he had splashed his face with cold water.
His shirt was tucked in tight—perhaps too tight—and he kept his arms stiff at his sides as he approached the sofa. He stopped in his tracks, his frame large in the small room, when he saw how closely Bucky was leaning toward you and the stiff, flustered way you were sitting.
“Everything alright?” Steve asked. His eyes darted suspiciously between his smug best friend and your embarrassed expression.
“Are you feeling alright, Steve?” you asked softly, looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Bucky said the… um, the serum… it might be making things difficult for you?”
Steve froze.
He stared down at Bucky, his eyes blown wide with a mix of shock and betrayal. He opened his mouth to stammer out a polite lie—to tell you he was perfectly fine and that Bucky was just talking nonsense—but Bucky didn’t give him the chance.
“I told our girl here all about your little predicament, Stevie,” Bucky interrupted with a gravelly purr. He leaned back, relishing the way Steve’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. “Told her how all those new nerves of yours are screaming for a bit of... relief.”
Steve’s face went from pale to a scorched, blistering red. “Buck, shut it—”
“And the best part?” Bucky continued, ignoring the warning as he looked up at his friend with taunting eyes. “She’s a real sweetheart, Steve. She told me she’s willing to do just about anything to help you out of your distress. Isn’t that right, doll?”
Steve’s gaze flickered down to you, searching your face as if he were waiting for you to deny it—or perhaps, secretly hoping for your confirmation.
“Anything,” Bucky repeated for you, his voice low and suggestive. “She’s got a real generous heart, Steve. I think she’s just waiting for you to tell her exactly what a big, strong soldier like you needs to feel better.”
Steve’s chest felt like it was closing in on his heart. Your eyes—still wide and guileless—never broke away from his, and it only made his restraint weaker.
“What do you need from me, Steve?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “If you’re hurting… if there’s something I can do to make this easier on you, just tell me.”
If you could be any more innocent, Steve swore he would lose his mind. He had a sudden, violent urge to pin you down on the couch and fuck you right there.
“I… I don’t…” Steve stammered, his voice trailing off as he heard Bucky push himself off the armchair.
Bucky stepped up behind Steve and reached out and to give Steve a firm nudge toward you, forcing his large frame even deeper into your personal space until he was practically looming over your lap.
“Look at her, Steve,” Bucky cooed next to Steve’s ear. “You’ve got the girl of your dreams sittin’ right in front of you, offering her help, and you’re not gonna accept it?”
Steve felt like he could burst right through the seams of his trousers just from looking at you. Your eyes kept flicking down to the heavy, undeniable bulge in front of you before darting back up to his, your teeth nervously strumming over your bottom lip as you fought the urge to stare.
Bucky noticed.
Of course, Bucky noticed.
He let out a sly grin before reaching around and flattening his palm directly over the straining bulge in Steve’s pants. He had done it so casually that you almost believed this wasn’t the first time he’d handled his friend.
“Fuck,” Steve’s eyes snapped wide, head turning to Bucky’s in shock but not pulling away. “B-Buck—!”
“Look at this, doll,” Bucky hummed darkly. He didn’t break eye contact with you as his fingers flexed, squeezing the length of Steve’s cock through the fabric. “You see how hard he is? How much he’s shaking just because you’re lookin’ at him?”
Steve let out a low, involuntary whimper—a sound so ungentlemanly it made his face burn even hotter. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and desperate, pleading for you to either stop this or finish it.
“P-please…”
Bucky gave Steve a firm squeeze, his fingers curling around Steve’s bulge. The pressure made Steve’s head roll back, a deep, broken groan vibrating out of his throat as his body betrayed him.
A dark, damp circle began to bloom against the front of his light-colored trousers, the fabric darkening as a heavy bead of pre-cum soaked through, marking him right where Bucky’s thumb was pressing.
Bucky let out a low, dark chuckle as he relished the way his friend was falling apart beneath his hand.
“Look at that, doll,” Bucky urged, voice raspy.
He shifted his palm slightly to smear the growing dampness into the cloth, making the stain even more obvious and Steve even more shameful. “See what you’re doin’ to him? He’s so worked up for you, he can’t even keep himself dry.”
Steve was trembling where he stood, his massive shoulders shaking as he looked down at his ruined pants before his gaze snapped back to yours—raw and shamelessly.
“Buck… stop,” he whined. It was a pathetic, needy sound, and despite every ounce of strength in his new muscles he could use to push Bucky off, he didn’t. He stayed rooted to the spot, leaning into the touch. “You’re… you’re scaring her…”
“Scaring her?” Bucky chuckled. “I’m not scaring her. Look her in the eye, Stevie. She wants you just as bad.”
Bucky glanced over at you, tilting his head with a flash of innocence that didn’t match the way his hand was still working Steve through his trousers. “Isn’t that right, doll? Don’t you want to help our poor, big Stevie?”
“How should I…” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked up at the two large men looming over you. “What should I do?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a predatory smile tugging at his lips. “Get down on your knees, sweetheart. A man loves to see his woman on her knees for him.”
A small gasp escaped you, and you looked up at Steve as if waiting for his approval. He didn’t deny it—his brows were pinched together and his jaw hung open as his chest heaved in deep, heavy breaths. Finally, you slid off the cushions and sank onto the rug. From this angle, Steve looked like a titan, and the damp stain on his trousers sat right at eye level.
Steve swore he could bust right then and there just from seeing you on your knees.
“Now,” Bucky commanded softly. His hand finally let go of Steve’s cock to rest on top of his head, his fingers threading firmly through Steve’s blonde hair. “Open ‘em up. Nice and slow.”
“Slow?” Steve whined.
Bucky clicked his tongue. “He’s been waiting a long time for this, he can wait a little longer.”
With trembling fingers, you reached for the buttons of his trousers. The fabric was strained to the limit, and as you worked them free one by one, the rigid, pulsing heat of him began to push through the opening.
When the last button gave way, Steve’s cock snapped free, heavy and thick.
You gasped at the size. You weren’t sure how it was going to fit in your hand.
“There he is,” Bucky cooed, his hand tightening in Steve’s hair as he forced Steve's head down to look at you. “Now, wrap your hand around him. Take a good grip so he knows he’s yours.”
You reached out, your small hand barely able to meet around the girth of him. The feel of your warm, amateur palm wrapping around his skin made Steve’s eyes shutter closed instantly in pleasure.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve cursed, his hips instinctively bucking forward for more.
“Look at that,” Bucky chuckled.“Can’t even fit her whole hand around you—but it feels good, doesn’t it? So much better than your own hand.”
“So…” Steve moaned, his hips drawing back slightly before he thrusted himself into your palm, “much… better. Fuck—”
You tightened your grip, swiping your thumb over the pre-cum that gathered at his tip and over his cockhead. The friction of your palm against his over sensitized skin made Steve’s knees buckle, his large frame swaying as he looked down at you through his haze of lust.
“See that, doll?” Bucky rumbled above you. “Steve’s a man now—and a man like this… sometimes a hand just isn’t enough to please him. Isn’t that right, Stevie?”
Steve didn’t, couldn’t, give him a coherent answer. He was busy babbling broken, desperate sounds into the air, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest. “God… please,” he breathed. “Her hand.. it’s so soft—so warm.”
Your face was on fire. You could feel yourself wetting your panties with every heavy breath and grunt that escaped Steve’s lips. And the way Bucky was shamelessly watching you, that wicked little knowing grin plastered on his face, only made you feel smaller—utterly helpless under both of them.
Bucky’s cock was practically jumping out of his pants as his eyes were fixed on the way your small hand looked against Steve.
“Shit. I think he needs more, sweetheart.” He breathed. “I think he needs more, sweetheart. Stick your tongue out. I want you to use that pretty tongue of yours. Lick it—all the way up—and then I want you to take as much of him as you can into your small little mouth.”
You hesitated, your breath hitching as you stared up at the two men.
“I… I’ve never... sucked before—” you confessed, tiny and trembling.
The admission made you sink back on your heels, suddenly overwhelmed. You had Steve right in front of you, practically panting for anything you were willing to give him, which should have made you feel confident—but the performance anxiety was taking its toll.
You were terrified you wouldn’t be able to satisfy Steve, and the weight of Bucky’s watchful and critical gaze only made it worse.
But Bucky didn’t look disappointed.
In fact, his grin grew wider.
“Even better,” Bucky purred. He leaned over Steve’s shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours. “That just means Stevie here gets to be the one to teach you. And don’t you worry, doll... we’re gonna make sure you learn exactly how to take care of a man.”
Bucky’s hand slid down Steve’s forearm, his grip tightening as he nudged him toward you. “Help her out, Stevie. Grab her hair.”
Steve hesitated. His eyes dropped to the plump curve of your lips, and his cock twitched as he imagined the heat of your mouth wrapping around him. Slowly, as if expecting you to pull away, his thick fingers tangled into your hair.
When you let out a soft, shaky sigh at the feel of his touch, Steve took it as the only permission he needed. He tugged a little firmer now, guiding your face closer to his hard length until you stumbled forward on your knees with a small whimper.
“Tell her, Steve,” Bucky urged, his eyes fixed on your trembling lips. “Tell her exactly what you want her to do with that pretty mouth.”
Steve’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip, with a hand tight around the base of his cock, he guided himself right to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darted out at the pre-cum collecting at his slit, and Steve’s entire body shuddered with every effort it took from slamming his cock into your mouth.
“How does it taste, sweetheart?” Steve breathed, gauging your expression.
You looked up at him, your eyes a little hazy as the salty taste of him settled on your tongue. It was a completely new sensation—warm, strong, and undeniably masculine.
“It’s… a little salty,” you admitted gently “Is it supposed to taste like that?”
Bucky chuckled darkly, his hand coming up to grip Steve’s shoulder as he pressed himself into his back, his cock subtly rubbing up against the cleft of Steve’s ass through the fabric of his own pants. “Aw. Isn’t that cute? Just a little taste and our girl’s already curious.”
“Open… please,” Steve rasped.
Between the sight of your waiting mouth and the insistent pressure of Bucky behind him, his senses were completely overwhelmed.
“Open your mouth all the way for me, sweetheart,” Steve let out a shaking breath.
He guided his throbbing, slicked head of his cock back to your lips, his fingers tightening instinctively in your hair. “I need to feel how warm your mouth is… I need you to take me.”
Shyly, you parted your lips. At the sight of your tongue, Steve took it as a final invitation to lose himself. He nudged your head closer to his cock until your lips stretched over his sensitive head. Already overwhelmed by the sensation of your plump lips sliding over his sensitive flesh, Steve let out a low, guttural growl and tossed his head back.
“Oh, hell…” he cursed, bucking his hips forward without warning.
Steve’s cock slid over your wet tongue and buried itself deep in your mouth. Your eyes went wide as you let out a muffled, helpless choke around his length. That small sound only made your throat tighten around his shaft, and the combination of your sweet, pained noises and the warmth was enough to shatter Steve’s last bit of control.
“Shit… that feels… fuck,” Steve whined, his hips snapping deeper into your mouth. “Feels too damn good—”
“Whoa, Stevie,” Bucky chuckled, though his own breath was hitching as he watched. He reached down, his hand landing heavy on Steve’s hip to try and still him. “Slow down, pal. You’re gonna choke the poor girl if you keep lunging like a wild animal. Take it easy.”
“I—I can’t…” Steve gasped, his head rolling back against Bucky’s shoulder.
His eyes were blown wide and glassy with a terrifying haze of lust. His thrusts became more frantic, his heavy cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a wet, vulgar slapping sound.
“Fuck, Bucky… do you see how she’s looking at me?” Steve grumbled, his voice a wrecked, low vibration.
He looked down at you, watching the way your eyes stayed locked on his even as you struggled to accommodate his size.
“She’s chokin’ around me… I can feel her throat squeezing me… but she’s not looking away.”
He glanced back at Bucky, blonde hair falling over his sweat beaded brow in messy, golden strands. “That—that means she wants it, right? She wants me to keep goin’?”
Your eyes grew wide and teary, your warm, wet throat closing in tight around him as he drove himself in to the hilt. You choked and coughed, drooling helplessly around his thick shaft as his pelvis collided with your nose with every thrust.
The mere idea of it—the very woman he had sought after for years, now pinned on her knees beneath him, servicing his cock—was too much to bear. Your eyes, usually so wide with wonder and kindness, were now glassy and teary as your mouth stretched to accommodate him.
The sight of your vulnerability was the final spark. It was enough to make him cum on the spot.
“Fuck… I can’t—shit, not when she’s looking at me like that…” Steve groaned, rocking his hips faster against your mouth.
“Ste—ve—mmph..”
“You like this, don’t you?” he breathed, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at the messy, beautiful ruin of your face. “My girl… my best girl… taking all of me.”
And then you nodded—a small, subtle little movement you managed to get out despite the possessive grip Steve had on your hair. That tiny invitation made his cock throb violently inside your mouth, pulsing once, twice, before his release finally consumed him and your mouth.
“Look at her, Buck!” Steve beamed, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest as he drove himself into your throat one last time. “She’s so… fuck… she’s so perfect. God, I’m cumming—!”
Bucky watched, enamored, as Steve’s thick seed flooded your mouth. Steve held your head down, his fingers still tangled in your hair, as his release seeped around the stretch of your lips and down your chin, dripping obscenely onto the floor.
Your face—usually so pretty, soft, and composed—was now fucked to filth. Tears streaked your flushed cheeks, and your lips and chin were smeared with a mask of saliva and Steve’s cum.
It was a sight vulgar enough to make Bucky almost feel bad for you.
Almost.
The sensation of Steve’s salty, warm, and thick cum hitting the back of your throat was like a drug filling your head. His cock throbbed tiredly in your mouth, Steve finally coming down from his high. He let out a long, shaky breath and pulled out of your wet, sore mouth with a heavy, sloppy pop.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Steve rasped, his voice filled with regret as he took in the sight of you—kneeling on the floor, breathless and covered in his mess. “Look at you. I ruined you. I didn’t mean to be so—God, please let me help you up.”
He started to reach for your shoulders, his large palms open and trembling, but he was cut off by the sharp sound of Bucky’s belt being unbuckled.
“Get up, Steve.”
Bucky’s voice wasn’t a suggestion but rather an authoritative command that made no move for arguments. He nudged Steve back with a firm, steady hand, his eyes never leaving your messy, dazed face.
“That’s not a way to treat a woman now, Steve,” Bucky purred, finally extending a hand to you. His fingers were steady, a contrast to Steve’s shaking frame. “Our girl has never sucked a cock before—and yet here you are, slamming your pelvis down her throat and ruinin’ her.”
Steve’s face flushed with embarrassment and shame. His eyes flickered to Bucky’s briefly before looking back at yours with guilt.
“I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I… I lost control.”
You reached up, wiping the corner of your mouth as Bucky’s hand closed around yours, pulling you to your feet. “It’s okay—”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Steve,” Bucky interrupted with a sharp click of his tongue, shaking his head.
He pointed to the seat directly behind Steve—the one Bucky had just vacated. “Sit down. Since you don’t know how to pace yourself, I’m going to show you how to properly please a woman.”
Steve swallowed hard, watching your debauched face blink up at Bucky with a dazed curiosity. His heartstrings pulled knowing how brutally he’d just fucked your face, and reluctantly, he took a seat as instructed.
You felt Bucky’s warm breath hit the back of your neck as he pressed up behind you—his bulge rubbing firm against the fabric of your skirt as his hands circled from behind you to your front, undoing the buttons on your blouse one at a time.
“You have to take your time with a fragile woman like her,” Bucky said raspily, his nose finding the crook of your neck and pressing soft, wet kisses between each sentence. “You need to savor this moment—undress her slowly as if unwrapping a delicate present.”
Your blouse was finally undone, and you heard the small gasp that left Steve’s lips at the sight of your lacey bra.
Swiftly, as if he had done this plenty of times before, Bucky undid your bra in one quick moment, the lace hitting the ground.
“Oh—!” you gasped as Bucky’s hands immediately found your nipples, giving them soft and teasing tugs as he circled his digits around the sensitive flesh.
In reaction, your back arched against his chest, only making your ass rub up against Bucky’s straining cock even more.
“Bucky…” Steve breathed from the couch, his hands already working at his half-hard cock. “What’re you… doing…”
“You’ve gotta play with her for a bit,” Bucky explained, giving your nipple a harsher tug that made you squeal. “Hear that, Steve? Means she likes it.”
He nuzzled his nose closer to your face, blue eyes piercing through yours.
“Do you like it, doll?”
“I… I do…”
You were cut off with Bucky’s hand sliding up to your chin and giving your cheeks a firm squeeze in his direction.
“Look at me when you answer, baby,” he warned. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, Bucky... I l-love it,” you whimpered as his hands continued their possessive roam over your body.
Bucky’s grin was dark and satisfied, his thumb grazing the corner of your swollen mouth. “Good. Eye contact is important. Now…”
He reached out, his hand hooking under your chin and firmly turning your face to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve looked completely spent, his blue eyes wide and glazed with a heavy, post orgasmic haze as he watched you from the couch, his hand resting lazily over the rise of his cock.
“Look Steve in the eye while I touch you,” Bucky commanded, his fingers digging slightly into your cheeks to keep your head still. “Tell him how good it feels.”
You shivered, your eyes locking onto Steve’s. He looked so vulnerable, yet so hungry, his chest heaving as he watched his best friend’s hands work over you.
“Don’t keep him waiting.” Bucky urged.
“It… it feels so good, Steve,” you breathed as Bucky continued to grope you. “Bucky’s hands… they’re so warm—I love how he’s touching me—”
Steve let out a choked sound at your words, one hand stroking his shaft while the other gripped the arm rest. “Jesus…”
“He’s got a lot to learn, doesn’t he, baby?” Bucky murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your skirt and unzipping the side, letting the fabric fall over your legs and hit the ground. “Tell him how it feels when I do this.”
A mewl escaped your lips the moment Bucky slyly slid his hand down the waistband of your panties, his fingers gently rubbing at your clit before delving deeper against your folds. He shifted around you, one hand groping at your chest,waist, and hips—while the other fingered your wet cunt.
“Ah—Buck!”
“My,” Bucky chuckled, clicking his tongue. “She’s so wet.”
Steve swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the sight of Bucky’s hand disappearing into your lace. “Is she?”
“Long before I even started touchin’ her, I bet,” Bucky explained, nudging his knee between your legs to force them to spread wider for him. “That’s all because of you, Steve. You worked her up so good—she’s dripping around my fingers.”
Still standing and completely exposed to both of the hungry men, you felt Bucky’s fingers probe against your entrance, giving you a few teasing strokes before he pushed firmly against the tight heat of your hole.
You arched your back, whining high in your throat as Bucky’s fingers sheathed completely inside you—at first stroking gently before he began to move roughly, enticing shamelessly wet sounds out of you.
“Oh my God—!” you cried.
You squelched around his fingers as he worked your slick folds. Steve’s eyes widened, his breath completely caught in his throat as he watched your body react so easily to Bucky’s hands.
“You hear that, Stevie?” Bucky groaned, increasing the pace in his fingers while rubbing himself against your back. “When a woman sounds like that—it means she’s ready. Ready to be fucked.”
With a sharp tug, Bucky hooked his fingers into the lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed and shivering in the center of the room.
He rested a heavy hand on your lower back, his palm hot against your skin as he guided you toward the couch.
“On the couch, doll. Front and center.”
You stumbled slightly, your knees weak and your inner thighs a slick, aching mess. You barely had time to settle onto the cushions before Bucky was already unbuckling his belt, his pants hitting the floor as he exposed himself completely.
He stepped in, his thighs nudging between your knees and forcing you to lay back until you were spread wide and vulnerable beneath him.
Bucky was big in ways that genuinely worried you.
If you could hardly handle Steve’s length in your throat, you weren’t sure of how your body would react to Bucky’s width.
He noticed the way your eyes widened as he hovered over you, his thumb tracing the seam of his own length as he rubbed his tip against your entrance. He let out a low, dark chuckle, completely satisfied with the way he had you squirming and the way he had Steve pinned to his seat, unable to look away.
“You see how she’s shaking, Steve? That’s what you want. You want her knowing exactly what’s coming for her.”
“Bucky,” you whined, your hands coming up to his shoulders for support—and Steve watched with a pang of envy, wishing it was his skin you were clinging to instead. “Please…”
Bucky laughed again, taking the head of his cock and dragging it slowly along your slit, coating himself in your heat. You let out a shaky breath, your hips involuntarily twitching, begging for the friction to turn into something more.
“She’s begging so sweetly, Buck…” Steve gave himself a gentle squeeze around his sensitive shaft at the sight of you. “You need to take care of her—”
“Even though she’s beggin’, you gotta make her wait.” Bucky explained despite the strain of holding back in his own voice. “You stretch her out bit by bit until she’s begging you to just get it over with.”
Bucky poked his tip against the soft, warm flesh of your cunt, pressing just enough pressure to make you gasp but not enough to penetrate all the way through.
“Tell Steve what you want, doll,” Bucky murmured, his hand coming down to grip your hip. “Tell him how much you want this.”
“B-Bucky, please,” you sobbed, your back arching off the couch as you tried to force yourself onto him, but he held his ground, as immovable as a mountain.
“That’s not an answer,” Bucky teased, his eyes darting to Steve, who was leaning so far forward he was nearly off his seat. “Is she asking for a kiss, Stevie? Is she asking for a blanket? I can’t tell.”
Steve’s throat bobbed as he watched the head of Bucky’s cock sliding against your entrance, the size of him making you look so small and fragile. “She wants you inside her, Buck. Just… fuck, just give it to her.”
“I want to hear her say it,” Bucky countered, giving you another shallow, teasing poke that made your toes curl into the cushions. “Tell us, baby. What do you want me to do with this?”
“I want you inside,” you choked out, your face warm with embarrassment. “I want… I want you to stretch me. Please, Bucky, fuck me!”
Bucky smirked, satisfied. “That’s my girl.”
With one hand propped near your head to hold himself up, he used the other to grip the base of his cock. He pushed deeper against your entrance, your cunt slowly stretching around him with every stinging burn. You could feel every ridge, every inch of his width forcing your tight walls to let him in.
“Shit,” Bucky hissed a curse, “she’s so tight.”
“Buck,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as he stretched you with every slide. “Too… too big, I don’t think I—”
“You can, baby,” Bucky countered. He hooked one hand underneath your thigh, hoisting it up toward your chest until you were pinned back, nearly splitting you. “Here—I’ll help you. Steve, I want you to watch me.”
A broken mewl left your lips as you tossed your head back against the cushions. Bucky was filling you—completely and deeply—and he hadn’t even begun to move before your legs were already shaking. With a deep grunt, he finally bottomed out, his hips slamming against yours with a wet squelch so vulgar it made Steve’s breath hitch.
“Her legs are shaking…” Steve pointed out, which only made your body warm even more in embarrassment.
You turned your head to look at him, and the sight made you clench instinctively around Bucky’s dick. Steve was at the edge of his seat, his toes curled into the floor as his large hand pumped over his cock. He was still slick from his own cum and the heat of your mouth, leaking profusely and looking every bit ready for round two.
“S-Steve…” you broke off into a whimper as Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened.
The sudden grip made your eyes flicker back to Bucky’s—his darkening at the way you were looking at his best friend. He let out a sharp, mocking huff.
“Moaning another man’s name while I’m buried this deep inside you, doll?” Bucky pulled back until he was nearly out, the slick wetness around his shaft filling the room before he slammed back in, making you cry out and the couch groan.
“If you’ve got enough breath to call for Stevie,” he growled, pulling his hips back again before thrusting even deeper, “then I’m not working you hard enough.”
The moment Bucky increased his pace, a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. You tried to hide it—to claw back any shred of composure—but you simply couldn't when you were stripped bare and taken so roughly while Steve watched every single second.
Every time Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix, it felt like your nerves were catching on fire.
You were parted completely by him, his width stretching you so thoroughly that your body had no choice but to acknowledge that you belonged to him.
“A-ah! Bu-Bucky… feels so good—!” you cried out, hands clawing at his back as he fucked you into the cushions.
Each thrust Bucky delivered seemed to synchronize with the wet pumping of Steve’s hand. Bucky looked over his shoulder, a dark smirk pulling at his lips as he caught Steve’s eye.
He nearly pulled all the way out, letting Steve see the wet and stretched out version of you before bottoming out again, filling you completely and making you cry out.
“Lying in your bed at night, wondering what it would like to hear her scream like this for you.” Bucky continued with a gritty rasp.
As shameful as it was—every bit of it was true.
Every day you had spent standing next to Steve—acting small and seemingly innocent—you never would have guessed that little ol’ Steve had the filthiest thoughts imaginable running through his mind.
He used to imagine what it would feel like to have a body that didn’t fail him, a body strong enough to pin you down and finally act on the dirty thoughts that made his blood sing. He’d lie awake in his cramped apartment, staring at the ceiling and picturing your hands on him.
Or better yet, his hands on you—forcing a cry just like the one Bucky was coaxing out of you now.
Every time Bucky’s cock slid out of your cunt, Steve imagined it was his own sinking back into your tight, aching heat. If your mouth had felt that incredible, he could only imagine how it must feel to be buried deep inside you. The thought alone made him pump his cock faster, his body leaking a copious amount of pre-cum thanks to the serum.
He was already on the verge of busting a second load just from the sight of you getting ruined.
“God… ah, fuck,” Steve whimpered, his eyes glazed as his cock became painfully sensitive under his own touch.
“Look at him, doll,” Bucky prompted, leaning down to hiss the words into your ear while he continued to relentlessly pump into you. “Look at how hard he’s working just to keep up with us. He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Watching his best friend ruin you while he sits there and plays with himself.”
Bucky pulled back almost to the tip, gripping your other hip and flaring you even wider for the audience.
“He’s imagining it’s him,” Bucky laughed, a dark, sexy sound that made you flare up. “He’s imagining he’s the one stretching you out, the one making you sob his name. But he has to learn how to take care of you first, right? He has to watch me finish inside you.”
Your eyes widened at the thought of Bucky pumping you full.
It was dangerous, but with the way he had you pinned, your body couldn’t help but react. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your heat.
“Oh—” Bucky grunted, his cock twitching violently at the feel of your soft thighs locking him in. “Jesus… fuck.”
“Finish inside her,” Steve pleaded. He was timing his own hand to Bucky’s thrust, body tensing as he was prepared to cum alongside his best friend. “Fuck, Buck… do it. She’s pullin’ you in—means she wants it. I want to see you fill her.”
“She’s—she’s so tight,” Bucky hissed, his head falling into the crook of your neck. He drew his hips back as far as your locked legs would allow before sliding back in. “She’s pulling me in… like she’s trying to drain me.”
Bucky pulled back slightly to look you in the eye, his eyes dark with hunger.
“What should I do, doll? Should I cum inside?” he whispered, rocking his hips in a slow, agonizing grind as he fought to hold back his release. “Should I show Steve how to properly breed a woman?”
“Yes!” you sobbed, your hips rising to meet him—trying to rip the orgasm out of him yourself. “Please, Bucky. I want it, please!”
Bucky’s face strained at your words, his hips losing rhythm as he fucked you until his cock twitched and pulsed.
“Christ… you dirty girl,” he grunted between clenched teeth, each thrust making the couch slide an inch against the floor.
Steve watched and listened, tracing the way your body shook and the way your moans pitched higher and higher with every wet slap of Bucky’s hips. He could see the exact moment you both started to go over the edge—and he was right there with you, his hand a blur as he prepared to cum too.
“Shit!” Bucky cursed. “Cumming—fuck—I’m cumming, baby.” He groaned, tossing his head back as you felt his cock twitch inside you, filling you up deeply.
“Oh my god—Buck!”
Your head swam with desire, the feeling of him pumping you full making you cry out as you came alongside him. Your walls clenched around his shaft as he continued to pump lazily into you, his release flooding your core.
Across from you, at that exact second, Steve let out a broken groan as his body jerked in the chair. His hand moved in a blur over his sensitive shaft, his cock twitching in his grip before spilling warm cum all over his fingers and stomach.
The living room that had once been warm with the scent of sweet cookies and tea now smelled of nothing but sex and sweat. Bucky stayed buried deep for a moment, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheek as the tremors in your legs finally began to fade.
“Good girl,” he murmured in soothingly. “You were such a good girl for me.”
Slowly, Bucky began to pull out.
The sudden loss of him left you feeling sensitive and vulnerable, and you could feel the warmth he’d pumped into you beginning to slick down your thighs, staining the worn cushion of the couch. Bucky reached for the floor, grabbing his pants and pulling them over his shins.
“Did you watch carefully, Steve?” Bucky asked, doing his belt lazily.
Steve didn’t say a word.
He just nodded, pushing himself up from the chair.
You were completely spent, your limbs feeling like stones against the couch, but your eyes went wide as you watched him approach.
Despite having just finished, Steve was already half hard again. You didn’t know how it was physically possible, but a man with his desires amplified by the super-soldier serum worked wonders in ways that even you couldn’t understand.
“I did,” Steve confirmed.
His chest was still heaving as he stood over you, his shadow falling across your trembling frame. He looked devastating—undone, messy, and still starving.
“S-steve?” you whimpered, weakly trying to sit up, “… are you okay? What are you doing?”
Bucky let out a dark, knowing chuckle at the shock on your face. He stepped aside, clearing a path as he looked from Steve back down to you, his hand clamping firmly on his friend’s shoulder.
“Good,” Bucky said. “Because it’s your turn.”
3 weeks since i posted my last fic 🚬 this has been in my drafts since jan and i'm glad i got to finally finish it! another stucky one, but from here on out you guys can expect to see more bucky fics soon (probably knight!bucky or model!bucky, depends if i'm feeling depressed or horny)
thank you guys for sticking around, and i hope you enjoyed!
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Summary: In the glittering heights of Stark Tower, Tony Stark's no-nonsense assistant arrives early to drag her boss out of bed for an important meeting—only to find herself pulled into his sleepy embrace.
Wordcount: 6.6k
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Praise Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, DubCon (kinda), Somnophilia, Power Dynamics, Assistant/Employer Relationship, Morning Sex, P in V sex, Fluff and Smut, MDNI!
A/N: I know I said I wouldn't be posting today, but Tony deserved a little love after what I put him through in Blueprints...
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You stepped into the sleek, sunlit expanse of Tony Stark's penthouse apartment in the Tower, the automatic doors whispering shut behind you with a soft hiss. The air carried the faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of half-finished gadgets scattered across the living room table.
It was just past 8 AM, and the city skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, indifferent to the chaos you were about to face.
Your heels clicked sharply against the polished marble floor as you made your way to the master bedroom, your heart already pounding with a mix of frustration and that unwelcome flicker of anticipation you always felt around him.
Tony was still sprawled out in bed, sheets tangled around his waist like he'd fought a war in his sleep. His chest rose and fell in steady, oblivious breaths, the dark hair on his head tousled against the pillow.
The room was dimly lit by the morning light filtering through half-drawn blinds, casting shadows over the contours of his body.
You bit back a scream of exasperation - how many times had you done this dance?
He had a critical board meeting in exactly one hour, across town in the heart of Manhattan, and traffic was a nightmare even for a guy with a private jet. If you didn't get him moving now, you'd both be late, and you'd be the one fielding the fallout.
You approached the bed, your professional skirt suit feeling suddenly too tight, too formal in this intimate space. Leaning over, you placed your hand on his bare shoulder - warm skin smooth under your palm, the muscle firm even in repose.
A jolt ran through you at the contact, unbidden and familiar, the kind of spark you'd shoved down deep into your fantasies where it belonged.
Your relationship was strictly professional; you were his assistant, not his anything else, no matter how often his smirks or casual touches made your mind wander. Swallowing hard, you shook him gently at first, then with more insistence.
“Tony,” you said, your voice firm but laced with that edge of irritation you couldn't quite hide.
“Wake up. You've got a meeting in an hour, and we're not teleporting there.”
His eyelids fluttered, but he didn't stir right away, a low groan escaping his lips as he shifted slightly, the sheet slipping a fraction lower on his hips.
You held your breath, forcing your eyes to stay on his face, reminding yourself that this was just another day of babysitting the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist who drove you up the wall more often than not.
Before you could pull away or try again to rouse him, Tony's hand shot out in his sleep, fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist with a grip that was surprisingly strong for someone so deeply unconscious.
His touch was warm, calloused from years of tinkering in the workshop, and it sent an unexpected shiver racing up your arm.
In one fluid, instinctive motion, he tugged you forward, drawing you off balance and onto the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under your weight, and suddenly you were tumbling against him, your body pressed close in a way that blurred every professional boundary you'd so carefully maintained.
This was uncharted territory - the first time he'd ever done something like this, even in the haze of sleep.
Your heart hammered in your chest as you swallowed hard, the sound loud in your ears amid the quiet hum of the Tower's systems. Panic and a forbidden thrill warred within you; you should wrench free, reassert control, remind him - and yourself - that you were here to drag him to a meeting, not to cuddle like some illicit lover.
But his arms came around you next, encircling your waist with effortless possession, pulling you flush against the solid wall of his bare torso. The heat of his skin seeped through your blouse, his chest hair tickling your cheek as your face nestled inches from the crook of his neck.
Your lips hovered mere millimeters from his collarbone, close enough to feel the faint rhythm of his pulse beneath the surface.
You froze, breath caught in your throat, forcing your gaze to lock straight ahead at the far wall where abstract art pieces glowed faintly in the morning light. Anything to avoid glancing down, to ignore the insistent press of his hips against your thigh.
The thin sheet had shifted further in the tussle, barely concealing the evidence of his arousal - a hard, throbbing length that nudged against your leg with each subtle shift of his body.
It was unmistakable; Tony was lost in an erotic dream, his subconscious betraying the desires he kept hidden behind smirks and sarcasm during waking hours.
A soft, muffled groan rumbled from his throat, vibrating through you, and his hold tightened just a fraction, as if anchoring you there in whatever fantasy played out behind his closed eyes.
Your mind raced, cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and that treacherous spark of curiosity you'd buried deep.
What was he dreaming about? Was it some model from last night's gala, or - God forbid - did your face ever flicker into those heated visions?
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, willing yourself to stay composed, to treat this like just another one of his annoying habits. But the reality of his erection, rigid and warm even through the fabric, made it impossible to dismiss. Gently, you tried to ease back, testing the strength of his embrace, your free hand pressing lightly against his shoulder for leverage.
Just as you managed to create a sliver of space between your bodies, Tony's arms tightened like steel bands, yanking you right back against his chest with a low, sleepy growl that vibrated through his ribcage.
The sudden pull made your breath hitch, your breasts pressing firmly into the hard planes of his pecs, the friction sending an unwelcome jolt of heat straight to your core. His erection, still rigid and insistent, slotted more deliberately against your thigh now, the thin barrier of the sheet doing little to hide its pulsing warmth or the way it twitched in response to your proximity.
"For fuck's sake," you muttered under your breath, the words tumbling out in a frustrated whisper that carried more exasperation than you'd intended.
Your mind whirled with options - should you shove harder, risk waking him abruptly and facing his inevitable sarcasm? Or call out louder, turning this intimate mishap into a full-blown alarm?
The clock was ticking; that meeting loomed like a guillotine, and here you were, tangled in the sheets with your boss's morning wood grinding against you. Professionalism be damned, but you couldn't deny the traitorous flutter in your stomach, the way his scent - musk and faint cologne - filled your lungs and muddled your thoughts.
Gathering your resolve, you tilted your head slightly, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you murmured his name.
"Tony. Tony..." The syllables came out softer than planned, laced with a plea that surprised even you. His breathing hitched, but his eyes remained stubbornly shut, lashes casting shadows on his stubbled cheeks.
Emboldened - or desperate - you added, your voice dropping to a coaxing lilt, "Please, Tony, be a good boy and let me go."
The words hung in the air, innocent in intent but loaded with an undercurrent you hadn't fully anticipated.
Tony didn't snap awake; instead, a hazy fog of sleep clung to him, his features slack and boyish in repose. Yet something shifted - your praise pierced the veil of his dreams, stirring him just enough.
His hips bucked subtly, that thick cock pressing harder into your leg as if seeking more contact, and a deep rumble built in his throat. Slowly, deliberately, he nuzzled into the sensitive hollow of your neck, his nose tracing the curve where your pulse thrummed wildly.
The scratch of his five-o'clock shadow grazed your skin, igniting sparks that raced down your spine, while his warm breath fanned over your collarbone, making your nipples tighten against the fabric of your bra.
He mumbled then, the words slurred and thick with slumber, muffled against your throat. You strained to catch them, your ear attuned to the gravelly timbre of his voice.
"I'll... be your good boy," it sounded like - or close enough, the promise twisting into something raw and intimate that hit you like a freight train.
Heat flooded your pussy in an instant, a sharp ache blooming between your thighs as slickness gathered, soaking into your panties. Your clit throbbed with the echo of his words, the unwitting submission in his sleepy confession unraveling you from the inside out.
God, what was happening?
This was Tony - arrogant, untouchable Tony - whispering obedience like it was the most natural thing, and your body betrayed you, clenching with need at the mere suggestion. You bit your lip to stifle a gasp, your free hand fisting the sheet to anchor yourself, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer to see how far this drowsy spell might go.
Before you could process the rush of arousal from his mumbled promise, Tony's body shifted with a fluid, instinctive grace that caught you off guard.
In one seamless motion, he rolled you beneath him, his weight settling heavily between your thighs as he pinned you to the mattress. Your legs parted instinctively to accommodate the broad span of his hips, the heat of his bare skin seeping through your stockings and the hem of your skirt.
His face remained buried in the crook of your neck, stubble rasping against your pulse point, while his chest pressed down on yours, compressing your breasts until your nipples ached from the pressure, straining against your blouse.
You froze, hyper-aware that he was still lost in that hazy limbo between sleep and wakefulness - his breaths came deep and even, eyes closed, as if this were merely an extension of whatever erotic reverie gripped him.
The realization sent a fresh wave of slick heat pooling in your pussy, your inner walls clenching around nothing as his cock, freed from the sheet in the tumble, nudged insistently against your inner thigh. It throbbed there, thick and veined, the tip already leaking pre-cum that smeared warm and sticky against your skin, marking you with his unconscious desire.
“I'll be so good to you, darling,” he murmured, the words vibrating directly into your throat, low and fervent, like a vow pulled from the depths of his subconscious.
His lips followed through, brushing feather-light kisses along the column of your neck, then parting to suck gently at the tender skin just below your ear.
Each pull of his mouth drew a soft gasp from you, your hands hovering uncertainly at his shoulders - push him off, or grip him tighter? The line between professional restraint and forbidden want blurred further as his hands roamed, callused palms sliding down the sides of your ribs, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts before dipping lower.
They found the edge of your skirt, fingers curling into the fabric with purpose. He tugged it upward in slow, deliberate inches, bunching it around your waist to expose the lace tops of your thigh-highs and the damp crotch of your panties. The cool air of the penthouse kissed your newly bared skin, contrasting sharply with the furnace of his body hovering over you.
His hips rocked forward subtly, grinding his erection along the seam of your pussy through the thin barrier of cloth, the friction making your clit pulse with desperate need. You bit back a moan, your hips twitching upward despite yourself, chasing the pressure as embarrassment warred with the intoxicating thrill of his submission.
“Just tell me what to do,” he whispered against your jaw, his voice thick with sleep-laced hunger, lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses toward your collarbone.
One hand splayed possessively over your hip, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks, while the other ventured bolder, tracing the edge of your panties before slipping beneath to cup the curve of your ass. He squeezed, pulling you flush against him, his cock sliding directly over your soaked folds now, the head catching on your entrance through the fabric.
“Gonna make you feel so nice. Wanna hear you praise me again.”
The plea hit you like lightning, unraveling the last threads of your composure. Your core throbbed in response, arousal dripping from you as his words echoed the praise kink you'd only fantasized about in stolen moments.
Tony Stark - brilliant, cocky billionaire - begging for your approval in this vulnerable, half-dreaming state, his body worshiping yours with touches that promised more.
Your breath came in shallow pants, one hand finally threading into his tousled hair, not quite pulling him away, while the other clutched at his back, nails scraping lightly over his spine.
The meeting deadline faded to irrelevance; all that mattered was the electric tension coiling tighter, the way his every movement begged for your command, your voice to guide him deeper into this taboo surrender.
His cock continued to press insistently against your entrance, the thick length sliding back and forth along your soaked folds through the drenched fabric of your panties. Each deliberate thrust sent jolts of pleasure radiating through your core, your pussy clenching greedily around the teasing pressure, desperate for more.
The barrier between you felt maddeningly thin, his pre-cum mixing with your arousal to create a slick glide that made every grind more obscene, more urgent. Tony's hips moved with a rhythmic insistence, even in his drowsy state, as if his body knew exactly how to unravel you, chasing the friction that had you arching beneath him.
Your professionalism shattered completely in that moment, crumbling like ash under the weight of raw, unfiltered need. The meeting, the deadlines, the carefully maintained boundaries - all of it vanished, replaced by the pounding heat in your veins and the intoxicating reality of Tony Stark's body dominating yours.
You couldn't fight it anymore; the forbidden thrill of his submission, the way he begged for your words, ignited something primal inside you. Your hands, once hesitant, now clutched at him with purpose - one tangling deeper in his hair, the other raking down his back to urge him closer.
“Tony,” you whispered, your voice husky and breathless, laced with command as you guided his hazy focus.
“Take off my panties. Now.”
The words slipped out unbidden, bold and direct, surprising even you with their authority. But he responded instantly, his subconscious attuned to your every cue like a well-oiled machine.
Even three-quarters asleep, Tony was ruthlessly efficient, especially when it came to fucking - his genius translating seamlessly to the bedroom, or in this case, the tangled sheets of his penthouse bed.
His hand withdrew from your ass just long enough to hook two fingers into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down with a swift, practiced tug. The lace scraped against your thighs as he dragged them off, the cool air hitting your exposed pussy like a shock, making your clit throb visibly. He tossed the ruined garment aside without a second thought, his palm returning to spread your legs wider, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your hips.
Now bare, his cock nestled directly against your entrance, the hot, velvety head parting your lips with ease, coating itself in your wetness as he rocked forward again. The sensation was electric - skin on skin, no barriers left to dull the raw intimacy - and you gasped, your inner walls fluttering in anticipation.
“Good boy,” you murmured, the praise rolling off your tongue like honey, soft but deliberate, rewarding his obedience.
The effect was immediate; Tony groaned low in his throat, a deep, rumbling sound of pure contentment that vibrated through his chest and into yours.
His body shuddered above you, hips stuttering for a split second as the words sank in, fueling his arousal like gasoline on a fire.
His cock twitched against your pussy, leaking more pre-cum that dripped down your folds, and he buried his face deeper into your neck, lips latching onto your skin with renewed fervor. He sucked harder this time, teeth grazing just enough to mark you, while his free hand pinned your thigh open, exposing you fully to his grinding assault.
The groan turned into a needy whine against your pulse, his breaths coming faster now, still ragged with sleep but edged with awakening hunger. You could feel him hardening further, the veins along his shaft pulsing as he pressed the tip right at your opening, not quite pushing in yet but threatening to with every subtle thrust.
Your own arousal spiked at his reaction, a fresh gush of wetness easing the way, and you wondered how much longer he could stay in this dreamlike trance before fully waking - and what that might unleash.
Tony's lips trailed a scorching path up the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin, leaving a trail of tingling heat in their wake.
He nipped at the corner of your mouth first, teasing, before capturing your lips in a fierce, passionate kiss that stole your breath entirely. His tongue plunged deep, tasting of sleep and desire, tangling with yours in a messy, urgent rhythm that mirrored the roll of his hips.
At the same moment, the swollen head of his cock breached your entrance, pushing just past the slick rim of your pussy with a slow, deliberate pressure. The stretch was exquisite - your walls yielding to the intrusion, clenching around that teasing tip as if begging him to sink deeper.
A low moan escaped into his mouth, your body arching up to meet him, every nerve alight with the forbidden fullness.
He thrust shallowly, just the glans dipping in and out, coating itself in your abundant wetness, the obscene sounds of your arousal filling the air between your muffled gasps. His free hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you steady as he devoured your mouth, the kiss turning sloppy and desperate, teeth clashing in his hazy fervor.
You could feel the heat of him throbbing inside you, the promise of more making your clit pulse with need, your thighs trembling around his waist.
Then, abruptly, he froze.
His cock stilled at your entrance, barely inside, and he wrenched his face back from yours, breaking the kiss with a sharp inhale.
His eyes snapped open - wide, dark, and fully alert now - staring down at you in stunned disbelief. The sleepy fog had lifted in an instant, replaced by raw shock as reality crashed over him like a cold wave.
“Shit,” he rasped, voice rough and laced with panic, his chest heaving as he processed the scene: you splayed beneath him, skirt hiked up, panties discarded, his erection poised at your core.
Tony's body tensed beneath your touch, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap as the full weight of his actions hit him. He started to withdraw, the thick head of his cock slipping just a fraction from your slick folds, leaving you achingly empty and throbbing with unmet need.
His face twisted in regret, those sharp brown eyes wide with horror as he stammered out apologies, his voice cracking in the quiet morning light filtering through the penthouse windows.
“I… God, I'm sorry, this isn't… fuck, I didn't mean-” The words tumbled from his lips in a frantic rush, his hands hovering uncertainly at your hips, unsure whether to push away or pull you closer, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your skin.
But he was dead wrong if he thought you'd let him retreat now, not after he'd stoked this fire in you, leaving your pussy clenching around nothing, your clit swollen and pulsing with desperate hunger.
Your fingers dug into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, interlocking firmly behind his head as you yanked him down, crashing your mouth against his in a demanding kiss that silenced his protests. His lips parted in surprise, and you took full advantage, your tongue sweeping inside to claim him, tasting the salt of his surprise mixed with the lingering sweetness of sleep.
The broad crown of his cock nudged back against your entrance under the force of your pull, pressing insistently into the wet heat of your core, stretching you open just enough to make your inner walls flutter in anticipation.
A deep, unrestrained moan tore from your throat - louder, more raw than before, now that his eyes were clear and locked on yours, fully conscious and witnessing every inch of your surrender. The sound vibrated between your joined mouths, sending a shiver racing down his spine, his body quaking against yours as if your voice alone could unravel him.
You broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his lips, your breath hot and uneven, eyes boring into his with unyielding command. “You wanted to be a good boy for me.”
The words hung in the air, laced with that praise he craved so deeply, and you felt it hit him like a shockwave - his cock twitching hard at your entrance, a fresh bead of precum leaking from the slit to mix with your arousal, his entire frame shuddering as a low groan escaped him, muffled against your jaw.
He trembled under the weight of your approval, his hips jerking involuntarily, the tip of his erection sliding deeper by a mere inch, parting your folds with a slick, audible glide that made your breath hitch. But you weren't done; your nails scraped lightly along his scalp, holding him captive as you continued, voice dropping to a husky murmur that brooked no argument.
“So be good. Make me feel good. Keep your word.”
The command wrapped around him like velvet chains, igniting that submissive spark in his eyes, his resistance crumbling as his hands finally settled on your thighs, spreading them wider with a possessive grip.
He nodded faintly, almost dazed, his forehead pressing to yours as he began to push forward again, the full length of his cock inching into your pussy with deliberate, torturous slowness, filling you completely until his balls rested heavy against your ass, every ridge and vein dragging along your sensitive walls in a way that had you gasping, your body arching up to take him deeper.
“Yeah, just like that," you moaned, the words spilling from your lips in a breathy rush as his cock sank fully into your pussy, stretching you wide with that perfect, unyielding thickness. Every inch of him filled you to the brim, the veined shaft pressing against your inner walls in a way that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your core, making your toes curl against the rumpled sheets.
"Doing so good for me." Your fingers threaded through the soft, short hairs at the nape of his neck, stroking gently in rhythmic caresses that matched the slow roll of his hips, rewarding him for every deliberate thrust that buried him deeper inside you.
A low, raspy growl rumbled from his throat, vibrating against your mouth as his lips brushed yours in a fleeting tease. His breath hitched, hot and uneven, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the musky edge of arousal.
"You're killing me, darling," he murmured, his voice rough with a mix of desperation and delight, those dark eyes half-lidded and locked on yours, drinking in the way your face contorted with bliss.
A sly smile curved your lips at his admission, the power of it thrumming through you like electricity - knowing you had him this undone, this eager to please. Before you could respond, he captured your mouth again, his kiss deeper this time, tongue delving in with a hungry urgency that mirrored the way his body claimed yours.
He began to move his hips in earnest, pulling back just enough to let the slick glide of his cock drag along your sensitive folds before snapping forward, driving into you with a controlled force that made your breath catch. The sensation was exquisite torture - his length filling you completely, the broad head nudging against that spot deep inside that made your vision blur with stars, white-hot bursts of ecstasy blooming behind your eyelids. Your pussy clenched around him instinctively, gripping his shaft in wet, pulsing waves that drew a sharp hiss from between his clenched teeth.
"Feels so good!" you gasped against his lips, the praise tumbling out unbidden as your hands slid down his back, nails scraping lightly over the taut muscles there, urging him on.
Tony's response was immediate, his thrusts picking up a steady rhythm, each one pounding into you with precision born of his sharp mind and skilled body. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open as he angled his hips to hit that perfect angle again and again, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing through the sunlit room. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down to mix with the sheen on your joined bodies, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, nipping at the skin there with his teeth.
"Tell me more," he whispered hoarsely, his voice laced with that needy edge, begging for the words that made his cock throb harder inside you, swelling even more as if your approval alone could push him to the brink.
"So needy for my praise..." you whispered, your voice fracturing with bursts of pleasure as you pressed your lips to his temple, the words ghosting over his sweat-dampened skin like a secret command.
The heat of his body radiated against yours, his chest heaving with every ragged breath that synced to the relentless rhythm of his thrusts. A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat, muffled against the curve of your shoulder where his mouth latched on, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh in a bid for more of that intoxicating validation.
The rush of power surged through you like liquid fire, igniting every nerve as you realized how completely he unraveled under your words - Tony Stark, the unbreakable genius, reduced to this quivering mass of need, his cock buried deep in your pussy, pulsing with every syllable you fed him. It thrilled you to your core, that dominance coiling tight in your belly, and you let out a soft, whimpering mewl that bordered on a plea of its own.
"Your cock is stretching me so full… Filling me so nice…" The admission spilled from you unfiltered, your voice pitching higher as his thick length dragged along your slick walls, filling you utterly, the girth of him splitting you open in the most delicious way, every vein and ridge imprinting itself on your clenching heat.
He responded with a fierce drive of his hips, pounding into you harder, faster, the force of it jolting your body against the mattress, your breasts bouncing with each impact as his balls slapped wetly against your ass. The friction built to an unbearable peak, his shaft slamming home repeatedly, grinding against that swollen bundle of nerves inside you until the world narrowed to the slick slide and stretch of him claiming you. Pleasure crested like a wave crashing over you, and you came with a sharp, keening cry that echoed off the penthouse walls, your pussy spasming wildly around his cock, inner muscles rippling in tight, milking contractions that gripped him like a vice.
The sensation pulled him under too, your orgasm triggering his own in a chain reaction of ecstasy.
Tony's thrusts stuttered, growing erratic as his body tensed above you, every muscle locking as he buried himself to the hilt one final time. A strangled moan escaped him, vibrating through your joined forms, and then he was spilling inside you - hot spurts of cum flooding your depths, coating your walls in thick, pulsing ropes that mingled with your own release. His cock throbbed with each jet, prolonging the waves of your climax as you both rode it out, breaths mingling in harsh pants, bodies slick and trembling in the aftermath.
Your breaths came in jagged gasps, chests rising and falling in unison as the aftershocks of your shared release rippled through your tangled bodies.
Tony lifted his head from the warm hollow of your neck, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a mix of lingering haze and sharp awareness, the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. For a moment, he just stared, as if memorizing the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips parted in the dim morning light filtering through the penthouse windows.
Then, he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and satisfaction, his tongue brushing yours lazily, drawing out the intimacy. His hands framed your face gently, thumbs stroking your jaw as he deepened it just enough to make your pulse stutter again.
Slowly, deliberately, he began to pull back from you, his cock sliding out of your pussy inch by inch, the slick drag leaving you achingly empty. A low, needy moan escaped your throat at the loss, your inner walls clenching around nothing, protesting the sudden void where his thick length had been buried so deeply.
The sound pulled a soft, knowing smile from him, his lips curving against yours in that trademark smirk, warm and teasing. You could feel the words forming on his tongue, some witty, sarcastic quip ready to spill out - he was Tony Stark, after all, sarcasm was his default armor.
But before he could voice it, you pressed closer, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, "Good boy," the words a husky murmur right against his lips, laced with the same commanding affection that had unraveled him moments before.
A deep, involuntary groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through you both, his body tensing as if the praise struck him like a live wire. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, and he nipped at your lower lip in response, the vulnerability flickering across his features before he masked it with a chuckle.
"Didn't take you for the praise kink kind, Tony..." you teased, your voice breathy but playful, tracing a finger along his jaw to keep him anchored in the moment.
Tony's chuckle deepened into a low, throaty laugh that sent fresh shivers across your skin, his body still hovering over yours, warm and heavy in the best way.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand trailing idly down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your hip as if he couldn't bear to stop touching you. His eyes, sharp now with full wakefulness, held yours with an intensity that made your heart skip, the usual cocky glint softened by something raw and honest.
"Me neither," he admitted, his voice rough from sleep and exertion, laced with that signature drawl that always pulled you in.
"Didn't peg myself for the type who'd get off on a few sweet words... until you stormed into my world, bossing me around like it was your job." He paused, his thumb brushing over the swell of your breast, circling your nipple absently, drawing a soft hitch in your breath.
The air between you thickened, charged with the remnants of your passion and this new layer of vulnerability he was peeling back.
He shifted slightly, settling his weight more comfortably against your thigh, his softening cock brushing your inner leg, a reminder of how deeply he'd claimed you moments ago.
"I remember the exact moment it hit me," he continued, his gaze drifting as if reliving it, lips quirking in a half-smile.
"That first time you laid into me - sarcastically, of course - after I pulled off that impossible deadline on the arc reactor upgrade. You said something like, 'Good job, Tony, didn't think you had it in you.' All professional, with that eye-roll I live for. But fuck... it went straight to my dick. I was rock-hard under the conference table, shifting in my seat like a goddamn teenager, trying not to let on while you kept talking shop."
His hand slid lower, cupping your ass possessively, pulling you closer so your bodies aligned again, skin sticking slightly from the sweat-slicked sheets. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle twitch of renewed interest against your belly.
"You've been in my head ever since," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, his stubble scraping deliciously.
"Haunting every late-night jerk-off session, every half-asleep fantasy where I imagine you whispering that shit for real. Bending me to your will with just your voice. Waking up hard as hell thinking about you riding me, calling me your good boy while I beg for more."
The confession hung in the air, intimate and electric, his words painting vivid pictures that made your core clench with fresh want. He lifted his head, searching your face, that smirk returning but tempered with genuine heat.
"So yeah, turns out you're my kryptonite. What're you gonna do about it?"
“Well…” you began, your voice steady despite the lingering flush on your cheeks, as you placed a firm hand on Tony's chest and rolled him onto his side with surprising ease. His body complied without resistance, the warmth of his skin slipping away from yours as you extricated yourself from the tangled sheets.
The cool air of the penthouse kissed your exposed flesh, a stark contrast to the heat you'd both generated moments before. You sat up on the edge of the bed, your muscles pleasantly sore, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand - twenty minutes until that crucial meeting across town.
Time had slipped away in the haze of passion, but you weren't about to let it derail the day.
“First, you're gonna get ready for your meeting,” you said, injecting a note of authority into your tone that echoed your assistant role, even as the intimacy of what you'd just shared hung heavy in the room.
“Which happens to be in twenty minutes now that we had our fun.” You swung your legs over the side, standing on slightly unsteady feet.
The fabric of your blouse was rumpled, buttons askew, but you smoothed it down with quick, efficient strokes of your palms, tucking it back into the waistband of your skirt. The skirt itself clung to your thighs, riding up from the earlier frenzy, so you tugged it firmly into place, the hem brushing just below your knees in a semblance of professionalism.
Your eyes scanned the floor, spotting the lacy edge of your panties peeking from under a pillow, and you bent to retrieve them, the motion pulling your skirt taut against your backside. As you straightened, slipping the garment back on with a subtle shimmy, you continued without missing a beat, your words laced with playful promise.
“And if you keep up the good work, maybe... maybe you'll get a reward.” You turned to face him then, leaning against the bedpost with one hip cocked, your gaze meeting his through lowered lashes.
A mischievous smile curved your lips, the kind that dared him to push back, your eyes sparkling with the thrill of this newfound power play.
Tony propped himself up on one elbow, his dark hair tousled and his chest still rising and falling with deeper breaths, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.
His expression shifted from sated contentment to wide-eyed surprise, brows arching as he processed your words. He blinked, as if you'd just flipped the script on him entirely, his mouth parting in disbelief.
“You're using praising me as leverage to get me to do work stuff?” he asked, his voice a mix of incredulity and amusement, though the way his eyes darkened betrayed the spark of arousal your tease ignited anew.
You straightened your posture, crossing your arms under your breasts to emphasize the no-nonsense assistant facade, even as your heart raced from the intimacy of it all.
“I'm still your assistant,” you replied firmly, a hint of that babysitter edge creeping in, “and that's my role.” The words landed with a teasing lilt, underscoring the blend of professional duty and personal desire that defined your dynamic.
He stared at you for a beat longer, then let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head as he swung his legs off the bed, already reaching for his discarded pants on the floor. The air between you crackled with unspoken possibilities, the promise of rewards lingering like a secret shared in the morning light filtering through the penthouse windows.
“Fine,” Tony mumbled, his voice a low rumble laced with reluctant amusement as he shrugged into his crisp white shirt, the fabric sliding over his broad shoulders and toned chest.
The buttons fastened one by one under his deft fingers, but his eyes never left yours, dark and smoldering with that lingering heat from your shared morning indulgence. He stepped into his tailored slacks next, the zipper rasping softly as he adjusted himself, the outline of his cock still semi-hard against the material - a testament to how your words had stirred him up again.
“But it better be worth it.”
You couldn't help the sly curve of your lips, the air between you thick with unspoken promises and the faint scent of sex clinging to the rumpled sheets behind you.
Moving closer, you reached for the silk tie draped around his neck, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his throat as you took over the task. The fabric was smooth under your touch, and you looped it with practiced efficiency, pulling the knot tight against his collar while your body pressed just near enough to tease - your breasts grazing his arm, your hip bumping his thigh.
The intimacy of the gesture felt charged, domestic yet erotic, your breath ghosting over his jaw as you worked.
“You know I'm efficient, Tony,” you murmured, your voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent a visible shiver down his spine.
“I'm already planning a reward system with points and all that stuff as we speak.”
Your eyes locked onto his, holding that mischievous glint, watching the way his Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow, his pupils dilating at the implication. The thought of earning your praise like some structured game clearly unraveled him, his hands flexing at his sides as if fighting the urge to pull you back into bed.
He stood there, frozen for a moment, the tie now perfectly knotted under your care, framing the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint stubble shadowing his skin. You stepped back just enough to admire your handiwork, but not before trailing your fingers down his chest in a lingering caress that made his nipples harden beneath the shirt.
“So, play your cards right, Tony…” you added, your tone playful yet commanding, laced with the authority of your role and the thrill of this new dynamic.
“Now, off to the meeting you go!” You gave his arm a gentle shove toward the door, though your touch lingered, squeezing the firm muscle there as if to punctuate the order.
He shot you a look over his shoulder - equal parts exasperation and raw hunger - before grabbing his jacket and heading out, the click of the elevator doors echoing your triumphant smile.
The penthouse felt emptier without him, but the buzz of anticipation hummed in your veins, already plotting the ways you'd make good on those rewards.
Summary: When Joyce and Murray finally reconvene with Hopper in the Russian prison, the group—with the help of Dmitri—manages to force the bloodthirsty Demogorgon back into its cage. Taking advantage of the confused chaos unraveling in the building, they escape, seeking temporary refuge at Dmitri’s apartment. His remaining time in Russia is short-lived, so Dmitri opts to spend his last evening in the country paying a visit to the one bright spot in his life—the pretty girl that works at the diner downstairs.
Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT
Word Count: 6k
Content: NSFW, smut, porn with a little bit of plot, oral sex, unprotected p in v, creampies, spanking, spit kink, daddy kink, choking, soft!dom dmitri, rough sex, dirty talk, anal sex, knife kink, squirting
When you pull back slightly for air, nearly gasping, he steadies you, and you ask him boldly, “Are you coming in?”
He cups the side of your face, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, and he nods. “Please”
Dmitri swipes his keys from their usual spot on the small, rusty hook inside of his locker in the staff break room, thankful that he had long since made it a habit not to carry them while on duty (after several other guards had suffered the misfortune of being slyly pickpocketed by prisoners). The other various odds and ends inside of his locker had likely been dumped immediately after his traitorous secret had been discovered—probably unceremoniously tossed in the incinerator—but the small keyring had luckily escaped unscathed, and it was the only thing he would have missed, anyway.
Making his way back out into the hallway, Dmitri hastily ushers Hopper, Joyce, and Murray in the direction of the exit doors and then toward a dark green SUV sitting in the parking lot. They all pile in, and he momentarily glances at himself in the rearview mirror, taking in the exhausted expression lingering on his face before turning the key in the ignition, pulling out onto the main road, and slamming his foot down on the gas pedal as hard as the snow-covered motorway will allow.
A tense silence hangs in the air, punctuated only by the sounds of their chattering teeth and Murray’s fumbling attempts to get the heat going from his spot in the passenger seat. Joyce eventually pipes up from the back, “So uh…Enzo, right? Where exactly are we going?”
A car coming from the opposite direction passes by, and Dmitri tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He responds tightly, “My apartment. We’ll be there in just under an hour, so please do try to keep your reunion festivities in my backseat to…a minimum,” vaguely flourishing a hand in she and Hopper’s direction.
Hopper coughs, and Joyce crinkles her nose and asks, “But isn’t your apartment the first place that someone would come looking for you?”
Dmitri meets her gaze in the rearview and smirks, “Now what makes you think I would let a place like that keep my real address on file?”
The car settles back into a tentative, uneasy silence, which remains until they arrive in the small, nondescript town that Dmitri calls home. After parking behind his building, Dmitri leads the Americans down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and to the familiar, faded red door of his apartment. His hands shake ever so slightly as he inserts the key into the lock, turns the handle, and flicks the lights on—part of him was certain he’d never see this place again. Not that he could stay here now, though, anyway. His false address would only give him a head start against potential retribution from the prison, but if he remained in Russia, they’d find him sooner or later.
Despite the looming sense of dread, Joyce convinces everyone that showers are in order before anything else. Dmitri isn’t sure if it’s for the woman’s own sake or if she’s just grown tired of the sight and smell of their dirty, bloody, appearances, but either way he’s thankful to be afforded a bit of time alone, nearly drowning himself under the hot stream of water.
Afterward, once he’s picked through the back of his closet for various odds and ends that are at least partially suitable for his guests to wear in place of their filthy clothes, Dmitri casually suggests that they head to the diner below his apartment to strategize over food and coffee as he runs a thumb over a faded, torn piece of receipt paper in his pocket with a heart drawn on the back of it. And if he has ulterior motives that involve seeing a familiar, comforting face in the wake of the worst night of his life, well, they don’t need to know that.
---
The jingling of the bell above the diner door jolts you out of the daze that you had been lost in, having spent the better part of the last hour leaning against the counter attempting to stave off sleep—it was an uncharacteristically slow evening. You straighten up, hand automatically reaching for your faded yellow notepad and your favorite blue pen, and your heart leaps in your chest when a pair of familiar blue eyes meets yours. Your favorite regular has arrived with three companions in tow.
Originally from Chicago, you’ve spent the past two months in Russia as a part of your graduate studies. In that time, Enzo’s caffeine habits have become a daily staple of your shifts. The night that you met—your first shift—you’d somehow managed to get his fairly simple order of coffee and toast entirely backwards. Your program here, which is a remote offshoot of your school back in Illinois, is in English, and your meager attempts at studying conversational Russian before packing your bags and hopping on a plane certainly left something to be desired. Though you had initially thought you could string together enough competency to get by as a waitress for a few months, your mortification in that moment whilst you accidentally sputtered an apology in English had left you poised to run on foot to the nearest airport. However, the annoyed reply you were waiting to hear from the man you were serving never came. Instead, Enzo’s eyes had crinkled at the corners in amusement as he chuckled, pulled a pen out of his pocket, grabbed a napkin, and wrote out the Russian words from his order in the English alphabet for you.
After that, Enzo made it a goal to teach you something in Russian every time that he came in, kindly coaxing you on your pronunciation of the letters and words while watching you intently over the rim of his coffee cup with a gleam in his eyes. When you’d get something right, he’d reward you with a grin that made your knees weak; it was something you were almost embarrassed to admit you’d grown to shamelessly savor each day. In return, you’d started writing things on the back of his receipts in Russian—it was normally small, inconsequential nonsense, but the soft look it always brought to his face when he glanced down at it on his way out would leave you feeling warm long after he left. Sometimes you'd even been brave enough to doodle little hearts in lieu of words, though you didn't dare look to see his reaction to those.
Now, Enzo’s face lights up as his eyes gently take you in, and he gives you a little wave before he heads over to his usual booth in the back corner with his companions. Your pulse quickens in response under the brief scrutiny of his friendly gaze as you make your way toward their table.
When you approach, you notice that the others are conversing in English, and you raise an eyebrow in Enzo’s direction. Shrugging, the corners of his lips tug upwards, and he says by way of greeting, “I figured you could use a break from the language lessons tonight.”
After you bring them a round of coffees, Enzo introduces you to his company: Hopper, Joyce, and Murray, who are apparently visiting Russia from Hawkins, Indiana. Excited by this information, you explain that you’re from Illinois. One of the men, Hopper, chokes on his drink, prompting Joyce to frantically begin patting his back in concern.
“You’re American?” Hopper asks, eyes wide.
You tilt your head to the side, uncertain why the news is so surprising to him. “Yes…?”
Wiping his face with a napkin, he pointedly looks at Enzo this time as he flatly states, “She’s American.”
Enzo takes a deep breath, flicking a glance up at the ceiling and clenching a fist before replying, “She is.”
A shit-eating grin makes its way across Hopper’s face, and he offers up his best impersonation of Enzo’s accent, “Oh, so it’s fine when YOU have an American woman—” Hopper is cut off by a loud bang from underneath the table, and he grunts in pain, scowling as he reaches down to rub his shin. You snort and busy yourself by collecting their food orders.
Recognizing that Enzo and his friends are wrapped up in what must be a serious conversation, heads bent together over the table as they murmur in hushed tones, you focus on cleaning and serving other customers. You try to ignore the warmth that blooms in your chest every time that you discreetly steal a glance over at their table, only to find Enzo’s steady gaze already on you.
Two rowdy men make their way into the diner, collapsing into a booth in a fit of boisterous laughter, and you groan inwardly. You finish topping off Murray’s coffee, and as you turn to put the pot away so you can begrudgingly serve your new arrivals, you’re stopped by a hand wrapping loosely around your wrist. You turn around and look down at Enzo, whose eyes flick over to the men before giving you a silent, questioning look.
You brush your pinky over his thumb as you steel yourself and say, “I’ll be fine.”
Twenty-five minutes into serving the two men, and you’re far from fine. Both of them reek of alcohol, and after hearing the non-native slips of your tongue when you took their order in Russian, they had since begun making suggestive hand gestures while jeering at you with words you had yet to learn. One quick glance at Enzo out of the corner of your eye tells you all that you need to know about what exactly the men are saying to you; his eyes have darkened dangerously in anger, and if he grips his fork any harder, it’s likely to split in half.
Hoping to hurry them along, you begin to clear out some of their empty plates, but when you go to make your way back to the kitchen, you feel a hand brush against your waist in an attempt to grab you. You yelp in surprise and jump backward, nearly dropping the dishes, just as Enzo smoothly steps in between you and the edge of the table. The men go quiet as Enzo casually picks up a knife and twirls it in his hand for a moment before stabbing it directly into the center of a half-eaten sandwich. You notice Hopper standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, a concerned look on his face. Enzo cooly mutters something at them that you can’t understand, but whatever it is sends them scurrying out of the diner, leaving nothing but their payment and a generous tip in their wake.
You don’t realize that you’re shaking until Enzo turns to look at you and places his hands on your shoulders, steadying you. “Are you alright, солнышко?”
Your heart rate picks up as he uses the nickname you’ve grown to love hearing fall from his lips—sunshine. You try to hide the tremble in your tone as you respond, “I’m alright. Thank you, Enzo.”
Joyce and Murray have come to stand beside Hopper, jackets on and poised to leave. Enzo glances back at them, sighs, and then turns to you once more and asks, “When does your shift end?”
Your eyebrows raise of their own accord at the question. Though an intoxicating tension has slowly been simmering between the two of you inside of the diner day in and day out, neither of you has dared to actually cross that line yet. You tell him, “In an hour, why?”
He shrugs, giving you a small smile as he explains, “You mentioned before that you don’t live far. I’d like to walk you home, if that’s alright.”
You bite your lip to contain the pleased grin that sneaks its way across your face and nod, “Meet me out front.”
Enzo’s friends bid you farewell and make their way out the door, a gust of snowflakes and cold air flying inside as they exit.
---
As promised, when you shrug into your coat and slip outside an hour later, you spy Enzo leaning against the brick wall of the building with his hands in his pockets, gazing over at you with a thoughtful expression. As you approach, he pushes off of the wall and offers you his arm. And if you happen to lean into his warmth a bit closer than necessary as you begin to walk, he doesn’t seem to mind.
The walk is regretfully short, just a few blocks, and the two of you make your way down the deserted sidewalk in a comfortable silence. When you arrive at the door to your apartment, Enzo finally speaks up, “I’m going to be going away for a while, back to the United States with the people you just met. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, but I wanted to thank you for your company these past couple of months. I admittedly did not actually drink coffee that frequently before I met you.” He scratches the back of his head as he laughs weakly.
Your chest begins to ache at the implication of his words. You place a hand on the junction between his shoulder and his neck and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and murmuring, “I’ll miss you, Enzo.”
He slides a hand over yours, holding you in place before you can step backward, and his warm lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Dmitri. Call me Dmitri.” His other hand slides down to rest on your waist, and he shifts to lean his forehead against yours.
You feel the caress of his breath as it makes its way across the infinitesimal space between you, and you close the distance as you quietly speak his real name against his lips, “Dmitri.”
A small sound escapes his mouth in response, and Dmitri crushes his lips against yours, both of his hands slipping inside of your jacket to pull you flush against him. Whatever dam was standing in between the two of you before breaks open now in a flood of heat and desperation. Dmitri’s tongue dances at the seams of your lips and you open your mouth to give him access. You wrap your arms around him, holding him tight as you let him devour you with his lips, tongue sliding against yours warmly. You bite his lip and he chuckles, kissing the corners of your mouth before slotting your lips together again, and you dare to push your lower half against him, a whimper building in the back of your throat as he responds in kind, grinding against you.
When you pull back slightly for air, nearly gasping, he steadies you, and you ask him boldly, “Are you coming in?”
He cups the side of your face, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, and he nods. “Please”
You struggle to pull your keys from your pocket, eager to feel his lips against yours once more. When you reach out to place the key in the lock, you nearly fumble as Dmitri snakes his arms around you from behind. He kisses you squarely on the back of your neck, and you shiver in response.
Once you’re inside, you stumble through the threshold, barely finding the time to flick the lights and toss your jacket in the direction of the hook before your chest is pressed up against the wall. Dmitri kneels down on the floor behind you, running his hands up and down your stocking-clad legs before slipping his hands under your skirt to knead your ass.
Pressing kisses to the backs of your knees, he drawls, “Beautiful girl, you always drive me crazy with this uniform.”
Dmitri grips your left ankle and pulls it outward to spread your legs further apart as he teasingly runs a finger over your cunt, dick beginning to ache when he feels the dampness soaking through your panties and the stockings. Lust clouding your brain, your response falls from your lips before you can think better of it, “Sometimes, I like to imagine you bending me over the front counter, lifting up my skirt, ripping a hole in my stockings, and fucking me where everyone can see.”
“Naughty girl,” he groans, rising up and pulling you flush against him. He undoes several of the buttons of your uniform shirt while kissing and sucking on the tender spot between the bottom of your left earlobe and the corner of your jaw. You gasp as he slips a cool hand inside of your bra, cupping one of your breasts and running his thumb over a hard nipple, and you press your ass into him in response. Feeling the outline of what’s undoubtedly a large cock straining against the seam of Dmitri’s pants, your mouth begins to water at the thought of him slowly stretching your cunt open with it before fucking you relentlessly.
You breathe out, “I hope you plan on fucking me with this tonight,” running a hand over his dick and squeezing.
Dmitri chokes out a response that’s caught between a moan and a laugh, “I hope that your pretty little pussy can handle my cock, princess,” bringing a hand back down under your skirt and smirking when he sees that your arousal has begun leaking down the inside of your thighs.
He turns you around, kissing you deeply, fucking your mouth with his tongue, and his jacket falls to the ground as you pull it off of him. He unbuttons the rest of your shirt, and you let out a breathy little gasp as he untucks it from your skirt, pausing to squeeze your hips firmly in his large hands. Tossing your top to the side, he marvels at the way your breasts spill out of your bra before reaching behind you to unclasp it. Dmitri leans in, and you run your hands through his hair, panting as he traces circles with his tongue before starting to suck on your nipples.
A small sound of surprise leaves your mouth as Dmitri’s strong hands return to your ass, giving a quick squeeze as he begins to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. You both kick off your shoes, and he carries you toward the kitchen, placing you down on the edge of the island. His eyes scan the room for a moment, considering, and he squeezes your thigh briefly before walking toward the sink. He returns a moment later, a knife in his hands, and you bite your lip to stifle a gasp as you realize what he’s about to do. Bunching your skirt up around your waist, he carefully trails the dull side of the blade up the inside of your thighs and then slides the curved tip of the handle over your hot core, sending another jolt of desire through your body. He gazes at you for a moment before he opens your legs wide and pulls the stockings outward at the junction between your thighs. You hear the sound of tearing fabric, and then he puts the knife down.
A sob of pleasure falls from your lips as he uses the new hole he just made to push aside your panties and slide a single callused finger through your dripping folds. You whine at the loss of contact as he pulls his hand away, placing his now glistening finger in his mouth and sucking it clean. Your pussy aches for more stimulation, and you unconsciously buck your hips upward toward him. Dmitri smirks and tuts, “Patience.”
He leans in to kiss you deeply, swallowing your moans as you feel two thick fingers sliding against your hot core. He plunges one inside with a wet squelch, slowly pumping a finger in and out of your needy cunt. He bites your lip, sucking on it for a moment before letting go, leaning his forehead against yours, and murmuring appreciatively, “So wet, you lovely girl. Is this all for me?”
You nod, unable to do anything but pant and moan as picks up his pace and inserts another thick finger. Entranced by the sight of your arousal pooling out of your wet, sloppy cunt all over your stockings and onto the counter beneath you, Dmitri palms himself roughly over his pants before leaning down to taste you. You cry out in pleasure as he grabs your ass with either hand and buries his face in your cunt, eagerly fucking his tongue into your hole like a man starved. You allow him to continue to hungrily lap at your folds for a few more moments before you’re overcome by the need to feel his cock splitting you open, and you grab his hair, pulling him in for a filthy kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.
Clad only in your rumpled skirt and your torn, soaked stockings, your breasts bounce as you slide down off of the island. Dmitri watches you intently as you kneel down on the floor in front of him, taking your time to remove his belt and unbutton his pants. He cups the back of your head as you pull his thick, leaking cock out of his boxers. A strangled moan escapes Dmitri’s throat when you spit on his dick, pumping it with one hand as you cup his balls with another.
Dmitri grunts in pleasure as you put your lips on his cock, licking and sucking at the tip. You run your tongue up and down it before eventually taking him whole into your mouth, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as his dick hits the back of your throat. Feeling his hand still resting gently against your hair, you push back against it. His eyes widen a fraction as he realizes what you want him to do, and you look up at him, squeezing the backs of his thighs in affirmation before he begins fucking your mouth. A line of drool begins to spill down the side of your mouth, and when you slip a hand under your skirt to play with your aching cunt, Dmitri has to fight not to shoot spurts of hot cum down your throat right then and there.
“If we don’t stop now, your pretty little lips are going to be dripping with my cum, sweetheart,” Dmitri breathes out, voice wrecked.
You pull your mouth off of his dick with a pop and look up at him, a challenge in your eyes as you say, “You’d better get your cock inside of me, then.”
He asks you huskily, “You want me to fuck you like this? Right here?”
You nod, and a feral sound leaves his mouth as he pulls his dick out of your mouth and bends down to pull you to your feet. He turns you around so you’re bent over the counter, and you hear a tearing noise as he rips the hole in your stockings even wider. You whine, and he leans his body into yours, pinning you down and pressing your face down sideways against the counter as he nips at your earlobe and whispers in your ear, “Such a dirty little girl. Look at you, your messy little pussy is dripping everywhere, begging to be filled. Do you want to feel my fat cock inside of you?”
Your response is drowned out by the shameless moan that falls from your lips unbidden when he lazily begins to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt again.
“I need to hear you say it, солнышко,” he says calmly, voice a direct contrast to the way his fingers are eagerly fucking into you.
“Please fuck me, daddy.”
The last word comes out before you can stop yourself, and a depraved, feral noise rumbles in Dmitri’s throat as he kicks your legs wider apart, pushes your panties aside, and slides his thick, leaking cock inside of you, reveling in the way your tight pussy clamps down on him. You grip for purchase on the counter as Dmitri stretches you open. Your hard nipples rub against the cool countertop as his hips snap to yours in a brutal pace, and his balls wetly slap against your ass as he bottoms out in your cunt.
White hot pleasure begins to build inside of you as you Dmitri fucks you harder, and you both brokenly moan in unison. He reaches a hand around your waist, and with the added stimulation of his deft fingers on your clit, the peak of your pleasure hits you like a freight train. Your palms skid along the counter as your vision goes black at the edges, and you cum so hard it leaks all over Dmitri’s cock as he roughly fucks you through your orgasm.
Your lust-addled mind supplies another unspoken part of your aforementioned fantasy, one that you now desperately want, and you smoothly push him off of you and turn around to kneel down in front of him again. You lick your cum off of his cock, sucking and pumping it briefly before pulling off, leaving your lips parted slightly as you stare up at him with a needy, inviting gaze, looking absolutely debauched with your glossy lips and smudged eyeliner. He groans in pleasure when he understands what you want him to do, reaching down to fist himself, pumping his cock roughly until thick spurts of cum are shooting out of it, splattering all over your waiting face and tits.
After he comes down from his orgasm, he shuffles off for a moment in the direction of your washroom. He returns with a warm, wet rag, and he kneels down in front of you as he gently wipes his cum off of you. Something tugs in your chest as he puts the soiled cloth aside and kisses you tenderly on the nose, on your cheek, and then on your lips. Dmitri scoops you into his arms, carrying you toward the door that he assumes is your bedroom.
When you reach your bed, he leans down to pull the covers back, placing you down into the bed and taking off your skirt, stockings, and underwear, tossing them to the ground. You reach up to pull his shirt over his head, adding it to the pile, and he removes his boxers and pants before sliding in between the sheets naked beside you.
You’re not sure how much time passes as you lay there, both on your sides and staring at one another in the dim light washing over your bed from the lone street lamp outside. He lovingly traces a finger from your shoulder blade, to your eyebrows, down your nose, and across your jaw line. In return, you run a hand through his hair, and his eyes close in contentment.
Eventually, Dmitri brushes a finger over your bottom lip, and you grasp his wrist, opening your mouth to begin sucking on it. His eyes shoot open as you bob on his finger, and he inserts another, his gaze turning heated as drool leaks out of your mouth and down his hand. You brush a hand over your stiffening nipples, moaning softly, and he cups your breasts as he leans over to lick into your waiting mouth.
Pushing himself up slightly so that he’s leaning down over you, Dmitri tilts your chin to look into his eyes as he purrs, “Are you going to behave for daddy?”
You nod, your cunt clenching down around nothing, and you can feel sticky, wet arousal beginning to leak down the inside of your thighs again. Dmitri smirks, moving his hand down to grip at your throat, tightening his grip when you moan in response.
“Open,” he rasps.
Without hesitation, you comply, and a shiver goes down your spine as he mutters, “Good girl,” before hooking his thumb over the edge of your lips. He slides the digit deep enough along the inside of your cheek to make you gag slightly before leaning down to roughly spit into your mouth. Obediently, you swallow it, and Dmitri hums in pleasure.
You reach for his hardening cock, stroking it as you push him onto his back and climb on top, straddling him. Dmitri runs his hands over your hips, praises falling from his lips as you slide your soaked cunt up and down along his fat cock. He bites his lip and throws his head back in pleasure, gripping your hips tightly when you line yourself up and finally sink down onto him.
Dmitri gazes at you with hooded eyes as you eagerly ride him, licking his lips as he takes in the way your breasts bounce with each thrust. You catch him staring, and you lean down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss, pulling back slightly to whisper against his mouth, “Fill me up with your cum, Dmitri.”
He growls, and before you know what’s happening, you find yourself on all fours with Dmitri behind you. He slams his dick into you from behind, and you choke out a wail of pleasure. He spreads your ass cheeks apart, marveling at the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. His thumb brushes over your other tight hole and you moan loudly, pushing back onto his dick desperately. He grins, beginning to rub the hole, and you whine in response, wiggling your hips and nearly panting in frustration. Dmitri spits, generously spreading it around the rim before slowly pressing a finger inside as he continues to relentlessly fuck your cunt.
“Do you like when I fuck you like this, солнышко? Like daddy’s little whore?” He asks, a strangled edge to his voice.
You nod and cry out, “Please, yes. Fuck me harder, Dmitri.”
He groans, bringing a hand down hard against one of your ass cheeks, and your pussy clenches down harder on his dick at the pleasurable stinging sensation. He smacks you two more times, and you press back into him, urging him to go deeper. Dmitri wraps a hand around your throat as he pushes you down flush against the bed, fucking you roughly into the mattress.
Grasping your hips, Dmitri pulls you back onto all fours to shove his cock deeper inside of you, moaning when he sees how coated his dick is in your sopping wet slick as he pulls out slightly. He feels your legs begin to tremble as heat builds inside of you, nearly reaching a crest, and flips you onto your back.
He grips your throat, and—dizzy and desperate with pleasure—your mouth falls open. His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins before leaning down to spit inside of it. You swallow, and he hungrily watches the bob of your throat as he slides his dick back into your cunt and begins hammering into you again. Without warning, the heat that had slowly been creeping through you explodes, and you don’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed as clear fluid gushes out of your cunt.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he pants out as he watches you messily squirt all over his cock and balls, and moments later, he cries out as his dick pulses with his own orgasm. You hold him fast against you, milking his cock as he dumps a heavy load of thick, hot cum inside of your pussy. You whine at the loss of contact when he pulls his softening cock out of you and watch as he spreads your legs apart and leans down in front of you to lap at the cum that’s messily pouring out of your cunt, leaking all over yourself and the sheets, before eventually crawling back up to hold you gently in his arms, praising you and whispering sweet nothings into your ears.
---
You wake up the next morning to the feeling of something thick and hard slowly grinding between your ass cheeks and quiet moans from behind you. Dmitri’s hands trails across your naked body, cupping your breasts and teasing your nipples. Biting your lip, you angle his cock against your folds to show him the slick that’s already begun to gather there.
“So eager for me,” he remarks, using your arousal to allow his cock to wetly slide between your ass cheeks. The head of it catches on the tight ring of muscle there, and you gasp, eagerly pressing back against him, silently asking for more. At that, Dmitri flips you over so you’re face down, and he roughly palms your cheeks as he slides his dick along the crevice of your ass.
Dmitri leans forward, bare chest brushing against your back as he whispers into your ear, “You want my cock in your ass, dirty girl?”
“Please, Dmitri,” you beg him as you reach an arm out to pull open your night stand, tossing him a bottle of lubricant. He chuckles darkly, popping it open and spreading a generous amount over your hole as he carefully begins to work you open, finger by finger.
When he finally pushes his thick, lube-covered cock into your ass, a feral moan punches out of him and you nearly black out in pleasure; you feel so full you want to scream. He begins to pump in and out of you at a torturous, leisurely pace, folding himself over you to bite and suck on the side of your neck while he plays with your breasts. Desperate, needy moans pour from your lips at the hot, wet, filthy slide of his dick in your tight hole, and you reach a hand down to your untouched cunt. Dmitri notices and bats your hand away, replacing it with his large, thick fingers. A low, rough grunt leaves his mouth as he pumps them inside of you, feeling you dripping into his palm. Your back arches and your muscles tighten as the smoldering heat in your abdomen takes you over the edge, your pussy clenching on Dmitri’s hands and cum flooding out as he holds you tight through your intense orgasm.
He pants into your ear, “Daddy’s going to fill your ass up with his cum now, princess,” and he hammers into you so hard that you see stars. His dick twitches inside of you as he reaches his peak, and you can feel it as he begins to ejaculate inside of your ass, roughly fucking pools of his hot cum into your tight hole. When he pulls it out of you, you can feel his sticky seed leaking out of your ass and over the backs of your thighs, and your body shakes in pleasure as you feel his tongue begin to prod and lap at your fucked out hole.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers afterward, pulling you close.
THREE MONTHS LATER
While you had been tempted to follow Dmitri back to America, the cost and effort you had already put into your studies in Russia prevented you from leaving until you were finished three months later. Now, you’ve been back home in Chicago for two weeks, and you’ve returned to your post as a teaching assistant at your university. After a long day of grading tests, you’re standing at your desk in your small, private office, shuffling paperwork into your bag as you prepare to head home.
In the days since setting foot back on American soil, you’ve toyed with the idea of taking a road trip to Hawkins, Indiana time and time again to find Dmitri. But each time you go to reach for your luggage to begin packing, you freeze, a small, uncertain part of you mockingly asking what makes you think that night with Dmitri was anything more than a pleasurable, messy fuck for him. Though he hadn’t given you many details, you’d gotten the hint that his decision to leave his country for an undetermined amount of time wasn’t exactly a leisure trip, and it feels borderline presumptuous to imagine yourself pathetically crossing state lines to seek him out.
But now, as you think back to the hushed, intimate moments you had shared before he left, your self-doubt wavers again. After your early morning romp, he had pulled you to him and protectively wrapped his arms around you, and you had fallen asleep to the sound of him adoringly whispering tender phrases that you couldn’t quite understand into your ear. It was that last soft memory, before he had quietly extracted himself from your sheets, pressing a kiss to your lips and murmuring a sad goodbye, that kept you up at night.
“Здрасте, солнышко.” (Hello, sunshine.)
Your thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice, and you turn your head incredulously toward the source, heart leaping in your chest as you see Dmitri leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets and a warm smile on his face.
--
A/N: Please suspend your disbelief, as we're going to momentarily pretend that Dmitri isn't a dad (even though he's definitely a dilf) and also Joyce collectively includes herself in the "from Hawkins" introduction for the sake of simplicity.
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Summary: When Joyce and Murray finally reconvene with Hopper in the Russian prison, the group—with the help of Dmitri—manages to force the bloodthirsty Demogorgon back into its cage. Taking advantage of the confused chaos unraveling in the building, they escape, seeking temporary refuge at Dmitri’s apartment. His remaining time in Russia is short-lived, so Dmitri opts to spend his last evening in the country paying a visit to the one bright spot in his life—the pretty girl that works at the diner downstairs.
Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT
Word Count: 6k
Content: NSFW, smut, porn with a little bit of plot, oral sex, unprotected p in v, creampies, spanking, spit kink, daddy kink, choking, soft!dom dmitri, rough sex, dirty talk, anal sex, knife kink, squirting
When you pull back slightly for air, nearly gasping, he steadies you, and you ask him boldly, “Are you coming in?”
He cups the side of your face, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, and he nods. “Please”
Dmitri swipes his keys from their usual spot on the small, rusty hook inside of his locker in the staff break room, thankful that he had long since made it a habit not to carry them while on duty (after several other guards had suffered the misfortune of being slyly pickpocketed by prisoners). The other various odds and ends inside of his locker had likely been dumped immediately after his traitorous secret had been discovered—probably unceremoniously tossed in the incinerator—but the small keyring had luckily escaped unscathed, and it was the only thing he would have missed, anyway.
Making his way back out into the hallway, Dmitri hastily ushers Hopper, Joyce, and Murray in the direction of the exit doors and then toward a dark green SUV sitting in the parking lot. They all pile in, and he momentarily glances at himself in the rearview mirror, taking in the exhausted expression lingering on his face before turning the key in the ignition, pulling out onto the main road, and slamming his foot down on the gas pedal as hard as the snow-covered motorway will allow.
A tense silence hangs in the air, punctuated only by the sounds of their chattering teeth and Murray’s fumbling attempts to get the heat going from his spot in the passenger seat. Joyce eventually pipes up from the back, “So uh…Enzo, right? Where exactly are we going?”
A car coming from the opposite direction passes by, and Dmitri tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He responds tightly, “My apartment. We’ll be there in just under an hour, so please do try to keep your reunion festivities in my backseat to…a minimum,” vaguely flourishing a hand in she and Hopper’s direction.
Hopper coughs, and Joyce crinkles her nose and asks, “But isn’t your apartment the first place that someone would come looking for you?”
Dmitri meets her gaze in the rearview and smirks, “Now what makes you think I would let a place like that keep my real address on file?”
The car settles back into a tentative, uneasy silence, which remains until they arrive in the small, nondescript town that Dmitri calls home. After parking behind his building, Dmitri leads the Americans down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and to the familiar, faded red door of his apartment. His hands shake ever so slightly as he inserts the key into the lock, turns the handle, and flicks the lights on—part of him was certain he’d never see this place again. Not that he could stay here now, though, anyway. His false address would only give him a head start against potential retribution from the prison, but if he remained in Russia, they’d find him sooner or later.
Despite the looming sense of dread, Joyce convinces everyone that showers are in order before anything else. Dmitri isn’t sure if it’s for the woman’s own sake or if she’s just grown tired of the sight and smell of their dirty, bloody, appearances, but either way he’s thankful to be afforded a bit of time alone, nearly drowning himself under the hot stream of water.
Afterward, once he’s picked through the back of his closet for various odds and ends that are at least partially suitable for his guests to wear in place of their filthy clothes, Dmitri casually suggests that they head to the diner below his apartment to strategize over food and coffee as he runs a thumb over a faded, torn piece of receipt paper in his pocket with a heart drawn on the back of it. And if he has ulterior motives that involve seeing a familiar, comforting face in the wake of the worst night of his life, well, they don’t need to know that.
---
The jingling of the bell above the diner door jolts you out of the daze that you had been lost in, having spent the better part of the last hour leaning against the counter attempting to stave off sleep—it was an uncharacteristically slow evening. You straighten up, hand automatically reaching for your faded yellow notepad and your favorite blue pen, and your heart leaps in your chest when a pair of familiar blue eyes meets yours. Your favorite regular has arrived with three companions in tow.
Originally from Chicago, you’ve spent the past two months in Russia as a part of your graduate studies. In that time, Enzo’s caffeine habits have become a daily staple of your shifts. The night that you met—your first shift—you’d somehow managed to get his fairly simple order of coffee and toast entirely backwards. Your program here, which is a remote offshoot of your school back in Illinois, is in English, and your meager attempts at studying conversational Russian before packing your bags and hopping on a plane certainly left something to be desired. Though you had initially thought you could string together enough competency to get by as a waitress for a few months, your mortification in that moment whilst you accidentally sputtered an apology in English had left you poised to run on foot to the nearest airport. However, the annoyed reply you were waiting to hear from the man you were serving never came. Instead, Enzo’s eyes had crinkled at the corners in amusement as he chuckled, pulled a pen out of his pocket, grabbed a napkin, and wrote out the Russian words from his order in the English alphabet for you.
After that, Enzo made it a goal to teach you something in Russian every time that he came in, kindly coaxing you on your pronunciation of the letters and words while watching you intently over the rim of his coffee cup with a gleam in his eyes. When you’d get something right, he’d reward you with a grin that made your knees weak; it was something you were almost embarrassed to admit you’d grown to shamelessly savor each day. In return, you’d started writing things on the back of his receipts in Russian—it was normally small, inconsequential nonsense, but the soft look it always brought to his face when he glanced down at it on his way out would leave you feeling warm long after he left. Sometimes you'd even been brave enough to doodle little hearts in lieu of words, though you didn't dare look to see his reaction to those.
Now, Enzo’s face lights up as his eyes gently take you in, and he gives you a little wave before he heads over to his usual booth in the back corner with his companions. Your pulse quickens in response under the brief scrutiny of his friendly gaze as you make your way toward their table.
When you approach, you notice that the others are conversing in English, and you raise an eyebrow in Enzo’s direction. Shrugging, the corners of his lips tug upwards, and he says by way of greeting, “I figured you could use a break from the language lessons tonight.”
After you bring them a round of coffees, Enzo introduces you to his company: Hopper, Joyce, and Murray, who are apparently visiting Russia from Hawkins, Indiana. Excited by this information, you explain that you’re from Illinois. One of the men, Hopper, chokes on his drink, prompting Joyce to frantically begin patting his back in concern.
“You’re American?” Hopper asks, eyes wide.
You tilt your head to the side, uncertain why the news is so surprising to him. “Yes…?”
Wiping his face with a napkin, he pointedly looks at Enzo this time as he flatly states, “She’s American.”
Enzo takes a deep breath, flicking a glance up at the ceiling and clenching a fist before replying, “She is.”
A shit-eating grin makes its way across Hopper’s face, and he offers up his best impersonation of Enzo’s accent, “Oh, so it’s fine when YOU have an American woman—” Hopper is cut off by a loud bang from underneath the table, and he grunts in pain, scowling as he reaches down to rub his shin. You snort and busy yourself by collecting their food orders.
Recognizing that Enzo and his friends are wrapped up in what must be a serious conversation, heads bent together over the table as they murmur in hushed tones, you focus on cleaning and serving other customers. You try to ignore the warmth that blooms in your chest every time that you discreetly steal a glance over at their table, only to find Enzo’s steady gaze already on you.
Two rowdy men make their way into the diner, collapsing into a booth in a fit of boisterous laughter, and you groan inwardly. You finish topping off Murray’s coffee, and as you turn to put the pot away so you can begrudgingly serve your new arrivals, you’re stopped by a hand wrapping loosely around your wrist. You turn around and look down at Enzo, whose eyes flick over to the men before giving you a silent, questioning look.
You brush your pinky over his thumb as you steel yourself and say, “I’ll be fine.”
Twenty-five minutes into serving the two men, and you’re far from fine. Both of them reek of alcohol, and after hearing the non-native slips of your tongue when you took their order in Russian, they had since begun making suggestive hand gestures while jeering at you with words you had yet to learn. One quick glance at Enzo out of the corner of your eye tells you all that you need to know about what exactly the men are saying to you; his eyes have darkened dangerously in anger, and if he grips his fork any harder, it’s likely to split in half.
Hoping to hurry them along, you begin to clear out some of their empty plates, but when you go to make your way back to the kitchen, you feel a hand brush against your waist in an attempt to grab you. You yelp in surprise and jump backward, nearly dropping the dishes, just as Enzo smoothly steps in between you and the edge of the table. The men go quiet as Enzo casually picks up a knife and twirls it in his hand for a moment before stabbing it directly into the center of a half-eaten sandwich. You notice Hopper standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, a concerned look on his face. Enzo cooly mutters something at them that you can’t understand, but whatever it is sends them scurrying out of the diner, leaving nothing but their payment and a generous tip in their wake.
You don’t realize that you’re shaking until Enzo turns to look at you and places his hands on your shoulders, steadying you. “Are you alright, солнышко?”
Your heart rate picks up as he uses the nickname you’ve grown to love hearing fall from his lips—sunshine. You try to hide the tremble in your tone as you respond, “I’m alright. Thank you, Enzo.”
Joyce and Murray have come to stand beside Hopper, jackets on and poised to leave. Enzo glances back at them, sighs, and then turns to you once more and asks, “When does your shift end?”
Your eyebrows raise of their own accord at the question. Though an intoxicating tension has slowly been simmering between the two of you inside of the diner day in and day out, neither of you has dared to actually cross that line yet. You tell him, “In an hour, why?”
He shrugs, giving you a small smile as he explains, “You mentioned before that you don’t live far. I’d like to walk you home, if that’s alright.”
You bite your lip to contain the pleased grin that sneaks its way across your face and nod, “Meet me out front.”
Enzo’s friends bid you farewell and make their way out the door, a gust of snowflakes and cold air flying inside as they exit.
---
As promised, when you shrug into your coat and slip outside an hour later, you spy Enzo leaning against the brick wall of the building with his hands in his pockets, gazing over at you with a thoughtful expression. As you approach, he pushes off of the wall and offers you his arm. And if you happen to lean into his warmth a bit closer than necessary as you begin to walk, he doesn’t seem to mind.
The walk is regretfully short, just a few blocks, and the two of you make your way down the deserted sidewalk in a comfortable silence. When you arrive at the door to your apartment, Enzo finally speaks up, “I’m going to be going away for a while, back to the United States with the people you just met. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, but I wanted to thank you for your company these past couple of months. I admittedly did not actually drink coffee that frequently before I met you.” He scratches the back of his head as he laughs weakly.
Your chest begins to ache at the implication of his words. You place a hand on the junction between his shoulder and his neck and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and murmuring, “I’ll miss you, Enzo.”
He slides a hand over yours, holding you in place before you can step backward, and his warm lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Dmitri. Call me Dmitri.” His other hand slides down to rest on your waist, and he shifts to lean his forehead against yours.
You feel the caress of his breath as it makes its way across the infinitesimal space between you, and you close the distance as you quietly speak his real name against his lips, “Dmitri.”
A small sound escapes his mouth in response, and Dmitri crushes his lips against yours, both of his hands slipping inside of your jacket to pull you flush against him. Whatever dam was standing in between the two of you before breaks open now in a flood of heat and desperation. Dmitri’s tongue dances at the seams of your lips and you open your mouth to give him access. You wrap your arms around him, holding him tight as you let him devour you with his lips, tongue sliding against yours warmly. You bite his lip and he chuckles, kissing the corners of your mouth before slotting your lips together again, and you dare to push your lower half against him, a whimper building in the back of your throat as he responds in kind, grinding against you.
When you pull back slightly for air, nearly gasping, he steadies you, and you ask him boldly, “Are you coming in?”
He cups the side of your face, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, and he nods. “Please”
You struggle to pull your keys from your pocket, eager to feel his lips against yours once more. When you reach out to place the key in the lock, you nearly fumble as Dmitri snakes his arms around you from behind. He kisses you squarely on the back of your neck, and you shiver in response.
Once you’re inside, you stumble through the threshold, barely finding the time to flick the lights and toss your jacket in the direction of the hook before your chest is pressed up against the wall. Dmitri kneels down on the floor behind you, running his hands up and down your stocking-clad legs before slipping his hands under your skirt to knead your ass.
Pressing kisses to the backs of your knees, he drawls, “Beautiful girl, you always drive me crazy with this uniform.”
Dmitri grips your left ankle and pulls it outward to spread your legs further apart as he teasingly runs a finger over your cunt, dick beginning to ache when he feels the dampness soaking through your panties and the stockings. Lust clouding your brain, your response falls from your lips before you can think better of it, “Sometimes, I like to imagine you bending me over the front counter, lifting up my skirt, ripping a hole in my stockings, and fucking me where everyone can see.”
“Naughty girl,” he groans, rising up and pulling you flush against him. He undoes several of the buttons of your uniform shirt while kissing and sucking on the tender spot between the bottom of your left earlobe and the corner of your jaw. You gasp as he slips a cool hand inside of your bra, cupping one of your breasts and running his thumb over a hard nipple, and you press your ass into him in response. Feeling the outline of what’s undoubtedly a large cock straining against the seam of Dmitri’s pants, your mouth begins to water at the thought of him slowly stretching your cunt open with it before fucking you relentlessly.
You breathe out, “I hope you plan on fucking me with this tonight,” running a hand over his dick and squeezing.
Dmitri chokes out a response that’s caught between a moan and a laugh, “I hope that your pretty little pussy can handle my cock, princess,” bringing a hand back down under your skirt and smirking when he sees that your arousal has begun leaking down the inside of your thighs.
He turns you around, kissing you deeply, fucking your mouth with his tongue, and his jacket falls to the ground as you pull it off of him. He unbuttons the rest of your shirt, and you let out a breathy little gasp as he untucks it from your skirt, pausing to squeeze your hips firmly in his large hands. Tossing your top to the side, he marvels at the way your breasts spill out of your bra before reaching behind you to unclasp it. Dmitri leans in, and you run your hands through his hair, panting as he traces circles with his tongue before starting to suck on your nipples.
A small sound of surprise leaves your mouth as Dmitri’s strong hands return to your ass, giving a quick squeeze as he begins to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. You both kick off your shoes, and he carries you toward the kitchen, placing you down on the edge of the island. His eyes scan the room for a moment, considering, and he squeezes your thigh briefly before walking toward the sink. He returns a moment later, a knife in his hands, and you bite your lip to stifle a gasp as you realize what he’s about to do. Bunching your skirt up around your waist, he carefully trails the dull side of the blade up the inside of your thighs and then slides the curved tip of the handle over your hot core, sending another jolt of desire through your body. He gazes at you for a moment before he opens your legs wide and pulls the stockings outward at the junction between your thighs. You hear the sound of tearing fabric, and then he puts the knife down.
A sob of pleasure falls from your lips as he uses the new hole he just made to push aside your panties and slide a single callused finger through your dripping folds. You whine at the loss of contact as he pulls his hand away, placing his now glistening finger in his mouth and sucking it clean. Your pussy aches for more stimulation, and you unconsciously buck your hips upward toward him. Dmitri smirks and tuts, “Patience.”
He leans in to kiss you deeply, swallowing your moans as you feel two thick fingers sliding against your hot core. He plunges one inside with a wet squelch, slowly pumping a finger in and out of your needy cunt. He bites your lip, sucking on it for a moment before letting go, leaning his forehead against yours, and murmuring appreciatively, “So wet, you lovely girl. Is this all for me?”
You nod, unable to do anything but pant and moan as picks up his pace and inserts another thick finger. Entranced by the sight of your arousal pooling out of your wet, sloppy cunt all over your stockings and onto the counter beneath you, Dmitri palms himself roughly over his pants before leaning down to taste you. You cry out in pleasure as he grabs your ass with either hand and buries his face in your cunt, eagerly fucking his tongue into your hole like a man starved. You allow him to continue to hungrily lap at your folds for a few more moments before you’re overcome by the need to feel his cock splitting you open, and you grab his hair, pulling him in for a filthy kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.
Clad only in your rumpled skirt and your torn, soaked stockings, your breasts bounce as you slide down off of the island. Dmitri watches you intently as you kneel down on the floor in front of him, taking your time to remove his belt and unbutton his pants. He cups the back of your head as you pull his thick, leaking cock out of his boxers. A strangled moan escapes Dmitri’s throat when you spit on his dick, pumping it with one hand as you cup his balls with another.
Dmitri grunts in pleasure as you put your lips on his cock, licking and sucking at the tip. You run your tongue up and down it before eventually taking him whole into your mouth, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as his dick hits the back of your throat. Feeling his hand still resting gently against your hair, you push back against it. His eyes widen a fraction as he realizes what you want him to do, and you look up at him, squeezing the backs of his thighs in affirmation before he begins fucking your mouth. A line of drool begins to spill down the side of your mouth, and when you slip a hand under your skirt to play with your aching cunt, Dmitri has to fight not to shoot spurts of hot cum down your throat right then and there.
“If we don’t stop now, your pretty little lips are going to be dripping with my cum, sweetheart,” Dmitri breathes out, voice wrecked.
You pull your mouth off of his dick with a pop and look up at him, a challenge in your eyes as you say, “You’d better get your cock inside of me, then.”
He asks you huskily, “You want me to fuck you like this? Right here?”
You nod, and a feral sound leaves his mouth as he pulls his dick out of your mouth and bends down to pull you to your feet. He turns you around so you’re bent over the counter, and you hear a tearing noise as he rips the hole in your stockings even wider. You whine, and he leans his body into yours, pinning you down and pressing your face down sideways against the counter as he nips at your earlobe and whispers in your ear, “Such a dirty little girl. Look at you, your messy little pussy is dripping everywhere, begging to be filled. Do you want to feel my fat cock inside of you?”
Your response is drowned out by the shameless moan that falls from your lips unbidden when he lazily begins to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt again.
“I need to hear you say it, солнышко,” he says calmly, voice a direct contrast to the way his fingers are eagerly fucking into you.
“Please fuck me, daddy.”
The last word comes out before you can stop yourself, and a depraved, feral noise rumbles in Dmitri’s throat as he kicks your legs wider apart, pushes your panties aside, and slides his thick, leaking cock inside of you, reveling in the way your tight pussy clamps down on him. You grip for purchase on the counter as Dmitri stretches you open. Your hard nipples rub against the cool countertop as his hips snap to yours in a brutal pace, and his balls wetly slap against your ass as he bottoms out in your cunt.
White hot pleasure begins to build inside of you as you Dmitri fucks you harder, and you both brokenly moan in unison. He reaches a hand around your waist, and with the added stimulation of his deft fingers on your clit, the peak of your pleasure hits you like a freight train. Your palms skid along the counter as your vision goes black at the edges, and you cum so hard it leaks all over Dmitri’s cock as he roughly fucks you through your orgasm.
Your lust-addled mind supplies another unspoken part of your aforementioned fantasy, one that you now desperately want, and you smoothly push him off of you and turn around to kneel down in front of him again. You lick your cum off of his cock, sucking and pumping it briefly before pulling off, leaving your lips parted slightly as you stare up at him with a needy, inviting gaze, looking absolutely debauched with your glossy lips and smudged eyeliner. He groans in pleasure when he understands what you want him to do, reaching down to fist himself, pumping his cock roughly until thick spurts of cum are shooting out of it, splattering all over your waiting face and tits.
After he comes down from his orgasm, he shuffles off for a moment in the direction of your washroom. He returns with a warm, wet rag, and he kneels down in front of you as he gently wipes his cum off of you. Something tugs in your chest as he puts the soiled cloth aside and kisses you tenderly on the nose, on your cheek, and then on your lips. Dmitri scoops you into his arms, carrying you toward the door that he assumes is your bedroom.
When you reach your bed, he leans down to pull the covers back, placing you down into the bed and taking off your skirt, stockings, and underwear, tossing them to the ground. You reach up to pull his shirt over his head, adding it to the pile, and he removes his boxers and pants before sliding in between the sheets naked beside you.
You’re not sure how much time passes as you lay there, both on your sides and staring at one another in the dim light washing over your bed from the lone street lamp outside. He lovingly traces a finger from your shoulder blade, to your eyebrows, down your nose, and across your jaw line. In return, you run a hand through his hair, and his eyes close in contentment.
Eventually, Dmitri brushes a finger over your bottom lip, and you grasp his wrist, opening your mouth to begin sucking on it. His eyes shoot open as you bob on his finger, and he inserts another, his gaze turning heated as drool leaks out of your mouth and down his hand. You brush a hand over your stiffening nipples, moaning softly, and he cups your breasts as he leans over to lick into your waiting mouth.
Pushing himself up slightly so that he’s leaning down over you, Dmitri tilts your chin to look into his eyes as he purrs, “Are you going to behave for daddy?”
You nod, your cunt clenching down around nothing, and you can feel sticky, wet arousal beginning to leak down the inside of your thighs again. Dmitri smirks, moving his hand down to grip at your throat, tightening his grip when you moan in response.
“Open,” he rasps.
Without hesitation, you comply, and a shiver goes down your spine as he mutters, “Good girl,” before hooking his thumb over the edge of your lips. He slides the digit deep enough along the inside of your cheek to make you gag slightly before leaning down to roughly spit into your mouth. Obediently, you swallow it, and Dmitri hums in pleasure.
You reach for his hardening cock, stroking it as you push him onto his back and climb on top, straddling him. Dmitri runs his hands over your hips, praises falling from his lips as you slide your soaked cunt up and down along his fat cock. He bites his lip and throws his head back in pleasure, gripping your hips tightly when you line yourself up and finally sink down onto him.
Dmitri gazes at you with hooded eyes as you eagerly ride him, licking his lips as he takes in the way your breasts bounce with each thrust. You catch him staring, and you lean down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss, pulling back slightly to whisper against his mouth, “Fill me up with your cum, Dmitri.”
He growls, and before you know what’s happening, you find yourself on all fours with Dmitri behind you. He slams his dick into you from behind, and you choke out a wail of pleasure. He spreads your ass cheeks apart, marveling at the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. His thumb brushes over your other tight hole and you moan loudly, pushing back onto his dick desperately. He grins, beginning to rub the hole, and you whine in response, wiggling your hips and nearly panting in frustration. Dmitri spits, generously spreading it around the rim before slowly pressing a finger inside as he continues to relentlessly fuck your cunt.
“Do you like when I fuck you like this, солнышко? Like daddy’s little whore?” He asks, a strangled edge to his voice.
You nod and cry out, “Please, yes. Fuck me harder, Dmitri.”
He groans, bringing a hand down hard against one of your ass cheeks, and your pussy clenches down harder on his dick at the pleasurable stinging sensation. He smacks you two more times, and you press back into him, urging him to go deeper. Dmitri wraps a hand around your throat as he pushes you down flush against the bed, fucking you roughly into the mattress.
Grasping your hips, Dmitri pulls you back onto all fours to shove his cock deeper inside of you, moaning when he sees how coated his dick is in your sopping wet slick as he pulls out slightly. He feels your legs begin to tremble as heat builds inside of you, nearly reaching a crest, and flips you onto your back.
He grips your throat, and—dizzy and desperate with pleasure—your mouth falls open. His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins before leaning down to spit inside of it. You swallow, and he hungrily watches the bob of your throat as he slides his dick back into your cunt and begins hammering into you again. Without warning, the heat that had slowly been creeping through you explodes, and you don’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed as clear fluid gushes out of your cunt.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he pants out as he watches you messily squirt all over his cock and balls, and moments later, he cries out as his dick pulses with his own orgasm. You hold him fast against you, milking his cock as he dumps a heavy load of thick, hot cum inside of your pussy. You whine at the loss of contact when he pulls his softening cock out of you and watch as he spreads your legs apart and leans down in front of you to lap at the cum that’s messily pouring out of your cunt, leaking all over yourself and the sheets, before eventually crawling back up to hold you gently in his arms, praising you and whispering sweet nothings into your ears.
---
You wake up the next morning to the feeling of something thick and hard slowly grinding between your ass cheeks and quiet moans from behind you. Dmitri’s hands trails across your naked body, cupping your breasts and teasing your nipples. Biting your lip, you angle his cock against your folds to show him the slick that’s already begun to gather there.
“So eager for me,” he remarks, using your arousal to allow his cock to wetly slide between your ass cheeks. The head of it catches on the tight ring of muscle there, and you gasp, eagerly pressing back against him, silently asking for more. At that, Dmitri flips you over so you’re face down, and he roughly palms your cheeks as he slides his dick along the crevice of your ass.
Dmitri leans forward, bare chest brushing against your back as he whispers into your ear, “You want my cock in your ass, dirty girl?”
“Please, Dmitri,” you beg him as you reach an arm out to pull open your night stand, tossing him a bottle of lubricant. He chuckles darkly, popping it open and spreading a generous amount over your hole as he carefully begins to work you open, finger by finger.
When he finally pushes his thick, lube-covered cock into your ass, a feral moan punches out of him and you nearly black out in pleasure; you feel so full you want to scream. He begins to pump in and out of you at a torturous, leisurely pace, folding himself over you to bite and suck on the side of your neck while he plays with your breasts. Desperate, needy moans pour from your lips at the hot, wet, filthy slide of his dick in your tight hole, and you reach a hand down to your untouched cunt. Dmitri notices and bats your hand away, replacing it with his large, thick fingers. A low, rough grunt leaves his mouth as he pumps them inside of you, feeling you dripping into his palm. Your back arches and your muscles tighten as the smoldering heat in your abdomen takes you over the edge, your pussy clenching on Dmitri’s hands and cum flooding out as he holds you tight through your intense orgasm.
He pants into your ear, “Daddy’s going to fill your ass up with his cum now, princess,” and he hammers into you so hard that you see stars. His dick twitches inside of you as he reaches his peak, and you can feel it as he begins to ejaculate inside of your ass, roughly fucking pools of his hot cum into your tight hole. When he pulls it out of you, you can feel his sticky seed leaking out of your ass and over the backs of your thighs, and your body shakes in pleasure as you feel his tongue begin to prod and lap at your fucked out hole.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers afterward, pulling you close.
THREE MONTHS LATER
While you had been tempted to follow Dmitri back to America, the cost and effort you had already put into your studies in Russia prevented you from leaving until you were finished three months later. Now, you’ve been back home in Chicago for two weeks, and you’ve returned to your post as a teaching assistant at your university. After a long day of grading tests, you’re standing at your desk in your small, private office, shuffling paperwork into your bag as you prepare to head home.
In the days since setting foot back on American soil, you’ve toyed with the idea of taking a road trip to Hawkins, Indiana time and time again to find Dmitri. But each time you go to reach for your luggage to begin packing, you freeze, a small, uncertain part of you mockingly asking what makes you think that night with Dmitri was anything more than a pleasurable, messy fuck for him. Though he hadn’t given you many details, you’d gotten the hint that his decision to leave his country for an undetermined amount of time wasn’t exactly a leisure trip, and it feels borderline presumptuous to imagine yourself pathetically crossing state lines to seek him out.
But now, as you think back to the hushed, intimate moments you had shared before he left, your self-doubt wavers again. After your early morning romp, he had pulled you to him and protectively wrapped his arms around you, and you had fallen asleep to the sound of him adoringly whispering tender phrases that you couldn’t quite understand into your ear. It was that last soft memory, before he had quietly extracted himself from your sheets, pressing a kiss to your lips and murmuring a sad goodbye, that kept you up at night.
“Здрасте, солнышко.” (Hello, sunshine.)
Your thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice, and you turn your head incredulously toward the source, heart leaping in your chest as you see Dmitri leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets and a warm smile on his face.
--
A/N: Please suspend your disbelief, as we're going to momentarily pretend that Dmitri isn't a dad (even though he's definitely a dilf) and also Joyce collectively includes herself in the "from Hawkins" introduction for the sake of simplicity.
Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!
You shouldn't be messing with Dmitri - you know you shouldn't. He's dangerous, here in secret, hiding from his government, a little too old, and your brothers friend... he's warned you off before, but he never turns you away. And lately he's been seeking you out.
Yes it is a cheesey 'Hoppers Sister' fic, and I have no regrets because taboo 'we shouldn't be doing this' feels and needy, touch-starved, ruined Dmitri have a chokehold on my soul and libido.
Tagging @believeinthefireflies95 because they asked to tagged in Dmitri smut 😄
Originally posted by brieattea
The dress was an innocent mistake, or so you told yourself when you arrived. Light and flowy with a floral pattern, it certainly looks innocent. No one would think you wore it to drive a man mad... but most people don't know that Dmitri has a thing for sundresses. For pressing innocent, sweet women up against walls in quiet places and making them just a little less innocent.
No one, not even Hop, would have noticed the way his face changed when he saw you, because even when he's at breaking point, Dmitri Antonov has a face that could be best described as taciturn. It's in the eyes; those hooded eyes widened just a fraction when he saw you, then narrowed again, their heavy lids creasing slightly at the corners, and the right side of his lip twitched up for a second. Then he continued speaking to Ted Wheeler, but he did that sweet thing. That thing he always did when something had amused or shocked him; when he smiled, one side of his mouth turned down slightly. He licked his lips and rolled his shoulders.
You should have known how it would end when you saw that, but it was still a surprise, the way he found you at just the right moment, in just the right place and used the bulk of his body to push you against the side of the house... just out of sight.
The party doesn't stop when he buries his face in your neck and drags one of your legs up onto his hip. Anyone could walk around the corner in a second and there would be no explaining this away... somehow that makes it better,
"Dmitri," you whisper, pushing at his shoulders weakly; it's a pointless and frankly disingenuous pretence. Every time your hands slip ineffectually up onto the top of his strong shoulders, they grip him and pull him closer. You can feel him smiling against your skin, and the smugness of the curve to his mouth, more than anything else, is what makes you prolonge the lie, "we shouldn't."
"I know," he mumbles against your cheek as his lips search in the gloom, finding yours a few seconds later. His free hand comes up to hold your throat gently,
"No, we really shouldn't," you gasp, "not here."
"Then tell me to stop," he says against your mouth, free hand pushing up under the gossamer material of your dress to cup your ass while he slides one denim-clad thigh between your legs. "Go on," he pushes you, voice teasing,
"I told you-"
"You say we shouldn't," he whispers, "not that you want me to go away. Tell. Me. To. Stop." He pulls your hip, dragging you up his thigh, then pushing you back down with each word. You let your head fall back, "no?"
Perhaps its the liquor, or maybe it really is the dress, but he decides to be cruel and pulls away,
"Dmitri," you whine, seeing his teeth glint in the barely there light that seeps arund the side of the house,
"What is it, princess?" He leans in, inches from you, "you say we shouldn't," he shrugs, "so we won't." When you make a frustrated sound, he chuckles, "you want me?"
"Dmitri..."
"Dmitri," he mimics your tone, thin and high and pleading, then rubs his nose to yours, "tell me what you want."
"I..." you shake your head, making him grin,
"Ok," he says and turns away again, making it two steps before you grip his hand and drag him back,
"Please," you whisper, and this is what breaks him. He sighs,
"How can I say no to those pretty eyes, hm?" This time it's his hand that slips between your legs, pushing under your barely-there panties as he hisses through his teeth and leans down to nip the skin on your shoulder, muttering something you can't understand. Mostly, anyway. You've picked up a word or two of Russian while spending time with him, and the word 'wet' jumps out at you first. Then 'tight' - that one is branded into your mind and skin, making you blush as he curls two fingers in you. As you whine and shudder, he raises his head, craning his neck to make sure you're still alone, then pulls the neck of your dress to the side. "Feels good?" He asks,
"God yes," it's not even your voice; its high-pitched and breathy. Desperate. Shameless.
"God," he chuckles, "I'm not sure he has anything to do with this, Y/N..."
You fall apart so easily for him, shuddering around his fingers, then he nudges your legs apart and pushes between them, fumbling with his belt,
"Gentle," you whimper as he pushes into you in one hard thrust. Dmitri lowers his head to kiss your shoulder apologetically,
"Forgive me," he murmurs, "I can't think when you're so close. You turn me into an animal..." he's speaking against your skin now, between licks and kisses, "can't... fuck... can't get close enough to you. No matter how hard I try." His teeth press into the sensitive skin on your shoulder and he sucks gently,
"Dmitri... you're going to leave a mark," you whisper, unable to articulate just how bad it would be if Hopper saw a goddamn hickey, but he's mindless, rocking in and out of you so slowly that you feel like its all one motion. Constant friction. The comforting weight of his body,
"Good," he almost growls as he pulls away and covers the aching mark with the fabric of your dress before he lifts your other leg and speeds up, craning to look over towards the corner of the house again, "have to be quick," he gasps and you nod, "keep quiet, yes?" You nod again biting your lip as he speeds up, knocking the air out of you with every roll of his hips, "good girl." He almost groans, but stifles it, shuddering as he cums, then pulls away quickly, kissing you firmly, helping you to fix your dress before he deals with himself. He slips away seconds before Joyce rounds the corner,
"Y/N, hey, where've you been?" She asks, and you're glad she can't see the blush on your face,
"I went and sat in you and Hop's room for a while," you say, which is part of the truth, "needed a few moments of quiet." She takes your explanation without question,
"Well, we're bringing out a keg, come on."
It's only as you walk back into the firelight with her arm hooked through yours that you realize you're still bare beneath your dress. Are your panties on the ground back there, you wonder with a flash of panic. Dmitri smirks at you across the fire, then, seeing your look of panic, rolls his eyes and taps his left pocket.
"Fucking animal," you mouth at him when no one's paying attention, but he only smiles and raises his glass.
i reaaaaaally wanna write a severus snape x reader enemies to lovers type thing,
im doing a lot of research cz i feel like snape is such a complex character to write romantically, and i kind of want the story to start from when snape and the marauders were at their last year of hogwarts, with a bit of backstory about how you and severus hate eachothers guts, maybe a little bit of angry sex and then the whole thing on halloween happens and then drama drama and then sev is back at hogwarts,
i dont have a complete timeline / idea but i do know i want severus to be his usual viscous cruel self but also an absolute lover boy once your relationship is established, and im not talking golden retriever type but very touchy and quietly corny and a looooot of teasing on both ends. im not really sure i need ur advice, what do u think?
any advice on how to write him romantically or what u think he is like in a relationship, or how an enemies dynamic would work (not at all like how it was like it was with james and sirius but more like a mutual destruction thats underlined with lust) would be greatly appreciated!!
none of this would take place while the characters are underaged
theres this one severus snape x reader fic that i cant stop thinking about but also cant find anywhere i think it got deleted
basically it was y/n and snape and i dont remember much but i remember distinctively that y/n and snape lived at grimmaulds plac e during order of the phoenix and sirius bullying snape for being with someone so younger and then y/n celebrating snapes birthday and im p sure she rides him in the dining room just for sirius to hear,
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