ʚɞ Angie ʚɞ

a/n: thank you so so much for 1k followers! it’s unbelievable how many people keep giving their love to my silly little thoughts. it means so much to me 🩵 I didn’t know what to do to celebrate, then I posted a pool about dad’s best friend!bucky vs best friend's dad!bucky and this is what came out! thank you again and hope you'll enjoy this 🫶🏻

You let yourself in by sliding the key into the lock, the same key Bucky pressed into your palm five months ago. The house is a single-story ranch set back from the road, built solid and straightforward, the kind of place someone put up when they planned to stay and imagined muddy shoes by the door, a full table, and years unfolding in the same rooms. 

The door opens with that familiar soft catch, and you lock it behind you, standing at the entryway for a second, breathing in the scent of the place: clean soap, worn leather, a trace of hay and cedar that never quite leaves.

Bucky is still out with the guys. Today it’s darts night at the bar. Your dad thought you were staying over at Wanda’s, which isn’t exactly a lie— you had dinner with her, and your friend would cover for you anytime, being the only person you trusted enough to confide in about your unusual situation. 

You hang your coat on one of the hooks by the door, before sitting on the nearby bench to slip your boots off. The house is quiet as you pass by a stack of mail sorted carefully on the console table, your attention drawn to a familiar brown jacket draped over the back of a chair, probably a last-minute outfit change before going out. You notice a hole near the sleeve once you hang it back by the front door, and make a mental note to mend it for Bucky tomorrow. He likes to fix things. Always has. It’s one of the first things you noticed about him— not in a grand way, but in a thousand small ones. A hinge tightened; a cracked step reinforced; a toaster coaxed back to life with patience and a screwdriver.

You met Bucky two years ago. That night, one of your dad’s friends, Sam, hosted a cookout– one of those informal gatherings that somehow turns into half the town showing up with folding chairs and enough home cooked food to feed a whole county. You had just arrived, still living out of a suitcase, still feeling like a guest in your dad’s hometown. You stepped out of his truck to the distant sounds of laughter and animated chatter, when you saw him. Bucky stood by the grill, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms dusted with dark hair. His henley stretched across a chest that looked built by years of hard work rather than any gym. His salt-and-pepper stubble was slightly unkempt, and his sun-kissed skin spoke of long days outdoors.

He wasn’t trying to be impressive, yet your eyes immediately found him as soon as you stepped into the crowded backyard. 

Your dad nudged you. “I get to finally introduce you to Bucky. Have I already told you he owns the local feed store?” As if that explained everything. And technically, you didn’t need a recap of his whole life; after all, you had spent the past three years on video calls listening to the exact same things.

“Today Bucky fixed the screen door. Saved me hundreds of dollars.”

“I can’t keep up with him anymore; he and Steve are too fast.”

“He’s such a sore loser at darts.” 

Yet, you listened to it all over again, this time eager to remember every single detail about the handsome, older man. 

Your dad was on the verge of depression when he moved back to his hometown after your mom asked for a divorce, as soon as you left for college. You were worried about him, yet couldn’t do much while living on the other side of the country. Then, after a week spent reacquainting himself with the place he had left to follow your mom’s dream career, the light in his eyes gradually returned. All thanks to this James Barnes guy who he met at the store while looking for chicken feed. Apparently, their parents knew each other very well. From that day on, he and Bucky became best friends. The farmer was well-loved by the town, especially after taking over his family’s store, and introduced your dad to darts night and weekend morning runs. And you couldn't be more thankful for that.

When you were finally introduced to him, Bucky smiled like he had all the time in the world. No lingering looks, no measuring you. Just a gentle, steady attention that made you feel seen without being appraised.

The way your name rolled on his tongue made your knees tremble. Then, he shook your hand carefully. “Welcome back.”

Over the following weeks, you kept hearing his name everywhere. At the diner, where the waitress mentioned again that Bucky tipped them generously, never checking the prices and always ordering the same thing. At the flower shop, where your boss Wanda would roll her eyes fondly and repeat, “If you need help, just ask Bucky. He’ll already be on his way.” Then at the hardware store, the post office, the bar.

Always the same refrain: Good man. Reliable. Kind. Devoted. 

He helps without making it a favor. Fixes fences for neighbors who can’t, makes deliveries after hours whenever storms hit, sits with old men who want company more than conversation. He loves his land, his animals, the rhythm of days that begin early and end with the satisfying ache of a day spent fully. 

And with you, he was a flawless gentleman.

He never assumed, nor rushed. When he touched you at the beginning of your relationship, it was careful, reverent even, like he understood the weight of what you were doing and refused to treat it lightly. The age difference hung there unspoken sometimes, not awkward but acknowledged in the way he checked in, the way he gave you room to choose him again and again. And well, he is your father’s best friend after all. That man trusts Bucky with his own life. You don’t think ‘delighted’ would be the right word if he found out his daughter and his forty-something friend have been sneaking around behind his back for almost two years.

You lean against the counter now, smiling softly as you fill the kettle. Outside, the stars shine brightly in the sky, an unusual sight for someone used to the constant glow of city lights. You know he’d probably come home later than usual— darts nights always run long— but you don’t mind waiting. You like this part, too. Being here. Belonging.

You move through the house easily with your cup of steaming tea cradled in your hands, turning on a lamp in the living room, straightening a cushion that didn’t really need it. The walls tell his story without trying: framed photos of Bucky and his family posing on the porch in different seasons, several ribbons from different county fairs pinned beside a faded map of the town, and his father’s tools hanging neatly as a reminder of his hard work.

This is a man who stands firm in who he is.

You change into one of his old shirts— soft and discolored in places— and curl up on the couch with a book you barely pay attention to. Somewhere down the main road, laughter spills out of Barton’s Corner, the oldest bar in town, always crowded with familiar faces. Soon enough, you’d hear the rumbling sound of Bucky’s truck pulling in, older than most of the others but spotless. The kind of vehicle someone keeps not because they have to, but because they care.

For now you wait, safe and cozy. 

The front door opens slowly, the sounds of heavy steps followed by the low click of the lock. Bucky walks inside, moving on instinct: his boots are lined up neatly by the door before he even thinks about it, and his jacket hung right beside yours. The house is steeped in silence, the lamps casting that familiar honeyed glow that tells him someone has been awake recently.

His gaze goes straight to the couch.

You are asleep, a book fallen open on your chest and one arm draped loosely over it as if you’d tried to hold onto the last sentence. Your expression is unguarded in a way that makes something warm bloom in his chest. He stands there for a moment, longer than necessary, taking you in as the quiet of the night settles around him like a held breath.

It’s not the beer, he only drank one tonight, almost an hour ago. This dizzy feeling stems from something completely different. Coming home and finding you here, waiting for him to come back safely… It feels like a gift he still doesn’t quite know how to accept.

Bucky crosses the room quietly and crouches beside your relaxed form. He murmurs your name, as gently as he can. His knuckles brush against your arm, barely there. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re gonna wake up with a crick in your neck.”

You frown faintly, nose scrunching as if his voice has deeply offended you. “Hmm.” You completely ignore him. 

Bucky smiles despite himself, something soft tugging at the corners of his mouth. He says your name again, under his breath. Then tries a little firmer, but you only turn your face into the couch, clutching the book like a shield.

He sighs. “All right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He successfully pries the book out of your grip, placing it next to your half-empty cup, and then in one smooth motion, he slips an arm beneath you and hoists you up with an exaggerated grunt, settling you over his shoulder. The reaction is immediate.

“Bucky!” You squeal, eyes flying open as you suddenly find yourself upside down, head dangling toward the floor. “Oh my God! Put me down!”

He chuckles, deep and unbothered, adjusting his firm grip on you. “You had your chance.” he playfully pats your asscheek. “I tried wakin’ you up.”

“So you thought this was a good idea!?” You protest, laughter bleeding into your words.

“Listen,” he goes on, walking up the stairs with careful steps. “I’m too old to be doin’ this kind of nonsense, so you’re gonna have to appreciate the effort.”

You huff, lightly thumping his back with your fingers. “You’re not that old.”

“Tell that to my knees tomorrow.” Bucky grins. “Now hush before I drop you.”

You go still, but not before squeezing his ass hard and chuckling at the indignant noise escaping his mouth. It’s in small moments like this that Bucky feels that gentle happiness settle deep in his chest.

He nudges the bedroom door shut with his heel, careful not to let it click shut. The room smells faintly of laundry soap and something inherently his. He adjusts his grip on you out of habit even though you’re already stirring to be let down.

“Easy.” He murmurs, more to himself than to you.

The moment he lowers you onto the mattress, you ignite like a spark on the Fourth of July. You’re on your feet in an instant, arms slinging around his neck with enough force to knock the breath out of him.

“Hey— Wow.” He guffaws, instinctively bracing his feet. “Go easy on your old man.”

You make a small, irritated sound against his shoulder, half whine, half reluctant chuckle. “Stop calling yourself that!” Your face presses against his neck, and your voice comes out muffled. “You’re not old.”

He immediately feels the tension in your words. It’s not just annoyance, it’s something sharper, a sleeping thought that burns alive at the back of your mind whenever he makes these kinds of jokes. He’s noticed it before, the way your smile tightens and your eyes go briefly distant. You mentioned it once during one of your late night talks in his truck, that you’ve always hated how your dad used to make them too, back when time first started showing up in his bones. Even then, when you were younger, it scared you. How fast years could slip by, how easily people started measuring themselves in what had already passed.

Bucky swallows and wraps his arms around you properly, one hand spreading solidly between your shoulder blades. “Alright.” He says softly. “I hear you.”

You relax into him at once, cheek pressing against his chest and eyes closed in bliss. “It feels like it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. I missed you.”

He closes his eyes as well. For a moment, the whole world reduces itself to the feel of you— your warmth, the solid reality of your breathing against him. He lets himself bask in it.

“It’s only been three days.” He teases lightly.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, brows drawn together in mock severity. “Still too long.”

He hums, a low sound in his throat, before guiding your head back into your favorite hiding place, and starting to sway gently from side to side. It’s not something he thinks about doing; his body just does it, like rocking a restless calf or settling into the rhythm of a slow song no one else can hear. You melt into his body, arms snug around his neck and fingers idly tracing the hair on his nape.

You could fall asleep like this, content in his arms, when he shifts back. The bedside lamp casts your features in soft gold, and for a second it hits him all over again— how much he’s missed this too. You. Those soft eyes of yours looking up at him like he’s home. The thought still feels unreal some days.

You tilt your head. “You stayed out later than usual.”

There it is. He feels heat creep up the back of his neck. “Ah— Yeah. Guess I did.”

You squint, suspicious and amused all at once. “Did you ask for a re-match again?”

“No.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a sore loser, contrary to what the others say.” You let out a skeptical hum, prompting him to tickle your sides. You burst out laughing, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes as you beg him to stop. Bucky’s grin is huge and boyish as he keeps teasing you, until he eventually gives you a break, enough for you to catch your breath.

“You know I hate that.” You sigh, still smiling.

He exhales a small, helpless laugh as his hands slide up to your waist, thumbs brushing familiar circles into your sides as if to ground himself. Then, when you’re finally breathing normally again. “I’m not going to the farm tomorrow.”

You stiffen, looking up at him. “What?”

“Nor to the store.”

You straighten up, now staring at him like he’s just told you the sky's been purple all along. “You’re sick.” You conclude decisively. “You have to be sick.”

He grins. “Feel fine.”

“You never skip work.”

“I know.”

“But–”

“And you, my love, are skipping yours too.”

Your brows furrow as your mind starts racing. He can clearly see the gears turning in your head. “Did I— Did I forget something? I didn’t ask Wanda for the day off. Is it someone’s birthday? My dad’s!? Oh God, is it—”

He can’t help it; he chuckles, reaching out to cup your cheek before you can spiral any further. “Hey. Breathe.”

You blink at him, worry softening into confusion.

“I just… Needed a day off.” He shrugs. “Life has been hectic lately. Always somewhere to be, something to fix, someone needing my help.” His thumb brushes under your eye. “I figured it might be nice to slow it down. Have you all to myself for once.”

Your expression shifts, surprise giving way to something hopeful and almost shy. “Just… Us?”

“Just us.” He nods, trying to not grin. But then you smile, bright and a little disbelieving, and he can’t help himself. He leans in to kiss you, unhurriedly, affectionately, and your hands cradle his jaw so sweetly he wants to cry. He deepens the kiss, before pulling away; he can’t go too far though, not when you are so addicting. The tips of your noses still touch gently as his voice drops into that playful register that always gets to you. He murmurs, refusing to burst the quiet bubble of peace surrounding you both. 

“So here’s how it’s gonna go. We’re sleeping in. I don’t care that we both wake up at the crack of dawn— we’re ignoring it. We’re rotting in this bed until one of us gets hungry enough to complain.”

You laugh softly. “You always get hungry first.”

“True. Then I’m making pancakes. The good ones.”

Your smile widens instantly, eyes lighting up. “The ones with Nutella inside?”

“The very same.” He beams, eyebrows shooting up and down. “And then,” he continues, resuming the gently rocking motion, that boyish grin you love so much tugging at his lips. “We’re catching up on that show we started a month ago.”

“I knew you liked it!” 

“In my defense, the day we watched the first episode I spent the entire afternoon arguing with Mr. Jones over that fuckin’ tractor part he ordered. He kept insisting it was the wrong one, and you know how stubborn that old man is.” He kisses you once more, slow and lingering. “Lunch is whatever you want. I’ll cook.”

You open your mouth to argue, yet he silences you with another kiss, small but firmer in intent. “I want to.” He says when he pulls back. “Let me take care of you. All I need is for you to be here. Nice and warm by my side.”

Your eyes soften. “You don’t have to do everything.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “I just want to.”

He draws you impossibly closer, hands secure at your hips. “So,” he clears his throat, voice low and content. “We sleep, we eat, and we make love on every piece of furniture in this fuckin’ house. Sounds like a good plan, doesn’t it?”

You can't help but laugh again, your forehead now resting against his chest. “Yeah. It really does.”

You are the one to pull back this time, as your mouth twitches like you’re onto something.

“But,” you start, palms smoothing the fabric clinging to his pecs. “since you’re taking the day off, I suppose I should warn you.”

He raises a brow. “About?”

“Me.”

He snorts. “Bit late for that.”

You gasp, affronted, and give his chest a light shove that doesn’t actually create any distance between you. “Excuse you. I was going to say that I tend to steal blankets and hog pillows, but you never notice since you’re always falling asleep before me—”

“Damn right if I do, sweetheart!” He cuts in smoothly. “And add ‘narrate your entire thought process out loud’ to your little list of quirks.” 

You freeze. “I do not.”

“You do.” He grins. “Especially when you’re looking for something you’ve just put down. You ask questions like there’s a second you in the room with all the answers.”

Your mouth falls open, then closes again. “That is wildly exaggerated.”

“And,” he continues, enjoying himself a tad too much. “You leave half-finished mugs of tea everywhere. Windowsills, bookshelves... Even the bathroom counter.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re one to talk. You fix things that aren’t broken.”

“Preventative maintenance.”

“You fixed the door hinge because it ‘sounded sad’.” You say, making air quotes.

“It was asking for help.”

You burst out laughing despite his seriousness, shaking your head. “Oh, my poor Jamie.” you sigh, slipping into a dramatic tone as you cradle his face. “Always working so hard, and not getting a single moment of well-deserved peace in his own home.”

A tingling warmth settles in his chest at the word home, even wrapped in teasing. He stills you gently, thumbs brushing along your jaw, his expression turning serious. Not heavy, just certain.

“Our home, my love.”

Those soft words land solidly, like the final piece of a puzzle setting into place.

You blink, caught off guard, and for a second the humor drains out of your face. Then you swallow, a slow and real smile brightening your face as you lean into his touch.

“Yeah.” You bite your bottom lip. “Our home.”

He presses his forehead against yours, breathing in the perfume still lingering on your skin since this morning, and the teasing returns to his voice like a familiar coat. “And for the record, I find your habits… Endearing.”

“Oh, now you’re backtracking.”

“Not at all. I reserve the right to complain while secretly liking them.”

You laugh, full and bright, and Bucky feels like he’s stepping into sunlight after months of dark, cold winter. You wrap your arms around his neck again, and he holds you there, thinking— not for the first time— that he wants to spend forever doing this with you. Just existing together, right here.

Goosebumps rise on your skin as Bucky lowers his face into the slope of your neck, leaving a trail of small, open-mouth kisses from your shoulder to the sensitive patch of skin behind your ear.

“Aren’t you tired?” You mumble, eyelids shutting close as he starts leading you backwards. 

“For you? Never.” He pushes you gently until you are lying on your back, pliant and open in the middle of the soft sheets.

When the cold tip of his nose touches the skin of your neck, you shiver a little; he inhales deeply, moaning as your scent finally melts away the rest of the day’s tension. Bucky presses you more firmly into the bed, still teasing your neck with pecks and languid licks, while his hips start a gentle grinding motion against your core. You can’t stop yourself from squirming, your chest heaving in anticipation as you feel his already half-hard cock. 

You bite your lip, placing your hand on his belt, and after making sure that Bucky is paying attention, you slowly slip your hand under his flannel shirt, and gradually hike it up, revealing more and more of his skin.

“Go on.” Comes his raspy encouragement. His blue eyes turn dark with lust, relishing in the soft pressure of your nails as you caress his belly. He shivers once, choosing to help you by removing the shirt himself. His heartbeat quickens as blood pumps hot in his veins, and travels way too fast south.

You barely manage to blink before Bucky is on you, devouring your lips in a scorching kiss and letting his hands roam freely over your still covered torso. His hands trace the skin of your waist, leaving feather-like touches behind. Your back arches as he brushes the underside of your breasts.

“Bucky.” You whimper.

“Arms up, doll.” Soon, you are left bare, except for your panties. It’s way too hot in his bedroom, and yet you shiver under his intense stare, the ever consuming urge to have you close bleeds out of his pores.

“Cute.” He flicks the little bow on the hem of your panties with a small smirk, and you let out a trembling breath.

“Jamie, please.” Bucky slowly moves back to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses on his way down to your collarbone, where he leaves a bruising bite. Still, it’s not enough for you. 

“You’re so mean.” 

His little grin presses against your cleavage. “I know, bunny. I know.”

He looms over your chest taking in the view, his breath ghosting, sliding over your hot skin until he suddenly gets fed up with his own teasing and leans in to kiss the supple flesh. He grabs one of your breasts in his hand, looking up at your face as his thumb grazes over your nipple. You suck in a sharp breath, mouth parting and hips buckling up.

His lips wrap around your nub and suck, causing your eyes to roll back. Muffled groans leave his mouth and his hips eagerly rut, his hard cock rubbing against your wet core. 

“Don't stop.” You whimper, gasping as cold air envelops the sensitive flesh when Bucky gently blows on it. “Please, don't stop Bucky."

He switches from one breast to the other, using his hand to pull and twist on your neglected nipple. You feel your belly tighten and your breaths become quick and shallow. His tongue swirls around your nipple before he lets his teeth gently graze the turgid peak, gently biting down. He is immediately rewarded with a sweet gasp.

He moans against your tits, humping you as you arch up, your fingers tangled in his hair to bring his face closer to your chest. Momentarily pulling away, Bucky glances up at you with glistening lips, then back at your breasts, his eyes hazy.

“One day…” He mumbles and you suck in a confused breath.

“What?” You whisper.

It’s like a bucket of icy water has just dropped over his head. You immediately see realization hitting him like a freight train, dawning upon his features. His eyes widen, startled at how careless he has been.

“Bucky?” You raise on trembling elbows when he withdraws from you as if your skin just burned him. “Bucky?” You plea, fingers desperately grasping onto his shoulder when he gives you his back, sitting at the edge of the bed with his chin tipped down. 

Horrible minutes of silence pass between you two, before Bucky finally gathers enough courage to be honest with you, and himself.

He nervously twists his fingers. “I’ve been trying to let it go.” He mumbles. “To be subtle.” A low, rough laugh echoes in the still room. “Didn’t wanna scare you off.”

Your shoulders drop at his dejected tone.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Which is stupid, right? I mean— look at me. I am in my forties, and you still have your whole life ahead of you– I don’t want you to be stuck in this damn town–”

“Hey, look at me.” You stop him immediately, frowning. You crawl at the edge of the bed by his side, slowly guiding his chin to face you. “I am not ‘stuck’ in this town. I chose to stay here because I like it, and I love you.”

“I love you too. So much. But I don’t want to tie you down. I can't hold you back.” He swallows around the unforgiving knot in his throat, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say this out loud. “And your dad– God, he’s my best friend and here I am dreaming about marrying his daughter and having kids who look like us running around the farm and calling you mama.”

Your throat tightens, and you swear your heart stops for a second before resuming its fast pace. You are certain it's going to come out of your chest if you don't calm down.

“But… When I think about a future without you… It just feels– wrong.”

He looks down for a second, tentatively intertwining your fingers. His shoulders lose all the tension when you don't dismiss his touch. Then his eyes land back on you— the storm inside now a gentle drizzle.

“I want everything with you. Even if it’s wrong, even if it means your dad won't talk to me anymore. I’ll let him punch me in the face if he wants, I’ll fix every single thing in his house–”

“You already do that.” You sniffle, biting your bottom lip to hide a smile. Bucky stops short, the corners of his mouth slightly lifting up before he cups your cheek. 

“I hate myself for wanting this but I can't imagine my life without you. I’ll wait, sweetheart. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you don’t want it? Good. Means we’re spending the rest of our lives making love and–and traveling. You’d like that, right doll? You mentioned you want to see the world. I can make that happen. I know this is all so sudden, just–just don’t walk away. Don’t– please– don’t say no. Not to me.”

Your jaw clenches in hope to keep the tears at bay. “You would really give up your dreams of having kids… For me?”

He nods, frowning as if you’ve just asked him if the grass is green. “Of course. I just want you. Just need you.” 

Your voice breaks, raw and bare. Because it hurts to see the man you love like this, and you want to give him all of it, everything. “I want that too.” You sniffle. “And I want–” You swallow down a hiccup. “Kids who look like us running around the farm and calling you dad.”

“Yeah?” He asks softly, his hands holding your cheeks as if guarding a priceless treasure. “You really want that with me?”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. “I love you, Jamie. Don't ever think that you're tying me down, or holding me back from some... Imaginary life you've made up for me in your head. I just want you– I want everything with you.”

“I love you too, doll.” He chokes out. “But... What about your dad?” He presses his lips together, tense.

You smile, breath still shaking a little. “Well, he’d better start working out. He’ll soon have a grandchild to keep up with.”

Bucky laughs, a real, relieved laugh— wet around the edges, but honest. “Soon?”

Your playful smirk sends shivers down his spine. “Well, we’re already half-naked… And there’s a bed...”

Bucky’s entire body stills. His breath hitches, his brows lift slightly. You can almost see it— the implication of what you just said unfurling in real time. You really want this. Now. His eyes go wide and his mouth opens, then closes. Then it opens again.

“Now?” It's weak, stunned.

“Why not?” You tease him. “Unless you don’t–”

You squeal as Bucky desperately grabs you to kiss you until you’re left breathless. It’s a mess of teeth and tongues, but his lips taste like wild and uncontainable joy. Your giggle against his eager lips turns into a gasp when you find yourself laying back on his bed. 

“Gonna treat you so fuckin’ good.” He mutters, sparkling blue eyes reverently following your curves. “Gonna make you feel so safe and spoiled. Wanna worship you every damn night. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“You already do.” Your voice shakes, suddenly a little breathless, squirming beneath him.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, doll.” He breathes in, dragging his nose down your throat as he tightens his hold on your thighs. “Gonna stuff you full until it takes. Again and again. Fuck you against the wall, the shower, hell– even the damn barn.”

Your core throbs at that, your legs squeezing his hips.

“But first,” Bucky’s fingers lightly graze the embarrassingly damp spot on your cotton panties. “Need you to come once around my fingers.” You whine in protest at that, but you know he’s intransigent about that. He kneels between your thighs to keep you nice and open for him, holding you in place by an arm over your hips. Your panties end somewhere on the floor, and gradually, he starts alternating steady flicks on your clit to slow rubbing motions. Two of his fingers stretch you open, until the first smack makes you squeal. 

“You like that?” You can barely form any coherent word, settling for an incomprehensible string of wanton moans as he smacks your pussy again; your hips try to jerk up but he keeps your lower half pressed against the mattress.

“Oh now she’s goin’ all dumb on me… Silly doll.” Bucky is such a talker during sex and you indulge in it all every single time. 

And when he finally lets you come for the first time tonight, he’s rubbing your clit until overstimulation sets in. Then he pulls away and you believe for a second that he’s finally going to fuck you. But Bucky loves to see you soaked, making a mess just for him. And if making your pussy drool onto the sheets means taking you apart until you can barely keep your eyes open, then so be it. He brings his hand back down to give your clit little, quick slaps that make your eyes roll back. 

“Doin’ so good... Look at her, sweetheart. Crying so prettily for me.” 

You glance down at him through fluttering lashes, boneless and gasping for breath as he finally lets you take a break. With a quick motion, he frees himself of his own clothes, leisurely stroking his painfully hard, leaking cock. Your mouth waters at the lewd sight but it's his hoarse words that definitely turn your brain into pure mush.

“My doll is finally gonna let me put a baby in her.”

He pounces on your lips with a consuming and hungry kiss, and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. 

“Been thinkin’ about you round with my kid for months. All soft and happy, with a ring shining on your left hand.” He confesses, dragging his mouth along your neck.

Your mouth opens in a silent moan when his cock makes itself comfortable between your folds, slipping inside you without hesitation. His right palm settles on your belly, and he presses a little, possessive and mindful. The pressure is delicious as his thrusts immediately get messy, impatient. The room fills with the sound of your lovemaking: from your moans mixing together, to your skin slapping against each other, and the shameful wet noises of your pussy welcoming him inside.

“I’ll be good,” his voice cracks against your breast. “so good. Best husband ever. You’ll never have to lift a finger, my darling wife.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Ah– yes Jamie!”

His next thrust is deep and intentional. “Gonna rub your feet when they hurt, and– hold your hand through the appointments– fuck, mama you’re so tight.” He groans. “Gonna eat all your weird cravings with you in the middle of the night.”

That’s when the hand on your belly moves lower, until his fingers are back at toying with your clit, pinching and flicking it, and you keen under his possessive stare.

“Fucking– God.” He gasps as you clench around him once, then twice. 

He quickly shakes his head. “Don't do that, don’t wanna come yet.” His hips rock against yours as a scolding, and you whimper, feeling the knot in your lower belly ready to snap. 

“Say it.” He growls frantically. “Tell me how badly you want it.”

“So bad, Jamie–” You squirm, nails leaving red marks along his back. He moans at the delicious pain, thrusting harder. “Fuck Bucky, give it to me!”

He shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and with one brutal thrust he bullies that special spot inside you. Shaking and crying out, you end up squirting all over him and the sheets, your orgasm hitting you so intensely your vision momentarily fades to black. 

“There you go, doll. Make a mess of me, c’mon.” His cruel fingers keep rubbing and slapping your clit, his abdomen all wet with your violent release.

It’s only a matter of seconds before Bucky spills into you, pushed over the edge by the thought of finally pumping you full of his cum, and the sight of your blissful, pretty face as you let yourself go. His cock throbs inside you, and then warmth fills you as you sigh. 

You’ve never felt so full.

Your legs are now sore, it’s the kind of ache that seeps deliciously into your bones, yet you cannot stop a whimper when you try to lay them back on the bed. Bucky gently adjusts them, tightly wrapping his arms around you as he buries his face in your cleavage. “Jus’ a little more.” He grunts, words slurred. “Need to make sure it takes.”

Time passes in a blur; one moment you are feeling Bucky gently rocking into you, the next you are clean and resting on his chest under the sheets, your leg slung over his hip and Bucky’s arm around your waist, keeping you close. He can’t stop looking at you, and his fingers draw random shapes on your side.

Quietly, he breaks the reverent silence. “You with me? Are you alright?”

You nod, your throat still stinging a little. Your index finger sluggishly raises up, touching his naked chest as if to ask ‘what about you?’. Bucky huffs a laugh and presses a kiss on your forehead. “Never felt this good.”

There’s a pause, before your whisper catches his attention. “You think we did it?”

Bucky chuckles again, his fingers gently lifting your chin so your eyes can meet. “Don't worry, my love. Gonna keep you full until we do.”

Steve stops the car in front of your house, noticing how dark it’s inside.

“Isn’t your daughter home yet?” He frowns at the time displayed on the dashboard. Your dad shrugs with an amused grin on his lips.

“She’s at Wanda’s.” He mocks your voice, skeptically raising both his eyebrows, and Steve does a double take.

“You still haven’t told them you found out about their relationship?”

“Oh please. Bucky practically twists in his seat whenever I ask about his weekends.”

“You are such an asshole.” Steve guffaws. 

Your dad groans as he jumps down the younger man's red truck. “Hey! I’m allowed to have some fun too.”

general bucky taglist: @jimmywoosimp @iambuckyswifey @metal-armed-muse @shotinthedcrk @picuappled @dugiioh @hiraethmae @siemprx @its-in-the-woods @bunnybuckys @squishyfruitloop @buckybarneswife08 @sambuckystony @obiwansito @espressopatronum454 @my-drvidess @alialialisstuff @sergeantsebastian

He listened, he gave good advice, he spoke with humility, he did good deeds without expecting anything because that's what it meant to be a man of God, and if he ended up in Heaven after that would just be confetti. 

He kept his soul clean. And he led by example. 

So when Sister Mabel walked in with a smile on her face, and you following closely behind admiring the inner architecture of the church and the stained glass works, he wondered why he was being divinely punished. 

“Father Barnes. It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you.” Your smile was warm, and your cheeks had a faint shade of flush, doe eyes that looked up at him as he shook your hand and you gave him your name.

He didn’t mean to hold your hand longer than necessary. But your fingers were warm, ungloved, and he hadn’t been touched like that in—God, he didn’t even know how long. When you pulled away, the warmth stayed. Crawled into his skin like a sin he knew the name of all too well.

You were not flirtatious in the traditional sense. You giggled softly, just as you smiled. Softly enough that it was barely above a chuckle. You did not bat your lashes. You did not disobey. You were, in all things, devoted.

You moved into the guest quarters of the rectory, just down the hall from his study. You never disturbed him. You kept to your chores, followed the schedule, rose with the bells and walked the halls with a lightness that made the floorboards barely creak. But he always knew when you were nearby.

You liked the garden. He started lingering by the window that overlooked it.

Bucky watched you trim the plants that needed it, water them carefully as if you were actually helping them drink it, and he caught you talking to them once like you'd talk to a puppy. "They actually grow stronger and faster if you do that. I read it in a magazine once."

The more time you spent at the church, the more he got to know you. At first it was that you preferred early morning mass, so he'd light the candles earlier. Then, it was the way you sighed when you told him about butter, of all things, that you had tried years ago from a cafe a few blocks away, and how it was unlike any butter you'd ever tasted. 

It was subtle, how you crept into his thoughts. 

Blaming proximity at the beginning was easy. You asked intelligent questions during scripture discussion, nodded along when he explained things with warmth instead of fear.

“Why do you kneel at that part of the liturgy?” 

“Do you think it’s harder to find faith or to keep it?”

“Do you think God forgives the things we never say out loud?”

You were new. You were young. You walked with intention but moved with grace. You were genuinely eager to help, and you asked questions he hadn’t heard in years—not out of arrogance, but curiosity.

He thought his body was only responding to muscle memory he thought he had wiped long ago.

It didn’t happen all at once. That would have been easier—one sharp fall, one moment he could point to and say there. Instead, it crept into him the way damp does in old stone. Quiet. Persistent. Impossible to scrub out once it settled.

The first day you walked into his confessional was a Friday. 

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Your voice came from the other side of the booth unexpectedly, and Bucky's ears perked up when he recognized it was you. 

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asked, though he knew already.

“Six weeks.” He didn't say anything, just let you continue. “I’ve been… thinking,” you said. “About longing. About how it manifests.”

Bucky sat up straighter in the small wooden chair, and for the first time in a long time, the dark wood that felt like home started to morph into a prison.

“I don’t act on anything. I wouldn’t. But I feel…" You shook your head. "I didn't think leaving my old life behind would be easy by any means, but I didn't think temptation would follow so closely."

You gulped, looking up with your hands clasped on your lap. "And it scares me how much I want that. How much I want someone to look at me and see everything, even the parts I’ve worked so hard to bury in prayer.”

He tried to speak. Failed. Swallowed. Tried again. “You believe that’s a sin?”

You exhaled. “I believe it could become one.”

He spoke about repentance, about endurance, about grace earned through effort and humility. He knew how to meet people where they were—broken marriages, relapses, grief that lingered longer than it should. He had lived most of it himself to some degree or another. There was no judgment in his voice when he spoke of mercy. Only memory.

But slowly, without realizing it, his words began to change.

He caught himself talking more about longing. About how God saw His children fully, without flinching. About how desire itself was not evil—only what one chose to do with it. He spoke of restraint not as denial, but as sacrifice. Of the ache of wanting something good that was not meant for you.

And while his flock listened to his sermon, there you were. 

Sitting in the front row, where he couldn't linger for long, but could linger some, hanging onto every word coming our of his lips as if they were gospel and he was God himself. It wasn’t vanity that made him notice. It was something far more dangerous: recognition.

Because you weren’t listening to God’s words. You were listening to his. Not to be moved. To understand. To see. And he—God help him—spoke like a man who wanted to be seen.

Night was the worst.

The first night he strayed from his vows was a Wednesday night. 

The rectory settled into silence the way only old buildings could—wood creaking softly, pipes ticking, the distant hum of the city muffled by stone and age. Bucky lay awake long after Compline, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded on his chest like a corpse laid out for viewing.

He had prayed.

He had tried not to think.

Nothing had worked. 

The moment from earlier in the garden kept replaying in his mind, slipping back in every time he managed to quiet his thoughts. He would catch himself drifting, drag his mind back to prayer, recite scripture until the words lost their meaning—and then it would return again, sharper, more insistent, as though it resented being pushed away.

He’d been helping you with the roses. The late afternoon sun had been warm, forgiving, the air thick with the smell of soil and green life. He’d warned you—gently, as he always did—to be careful. Thorny things, roses. Beautiful, but not kind to careless hands.

And in your innocence you got a prick. He noticed it immediately when you flinched back with a breathy "ah!" settling somewhere beneath the vestment where desire was not supposed to live.

It was a bigger prick than just a tiny poke, drawing some blood from your finger, and he didn't even think of it, just grabbed your soft hand in both of his calloused ones and brought your finger to his lips.

His tongue soothed the sting from the plant, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from it. From him. The way his lashes rested over his cheekbones, the texture and drag of his tongue across your skin, and the vision alone sent tingles down your stomach. 

He opened his eyes and held your gaze, and that's when everything would shift into depravity. 

He'd imagine simply not stopping there, at the taste of your skin. Instead, he'd kiss you, swipe his tongue across your bottom lip until you let him in. Frantic hands stripping you of all that reminded you of your vows, until you were nothing but a holy vision in his garden.

He wanted to be the snake that corrupted you, as he wanted you to be the one that damned him. Let out hissed improbate words as his tongue traced your body until he found the forbidden fruit between your thighs and bit humanity into damnation.

Do you think obedience can come from desire?

His breath turned shallow. His hand slid down his chest before he could stop himself. 

He told himself it was just a physical thing. That the body was weak. That release would quiet the noise. He had learned that lie long ago, back when the bottle and warm mouths had been easier than faith.

And for the first time in twenty years, Father James Barnes tainted his vows. 

He wrapped a hand around his length and hissed as quietly as he could, knowing the stone on the walls bounced sound as easy as he wanted to have you do so on him. 

One stroke, then another, and he let saliva pool in his mouth. He licked his palm messily and did it again, spreading the wetness with each stroke, closing his eyes, and letting his perverted thoughts run wild. 

He imagined warmth. Closeness. The forbidden intimacy of being wanted by someone who believed him to be good.

Then he pictured you on your knees, not for prayer. Between his thighs, kissing up the inner part of them until you wrapped your lips around his cock and let him abuse the back of your throat. 

Pictured himself pressing your delicate face onto the stone walls of your room, lifting the camisole he imagined you'd wear, and just driving his cock in and out of you until you cried out to a God that wouldn't listen to you any longer. 

His breathing faltered. His thoughts scattered, unmoored now, no longer governed by scripture or discipline. Every sensation felt heightened by the knowledge that this was wrong—that this was the body he had sworn to deny, responding eagerly the moment he loosened his grip on control.

Bucky came embarrasingly fast, biting his opposite fist to keep quiet, immediately feeling guilty and hollowed out after. 

He was, however, not alone in his weakness. Behind a wooden door a few feet down the hall, you had your face buried in your pillow trying to muffle your quiet little pleads, while your fingers rubbed your clit raw trying to get enough friction to come.

Imagining Father Barnes behind you, making you arch your back nice and pretty so he could reach spots inside of you you were sure the Devil created himself. 

Morning did not come gently.

It crept in through the chapel windows in thin bands of pale gold, catching on the dust motes in the air and the edges of the pews, illuminating a space that felt suddenly too exposed. James Barnes had been awake long before it arrived, kneeling where he always did, hands clasped, back straight, posture immaculate by force of habit alone.

His body felt wrong.

Heavy. Oversensitized. As though every nerve remembered something his mind was still trying to deny. The collar at his throat felt tighter than usual, the fabric of his cassock unfamiliar against his skin. He pressed his palms together harder, grounding himself in the ache, in the proof that penance could still hurt.

He prayed aloud at first. Then silently. Then not at all.

Please, God, I'm sorry.

Free me from these thoughts, these feelings. 

Free me from her. 

I'm supposed to lead this flock, not be the wolf that feasts on it. 

When the door creaked open behind him, the sound went straight through his spine.

He didn’t turn. Couldn’t. The air shifted in a way he recognized now, the subtle change that accompanied your presence. The faint scent of lavender soap. The soft hush of fabric as you knelt.

You took your usual place—several pews back, respectful, distant. Every inch of you composed. Devout.

And yet something about you was different. Your movements were slower. More deliberate. As though you, too, were carrying something fragile inside your chest and afraid of dropping it.

You said your good mornings, and the silence that followed was unbearable.

He could feel you behind him. Not looking at him—he knew you wouldn’t—but present in a way that made his skin prickle. He wondered if you felt it too. If you were aware of the thin wire stretched between you now, vibrating with everything that had gone unspoken.

The confessional had always been a place of refuge for him. Enclosed. Structured. A space where sin could be named and contained, absolution delivered cleanly, precisely.

That day, it felt like a trap.

He heard you before he saw you—the faint rustle of fabric, the careful pause before kneeling, the breath you took as if steadying yourself. His fingers curled in his lap without his permission.

“Forgive me, Father,” you said, voice low. “For I have sinned.”

He closed his eyes for half a second too long. “How long since your last confession?” he asked, clinging to ritual.

“Four days.” The number struck him with quiet cruelty.

“And what would you like to confess?”

There was a pause. Longer than usual. He could almost hear your thoughts turning over, weighing truth against fear. “I acted on thoughts I shouldn’t have,” you said finally. “I didn’t plan to. I tried to pray them away. But they stayed.”

His breath caught, shallow and sharp.

“I felt… lonely,” you continued, carefully. “And wanting. And instead of turning from it, I let myself feel it.”

His hands trembled.

“Did you think of someone?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Another pause. Then softly replied. “Yes.” The word reverberated through him. “I don’t think it came from malice,” you said, voice thick with sincerity. “It didn’t feel cruel. It felt like longing.”

He pressed his thumb into his palm until it hurt.

“I don’t want to feel like this again,” you whispered. “But I don’t know how to stop.”

He wanted to tell you the truth. That neither did he. That he had knelt only hours earlier and begged God to take the same thing from him—and had been met with silence.

Instead, he gave you penance. Gentle. Insufficient.

And when you rose to leave, murmuring a soft “Thank you, Father,” his chest ached with the knowledge that he had absolved you for something he had not forgiven himself for.

When the roses fully bloomed, so did the desire. 

It was a quiet Saturday night after mass. The sun was setting in a way that made the stained glass paint a kaleidoscope of stories across the entire interior of the church. Reds bled into blues, gold fractured into violet, the saints and martyrs overhead cast in shifting color that spilled across the pews and the altar alike. 

It was beautiful in a way that felt almost excessive. Like a reminder of how much God delighted in excess when He chose to.

You were lighting the candles for prayer. Each flame caught with a soft whisper, your fingers careful, steady. The light reflected in your eyes when you leaned close, warm against your skin. 

The last of the parishioners had gone, their murmured goodbyes fading into the stone as the heavy doors closed behind them.

And that's when he saw you. Bucky had lingered at the back of the church, pretending to review notes, to straighten hymnals, to give himself some purpose for staying behind. He told himself it was responsibility. Habit. That it was his duty to make sure everything was in order before night fell.

But the truth settled in his chest the moment his gaze found you and refused to move.

He stepped closer and closer under the guise of chores, like a moth to a flame, flying steadily into his own demise. 

He felt the familiar surge of shame rise instinctively, but it was dulled now, blunted by repetition. The desire no longer shocked him. It no longer felt like an intrusion.

You must have sensed him before you turned. Perhaps it was the quiet shift of air, or the way the church itself seemed to lean inward. When you looked over your shoulder and found him standing a few paces away, the candle in your hand flickered.

“Father,” you said softly. The word settled between you, no longer neutral.

“I thought I might say a prayer before closing,” he said, voice measured with effort. “If you’d like to join me.”

You hesitated—just for a breath. Then you nodded.

You set the candle in its holder and moved toward the altar, your steps echoing lightly against the stone. He followed, acutely aware of the nearness now, of the warmth that seemed to radiate from you as you knelt. He lowered himself beside you, the steps cool beneath his knees, the altar looming above—ancient, immovable, bearing witness.

Being that close to you, unchaperoned, felt like a transgression. 

He bowed his head and began the prayer, words familiar enough to recite without thought. But his mind betrayed him. He was aware of the way your shoulder hovered just inches from his. The quiet rhythm of your breathing. The way your hands folded and unfolded once before settling, as though you were steadying yourself.

Your voice joined his on the final line, barely above a whisper.

Amen.

He should have risen. Should have crossed himself and excused you both. Instead, he turned his head slightly—and found you already looking at him. The stained glass washed over your face in color. 

There was no challenge in your expression. No coyness. Only a quiet understanding that made his chest ache.

The restraint that once was steady as an oak before you, was now frail and diminishing by the second. Without giving it a second thought, he grabbed your face in his hands, breaking the last seal of his salvation, jumping into the abyss, and crashed your lips together. 

You were a stark contrast to him. 

Where you were soft, searching, as if you were asking permission from something higher, Bucky was demanding, like you were indeed worth throwing away his years of priesthood only to end up right back where he started.

Slave to having a pretty girl under him. 

When your lips pressed more firmly against his, the kiss deepened with a quiet urgency that stole the air from his lungs. "This is wrong." Was barely muffled against his lips, stubble ticking your face. 

He groaned in response. "I know…" And sighed. "I know."

He kissed you again, slower now, fuller, the world narrowing to the warmth of your mouth and the sound of your shared breath. The altar loomed above you, the candles flickered nearby, and the church—God’s house—held your secret in its ancient walls.

It was you who lost balance first—your knee slipping against carpeted wood floors, a soft sound leaving you as you tipped backward. He followed instinctively, one hand coming out to steady you, the other bracing himself as you landed against the altar steps.

The altar steps dug into your back, grounding you in stone and reality, while he pressed closer, heat and weight and want. His hand tightened where it rested, possessive in a way that shocked him—this, this hunger to hold, to anchor you beneath him, to feel you yield even while fully clothed, fully forbidden.

You broke the kiss to pull the veil and coif away from your face and head, your hair falling like a cascade behind you on the deep red carpet you were on. 

He kissed along your jaw, your throat, his breath hot against your skin, and you gasped at the feel of his stubble there. "Father Bar—"

"Bucky." He interrupted. "Y'can call me Bucky."

Every movement measured and unmeasured all at once.

“Bucky…”

He was acutely aware of everything—the flicker of candles, the hush of the church, the sacred space bearing witness to his collapse. But specially of how your whimpers vibrated against his mouth. 

“I should stop,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours, voice cracking open at the seams. “I should stop right now.”

Your breath fanned against his cheek as you nodded without really meaning it, your hands telling a different story now that they worked to rip his the Roman collar off of him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. 

"You should."

His hands, however, found the hem of your habit, and grazed further and further up your leg, leaving room for you to wrap a stocking clad thigh around his waist, as he kneaded and groped the supple skin of your ass. 

"I tried, Father, I—" He bit down your neck. "I tried to pray it away. But my throughts wouldn't stray from you."

He lifted his head to look into your eyes as his hand found the slick wetness between your legs, under your panties, where he put two fingers inside of you without ceremony, relishing in your body’s response to him. A breathy "hah!" and a whimper was all you could let out. 

It was frantic, really. The way you pawed and tore at each other only to defile the only place that could save your soul. Before you could think of apologizing to God, your habit was nothing but a mess of black fabrics along with his clothes beside you. 

You were left in nothing but a pair of stockings and your heels, the cool metal of your crucifix now burning against the skin of your chest as if you were being punished, rightfully so. 

Bucky grabbed the base of his length, slicking the head of his sock in your wetness, making you bite your lip and whine. "Please—"

"Twenty fucking years," he did it again. Up, and down. "Twenty years and you stroll in like every prayer I made before vowing myself to never feel like this again."

That made you chuckle just a little. "Sorry I'm late." The humor was short lived, as a moan crawled out of both of your throats as he sank in, inch by inch. The length alone would've brought tears of joy to your eyes, but the thickness was really what was making you hear a chorus of "Hallelujah!"

Bucky buried himself to the hilt and stilled for a fraction of a second—long enough to feel it, to acknowledge what he’d done. His thrusts were deep, like he couldn't bear to not be touching you everywhere all the time. 

“Feels so good, Father— Bucky..” you corrected yourself.

He groaned to himself at the realization he had to go faster, someone might come in, after all. And then he'd have to explain why Father Barnes was balls deep in a nun twenty years his junior on the altar where he gave communion. 

“You came here for God,” he whispers, his voice shaking as he presses himself into you again. “But I swear to you, He gave you to me."

There was no tenderness left in it, only urgency—like he was afraid that if he slowed down, if he thought too much, he’d lose his nerve and collapse under the weight of what he was doing.

The church loomed around you, vast and silent, every candle a witness, every saint carved into the walls looking away in judgment or mercy—you couldn’t tell which.

“Someone could walk in.” you whispered, breath hitching.

“I know,” he muttered, voice breaking as he pressed closer, as if daring the world to catch him like this. “God help me, I know.”

He picked up speed, the hand that was previously rolling a nipple between his fingers came down to roll your clit on his thumb, making you let your head roll back. "Oh, God!"

He groaned at the feel of you clenching around him, your own vision swimming looking at the giant crucifix that was nailed to the wall above you. "Come for me, pretty girl, c'mon."

You didn't need to be told twice. 

You came around him with a symphony of moans, getting higher pitched by the second as he chased his own high. In a moment of clarity, barely pulling away from the trance you were watching him above you trying to cum, you remembered. 

"I'm not— fuck, I'm not on anything."

Bucky groaned, he was so close he had to bite his tongue to not paint your insides white and make you sticky with his cum.

He settled for pulling out and jerking his cock onto your stomach instead, coming with a groan of your name and a breathless little “good God.” with his head in your shoulder.

As your breaths evened, you made a mental note to remember forever how the stained glass reflected off of the skin on his torso.

One of your fingers reached down to smear his seed that was pooling around your navel, and you brought it baack to your mouth, tasting it on your tongue. Bucky groaned in response, grabbed your face in one hand and kissed you again, tongue licking into your mouth as you smirked. 

The altar stood above you, untouched.

And beneath it, pressed into wood and sin and want, Father James Barnes finished destroying himself with a woman who felt less like temptation and more like fate.

a/n: I'm going to hell for this one but hey! call AC/DC!

Bucky stood frozen in place with his coat still buttoned and tie perfectly knotted, as pair of his so-called colleagues cheered from a nearby booth. One of them had a drink in hand, the other was whistling at the stage like a high schooler, and Bucky… Bucky wasn't supposed to be there.

They had practically hauled him in, called it a "mandatory boys' night", and told him he needed to look more sociable around other congressmen if he wanted to survive another election cycle. He'd said no… twice, actually. But then they'd hit him with the "come on, Barnes! Don't be weird," and suddenly it felt like refusing would start another Cold War on the House floor.

"Lighten up, James!" someone barked behind him, giving his shoulder a slap. "You've been wound up since the budget hearings. Let loose a little!"

Congressman Barnes tried to smile as he followed them through the neon-lit doorway, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. His palms were sweating as the bass rattled through his ribs. He could hear ice clinking in glasses, even in the ones far away. The air smelt like mix of perfumes and sex, suffocating him more than any warzone ever had. The second he stepped inside, everyone scattered—laughing, shouting, ordering drinks, and leaving him stranded in the middle of the club like some lost saint who had taken a wrong turn on the way to church.

Bucky decided not to sit right away. Just hovered there, awkwardly shifting his weight from one polished shoe to the other, while his eyes were bouncing anywhere but the stage.

The dancers moved under the hot lambent lights with their silhouettes arching and swaying, and Bucky's gaze ricocheted away so fast he nearly gave himself a whiplash. He stared at the floor, the ceiling, a random EXIT sign, his own hands… Anything that wasn't a woman taking her clothes off.

God, what the actual fuck was he doing here? This wasn't him, this wasn't his place, and he definitely didn't know what part of his amends program involved being shoved into a velvet booth at a strip club in the middle of the week.

One of the congressmen raised a glass toward him, already tipsy and obnoxious. In response, Bucky gave a polite smile and sat down only because standing any longer would make him stick out even more. His hands were resting folded over his knee, as he tried to look somehow composed. This night will definitely be talked about in his next therapy session.

"This better count for something," Bucky muttered under his breath, still keeping his eyes down. Honestly? If the universe was testing him, it was doing a hell of a job.

Eventually, and inevitably, his looked upward. Just a quick glance, he told himself. Just to look normal. Just so his colleagues could fuck off.

That was a mistake.

You stepped into the light like you'd been born from it. All shimmer and confidence, glitter sparkling in your hair, and moving with ease he wasn't even able to describe. You looked like a woman he would've written sonnets about if the circumstances were… different.

The realization hit him with an uncomfortable force. You were a stripper. He wasn't supposed to be looking at you like that. Not with his position. Not with his career. Not when he'd spent his whole life (or rather parts of it) trying to be decent. Not when he'd been dragged here against his will. Not when he'd lost some invisible test of character. He could practically sense the shame growing in his chest, tightening around his ribs like a reminder he should know better.

Yet, his steel blues kept wanting to return to you. There was something magnetic about you, as if he was drawn by a string he hadn't agreed to tie. This wasn't right nor smart, but God… he couldn't remember the last time someone lit up a room so completely.

The next time he glanced up, you caught him. Your gaze swept lazily over the room, and then landed right on him—the man in perfectly pressed suit who was staring at you like a lost puppy. He didn't look drunk or smug, wasn't elbowing his friends or waving cash like a flag. His eyes widened the second yours met. You let out a slow, charming smirk curl at the corner of your mouth and he looked away immediately, of course, but you managed to catch the flush blooming across his cheeks and how his throat worked around a swallow he couldn't hide.

Adorable.

You casually looked away as you turned, letting the glow catch your skin in all the right place, and letting the music guide your pace. And Bucky… poor thing looked like he was about to combust in that booth. Shoulders tight, pretending very hard to be absorbed in the drink menu he hadn't even opened. And that was right when one of the congressmen he came with noticed.

"Damn, Barnes," the man muttered, leaning over with a grin far too wide, making Bucky stiffen instantly. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"I wasn't— I'm not—"

Bucky wasn't even able to finish his stammer, the congressman was already waving you over with two fingers.

"Sweetheart! Over here!"

You peeked over your shoulder, then walked toward their seats with the practiced composure of someone who knew exactly how to make an entrance, while Bucky looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. The man sitting next to him, draped an arm across the back of the booth, drink in one hand.

"You see my friend here?" he said, jerking a thumb toward Bucky. "This old man needs to relax. Think you can help him with that?"

"I'm fine!" Bucky interfered instantly, shaking his head and nearly drowning further into his seat. "I'm good."

The congressman laughed loudly at that, waving his hand dismissively. "Don't listen to him. He's wound up tighter than Capitol's budget. Why don't you take him on a private dance? On me."

You let your gaze drift to Bucky, smiling already and letting yourself admire him for a moment—slicked back hair, broad shoulders, the loosened up tie that you will definitely end up pulling later… then you noticed the way he was flushed.

"Well," you started lightly, eyes never leaving his. You bent over the table, resting your chin in your palm, elbow propping yourself up. The movement only pushed your chest forward and made your boobs pop out more in the slutty bra you were wearing. Intentional or not, Bucky almost fainted at that. His eyes snapped down, then up again, then down again, only to be brought back up again by your voice, "if he wants one…"

"Uhm… Well, I—" his mouth opened and closed and he sounded like a man speaking for the very first time in his life.

"Come on, soldier. Don't be shy," you encouraged.

He froze at the word, and you could have sworn you saw the dread and shock flickering across his face. Maybe shame too.

"You—" he swallowed, voice barely holding together," you know who I am?…"

"Mhm…" you hummed, clearly unbothered.

Before Bucky could panic himself into cardiac arrest, you reached out and rested your hand on his shoulder— the metal one. His entire body jerked, flinching from it before he gave in with heat rushing to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"Come on," you said, giving the arm a gentle but confident tug. He stood up so fast he almost knocked over the table.

And you? You didn't even give him time to rethink it. Your fingers curled around the material of his suit, guiding him away from his colleagues and their derisive gaze.

The music faded, leaving you only with the feeling of bass under your feet, as you led Bucky toward the hallway full of private rooms. He followed you like a man under a spell, no thoughts behind his puppy eyes whatsoever.

When you reached the destined booth, suddenly the world outside didn't exist. The room was dimly lit with reddish pink neon signs on the wall. You locked the door after him, and the sound of the clicking sent a shiver through Bucky's spine. When you turned to him, he stood still next to the doorframe, as if not sure what's about to happen, and if it's really happening and isn't just some fever dream.

You nudged him forward with a hand at his back, pushing him onto the single velvet armchair in the center.

"Sit," you commanded with a hint of gentleness in your voice.

He obeyed instantly, lowering himself into it. His knees stayed glued together, hands clasped tightly and shoulders straight. In all your years of work, you probably haven't seen anyone who looked so stiff. So you took one step back, smirking like the devil and eying him up and down, already knowing what it does to him.

Bucky's jaw clenched. He swallowed hard, but as you were looking at him, you saw how he wasn't even trying to hide how wound up he was.

You took a slow breath, then swung one leg over him and settled into his lap, straddling him and bracing your hands on his shoulders. His body tensed, every muscled locked up like you'd just activated The Winter Soldier programming.

"Easy…" you cooed, leaning in just enough for your lips to brush his ear. "You're okay."

His fingers dug into the edge of the armchair, making the knuckles of his right hand turn white.

"Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…" you murmured with an intention to soothe all his worries away. "You're so tense…"

Beneath you, his chest rose and fell unevenly, while his metal arm adjusted under your touch, not sure where to put it or what was safe to do with it.

"I—I'm not..." Bucky tried to defend himself somehow, but as a reply, you let out a sympathetic hum and cupped his jaw tightly with one hand, until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.

"There you go," you whispered politely and your thumb began moving, caressing his cheekbone. "Just look at me. Can you do that for me, soldier?"

When he did look at you, Bucky took one more shaky breath, then sighed in relief, finally starting to relax.

"Good boy," you praised with a smile. "See? Not so scary, huh? Now lemme take care of you."

With that, your hands slid lower down the line of his shoulders, and you decided to pull playfully at the shirt of his suit, just a bit to keep the teasing act, and hoping it'd pull a reaction out of him.

It didn't. Bucky stayed frozen, except for the growing bulge in his pants that began to threaten how horny he was. You caught that, of course. Chuckled at the sight. Then couldn't help the urge to push him a little bit further. You rolled your hips against his lap.

Bucky let out a sound that was half a gasp, half a whimper, but you didn't stop. Didn't dare to. You placed your hands on his chest, fingers grabbing the end of his tie, and started to move again. It wasn't long until you found a proper rhythm— his moans definitely helped. With every grind, your thighs were pressing him deeper into the armchair, making Barnes lose his mind.

"Fuck—" he groaned, gripping the arm of the chair with his vibranium one so tight it might've snapped.

"You like it, sweet boy?" you whispered into his neck, letting your breath ghost over his skin.

"Ugh…" he breathed. "Yes… s'much…"

You smiled at that, then leaned back, giving him a view he definitely wasn't ready for—your body moving atop of him, back arching. As much as you wanted to keep your hands on him, you forced yourself to take them off, and traced them down your own waist instead. Bucky's eyes followed every motion, wide and frantic until your palms rested on his thighs.

"You're so—so pretty…" the awe in his voice almost made you pout. Almost. Your moves didn't falter, if only you were getting more desperate to push him towards the edge.

"Oh yeah? And you're doin' so well f'me," you replied with a giggle, followed by another roll. To say you were satisfied with how his body was reacting would be a huge understatement, and you figured out the needy man hasn't been properly touched in years.

"Hggmph—" Another sound escaped his lips, one he clearly hadn't meant to make. Bucky's eyes closed involuntarily. His body twitched beneath you, and his metal arm lifted instinctively, reaching for your waist like he needed something to hold onto before he lost his mind. But the moment his fingertips grazed your hip, you caught his wrist harshly and put it back.

"Nu-uh," your voice dipped into a soft purr. "No touching allowed. That's the rules here, sweetheart."

He let out another helpless noise, and his head tipped back against the armchair while his eyes squeezed shut. He hated being denied, but what else could he do except follow your orders? At least that was something he was good at.

"Mrghhh—" his jaw tightened when you rubbed yourself against him, with much more pressure this time. "Fuck— I… I can't—"

"You can, Congressman," you coaxed. "You handled Hydra tortures but you draw the line at some random stripper girl soaking your thighs through her panties?"

"Fuck—" he moaned. "If you keep talking like that—"

"Then what?" you teased, a cruel smile painting your face.

"Nothing—just— fuck…"

"Mmm… what delicious sounds you make…" you said, and the one of your hand drifted to his nape, pulling slightly at the strands of his longer hair. "You like it, baby, hmm?"

Bucky only whimpered. Keeping his eyes closed, and letting you do whatever the fuck you wanted.

"Answer me, soldier," you demanded, but your voice was still soft. "Has anyone ever touched you like that?"

"N—No…" he stuttered, as his eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment just to catch the look on your face and the lust written all over it.

Barnes tried to steady himself, he really tried but his breath was shaking and he couldn't help but begin to move his leg, making it easier for you to grind.

"God… if only you knew," you murmured, fingers still playing with his hair, tugging. "If only you had a clue how damn hot you are… sitting here like a saint and letting me make you come undone."

"Don't—" he tried, voice cracking. His throat was bobbing hard as he swallowed. "I'm not… coming undone."

That earned a chuckle out of you. You tilted your head, studying him.

"No?" you giggled. Then rubbed your cunt against him harder this time. "Well you do feel like you're falling apart, baby. "You're shaking… not to mention your erection, honey," You leaned in, grazing his neck with your lips and teeth. "But go on. Tell me how in control you are."

"That… That's not fair. I can't touch you," his voice was filled with restraint, and obviously, he did have a point. But you only shrugged.

"Rules are rules. That's the whole point. You sit there… and you take it. You wanted fair?" you muttered, letting your nails trail lightly down the side of his face.

"No, I just—"

"Then shut up and be a good boy, Congressman."

The command hit him like a slap to the face. His wholy body jerked under you, cock included.

"F-fuck—" he choked out, squirming beneath you. "Fuck, I can't— I can't—"

You dragged your body again, letting yourself barely grind right against the thick line of his cock beneath his slacks. His hands fisted uselessly at his sides, then his hips moved upward, followed by a wrecked, loud moan.

"There it is…" you teased, fucking his tight relentlessly.

"Fuck! I'm trying—" he panted, legs trembling. "I'm— fuck—I'm trying—"

You cupped the back of his head, forcing his dazed blue eyes to meet yours, and that was it. Bucky's body tightened, except for his hips who buckled once despite himself.

Your gaze dropped down, right to the forming white damp spot on his pants, and your mouth fell open at the sight.

He came. He fucking came. Just like that, without you even touching him properly. Without you even starting the actual "dance".

Bucky's eyes fluttered, and you loved the way his jaw dropped in a whimper as the release washed through him. You kept him steady with a hand in his hair, soothing, guiding him through every shudder and extending his pleasure.

"Oh, sweetheart…" you cooed, brushing your thumb across his flushed cheek. "You did so well for me…"

Eventually, his breathing slowed down, but his gaze was still unfocused. Cute, that's how he looked to you. Maybe a bit pathethic, but still cute—fucked out and hazed like that.

You lifted yourself of his lap slowly, making him twitch one last time. When you stood, you glanced down just to see how you soaked his thigh, and you tried your best to hold back a giggle.

"Goodbye, Congressman," you said lightly, fixing one of your bra straps as if nothing ever happened. "I gotta go collect my bill from your friend."

Bucky's head snapped up. Still dazed, still hoping for more.

"W—what?" he choked out, blinking hard in disbelief, and trying to catch up. "You're already leaving?… Wait!"

In quick action, he tried to push up from the armchair with knees weak, suit wrinkled, and his cum leaking out of his underwear.

"Hold on!"

Too late. You were already gone. The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him with only the scent of your perfume, and glitter clinging to his clothes.

And even though Bucky never wanted to end up in this place, he already feared it wouldn't be the last time.

sophie's note: hope you enjoyed the fic! part two is coming soon because i need them to actually fuck. AND i’ve started writing it already, so hopefully you won’t have to wait long! </3

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⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

You smoothed the skirt of your dress for what had to be the tenth time, palms damp despite the champagne chill in the air.

Everything about tonight had to go right. Full month of preparation, speeches rewritten in hotel lobbies, last-minute edits to policy notes—all of it came down to this gala and the donors watching your boss like hawks.

And there he was. Congressman Barnes. Standing at the center of it all, looking like he couldn’t care less.

While you double-checked cue cards and seating arrangements, he leaned against the edge of the stage with his hands in his pockets, scanning the crowd with that half-lidded stare that somehow came off as both confident and a little bored. The other staffers rushed around with clipboards and walkie-talkies, but he just… stood there.

You wished you could borrow even half of that composure.

He nodded at something one of the donors said, polite but detached, and you nearly groaned. He was supposed to look interested, not like he’d rather be anywhere else. You edged closer to the group, hovering behind a waiter carrying another tray of drinks, ready to step in if the conversation went south.

“Excuse me, Mr. Barnes?” you said, plastering on your best diplomatic smile. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

The donor started to protest, but the Congressman was already straightening up, relief flickering across his face. “Of course,” he said smoothly, setting his glass down. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He followed you without hesitation, down the corridor lined with portraits of dead politicians, away from the hum of conversation and music. The further you got, the quieter it became, until the sound of your heels on the marble was the only thing left.

When you were finally around the corner, out of sight, you turned on him. "What the hell are you doing?”

He blinked, surprised by your tone, then huffed a quiet laugh. “What do you mean?”

“You’re supposed to care. You can’t just stand there looking like you’re waiting for someone to pull the fire alarm.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall, loosening his tie just enough to make your pulse jump in irritation. “That gala is a torture chamber, and you know it. I’ve answered the same five questions about the same bill for the last hour. I’m bored, sweetheart.”

For a second, your brain just… stopped.

“What did you just call me?” you asked.

He lifted a brow, mouth curving. “Is that really the part you’re focusing on?”

“I just—” You shook your head, trying to regroup. “It’s not exactly professional. Not here."

“Neither is dragging your boss out of a gala to lecture him in the hallway,” he said lightly. “Guess we’re both off script tonight.”

The tease should’ve made you roll your eyes. Instead, it knocked something loose in your chest. You were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing—how the soft light from the chandeliers down the hall brushed over his shoulders, the crisp edge of his suit, the small scuff on his tie pin you’d noticed hours ago while straightening it. He hadn’t moved away, either.

“I’m just trying to do my job,” you said, but it came out smaller than you meant.

His gaze flicked down, tracing your face, then your mouth, before returning to your eyes. “You do it well,” he murmured.

You tried to laugh the compliment off, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, but he didn’t look away. Instead, his eyes lingered on you.

“Has anyone told you tonight,how good you look in that dress?" he whispered.

The words hit harder than they should have. For a moment you could only stare at him, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. The gala felt a lifetime away. All the noise and light might as well have been on another planet.

“I—uh—no,” you managed finally, your voice catching in a way that made you cringe. “That’s… not really what I’m here for.”

“No?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Then what is it you’re here for, huh?"

His hand lifted before you could think to step back. The brush of his knuckles against your cheek was barely there, caressing it gently and sending a shiver down your spine.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes stayed fixed on you, a shade darker than usual, catching what little light filtered into your hidden corner. You could smell his cologne—warm, expensive, and entirely him—and you hated how much you liked it.

“I—” you started, but his hand was still there, fingers tracing the line of your jaw now, and the words tangled in your throat.

He leaned closer, his breath skimming your skin. “Go on,” he said softly. “You were saying?”

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your throat. “I’m here to work,” you finally managed, barely above a whisper.

He hummed, the sound low and amused. “Work,” he repeated, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Right. That what you call it?”

"Call what?"

"What we're doing right now," he whispered, his mouth only inches away from yours.

You bit your lip, heart hammering. “Mr. Barnes… we shouldn’t…”

"Bucky," he corrected you with a small smile. “Come on, it’s a long night, dull event… You and I could find something a little more… interesting thing to do, don't you think, pretty girl?"

You froze for a second, heat pooling in your chest and stomach. "Bucky… we shouldn't—," you whispered but your voice wavered, betraying how far you were from convincing him… or yourself.

He moved even closer and his shoulders brushed yours.

"Maybe," he admitted. "But when has that ever stopped us?"

And here it was. Because no, this wouldn't be the first time you fucked your boss.

It happened a few times. Late hours in his office… The tension between you was too much to handle and it just… happened.

But here? Now? In public?

You wanted to step back and regain some professional distance—at least here, in public—but instead you gave in, letting his hand slid down from your jaw to the small of your back. His fingers lingered over the curve of your waist, guiding you without force or pressure.

"Bucky—" you breathed again, but he cut you off with a chuckle.

"Shh… just for a moment, pretend the gala doesn't exist. No donors, no speeches, no rules… just us."

The smell of his cologne was intoxicating, and the warmth of him presses against you. Your thoughts were in fact gone. Messy, and scattered, and nothing else but him mattered in the moment. You swallowed hard, caught in the gravitational pull of him.

"And… what exactly are you planning to do?" you managed. voice trembling.

"Exactly this," he responded, tilting his head to brush his lips against yours. It was gentle and teasing, making your knees go weak and leaving your heart racing, begging for more.

Your own hand went up instinctively, resting against his chest. You could feel the muscles beneath the tailored suit. He leaned in more and the corner of his mouth curved into a smirk against yours.

"See? Much more fun than speeches, don't you think?" he teased.

A part of you wanted to pull back. You should pull back but your hands were already tangled in his tie, tugging him closer.

"Buck, we… what if—" you gasped. "Someone could—"

"Shush, honey," he murmured, silencing you with a harder press of his mouth. His hands slid down your sides, gripping roughly the curve of your hips and pulling you flush against him. "Do you even know what you're doing to me right now?" he whispered with his mouth nipping lightly at your earlobe.

Your lips parted, and you tilted your head to the side, exposing your neck to him despite the overwhelming circumstances. "I… I shouldn't… Someone might see—"

He laughed at that, pressing you back against the wall with just enough force to make your back arch. "Screw what they see. Matter of fact, I should take you right in front of them, so everyone can see you're mine."

His lips trailed over your skin. Your neck, your exposed shoulder, everywhere he could reach.

"Tell me you don't want this. Tell me to stop, and I will," he said, continuing to kiss you.

Of course you did not want him to stop. Not when the entire distance between you dissolved. Not when you had him like this, and for this short moment he was yours again.

So you stayed silent.

His thumb brushed up along your jaw again and this time it trembled slightly. "I'm so damn tired of pretending," he muttered.

Your gaze softened and you tilted your head at him, suddenly noticing the worried expression painted on his face, and the way he looked at you like you were his entire world. Like nothing else existed.

Without too much thinking, you closed the distance between you completely, moving closer until your mouths met and every inch of space disappeared.

The kiss was raw and burned through restraint. It said everything both of you had been to afraid to show publicly. You felt the weight of every late night in his office, every unspoken look in the congress, and every time you'd stood too close and stepped away.

He broke the kiss just enough to whisper against your lips. "You're tired too, aren't you?"

You were. It wasn't just lust or fantasy about fucking your boss and an important figure. You loved him. You actually loved him. And if you looked deeper into yourself you could probably see how it was tangled with longing and defiance.

"James—"

"What, my love?" he said with his forehead pressed to yours, eyes directly on you.

"Just—" you stuttered. "Just fuck me, James. Please—"

Bucky's eyes darkened. His metal arm, he reached for his belt and undid it in one swift motion. He freed his already hard cock while you looked left to right, trying to check if no one's watching.

"Eyes on me," he commanded, grabbing your face by the jaw and angling it back at him.

Before you could even process, his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly with that impossible super soldier strength. You wrapped your arms around his neck, heart hammering in both fear and desire as your dress rode up, exposing more of your skin.

He pressed you flush against him, your back pressed to the marble wall behind you.

"Fuck—" you gasped, voice trembling as your legs tightened around his waist. "Please, please, please, Buck. I can't wait any longer, just— if someones sees—"

He silenced you with a heated kiss, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he spread your legs a little more, and the hard length of him pressed insistently against you.

"Shh… I've got you, baby. Don't worry about anyone, okay," he growled. "Just me. Right here. Right now. Feel how good you make me."

Your nails dug into his shoulders, body arching into he pulled your panties aside, then moved to line himself up your entrance. He slid fully in instantly and your breath caught in your throat. He was so big and he filled you completely in a way that it almost hurt. Every inch of him stretched you, pulled you tight, and you couldn't stop a whimper that broke through your lips.

"Fuck!—" you let out. As said before, it wasn't the first time you were doing this, yet you still hadn't got used to his size.

He let you adjust for a moment, holding you as close as possible before he started moving. Your back hit the cold wall behind you once, then again, and again.

"God… you take me so well, baby," he groaned, voice husky and you could feel his warm breath against your skin. Bucky's hands gripped your thighs like steel, lifting you higher and you gasped at the change that made him press deeper. Your body froze for a moment, overwhelmed.

"Oh… oh my god, Bucky…" you whispered, holding back another whimper and failing. "You— you're so… so big…"

"I know, baby… I know… You feel all of me, don't you?" he teased, thrusting into you even harder. His metal hand gripped your ass to keep you steady while every little motion sent tremors of pleasure through your body. "You're so small and tight… Could fuck you like this all night," he chuckled. "And you'd still be begging for more."

You gasped, rocking against him despite the cool marble biting at your back. "I— I can't… I—"

"You can, sweetheart," he corrected, locking his gaze with yours. "You want this. You want me inside you, don't you, baby?"

"Yes! Oh, yes…" your voice was desperate, completely undone as he lifted slightly, angling his hips to hit just the right spot.

"Fuck, you feel amazing…" he groaned, letting your head tilt back, as his rhythm faltered for a moment to kiss you. "So perfect for me… so fucking perfect."

Your nails sank into the firm muscle of his shoulders as you clung to him. Bucky's lips trailed down your neck, all kissing, sucking, and biting until he left marks on your skin. He stilled completely then, still hard inside you and raised his head up to look straight into your eyes.

"You're trembling," he murmured, his lips pecking yours. "Is it the adrenaline, hm?"

You nodded frantically. Your chest rose and fell, body buzzing in a way that made your head spin.

He smirked, sensing exactly how far he could push you. "Oh, trust… I can see exactly how stressed you are. You wanna cum, don't you? And you want it before want it before someones comes on us and sees, am I right?"

"Yes!" you breathed, voice urgent. "Please— Bucky, don't play with me. Not here."

"Shush now," he whispered, pressing a finger to your lips. "That's what makes this fun, isn't it?"

A shiver ran down your spine and you hated how right he was. He began thrusting into you again, slowly and mercilessly, trying to extend this as much as possible while you struggled not to make a sound.

"You're so good at hiding it, you know?" his lips curved into a wicked smile. "So good at pretending nothing's happening, even when your fucked out face is saying something else entirely."

"I— I can't hold much longer, Buck…" teeth caught on your lower lip. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too exposed, and way too fucking dangerous… yet it made every touch much more intense.

"Oh, I know… But you're not the one to decide when you're gonna come. You're mine and I'll keep right on the edge until I have enough of you, he said, grinning against your skin."

Every nerve ending in your body was burning. You felt as if every inch of your body was set on fire. You tried moving your hips, chasing the release he wouldn't give you.

"That's it… ride it out, pretty girl," he encouraged. "Let me see how long you can last while I make you work for it."

Your fingers grabbed at his suit, heart hammering, and Bucky rocked into you just enough to keep you writhing and overstimulated.

"Please—Fuck! Bucky! I can't— I swear, I fucking can't!"

It was all too much and another moan you let out was way too loud. Bucky's hand flew to your mouth so quickly you barely processed it. His big palm covered your lips, muffling your whimpers.

"Shut up," he ordered. "Fuck, just be quiet, baby. It's alright. You can cum. You’ve been such a good girl."

Your body shuddered as heat and tension crashed through you, the long, drawn‑out edge breaking in waves. You clung to him, trembling, and every gasp was muffled against his hand while Bucky whispered low praises into your ear.

When the tremors finally subsided, Bucky thrusted a few more times into you, making himself spill inside you. Hot, thick ropes of cum filled you and when he pulled out of you, he immediately wrapped his arms around you.

"I've got you…" he said, fixing your dress, pulling the hem down, then adjusting the damp hair that fell on your forehead. "Now let's go back, shall we?"

sophie's note: big apologies for how shitty this fic is. due to personal issues i had to rush writing it and i haven't even proofread this so... i am not very pleased with the results but i truly hope at least you are </3

divider credit uzmacchiato

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⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

⋆⁺₊✧ KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

The very first thing you two did after reaching safehouse was obviously making out. You quickly ended up straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs. His cock was already hard, pressed against your slick folds, and you could feel every inch of him through your soaked panties.

“God, you feel so nice like this,” Bucky groaned, metal hand trailing up your back, gripping your shoulder as you ground down slowly.

You mewled at the sensation, rocking back and forth just enough to feel him pulse against you without letting him move too much. “Bucky… I—fuck… I just want you inside me,” you whispered, hips stuttering.

“Not yet,” he said in that low, commanding tone that made your skin burn, eyes dark and locked on your already fucked out face. “I want you like this, baby. Let me have it.”

You shivered and your hands clutched his chest as he leaned back, letting you straddle him fully. Every subtle roll, every tiny squeeze of your thighs around him sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. The warmth of him pressing against your cunt was exquisite.

Bucky moved under you, sliding his cock all the way through you, coating himself in your arousal. The hard length teased every sensitive inch of your pussy, making you gasp.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate against your skin. “So worked up, and I haven’t even taken you yet.”

You moaned, clinging to him desperately and searching any friction possible. You pressed closer, chasing the rhythm he set, desperate for more, and his grip tightened at your waist.

He couldn’t even tear his eyes away from it for one second, couldn’t stop matching his rhythm to yours like it was muscle memory. Each thrust of your fingers was a curse in his mouth. Each wet sound spilling from the speakers made his cock twitch in his hand.

He imagined it wasn’t your fingers. He imagined it was him that was buried in you, watching your face even though he never could on the streams. But watching your face twice had been enough for him to always imagine it whenever he was in this position.

Just the way your chest arched, the sound of your breath snagging, that was enough to paint the rest in his head. That was enough to make his stomach clench and his thighs tighten as he felt it building. He was close.

And then like someone had a vengeance on him, the buzz of his phone rattled across the nightstand.

He froze on the spot. His cock was pulsing in his grip, with precum smeared across his knuckles. But his screen lit up anyway, cutting through the dark.

Babydoll is calling.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His cock twitched like it had a mind of its own, furious that he’d stopped. His other hand shook as he reached for the phone. He swiped before his brain could talk him out of it, the sound of your voice spilling into his ear a second later.

“Hey.”

That one word nearly floored him. He squeezed his cock hard just to keep from groaning into the receiver. His mouth was desert-dry.

“Uh—hey,” his voice cracked, enough to give him away if one had his skills. You didn’t.

“What’re you doing?”

Jesus Christ. He almost laughed and choked simultaneously. What was he doing? Jerking off to your pussy on a screen while you were in his ear, sweet and soft and completely oblivious.

If there was a God, He had the meanest sense of humor.

“Nothing,” the word tumbled out of his mouth far too fast. He tried again, forcing his voice level. “Just… laying down. Long day.”

A lie.

“Mm.” You hummed, like you believed him. Or maybe you didn’t care. “I just wanted to say… thanks.”

His chest loosened at the sound, even as his cock stayed iron-hard in his fist. He couldn’t stop the question: “For what?”

He already knew the answer. But a part of him longed to know that it had mattered to you too.

“For making me eat last night. And taking my mind off. You didn’t have to… but you did. And I—” You cut yourself off, then sighed. “It helped.”

Something in his chest twisted, something sweet. His cock was throbbing like it belonged in another conversation entirely, but his voice went soft. “Of course. You deserved a little care. Glad you let me.”

Even though his body was screaming for something filthier, he wanted to hold on to this part of you.

Then your voice broke his train of thought. You sounded more curious than anything, “You called me… sweetheart yesterday.”

His grip on the phone tightened. Shit.

He hadn’t realised that slipped out. He had been careful not to call you ‘doll’, in the worst case you connected it to Bucky, the patient you saw.

But this word had just come out, without him realising, because it fit you better than anything else.

“Did I?” he deflected, even as the tips of his ears burned.

“Yeah. You did.” There was a tiny smile in your voice, he could hear it. “So… what should I call you?”

His cock jerked at the question, because of course his brain went there. You moaning anything, moaning his name, moaning while you pressed your fingers inside yourself just like in the video currently frozen on his laptop screen. He had to swallow down the groan clawing up his throat.

Don’t say Bucky. Don’t say Barnes. Don’t say anything that’ll give you away.

“James,” he said finally, forcing it out smooth. “Call me James.”

Wow, a full thirty seconds to remember his government name.

There came a very brief pause, and then your voice wrapped around his name like soft silk. “Okay.. James.”

He bit down on his lip hard enough to sting. Because now he was wrecked, imagining you on the other end of the line with that same voice saying his name in a completely different rhythm.

Panting it, whining it, screaming it.

His cock gave a vicious pulse in his hand, and he had to close his eyes, willing himself not to come just from the sound of it.

“James.” You said it again, like testing it out, like it was something you could get used to saying. Like it was something he could get used to hearing.

He nearly groaned outright.

He shifted, dragging the heel of his palm against the base of his cock like punishment, trying to ground himself before he ruined everything.

And then you kept talking, as if you hadn’t just lit his entire body on fire.

“Did you just open the call eating something again?” your voice came through his phone, warm and accusing at the same time.

Bucky swallowed hard, totally guilty with the half-bitten protein bar in his hand, “...no.”

There was a momentary silence, followed by your laugh. Totally something that didn’t belong in his ear, but something that he’s been getting used to lately.

“You’re such a bad liar, James.”

“Okay, fine, maybe I was,” he muttered, crumpling the wrapper like that would erase the evidence from you. “What, am I not allowed snacks anymore? Gonna start rationing me out?”

“No,” you teased, voice shifting into something playful. “What set of mine is your favorite?”

The protein bar lodged somewhere in his throat. He coughed like he could stall long enough to dodge the question.

Because what sort of question is that, and how do you ask it nonchalantly on a random Tuesday morning?

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know.” You sounded like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. “Don’t stall.”

His palm went sweaty around the phone. Images flashed fast and uninvited—lace stretched over your skin, satin clinging in the soft light of your room, those straps you’d tug at just enough to drive him out of his mind.

There was simply too much to choose from, too many moments he’d memorized, burned into the back of his eyes when he closed them at night.

“You’re… making this difficult,” he managed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.

“That’s kind of the point.”

A groan slipped out before he could stop it. Both frustrated and turned on just from the way you’d said that.

“James,” you prodded, sing-song, “tell me.”

“Black,” he blurted.

You hummed. “I have a lot of black.”

Of course you do.

“Then—” he broke off with another groan. His cock had already stirred at the thought of any of them, and now you were playing coy. “Why are we doing this?”

“Because I said so. Now go to my profile and send me a screenshot of which one.”

“This is a dangerous game,” he muttered, but he was already reaching for his laptop. Like a dog on a fucking leash!

“James, will you listen to me or not?” A leash, alright.

He sighed, already defeated. “Alright, alright.” His fingers scrolled, trying hard to reach where his mind was, until— there. Lace high on your hips, delicate straps over your shoulders, the bra barely containing the softness spilling out. He screenshotted, dragged himself back to the phone, and sent it off. “Happy now?”

He could almost hear your smirk through the line. “Mm. Why’s that your favorite?”

“Can I be honest?”

“Always.”

His cock twitched at the permission. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip. “Because that set—” he stopped, breath becoming heavy. “The way the lace cuts across your hips… it makes me want to bite there. Right where the straps rest. And the bra—fuck—it doesn’t even cover you. Makes me think about how easy it’d be to just slip you out of it. How you look like you’re begging to be touched in it.”

The silence that followed was nearly brutal. He stared at the ceiling, trying to claw the words back inside his mouth.

Did he go a little too far?

But then came your laugh, like an answer to his prayer.

“You are…” You cut yourself off, like you couldn’t even find the word.

“I warned you it’d be honest,” he said defensively, hiding the fact that he was actively choking on his own arousal.

There was a shuffle on your end, the sound of sheets maybe. Then came your voice as casual as anything, “Are you going to attend today’s live?”

Of course he was. He hadn’t missed one. Not a single fucking one since he’d found you. But his mouth moved before he could stop it. “Might have work tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He could picture it, even without ever seeing your face. You pouting, lips pushed forward, voice smaller than usual.

“Baby,” he said, his voice caught between a groan and a laugh, “are you pouting?”

“…No.”

He laughed, the sound somehow startling even him. “Of course I’ll be there. How could I miss it? You’re my best girl.”

“Stop flirting with me, James.” Your voice pitched higher, a mock-scold, but he could hear the smile under it.

“Alright, sweetheart. No more flirting.”

“Really? You’re not gonna flirt with me from now on?”

“You asked me not to.”

There was a pause, like you were weighing your next move. Then you exhaled, and said something he couldn’t quite make out, some little muttered tease.

“Fine, I’ll see you later on the live.” And then the call cut out.

So much for maintaining whatever ounce of dignity left in him, huh?

And still, he’d be front row at your stream tonight. No way in hell he wouldn’t.

babydoll is live.

The notification’s chime was Bucky’s version of a siren’s call.

In the breath between that sound and the moment his fingers grazed the phone, his sweatpants had already tightened until it clung to him like a second skin.

Because he knew— he just fucking knew — that you would’ve done it. He’d just told you an hour ago, which set he liked best. And you’d listened.

The screen filled with you, body framed in a light that did more harm than good to his building boner.

The lingerie was exactly what he’d pictured on you. That color. That cut. The delicate straps hugging every curve in a way that made his breath hitch. He didn’t even realize he’d let out a groan until his hand was already palming himself through sweats.

Other comments flew past in the live chat, a blur of usernames and desperate begging. None of them seemed to matter. Except his.

BrooklynBoy: That set looks better than I imagined, babydoll.

He knew you’d smile. Even though he cannot see it, he knew you’d relish in the fact that you held his utmost attention.

It was proved a second later by the way you arched a little closer to the camera, rolling your hips in a slow grind.

“Does it now?” Your voice purred through his earbuds, smooth and filthy all at once. “I wore it for someone special.”

Fuck. Heat coiled in his stomach. Someone special. Him. You wore it for him.

BrooklynBoy: Spin for me, baby. Slowly. Let me see all of it.

Your laugh was soft but drenched in sin. You rose, turning with a slowness that made his head spin. Giving him every inch of that set— the way the panties curved over your ass, the bra straining to hold your tits just in place. You bent forward just enough that he could see the swell of them, and he hissed under his breath, pushing his sweats lower.

BrooklynBoy: You are torturing me here.

“Good.” You dragged out the word, settling back onto your knees on the bed. “I like it when you suffer a little.”

You had no idea how hard he was suffering. His cock was already slick at the tip, a dull ache spreading through his groin.

BrooklynBoy: Take the bra off, babydoll. Want those tits bare for me.

You head titled to one side, like you were putting on a show — which to be fair, you were— and slid a hand up your chest. That little motion which was somehow enough to make his hips jerk up.

“Oh? You don’t like the tease?” You squeezed your breasts over the lace, fingers toying with the straps. “Maybe I should keep it on. Leave you wanting.”

BrooklynBoy: Don’t test me. Off. Now.

The hunger in him bled through his fingertips, and you must’ve felt it, because you smirked at the camera and reached back, unclasping the bra easily with one hand.

The lace slid down your arms, and then you were bare, tits spilling free, nipples already hard.

“Better?”

Bucky groaned out loud this time, fisting himself slowly, because if he lost control now he’d blow too soon.

BrooklynBoy: Play with them. Want to see those pretty nipples all swollen.

You pinched one between your fingers, rolling it until your breath caught. The other hand cupped and squeezed your opposite breast, the flesh spilling between your fingers. You moaned softly, the sound so real, so close, it made his skin prickle with heat.

“Mmm, like this? You like watching me squeeze them for you, James?”

Hearing his name in your mouth while your tits bounced in your hands— fuck, it nearly finished him.

He needed you to say it again. But he controlled himself.

BrooklynBoy: Pinch harder. Don’t be gentle with them.

You obeyed with a shuddering breath, tugging at your nipples until they were taut, moaning for him, only him.

The chat was still exploding around him, dozens of men begging for attention, spamming commands, tossing tips. But you weren’t even looking at them.

Every word, every sigh, every filthy sound was aimed straight at him.

And fuck, he was right there with you, hand moving faster now. The ache in his balls was torturous, but he forced himself to slow down, to drag it out.

Watching you obey his words, knowing the rest of the world was invisible to you— it was worth every second of his restraint.

BrooklynBoy: Squeeze them together, babydoll. Pretend it’s my cock between them.

You gave a breathless laugh, smirking into the camera again as you pushed your tits together, rocking them up and down like you were already fucking him with them.

“Oh, James, you’re so dirty.”

Dirty didn’t even cover it. His chest was tight, cock pulsing in his hand as he imagined sliding between your breasts, you moaning while his cockhead brushed your lips.

Tugging his sweats lower so his cock was now fully exposed, he squeezed tighter. His thumb dragged over the head as he groaned, eyes glued to the way your tits glistened with the oil you’d just slicked over them.

Every other comment faded to nothing. Every other man was irrelevant. This was his show. You were his girl, his babydoll, putting on a performance so dirty it clawed at his control.

BrooklynBoy: Keep fucking those tits for me. Don’t stop till I tell you.

You obeyed instantly with your moans spilling like warm honey.

BrooklynBoy: Take the rest off. Want to see that pussy bare for me.

“Mmm… just for you?”

Your words surged a new arousal through him. Then your laugh broke as you hooked your nails into the band of your panties.

You tugged them down inch by agonizing inch, hips rolling as the lace slid over them. “Fuck, look at you. So fucking pretty,” he spoke into his empty room.

The screen caught the wet sheen between your thighs, the fabric stuck before you peeled it free. Dropping the panties off-camera, your smile was audible in the microphone.

“Better?”

No, it was actually worse. The knowledge that he won’t be able to touch you didn’t seemed to take root. But, he persevered.

BrooklynBoy: Spread those pretty legs. Let me see what’s mine tonight.

You settled back, thighs falling apart under the glow of your ring light. Your fingers traced the line of your slit, gathering your slick with teasing circles. His dick kicked in his hand.

“Oh James… you like when I show you how wet I am?” You purred.

He could barely type. His hands were shaking as his cock leaked into his fist.

BrooklynBoy: Rub that clit for me. Just slow circles, babydoll.

You obeyed, moaning as your fingers slid between swollen folds, circling your clit in lazy spirals.

The faint wet squelch and the catch in your breath poured straight into his earbuds.

“Feels good… but not enough.” Your voice was breathy, bordering on a whine.

“Not enough for you, not enough for me either.” Bucky didn’t seem to mind that he was muttering into an empty room like a lunatic.

BrooklynBoy: Don’t you dare rush. Keep it slow. Tease yourself till you’re dripping.

You whimpered, rocking against your own hand, nails of your other hand digging into your thigh as if you were holding yourself still.

He did the same, forcing himself to stop. If he lost the game now, he’d never forgive himself.

Your moans deepened. “James… please. I need more.”

Fuck, hearing you beg did things to him. The many days had he imagined your voice moaning his name felt like a fever dream. Because here you were, speaking his name into your microphone. Just for him.

His vision threatened to blur at the edges. But he pulled himself together.

BrooklynBoy: Two fingers, baby. Nice and easy. Slide them in.

A gasp spilled as you obeyed, sinking your fingers into your pussy, the camera catching every wet sound.

If only he could trade places with your fingers, he would bury himself in you and never fucking leave. He nearly choked on his own breath.

You pumped them slowly, walls clenching around your own hand.

“F-fuck… oh my god.”

BrooklynBoy: That’s it. Curl them. Hit that spot. Don’t stop till you’re panting.

You followed every filthy command, whining and panting, as your voice turned ragged. “James, oh… feels so good, I’m so close.”

His cock jerked violently in his fist, precum dripping down his shaft. He squeezed it hard enough to sting, forcing himself to hold himself back.

BrooklynBoy: Don’t cum yet. Not till I say.

You whimpered yet again, fucking your fingers faster until you were right there, teetering on the very edge he had prohibited you from tipping.

“Please, James, let me.. let me cum—”

He was being cruel, he knew it. But that didn’t stop him.

BrooklynBoy: Beg me.

Your laugh cracked into a desperate sob.

“Please… please, I need it, I’ll do anything, just let me cum for you, I’m begging—”

His head slammed back against the couch, hips thrusting into his fist.

The sight of you almost made him cum. Sweat adorned your skin, thighs quivering slightly as you begged him. Just him.

BrooklynBoy: Cum for me, babydoll. Now.

Your raw scream tore through the earbuds. You came undone as your fingers worked furiously inside yourself.

Pussy clenching and squelching around your hand, so much so the wet gush of it echoed in his ears. And that was when Bucky lost it completely, stroking himself with brutal speed, groaning so loud his throat burned.

His vision went white for a second, cock pulsing hard in his fist. Cum spurted hot over his stomach, thick ropes striping his skin while he groaned your name over and over.

The chat was chaos now, strangers spamming demands, offering money, clawing for attention. You didn’t spare them a glance. Your wrecked little smile was aimed straight straight at him.

“You like watching me fall apart for you?”

Bucky dragged his hand through his own mess, squeezing his cock one last time. He could barely type, fingers slippery, but he managed it.

BrooklynBoy: Every fucking second of it.

Babydoll is calling.

Bucky stared at his phone like it might explode. Well, to be fair, he was expecting your call.

There’s no way you were going to let him go easy after the stunt he’d just pulled.

He scrubbed his palm against his thigh, wiped the last trace of his orgasm off, and fumbled the phone up to his ear.

“James.” Your voice was a purr, but not the sweet kind. No, this one had sharp edges. He even sat up straighter like you’d caught him doing something wrong.

He was a picture of filth, with his sweats still around his thighs.

“Hey,” he cleared his throat, wishing his voice didn’t sound like he hadn’t spoken to anyone the whole day.

“You were mean.”

“…Mean?”

“Yes.” You dragged the word out, like you were sulking, he could almost see your lips wrapping around it. “On live. You made me beg. You kept me right there, until I thought I’d lose my mind. That’s mean.” A whine finished that sentence.

Bucky’s hand slid down his thigh, traitorously close to his cock again.

Jesus. One word from you and he was already half-hard. He tried for casual. “Guess I just like watching you fall apart for me.”

“Mhm. Well, now I get to return the favor.”

His cock twitched violently against his thighs.

“What—”

“Take your clothes off.”

His heart hammered, breath tripping over itself. He shifted on the couch, phone pressed tight to his ear. “You’re being awfully bossy.”

“I’m making it fair. You made me beg.. now you’ll do the same. So. Naked. Now.”

The authority that laced your words made him jerk. He dragged his sweats down further, his cock already flushed, veins standing out. “Fine. They’re off. You happy now?”

“I’ll be happier when you listen to me without stalling. Hand on your cock.”

Bucky curled his fist around himself with another groan, blood rushing too fast. Fuck.

“Slowly,” you warned. “Just the head. Thumb over it, circle nice and easy.”

He obeyed, precum smearing under his thumb. His teeth clenched as he forced himself to keep it lazy, the exact opposite of how bad he wanted to fuck his hand.

“Yeah? Doesn’t feel good when you can’t rush, does it?” Your voice carried an insurmountable amount of smugness to it.

Bucky let out a strangled sound. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Laughter from your throat pierced his ears. “Now.. imagine me there. Imagine me kneeling between your legs, my tongue on you instead of your hand. Just the tip of my tongue though. What would you do, James?”

His hand spasmed on his cock, pumping once before he caught himself. “Don’t… don’t do that to me.”

“Oh, I am doing it. What would you do?” You repeated. Without giving him a beat to speak back, you answered your own question with another, “Would you grab my hair and push me down?”

He shut his eyes and leaned back into the couch, stroking barely enough to keep from losing his sanity.

The picture in his head was clear. So clear with your lips glistening, tongue pressed flat to the crown of his cock.

“James.” Your voice brought him back to reality. “Tell me what you’re imagining right now.”

A guttural groan escaped his lips. “You. On your knees. Taking me in your mouth.”

A soft hum from you followed. “Mmm, maybe I am. Or maybe my fingers are down my panties right now while I listen to you pant. Guess you’ll never know.”

His hips lifted into his fist, like it was acting on its own volition. Every nerve in his body was lit on a fire that he couldn’t even start to contain.

“Stop,” you snapped suddenly.

Bucky froze, a hiss forming and dying at his teeth. “Stop? I’m fuckin’—”

“Hand off. Right now. Don’t touch.”

Veins stood out in his neck. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

“I told you. Fair’s fair. You made me wait… now it’s your turn.”

His hand hovered over his slick cock, the pulse of blood almost painful. “I’m gonna die.”

“You won’t. You’ll listen to me. Now put the phone on speaker.”

He fumbled but followed your instructions like a good little puppy. He set it down beside him, chest rising like he’d run miles.

“Good boy,” you murmured, and his cock jerked violently, precum spilling down his length.

Fuck. That shouldn’t do it for him. Who knew the Winter soldier had a praise kink!

If he had to hear you say ‘good boy’ one more time, he was sure he’d bust.

“Now… picture me spreading my knees wide in front of you. My fingers are inside me, sliding in and out. It’s so wet, James. Can you hear that?”

That picture you’d just painted almost brought him to the edge. And fuck, he swore he could hear the squelching sounds emanating from your core.

“Tell me what you’d do if you were here,” you coaxed him right out of his daydream.

“I’d— fuck —I’d knock your hand away, and bury my mouth between your thighs instead. Wouldn’ stop until you were drippin’ down my chin.”

A soft laugh rippled out of you. “You’d ruin my plan, then. Because I’m making you wait.”

“This is torture,” uttered the man who’d undergone actual torture.

“No, it isn’t. Now stroke yourself just halfway.”

Halfway? What the fuck was halfway?

He dragged his fist up, stopping short of the crown, back down, shuddering like the restraint might kill him.

“You want more?” you teased.

“Yes,” he gritted out, pulse screaming in his ears.

“Beg better than that.”

He huffed out a laugh that cracked in the middle. “Please. I need it. Need to hear you, need to know what you’re doing. I can’t take this, sweetheart. Please.”

He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him feel like this. And you were doing all that just through a phone call. How whipped does one have to be for this to happen?

There was a pause on your end, long enough for him to imagine you smiling. Then your words broke the silence.

“I’m rubbing my clit for you,” you whispered. “Two fingers, tight little circles. It’s so wet, James. I’d sit on your cock like this, grind until you begged me to stop teasing. You’d feel how soaked I am for you. Does that help?”

Help? It was doing the exact opposite of help, if he was being honest. His hips bucked helplessly, with his hand sliding up harder than he meant. A snarl erupted from him when he forced himself back down, stopping before it tipped too far. “God, you’re killing me. I can’t keep this up, baby.”

There was a rustle on your end, then your voice again, honey poured over razor wire. “Stroke to my rhythm. I’ll count it out for you. One—”

Count it for him? Math was never his strong suit, but he obeyed. He pulled his hand up, following your order like his life depended on it.

“Two—”

He dragged back down.

“Three—slower.”

He adjusted his pace, almost losing it all in the process.

“That’s it. Just like that. Every stroke I make on myself, you follow.”

And so he did. You talked him through it, whispering each count, each motion, until he was dizzy from the cadence, from the picture of you touching yourself in perfect time with him.

He was close, too close, and every pause, every stolen second felt like torture in the best, worst way.

“Spread your thighs wider,” your words were soft for an order so vile. “Let me hear you move. I want to imagine how wrecked you look.”

Bucky obeyed and his legs fell further open, his cock flushed an angry red and heavy against his belly. His breathing was rough enough to echo through the speaker.

“That’s it. Now, imagine me crawling up your thighs, dripping all over you. Imagine me lowering myself down so slow, just the tip pushing in.”

His hips jerked, his hand almost moving before he forced it still. “Fuck.”

“You’d hold me down, wouldn’t you?” you asked, voice breaking just a little. “Shove yourself deep inside and fuck me stupid until I cried.”

“Yes,” he bit out. “God, yes.” He wrapped his fist again, pumping with a strangled sound. The ache was unbearable, but he followed, desperate to keep you talking.

“Stop,” you barked.

He froze, cock throbbing hard enough to hurt. If he didn’t have blue balls before, he sure did now.

“You’re mine,” you murmured, voice suddenly softer than it had any right to be. “You’ll hold it for me, won’t you?”

Sweat rolled down his temple, body shuddering enough. “Sweetheart, please—”

How could he say anything but beg, when you ask him this nicely?

You thoroughly ignored his pleas, “You’ll wait because I’m so close, and I want us to cum together.”

That thought nearly undid him in the best possible way. The thought of you on the edge, fingers buried inside, dripping and gasping with him. It was too much. Too fucking much.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he demanded, or tried to anyway.

“I’ve got three fingers inside me now,” you whispered as if you were letting him on a dirty little secret. “Stretching myself open. I’m soaked. My clit’s throbbing. I want your cock instead, James. Want you fucking me open until I can’t think.”

His chest heaved like he’d run miles. But the truth of what’s happening was a lot embarrassing, wasn’t it?

Then came a sharp moan was followed by the words he’s been begging to hear the whole night. “Now, James, stroke hard now, cum with me, cum now—”

The world collapsed. That was the right word.

His fist pumped rough strokes and his cock exploded in endless ropes over his stomach, his chest, his hand. His groan tore through the room, spilling raw into the phone speaker.

And underneath were your moans, breaking apart right alongside him.

What followed was panting. Messy and uneven panting on both ends of the line, like you’d both been wrecked into silence.

Finally, your voice broke free, with a smugness he could see clearly even in this state. “See? Fair’s fair.”

Yeah. Fair. Except now he’ll never get enough.

After he had coaxed you into drinking some water, and making sure you were comfortable, he spoke again.

“That was—” his voice broke into a chuckle. “That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

His body still felt heavy and spent, but his head was buzzing in that way only you managed to stir.

You laughed, a warm sound that always felt new to him. “Same. Definitely the most fun I’ve had too.”

“Hard to believe,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as if you could see it.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“You’re an intern,” his voice was casual but teasing, “you’re supposed to be out every night. Clubs, parties, whatever kids your age are doing these days.”

Your scoff was immediate. “Kids my age? Please. I’ve had exactly one shot of tequila in my life and spent the next morning promising God my undying loyalty if He let me keep my stomach where it belonged. That was enough to retire my party girl career.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “One shot?”

“One shot,” you confirmed. “I don’t fit in at those places, anyway. Everyone’s either trying too hard or not trying at all, and I end up babysitting someone crying in the bathroom. Not my scene.”

There was a beat where he considered saying something about how you fit in just fine here— with this, with him —but he bit it back. Instead he just said, “You could’ve fooled me. You’re good at talking. Better than me.”

You snorted. “Don’t give me too much credit. Half the time I just blurt things out and pray they sound halfway decent.”

“Well, it’s working,” he said, then yawned into the receiver, trying to muffle it with the back of his hand. “Anyway, it’s late. You should probably get some sleep before you start promising more loyalty oaths.”

“How do you even know it’s late here?” you challenged, voice a little playful. He had a feeling you were not quite ready to let go. “I could be in London for all you know.”

He smirked at the ceiling. “We literally fell asleep on call last night. Same time zone, sweetheart.”

“Oh. Right. I’m dumb.”

“No,” he was quick to interject, firm enough that you fell quiet for a second. “You’re the farthest thing from dumb.”

You hummed like you were a little unconvinced. “When I was little, my mom used to tell me this bedtime story. It was about cats. Pretty sure it was designed to bore me into unconsciousness. Wanna hear it?”

“Hit me with the cats,” Bucky grinned.

“Okay, so,” you started, and he was quick to notice that your voice softened with the memory. “There was this first cat, and he went to visit his friend’s house. Then the second cat came along, and he went to visit his sister’s house. Then a third cat went to his brother’s house. And… honestly, I usually knocked out right around there. Three cats in and I was gone.”

Bucky barked out a laugh. “That’s it? Just a neighborhood tour of cats?”

“Exactly. It’s dumb.”

“It’s cute,” he corrected you. Before he could figure out what he was about to say, he found himself speaking, “Do you want me to tell you another cat story?”

You perked up like you were happy he was playing along. “Yes. But it better be at least four cats. Gotta raise the stakes.”

He chuckled. “Alright, let’s see. First cat decides he’s going out for the night, ends up at his friend’s place. Second cat doesn’t feel like being left out, so he heads over to his sister’s. Third cat.. well, he’s got a brother to check on. And then there’s the fourth one. He doesn’t bother with anyone else’s house. He just curls up on the warm spot of the couch and claims it for the night. Smartest cat of the bunch.”

Your full and genuine laughter spilled into his quiet apartment like sunlight on an early morning. “Okay, that’s actually good.”

“Told you,” his tone was smug, but it carried a softness to it, which hadn’t been present since a long while now.

“It’s nice,” you murmured after a beat, like the words weren’t just from your mouth, but your heart too. “Knowing you’re there.”

He let the words sit, the weight of them pressing into his chest in a way that meant more than he’d cared to admit. “Yeah,” he spoke quietly. “It’s nice knowing you’re there too.”

There was another yawn, yours this time, muffled against what he guessed was your pillow.

“Lights out,” he said gently. “Set your alarm. Don’t forget.”

“Mhm. But…” You shifted, the sound of sheets brushing against your phone. “Tell me about your day first. Just like last night.”

He didn’t hesitate this time, just settled deeper into his couch, eyes slipping shut like he was embracing the sleep which will eventually come.

“Alright. Woke up early. Went for a run. Had some coffee. It was too bitter, should’ve added sugar but I didn’t. Spent a couple hours… working on something. Stuck to the routine. Nothing really special.”

“Keep going,” you mumbled, your voice already going softer and slower.

“Made dinner. Pasta. Sauce came out better than last time,” he continued, watching the shape of your breathing in his mind. “Did some reading. Thought about calling you. But I didn’t. Waited for you instead.”

Bucky smiled, the kind that tugged at one corner of his mouth. He stayed listening, just making sure your breathing evened out fully.

And when it did, he whispered into the phone like it was a secret, “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

Then he let the silence fill the space between you, and finally, finally, let his own eyes close.

next part (coming soon)

series masterlist || main masterlist

an2: that dumb little kid who fell asleep to that cat story was me btw.

general taglist: @opheliabbarnes @houseofhyde @buckyfmd @umbreoni @sheriff-bodecker @bckyslover @kqtholins @devililithh @54nboo @amoremarveloustime @barnesandashes @colettebarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @biggestfangirl @highhopes1008 @barnes-babydoll @castielscaplan @grumpysunnybarnes @cinnamon-girl-writes

series taglist: in reblogs. i have added everyone, but there are some usernames i cannot tag for some reason, i am sorry about that!

if you want to be tagged in my new fics, just comment on this post — taglist

[PAST ↴]

it was like any other night in brooklyn, chilly.. wet and dark.

the streetlights flickered as the moon peered into his window.

bucky was fast asleep, sprawled out on his bed like a starfish, sheets covering half of his body as he snored peacefully.

he awoke quickly when there was a tap on the window, you stood outside looking up, flicking every pebble that you could onto the glass.

he stood up, pushing the covers from his body and pushed the window up as he looked down to to see you.

he almost groaned.

“are you kiddin’ me?” he mumbled, rubbing his tired eyes.

you giggled, looking up at him. “can i come up?” you whisper-yelled.

“have you any idea what time it is sweetheart?” he questioned, continued to glare at you from up above.

“sorry.. i just missed ya.” you continued as you made my your way up the drain pipe, climbing up into his window.

he backed away and stared at you for a moment, a thousand thoughts running through his mind.

“i just came to-” you paused mid sentence as you hiccuped.

he leaned his head to the side as he looked at you. oh now he was pissed.

not only had you appeared at his window at an ungodly hour, but you were drunk.

“don’t wanna hear your excuses.” he mumbled as he sat on the bed, looking away from you.

you stood there looking down at him before you sat down next to him.

“you’re too hard on me.” you nudged his side with your elbow trying to humour the situation.

he didn’t shift, didn’t look at you, didn’t smile.. awkward.

“why are you here?” he asked, staring at the wall.

it took you a few minutes to really gather up the courage to speak, after all you were three whiskeys in…

“i’m here because i’m sick of the pushin’ and pulling.” you said with a sigh.

bucky didn’t speak, he sat there quietly waiting for you to finish.

“i love you. it’s hard for me to open up about my feelings, i care about you… so much.. i don’t even know how to tell you— fuck.. i’m so drunk.” you continued as the alcohol finally hit you, your mind spinning.

then he finally raised his head to look at you.

“you love me?” was all he could mutter out, he continued to stare at you waiting for a response or some type of expression that would show the truth.

you nodded slowly, letting out a sigh.

“loved you since i was sixteen, buck.” you said, turning your head away to stare at the wall.

he stared at you blankly, not knowing what to say.. how could he? you were drunk.. expressing your feeling to a man that you’ve known since you were in diapers.

“we’ll talk about this when you’re ready to not run away from your feelings.”

· ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── ·

[PRESENT ↴]

four days.

that’s how long it had been since you last spoken to him, it felt like hell.

steve had ignored your calls, you tried showing up at the usual spots where you both met up at, the diner.. the bar, one of the secret back alleys where you, bucky and steve used to go to drink when you were teens. hell you even tried getting a hold of bucky’s ma.. she didn’t really know what to say except “he’ll come around eventually honey.”

each moment that passed felt like something sharp was poking at your heart.

screw it, you had to speak to him.. no matter how difficult it was going to be.

you stood outside of his door, the rain pouring as you banged your fist against it.

there was shuffling from inside of the house and the door swung open, revealing bucky shirtless.

he was about to speak when you cut him off first.

“i love you. alright? i said it, i’m sober enough to realise that i can’t stop thinking about you. even though it’s killing me.” you babbled on, looking at him for any kind of response.

your hair and clothes were soaked, as the seconds ticked by you started to grow impatient.. damn it why isn’t he saying anything?

“you mean it?” he spoke lowly, raising his head to finally meet your eyes.

“i promise. i’ve never stopped loving you. i mean hell.. i don’t think about anybody but you-” he cut you off dragging you closer by the waist as he smashed his lips against yours.

you wrapped your hand around the back of his head as you leaned into the kiss, knees becoming weak.

tongue and teeth colliding together as the heat in between your legs started to rise.

he pulled away just enough to lean his forehead against yours.

“i’ve waited for this.. for so long baby.” he muttered, nuzzling his nose against yours.

“i’m yours. i promise. till the end of the line.” you looked up at him.

“then we better make the best out of it.” he spoke, kissing you once more.

you were his, and he was yours until the end.

"You're looking a little too relaxed over there," you teased, keeping your eyes on the target. "Better hope your aim is as good as your mouth, Barnes."

He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you're way too confident."

You didn't give him the satisfaction of looking back, just exhaled slow and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, crisp and clean, and when the target reeled back toward you, a neat hole sat right through the center ring.

"Here you go," you lowered the gun, flashing him a triumphant smile.

Bucky only chuckled and stepped forward. He slid into position like the weapon belonged in his hands. Like it was natural extension of him. His stance and focus screamed ease in a way that made your own victory wobble just a little.

He took his shot and when the paper reeled back again, his bullet snug inside yours, so perfectly placed it was almost mocking.

"Told ya," he murmured, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.

See… normally you would've taken the defeat—smiled, rolled your eyes, maybe let him brag about it for the rest of the night.

But this wasn't a normal bet.

The deal was simple. Whoever lost had to do whatever the other wanted in bed. No complaints, no negotiations, no limits… and it was your idea, by the way. Were you too cocky? Yes. Too sure of yourself? Also.

And now, watching the victorious curl of Bucky's mouth as he set the gun down…. You knew he wasn't going to let this go easy. He was going to savor every second of your loss and drag it out until you were begging for mercy.

---

Now here you were. Back in your apartment, stretched across the bed on your stomach, head turned to the side, cheek squished into the pillow. Your bra and panties were the only things left on your body—Bucky had taken his sweet time stripping you down to just that before pulling away. 

You kicked your legs idly against the sheets, heat pulsing between your thighs, brain running wild trying to figure out what exactly he had in store for you. The bet had been clear—whatever he wanted—but he hadn’t given you so much as a hint since you got home.

When you heard the soft rustle of fabric, you glanced up just in time to see him peel off his shirt and toss it to the floor. He looked so freaking good like that—shoulders broad, skin warm and flushed, scars and the metal arm catching the dim light. Your mouth went dry, and hundred filthy possibilities flashed through your head.

He moved towards the nightstand and you raised your brow at him. Then to your surprise, Bucky opened the drawer and pulled out his glock.

Your head snapped up. “What the fuck?!"

He scrunched his brows, like you were the crazy one here. “What? You like guns, don't you? Thought I’d treat you a little," he replied as he weighed the weapon easily in his hand.

Your throat went dry. “It’s not loaded… right?”

Instead of answering, he climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight and he hovered over you. Metal of the weapon kissed the bare skin of your shoulder as he dragged the barrel across it in slow and teasing circles. A sound of the click followed, echoing louder than it should have in the quiet room, and meaning Bucky has just reloaded the gun.

"Now it is," his voice was calm, almost casual, as his lips brushed your ear. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes went wide, pulse kicking up so fast you could hear it in your ears. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong but beneath the panic was a molten thread of heat that made your thighs press together.

“Bucky…” you whispered, unsure if it was supposed to be a warning or a plea.

He caught the look on your face and chuckled low in his chest, settling over you so his body caged you in. The pistol was steady in his palm. He tilted his head, his lips caressing over your temple as he murmured, “Relax, sweetheart. Just stay still, and everything’s gonna be fine…”

The cool metal slid from your shoulder, down over the curve of your back, until it grazed the swell of your ass. You sucked in a breath, your hips jerking before his free, metal hand pressed you flat to the mattress.

And then, God help you, he moved the gun lower. Dragged it right between your thighs, the hard steel gliding over your panties, pressing just enough against your slit where the damp fabric clung to you.

“Buck!” you gasped, hips bucking before you could stop yourself. “Holy fuck, you menace.”

He rocked the gun against you again, slower this time. “Menace, huh? You weren’t calling me that when you made the bet.”

“Fuck…” Your voice cracked on the word, your body betrayed you as you ground down against the rifle. “That feels so good, just—just fuck, be careful, Buck.”

He hummed, clearly pleased with the way your thighs trembled. “Careful’s my middle name, sweetheart. You're safe with me."

You knew you two were adrenaline junkies. It wasn’t a surprise that this, of all things, had your skin buzzing and your core tightening. The danger, the power in his hands, the absolute control… it was enough to make your head spin and beg for more.

The gun dipped even lower, and you gasped when Bucky tugged at the waistband of your panties, dragging the thin fabric aside with the muzzle. Cold steel slipped against burning heat, sliding through your slick folds in one testing stroke.

“Jesus, doll…” His breath hitched as his metal hand tightened on your hip. “So fuckin’ wet for it.”

Your forehead pressed harder into the pillow, a strangled whimper left your lips. He slid the barrel back up, coating it with your arousal before dragging it down again. The head nudged your entrance just enough to make your breath stutter.

Your whole body trembled. The sheets twisted under your fists as Bucky traced back and forth over your folds with the gun. Every nerve was lit up, every breath caught somewhere between a moan and a cry.

“Fuck! Bucky, I—”

“I said stay still," his voice snapped through the haze.

The command hit you deeper than the weapon did, sparking through your chest and settling low in your belly. You froze under him, breath coming fast, thighs quivering as he pressed the head of the Glock harder against your entrance.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his mouth grazing your jaw as he began to circle the barrel against you, continuing to smear your slick around in messy, filthy streaks. “That’s it. Just let me play with you.”

The pressure built until suddenly the muzzle breached you, sliding just barely inside, and a helpless whimper tore from your throat. 

“Shh…” Bucky soothed even as his grip on your hip tightened to hold you down. His mouth brushed your ear, warm and coaxing. “Just a little bit, baby… you can do it for me.”

Your walls fluttered around the cold steel and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. 

“B-Buck…” Your voice sounded small, caught between fear and need, and you buried your face into the pillow as if that could ground you.

He eased the pistol in another fraction, careful but relentless, groaning low when your pussy clenched around it. “That’s it. Taking it so well…. God, I wish you could see yourself right now."

Just when your body started to adjust, when you thought you could handle the stretch, Bucky pulled the gun out—slick and shining with your wetness. The sudden emptiness made you whine, hips searching for it immediately.

The firearm was gliding lower, pressing against a place no one had ever touched like this. The cold steel nudged at your tight rim and you flinched. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as you tried to wriggle away.

His metal arm was unmovable, holding your hips flush against the mattress.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Bucky…” you panted, eyes wide, every muscle trembling under him.

“Easy, doll,” he soothed, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear as the muzzle circled your hole, smearing your slick across sensitive skin. “Don’t fight me."

Your body shook with every teasing prod, fear and need tangling until you couldn’t tell them apart.

Bucky kept his weight steady over you, anchoring you while his voice stayed calm, grounding you. “Just relax for me, okay?I wanna me see how much you can take.” 

He pressed the head of the gun deeper, breaching you just the tiniest bit, and the stretch made your whole body jolt. 

“Oh, yeah…" he whispered. "Atta girl. See? It’s not so hard, is it?”

Your nails dug into the sheets, your breath ragged. “Fuck, Buck—just… just fuck me without the gun, please.”

He stilled, pulling back just enough to glance at your flushed face. “Is that what you want, baby? You want me to fuck you in the ass?”

Your throat worked as you nodded desperately, voice cracking. “Yes! Yes, please…”

Bucky chuckled low, pressing one last kiss to your temple before sliding off your body. The bed shifted with his weight as he reached back to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer with steady hands. 

You craned your neck, watching him over your shoulder as he grabbed the lube and flicked the cap open. His big hand wrapped around the bottle. He caught your stare and smirked, squeezing a generous line of lube over his cock. The slick noise of him stroking himself filled the quiet room, obscene and unrelenting as he worked it from base to tip, slow on purpose to make you watch. 

He reached for the drawer again, this time pulling out one of your vibrators, a rose toy to be exact. You whimpered, pressing your thighs together, but the look he gave you had you spreading them again instantly.

He reached down with his fingers, parting your ass cheeks before dragging them over your hole. The lube felt cold, and you shivered hard when he circled the muscle, coating you in it. 

“I’ll make it good for you, baby. I promise," he whispered against your ear as he climbed back over you with his cock heavy and wet with precum against your skin.

You buried your face in the pillow as his fingers spread you open. His cockhead nudged against your rim and you let out a muffled moan. 

“Bucky…” you whimpered.

“Shh, It's alright.” His hand stroked down your spine, grounding, while the other guided himself against you. “Just the tip, baby. Nice and slow.” 

With steady pressure, he pushed forward until the thick head slipped past the tight ring of muscle. The burn was immediate, forcing a gasp out of your lips. Still, You stayed in place, just how he wanted.

“Fuck, so tight…” His voice dropped into a low groan, teeth grazing your shoulder as he held himself still, buried only to the crown.

Your whole body shook, torn between the sting and the aching fullness, every nerve screaming at once. “B-Buck…” you whimpered, pathetic and needy, “more—please…”

Bucky’s hand tightened on your hip as he started to move, his cock pushing deeper, just an inch at a time. 

You let out a gagged sound into the pillow, legs trembling. “Oh, God—Bucky—”

“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.” he murmured, voice ragged as his chest pressed to your back.

Every slow push filled you more, your body yielding bit by bit until you swore you could feel him everywhere, splitting you open. The pain lanced through you, but beneath it was something sweeter—an ache that curled low in your stomach, making your pussy throb even though he wasn’t inside it.

Your eyes squeezed and your back arched into him. “Fuck—fuck—it hurts so good,” you gasped, trembling under him.

His metal hand slipped under you to cup your throat, steadying you against the force of every inch he sank inside. “Yeah, that’s it, doll. Take it all. Love how tight you are back here… love how much you’re givin’ me.”

He pushed until there was nowhere left to go—his cock seated fully inside your ass. Your whole body went taut, shaking under the overwhelming fullness.

“Stay still for me.” His metal hand clamped around your hip, pinning you down. “I want you to feel every fuckin’ inch of me inside you right now.”

Your nails clawed into the sheets, whimpers spilling out as your body tried to adjust around the unbearable stretch. Bucky’s flesh hand dangled the rose-shaped toy in front of your face before setting it down within your reach. His lips brushed your jaw, almost tender despite the way he was still buried inside you. “Pick it up.”

You hesitated, still shaking. “B-Bucky—”

“Now,” he commanded, squeezing your throat just enough to make your pulse jump. “Be a good girl and use it on that needy little cunt. I’m not movin’ until you do.”

The demand sent heat shooting straight through your belly, your body clenching around him involuntarily.

“F-Fuck,” you whined, reaching forward with shaky fingers, snatching up the toy. The moment the soft silicone touched your swollen clit and the vibrations buzzed against you, your hips jerked despite the metal grip of his arm.

“There she is. Look at you—stuffed full of my cock and playin’ with yourself," he laughed darkly.

The rose worked mercilessly against your clitz Your body bucked, trying to writhe away from the intensity, but Bucky’s arm pinned you down with inhuman strength.

“Don’t you fuckin’ move,” he ordered, his hand moving from your throat to pull at your hair.

Your thighs quivered violently, the vibration sent sparks shooting through every nerve. "Fuck! Bucky, I can't!—"

Bucky shifted slightly, dragging his cock back just an inch before pressing it forward again, making you scream. 

“Oh, you can. Listen to you,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Shakin’, whimperin’—and you’re still makin’ a mess down there. Greedy little thing can’t get enough, huh?”

The vibrations on your clit became unbearable. Your body was already begging for release, and you cried out. "I can’t—I can’t—”

“I said— you can.” His metal arm moved, vibranium fingers twisted into your hair, holding you as his hips gave a shallow thrust. “You’re gonna cum on that toy with my cock buried in your ass. That’s what you’re gonna do, doll. For me.”

Your whole body convulsed, pleasure and pain blurring until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

“Should’ve shot better,” Bucky rasped against your ear, his voice full of smug cruelty as he rocked impossibly deeper into you.

Tears began falling down your face. “I know! I know! Fuck!” you cried. “Just— I can’t, fuck!”

“You can. You lost fair and square. And this is what happens, sweetheart. You take it until I fucking say you're done, you hear me?"

Bucky jerked your head back until your tear stained face met his. His gaze burned into yours and for a moment you thought he’d sneer at your pathetic state. Except instead he leaned in and his tongue dragged across your wet cheek, lapping up the tears like he’d been starving for them.

“Fuck,” he groaned, savoring it, his lips ghosting over yours. “You taste so good when you cry for me.”

The humiliation twisted right into arousal inside you, making you whimper as fresh tears spilled. His mouth followed them, licking, kissing, claiming every drop as if he owned them.

“You're so miserable,” Bucky murmured against your wet cheek, his thumb smearing the tears he hadn’t licked away. “My tough little shot-caller, reduced to a mess ‘cause you couldn’t win one little bet.”

You whimpered, trying to hide your face, but his hand caught your chin and held you there, forcing your teary eyes up to his.

“No hiding,” he ordered, catching the tiny movement of your hips. "You’re gonna take every inch and you’re gonna come all over it, slut. I can feel you getting there. You like being ruined, don’t you?"

“B-Bucky—” You tried to choke out a protest, but it dissolved into a sob as he pushed a little deeper, the head of his cock hitting a spot that made your vision go white.

“You’re gonna come,” he ordered, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re gonna come like this—crying, stuffed, humiliated. You’re gonna come on my cock and thank me for it.”

The combination—the stretch, the sting, the relentless buzz on your clit and the filth pouring from his mouth—broke you. A scream tore from your throat as your body seized. Orgasm ripped through you so violently you thought you might black out. You spasmed around him, clenching and while slick poured down your thighs. The toy still buzzed against your clit until you were a shaking, sobbing mess.

“Fuck, yes… That’s my girl,” Bucky growled, holding you there, still deep inside as you convulsed around him.

You whined through the aftershocks. Overstimulated and fucked out so hard you couldn't think.

“I know, baby… I know…” he muttered, voice rough, his hand stroking down your spine in a parody of comfort. “Just a little more. Gotta take care of me now.”

His thrusts grew rougher, more urgent, the steady drag of his cock in your ass turning into sharp, deep snaps of his hips. You whimpered beneath him, overwhelmed, pinned, unable to do anything but take it.

“That’s it. Just like that—fuck—so tight for me…” His breath stuttered, and the grip of his metal hand tightened on your hip until it hurt.

And then he pulled out with a guttural groan, his cock slipping free just in time to spill hot, thick ropes across the curve of your ass. The heat of it smeared over your skin as he stroked himself through the last waves, breath heavy, chest pressed against your back.

“Goddamn…” he muttered, dragging his thumb through the mess he’d left on you. 

Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavy. His breathing was still ragged in your ear but his metal hand loosened its bruising hold on your body. He didn’t pull away, just draped himself over you.

“Hey,” he murmured after a moment, voice hoarse but softer now. “You okay, doll?”

You let out a shaky laugh, muffled into the pillow. Your body felt heavy and wrung dry. “Yes, fuck… That was… something.” 

“Something, huh?” He chuckled low, kissing your temple as his fingers threaded gently through your damp hair, so different from the way he’d just had you. “Gonna take that as a good review.”

“Good… yeah,” you whispered, a lazy smile tugging at your lips even as exhaustion pulled at your bones. “In a terrifying, holy-shit way.”

“You liked it though,” Bucky murmured, his lips brushing your hairline.

A soft chuckle slipped out of you, admitting what he already knew. “Yeah… I did.”

“Loser,” he teased, grinning against your skin.

You groaned, nudging him weakly with your shoulder. “Just shut up already. And after this, you gotta get me some nice fucking flowers.”

He laughed, satisfied, and holding you closer. "Deal. What do you have in mind, hmm? Roses?" he mocked and you instantly nudged him again, much harder this time.

"Oh, shut up!"

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⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

⋆⁺₊✧ KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

In fact, something has been off ever since last Wednesday—when you failed the task you’d been assigned.

Tom is very well aware you don’t do this. You don’t use the Cruciatus Curse for pleasure. You don’t end, in your eyes, innocent people’s lives.

And yet, that is precisely what he demanded from you that night. You and two others were set on a Muggle family.

Capture. Torture. Kill. His words play in your head like a broken record.

It all came down to you that evening. You were supposed to finalise your partners’ well-executed preparations—but when it was your turn to act, you panicked. Your heart told you no, and you froze, essentially helping them to escape without a single scratch. 

Failure, especially of this kind, means expulsion—if you are lucky. Oftentimes, the treatment is worse. Often, if someone fails to take a life, they pay with their own instead. Tom is not benevolent, not forgiving. Tom is the cruellest of them all, even if he no longer dirties his hands with the killings himself.

But he is the one who sought after you in the first place. He wanted you to be part of his inner circle—had assigned you easy tasks so you didn’t need to do what he knew you weren’t able to.

Until that one day, when Rosier, very carefully, complained about the matter. The rich pureblood guy was tired of getting blood on his hands and had a noticeable issue with you in general.

And to your horror, Tom, who had been on edge the entire evening, agreed without further thought. Cut you short when you tried to speak to him after everyone had left.

It had been a test, and you failed miserably.

And that is why you can’t rid yourself of the thought that the sky cries for you today. Your legs are heavier than usual as they carry you with reluctantly hurried steps to his private residence in the middle of the busy streets of London.

It’s tiny and cramped with only two small rooms and entirely different from what you’d expect Riddle to live in. No luxuries, barely enough furniture to call it home. It’s quite literally the opposite of the lavish meetings at Rosier or Malfoy Manor, all suit and tie, fancy dinners with beautiful girls on their laps who’d later tipsily stumble up the stairs with their chosen man for the night.

Nobody ever visits this place for a good reason. It’s too basic, too unlike him. An old coffee machine on the vintage kitchen counter, a muggle newspaper from last week left open on the small wooden kitchen table. It would taint his image. His flawless image he has so carefully crafted over the years at Hogwarts and beyond. It makes him seem oddly human.

Nobody has seen it except for you. You’ve visited multiple times.

The first time branded itself into the forefront of your mind. Right after one of the evenings at Rosier Manor, where his hand had long slipped underneath the table to rest on your thigh, he gave you the address. “Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.” He had said, and for the first time since you met him at Hogwarts all these years back, you remember witnessing something warm behind his usually cold and focused chocolate brown eyes—the smallest, tiniest flame flickering behind them. Alight for you.

You also remember the smooth drawl of his voice as he handed you the paper. How your hand—trembling—reached out and quickly took it from him. How your heart skipped a beat, and yet you nodded. How he apparated away just a split second later without another word.

You’d barely stepped inside when he rushed you through the kitchen and into his bedroom. Cool hands beneath your blouse, exploring along your skin until he decided he had enough and hastily worked the buttons open.

Never had you expected something like this from him. Not in a thousand years. You’d heard countless stories about rejections, his cruelty and utter indifference towards others.

Though he has never been cruel to you.

Tom was harsh, rough, and quick. No kissing, touching only where necessary. Done after a few minutes when it’d barely started feeling good for you. He didn’t allow you to stay the night that day—and you thought, believed without a doubt, that this was it. One and done, and back to business as usual. Business you despised, and yet, he wouldn’t let you leave.

You took one last glance at his strangely ordinary kitchen before you reached for the door handle and pushed it down—stepping into the cold, crisp London night air with the firm belief you’d never return.

But you have, often.

Your first shared kiss felt like the first drop of rain in a desert after a decade of drought. So long had you waited for this, your hunger for more was nearly insatiable. He increasingly focused on your needs, put you in missionary for the first time and made you come with slow and deep thrusts, his lips on yours swallowing every little sound as your bodies clung together.

Between each visit nothing notably changed. An empty mug here or there, a battery-powered radio on the small shelf next to his fridge which occasionally croaked out muggle news.

You’d never dared to ask the questions on your mind. Still, he noticed each time your eyes scanned his place for any changes, returning to his as your lips curled into a tight smile.

“I don’t need more. Never had more.” Tom stated the one time your gaze lingered on the discoloured kitchen cloth for a moment too long.

Your eyes quickly returned to his, nodding awkwardly when you realised he’d caught you staring. 

You’re torn from your thoughts when you pass an all-too-familiar bus station—the one without a roof, where commuters would eagerly await the next bus in the midst of snowstorms in winter.

His apartment is just around the corner now, and you shiver with both the uncertainty of what’s about to happen and the rain soaking all the way through to your skin. You are freezing cold, legs numb with the weight of your drenched jeans clinging to them with every step you take.

The dim light coming from his kitchen casts a subtle reflection onto the rain-slick cobblestones as you ring the doorbell. However, there is no shadow, no sound, no movement. No sign of him, not even after you press the button again and again. By the time five minutes have passed, you look as though you’ve come fresh out of the shower—drop after drop of water trickling from your hair, face glistening with rain.

Ten minutes and another five rings later, and still nothing. You knock on the door, on the window, call his name—no answer.

The only sound accompanying you is the steady fall of raindrops onto the street and his windowsill. 

Drip.

Drip.

Drip. 

Your patience too has an end—but if you leave now, you know it will only get worse.

In fact, this is most likely part of whatever awaits you once he does answer the door.

Twenty minutes later, and your fingers tingle in the cold, wet weather of the evening, your whole body shivering against the cold. It is then, when you don’t know how much longer you can wait for him to finally have mercy on you and let you in, that the door creaks open just a few inches. 

Enough for your eyes to snap up, met with Tom’s, who carries an awfully indifferent expression on his face as he waves you in.

He doesn’t greet you, doesn’t speak. Just follows after you, step after step, until you’re in the middle of his kitchen. An oddly familiar smell hangs in the air the further you go—the soothing scent of fresh chamomile tea.

Tom does not drink chamomile tea.

He despised it even back at Hogwarts, and it’s perhaps the only item of food he didn’t touch whenever summer break ended and he came back looking thinner than before he left for home.

Nobody knew exactly where he resided during that time, but believing rumours, it was somewhere in the Muggle world.

They did not feed him well, and that was the only matter that concerned you.

Your lip quivers as you turn to face him. Either because of your slight hypothermia or your increasing anxiety—or perhaps both. It doesn’t matter—not anymore when the expression on his face almost has you choke on your breath.

You recognize it in an instant.

He’s never looked at you like that, no—but at others. Others who soon came to regret their misstep.

You’ve been led into the lion’s den, truly.

Your lips part to apologize, talk yourself out of the inevitable demise you’ve gotten yourself caught in, though he cuts you off before the first syllable even leaves your mouth.

“I have been made aware of your mistake,” he mutters, the calmness in his voice betraying his tense, irritated body language in its entirety.

Your heart hammers against your ribcage, adrenaline freely pumping through your veins—every natural instinct telling you to back off, to leave as fast as your legs can carry you. But you are grounded, anchored to the marble floor of his kitchen as he stalks closer when you don’t find the words to reply.

Step after step, until he stands right before you. Your eyes drop, hands fidgeting with each other—it’s as though you feel the charged energy radiating off him, the disappointment, the anger. 

You wonder whether the others felt like you do right now as well.

A beat of a moment passes before his index finger hooks under your chin, gently tilting your head up to meet his gaze. A muscle ticks in his clenched jaw, but it’s his eyes that put you off most—they’ve got an almost crimson tint to them, burning straight into yours.

You feel as though the world has stopped spinning.

The clock ticks with every passing second—every beat cutting through the infuriatingly tense silence between the both of you. Your mouth finally parts, though only a stuttering breath emerges as his head dips, stopping a mere inch before your lips.

“On the bed. I trust you are aware of how I want you.”

Heat rushes to your face, and you swallow tightly. You can’t decide whether it’s with relief or fear. 

“Tom, I—“

SLAP!

His palm meets your left cheek with such force your head snaps to the side and you stumble backwards—ears ringing, vision swimming as you struggle to steady yourself against the rough edge of the kitchen counter. 

He slowly lifts his hand to level your face, having you flinch slightly—but unlike you expect, his touch is soft, almost apologetic, as the back of his hand caresses the spot he’s just struck.

“Must I repeat myself?” he mutters, his tone firm and strict.

With a trembling bottom lip, gaze so focused it could potentially burn a hole in the floor, you reluctantly shake your head.

“No, sir.”

His fingers curl underneath your chin once more, forcing your head straight. “Look at me when you speak.”

Blinking back tears, you slowly lift your eyes to his. “No, sir.”

Tom nods, hand falling to his side.

“Go on, then. I will be there shortly.”

And so you do. You pass his brooding figure, shaky legs carrying you towards his cramped bedroom. It’s barely spacious enough to fit a single bed, a nightstand and a closet, and yet, you prefer it over your own—except for now. Now, you’d rather be anywhere than here, stripping your wet clothes piece after piece before you kneel on his bed with your hands resting on your lap, head hung low.

Waiting for him.

Each passing moment is agony.

Finally, after around ten minutes, footsteps near the room, and Tom enters with what you make out to be a small box from the edge of your vision.

“Come closer,” he demands lowly, and you comply, settling at the edge of the bed. Swiftly, he withdraws a thin piece of black satin fabric from the wooden crate, showing it to you before he wraps it around your head, covering your eyes.

You jerk away slightly, but his firm hand at the back of your head stops you. “Stay still.”

He ties a tight knot that ensures the material does not slip from your face. Your eyes are closed—but even if you opened them, you wouldn’t be able to see a thing.

He blindfolded you.

Your heart rate picks up at the realisation, other senses now working overtime. Though, for what feels like an eternity, you don’t hear nor feel anything else. No footsteps, no touch. Just the occasional cold breeze of air sweeping past your bare body.

And you’re right—Tom hasn’t moved an inch since. Instead, he’s been studying your helpless, exposed form situated right before him. Trying to make yourself small, head sunk low. Following his every order, like the good girl he knows you want to be for him.

But it’s too late to be good now.

For days he’s been anticipating this—the sight of you, all unknowing, kneeling bare on the edge of his bed while he has the course of the night perfectly mapped out in his mind.

Punishment for disobedience. Just not as he’d usually do it.

The kind that has blood rushing to his cock, straining against the confinement of his dress pants—achingly so.

“Center of the bed. Lie down with your hands behind your back. Now.”

You inhale a shaky breath as you comply, settling in the middle of his hard mattress, your face resting against the smooth satin bedsheets as your arms cross behind your back.

Tom calculatedly walks to the other side of the room, every resounding step having goosebumps rise on your exposed skin. Even though you can’t see his face, you feel his eyes on you—like a predator stalking its prey.

Then—a sharp sound, which makes you jump ever so slightly. Darkness envelops you as your eyes blink open beneath the fabric—even more so than before. He’s closed the blinds, you figure.

And by the cloud of smoky scent coming your way, lit candles instead.

You try to focus on your breathing, lungs carefully expanding behind your ribs—but your effort to stay calm is shredded to pieces once he stalks closer, coming to a halt right before the bed.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, fingertips trailing over the heated skin on the inside of your arms. “Listening to what I say.”

It’s soft, barely touching your skin—and yet, it makes you whimper.

Then, he mumbles a string of incoherent words in a foreign language—parsteltongue, you figure—and in the blink of an eye, thick, tight ropes warp around your arms and legs, securing them in place. You breathe a gasp as the rough material scrapes against your skin, digging into your flesh when you try to move.

With your arms bound down the length of your spine, knees bent and tied, you are now lying face down, ass up, left at his mercy. It’s not what you expected to happen, not really—but you aren’t quite sure whether this is better or worse.

“I am assured you remember the word?” Tom asks lowly, silently opening the crate he’s brought with him, withdrawing something and laying it down next to you.

The word—yes, you do remember. The one he’s told you to use if it ever becomes too much, if you want him to stop whenever he’s rougher with you, when tears flow freely down your cheeks, nails digging into his back.

You’ve never had to use it.

“Yes, I do.”

The small flames’ shadows dance on the silhouette of your body as he slowly makes his way around the far edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight as he places one of his knees next to your bound form. He scans over your body once more, and then, a split second later, his eyes darken with lust.

“You still haven’t learnt. You are merciful. You are soft. You are compassionate and kind. Like this, you are useless to our cause.” Tom’s hand rakes through the messy curls of your hair, and with one sharp tug, he forces your neck to bend at an angle most uncomfortable—his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear before he speaks up again, lowering his voice as he does.

“So, don’t mind if your master is none of these tonight.”

With practised ease, the firm leather drags along your spine, down the curve of your ass and thighs. You stifle a sob, biting your lips to keep quiet when you realise what it is that he’s caressing you with.

The corner of Tom’s mouth lifts into a subtle smirk at the sight of your trembling bottom lip, chest heaving with every breath you take.

“Who do you belong to?”

Thwack!

“Y—You!”

He grunts in annoyance, swinging the leather with more force as it strikes the already irritated skin of the round curve of your ass with a resounding slap! again.

“Address me properly.”

Your lips mutter an apology before your brain can follow—quickly adding, “you. I belong to you, master.”

“Whose—and whose only—orders do you follow?” Thwack!

A sob follows the sting before you choke out a reply. “Yours, sir.”

Tom’s skin is ice-cold as he soothes over your hot, irritated skin—and you flinch at the contrast, sniffling.

You’re overwhelmed, to say the least. Tom’s comforting touch betraying the harsh impact of the leather on your skin, muscles aching, burning from how long you’ve been in the same position.

And it doesn’t stop.

Hit, after hit, after hit.

Until the only word you remember is sorry.

Bruises bloom beneath your skin, candles almost mockingly imitating the shift of air onto your shivering body as he lifts his arm one last time.

And this one, he’ll make sure you remember.

“Apologize,” he breathes, knowing damn well it’s the only thing you’ve been doing for the past thirty minutes.

Hot tears streak your cheeks, sheets soaked in your misery. And still, you lift your head slightly, nearly stumbling over your words as you open your mouth to speak.

“I am so sorry— please forgive me, I— I can make it right, I promise, I—“

The force of the next impact cuts you off before you get to finish, rippling through your entire body and having a raw scream tear from your throat, biting your lip so hard, you taste the metallic scent of your own blood.

Your nerves are on fire, every muscle sore, and still, the only thing you can do is stay there and take it.

But Tom decides to have mercy with you—for a little while.

He steps away, admiring his work. You’re glistening with sweat, muscles twitching, lips swollen and bleeding. Mumbling incoherent words, some of them resembling apologies.

His favourite doll has always been a broken one.

When his hands undo his belt, dropping the leather to the floor, you whimper—and for a second, a split moment, he does consider going easy on you, watching your expression closely.

Then, he remembers the trouble he had to go through to cover for your mistake. Getting rid of the evidence, wiping memories, finding the people you let go.

Just to keep you safe.

And so, the thought is discarded as quickly as it came.

He doesn’t bother undoing his tie and shirt, merely slipping his grey suit vest off before he joins you on the bed, smoothing his palm over the hot, bruised curve of your ass.

Even in the dim, flickering candlelight, he sees the marks he’s left behind—welts, sore skin, dark bruises reflecting the past thirty minutes.

One of his hands settles on your hip, the other giving his cock a few tight strokes before he lines himself up with your entrance—scoffing under his breath when he feels your sticky arousal coating his flushed tip.

“You shouldn’t be enjoying this, slut.” he rasps, tips of his fingers digging into your sore flesh before he impales you with his thick length all at once.

No time to breathe. No time to adjust. Hell, not even time to process what is happening before he buries himself to the hilt in your embarrassingly aroused cunt, tearing his way along your walls.

“T— sir— please, I— I can’t take it,” you sob, face damp with tears, sweat and saliva, jerking forwards as far as you can when he nudges at your overly sensitive cervix.

But Tom grabs hold of the ropes binding your arms behind your back, painfully pulling you back onto him.

All the way. Every single, torturous inch.

“You can, and you will.” Tom growls, tightening the binds further. “Or do you wish for me to treat you just like any other traitor?”

You shake your head no as far as your strained neck allows you.

“No, no, please.”

“I thought so,” he grumbles, withdrawing a few inches before he snaps his hips forwards again. “Now, be still and take it. You won’t remember your name when I am done with you.”

And Tom is usually a man to keep his promises.

He soon finds a harsh rhythm, which very much reminds you of your first time together. Except your shoulders weren’t sore from the strain of being tied, your skin wasn’t covered in bruises after, and you didn’t feel as though you’d faint any minute—the position your head rests against his mattress utterly uncomfortable, making it hard to suck in enough oxygen to fill your lungs, each harsh thrust knocking the air right back out.

Tom revels in it. Your whimpers and whines, reluctant moans. The slick sounds coming from where he stabs into you mercilessly, your cunt weeping around him in both arousal and the burn of the stretch.

He doesn’t care, not really—instead, he speeds up, tight grip hauling you back against him to meet his every thrust. 

“So goddamn tight—tighter than a fucking noose,” he groans, slamming his entire length into your tight walls. “Only making this harder for yourself.”

Your senses are numb with adrenaline, pleasure slowly replacing the initial pain—pain that you have, as strange as it sounds, learned to love. And so, your pleasure builds alongside his, every rough, deep thrust brushing against that spongy spot inside of you having your eyes roll back, walls clamping down around his invading length.

And he does notice it, too. How your moans grow louder, how you squeeze his cock with reluctant pleasure. How your fluttering walls and the sight of your roughed-up body have his high build quicker than usual. How he wishes to drag it out, make you a brainless, fucked-out mess.

Punish you for being too good, too sweet to strangers.

For not being his—not yet.

“P-please—“ you cry out, toes curling and pussy clenching tight around him as he thrusts deep. You are so close—so embarrassingly close while your brain tries to process the sensory overload. Pain. Pleasure. Heat. Soreness. His perfume. Lit candles.

“Please, master,” you sob, cheeks damp with tears. “Please, may I come?”

It’s too much to handle, too hard to hold back.

And he knows it. He knows how badly you want this.

But Tom—he has other plans for you. Something that will test your limits, something that even he is reluctant to try with you.

“You may not.”

You whine and beg, but your pleas fall on deaf ears. You’re so close, right on the edge, and you are certain he is too with the way his cock pulses inside you, thrusts growing erratic, stuttering against your hips—

When suddenly you feel the tip of his wand trail down the length of your spine, and before you even get to ask what he’s doing, the words fall over his lips.

“Crucio.”

It’s white-hot agony that ripples through your body, frying your nerves and setting your body on fire. Screams tear from your already sore throat until your voice is hoarse and dizziness overcomes you. Your muscles are spasming under the electric red curse pointed at your bound body—cramping, blinding your vision with tears and the ever-growing darkness of exhaustion.

Exhaustion from lust, pleasure—and first and foremost, pain.

Your body is tense—aflame with agony. And Tom—he comes, hard. You are clamping down around him so tightly, he can barely keep moving—spilling his hot, white seed deep inside of your warm walls, the swollen head of his cock pushing it even deeper as he twitches with pleasure.

And you—darkness envelops your mind, barely feeling the flooding warmth of his climax inside of you before your breathing shallows and your muscles relax even under the excruciating curse. A moment later, with one last, weak sob, you succumb to the overwhelming feelings in nearly every part of your body.

Your vision goes dark as you slowly slip into unconsciousness, slumping onto his bed.

Only when he’s done does he end the curse, carelessly throwing his wand to the side before he pulls out of your sore cunt, muttering a spell to free you from your restraints.

Clear thoughts slowly win over his still-hazy mind, and a worried look etches onto his face when he takes in the state of you.

Your sweat-damp hair sticks to your neck and face, bruises spread all over your body, skin sore with marks caused by the tight restraints. He swiftly dresses himself, scooping up your limp body from his bed and carrying you to the living room, settling onto his armchair with you in his arms to keep you close.

—

You whimper when your eyes drowsily blink open, even the subtle light of his small lamp too bright for your sore eyes—and when you try to move your head, a stinging pain shoots through your entire body, having you slump back onto whatever it is you are lying on.

You’re too weak to even lift your arm, every single muscle in your body protesting.

Only by the scent of his perfume do you realise it is Tom who’s cradling you against his chest, one of his arms wrapped snugly around your waist while the other brushes over your hair.

“Don’t move. It’s me, I am here. Don’t move,” Tom soothes, pulling you even closer to him.

He has wrapped a blanket around your still-bare body, and a sob escapes your swollen lips as memories come flooding back, remembering everything that has happened—nuzzling into his firm chest, looking for comfort and reassurance.

“‘M sorry, Tom. Didn’t— didn’t mean to—“ you rasp, voice hoarse and strained, coughing a few times.

He gently rocks you against him, placing a kiss on the top of your head. “Shhh, I know. I know you didn’t.”

Tom then lifts a cup to your lips, and you reluctantly take a small sip of the warm liquid.

Chamomile tea.

Your favourite.

“There you go, sweetheart.” he praises, settling the cup on the small table next to you. “Was I too rough? Are you hurting?”

Weakly, you shake your head. “By the smell of it, you already have a Pain Relieving Potion brewing.”

“That I do.”

You stay cuddled into him for a little while longer, feeling the soft thrum of his heartbeat beneath your right palm.

“I’ll make it right again,” you whisper, head lifting to meet his softened, slightly worried eyes.

“You will do nothing as such,” he responds, kissing your forehead as his hand entwines with yours.

“I have long taken care of everything. You are innocent, nobody remembers what happened that night.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | kinktober.

Today, something put you off. Tom was pressed up tighter against that one girl, seemed to whisper more than just instructions in her ear. And she had the audacity to smile at you during it all, knowing it would rile you up, make you jealous. Because even if nobody knew about what happened after class on Friday afternoons between your professor and you, people talked, people suspected. Especially her—she has always had a strong opinion when it comes to you.

You have despised her ever since she spilt wine over your finest ball dress a few years ago and didn’t even bother to apologize. In short, she is a stuck-up, egoistic brat from a rich background who believes she can get away with anything.

But not with you, never.

And the worst of all: Tom has close ties to her family, meaning he has to play along with her antics. 

Still, you told yourself that it was probably nothing. Tried to ignore it. But when it happened again, and she took a step back just to “accidentally” brush against his front, shooting you a challenging look—you lost it.

Your eyes burned with rage, and for the rest of the lesson your focus lied on anything but the matter he was trying to teach. Every soft smile, every whispered praise bothered you. And when it was his turn to assist you, already reaching for your hand—you snapped.

“I don’t require your help,” you sneered, turning away from him.

Perhaps you were a little too bold. Too loud.

The room fell to dead silence at once, air buzzing with tension—and not only because even Tom seemed to be surprised at your sudden outburst, but numerous people stared at you, then at him. Back at you.

While being the most knowledgeable professor of all, he is also the strictest. Nobody dares speak up against him or complain about the piles of homework he assigns every week—many students saying they’d rather have a whole month of only History of Magic, the most boring subject of all, than to sit through two hours of detention with him.

“As you wish. I will expect a perfect execution of the spell next lesson.” he replied almost too casually, not sparing you another glance before he moved on to the next student.

Internally, you were cursing yourself. Once again, you’d let jealousy get ahead of you, and now—

You were in trouble. Big trouble.

The end of the lesson approached promptly after, students whispering to themselves as they swiftly packed their bags, some of them sending you sympathetic looks before they left the classroom as fast as they could.

You too shoved your textbooks into your bag, swinging it over your shoulder before you rushed past his desk, anger still blooming low in your chest—though, just short of the door, his voice stopped you.

“Miss, do you mind staying for a while longer?”

Cold. Casual. Final.

Not a question, but a demand.

Your shoulders curled in themselves, and you sighed in defeat.

You were well aware he wasn’t going to give you detention. No extra work either. No reports to the principal about your behaviour.

Instead, he would take care of it himself—just like he always does.

—

And that is how you’ve ended up here, in his study, late at night. The sun had long disappeared behind the horizon, its last, weak rays painting the sky in a golden-red colour before they ceased to be visible altogether, replaced by the tranquil darkness of the night.

You’ve been perched on his lap for three whole hours.

Tom hasn’t spoken to you this entire time—instead, he’s been grading papers of first years. Then, homework of the year below you. After, wrote a letter to the Ministry.

Never spared you a single glance.

Every conversation you’ve tried to start ended in a dead end of ever-stretching silence.

The only two things entertaining you are the candles, flickering low in the corner of the room, their shadows dancing on the plain white wall, and the intoxicating scent of his signature cologne. A deep, rich woody note—sandalwood, perhaps—mixed with the crisp aroma of fresh mint.

Oh, and not to forget, one or the other twitch of his cock, which has been nudging uncomfortably at your cervix ever since he made you sink down on him hours ago and hasn’t let you move an inch since.

“Please, Tom,” you whine, shifting on his lap ever so slightly—but his left hand digs into the flesh of your hip in an instant, halting your movements. And again—silence.

Another thirty agonizing minutes pass, and it surely must be 1 or 2 in the morning at this point. Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing moment, and it’s then that he finally puts his quill down and sinks back against his chair, dark brown eyes meeting your own for the first time that night. 

“Jealous little thing,” he sighs after a moment of just staring at you, one or two additional wrinkles etched onto his forehead, eyes glassy and reddened. He too is exhausted. “Are you sorry yet?”

“Sorry for what?” You blurt out a bit too quickly, eyebrows drawing together. None of this was your fault, and yet he had the audacity to ask—

Tom sighs, returning his focus to the stack of papers on his desk. He’d not let you off until you learned that cooperating with him is the only way to end your misery. And although tired, he could do this for hours—which you should already be well aware of.

But you, on the other hand, no longer want to play his game. Your head dips to the crook of his neck, gently trailing kisses down the side of his throat, hands working to loosen his tie—rolling your hips against his as you do.

Just to see how far you could take it until he’d finally lose his patience with you.

Your punishment shall now be his, too.

“Quit that.” he tells you. Once, twice, perhaps three times.

By the fourth time, he huffs another sigh, one of his hands dropping to rest on your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt. The sudden skin-to-skin contact has a soft whimper slip from your lips—his palm hot and steady, the cool rings adorning his fingers a stark contrast to your heated leg.

His quill is still scribbling letters on the fresh parchment, and he is focused on anything but you when his hand wanders higher. Inch by careful inch, until the tips of his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your skirt—which has ridden up so far in the meantime, he finds the lace of your panties just a moment later.

“Please,” you whisper again, lips brushing against his ear as you toss his tie to the ground. Anything to get him to pause his work.

Tom still doesn’t seem affected in the slightest, though—dipping his custom-made quill into the black ink to add his signature underneath the content of his letter, folding the parchment and putting it in an envelope before he seals it with red wax.

His thumb, at the same time, draws patterns along the soft material of your underwear—teasingly slow, just shy of where you need him most. 

Half of his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of his toned chest when his finger eventually dips lower—brushing right over your center, and the wet spot that has formed on the fabric.

Tom’s gaze drops to your exposed thighs as he feels your arousal dampening his thumb—scoffing lowly, mockingly almost, when he catches a glimpse of the state of the fabric. Ruined and soaked with your slick, although he’s kept you full of him all these hours.

And, what’s worse—you can’t help but grind your hips on only his finger, chasing after the little friction it provides you.

He shakes his head, his second hand on your hips anchoring you to him. “Needy, impatient girl. Whatever should I do with you?”

His voice does things to your brain you are too embarrassed to admit. Raspy with sleep, coiling around you like a curse and sending a wave of heat right to your core—the second time he spoke directly to you since he made you sit on his lap, cock buried deep between your folds as he started busying himself with work.

“Anything,” you whine, cunt clamping down around his invading length with shameful need—but when his lips curl into a smirk you know all too well, you quickly come to regret your plea.

“Get up and bend over my lap,” he says, leaning back against his chair. “And don’t make me tell you twice.”

So you do. Slowly, you lift yourself from his lap, the slow drag of his cock against your sensitive walls effectively short-circuiting your brain, breath catching low in your throat. But you’re too slow for his liking—so he grabs your waist, lifts you off him and turns you around to bend over his lap in one smooth motion.

Tom then bunches your skirt over your hips, a chilly breeze of air sweeping past the now exposed curve of your ass, having goosebumps flood your skin, shivering. He quickly shushes you by caressing the soft skin with his palm, fingers digging into your flesh before he lands a soft smack on your ass.

Experimenting.

When your reaction is nothing less than a needy moan, almost begging for another, the next blow is harsher than the last—the unyielding metal of his rings adding into the sensation, leaving welts blooming on your tender skin as he slaps you another time. 

“How many?” you ask softly, although you already expect what his answer may be.

“Until you apologize.”

Another resounding smack echoes around the tiny room before you get to reply.

By the tenth, the spots he’s struck feel as though on fire, tingling more painfully with every next strike. You squeal in his lap, choking out a sob—but his arm wraps around your waist swiftly, trapping you pressed against him.

He pauses briefly, hand soothing over the irritated skin, kneading tenderly. 

“Sorry yet?”

You shake your head.

“No.”

He scoffs lowly, landing another merciless smack on your ass. “Alright, then.”

And although the predicament you’ve gotten yourself caught in turns you on way more than it should, panties a mess as your professor’s hand corrects your behaviour in a less than appropriate way—you start regretting answering no soon after. Mascara streaks over your cheeks as tears begin spilling from your waterline, every slap harsher and more painful than the last.

And Tom, well, he enjoys this more than he’d want to admit. Angling his palm just right, rings painfully digging into the already sore skin with every single hit. And every broken squeak and whimper of yours, every tear rolling down your pretty face only makes his cock grow harder, straining against the firm fabric of his dress pants.

By what you guess to be the thirtieth, you finally surrender.

“Okay, okay! Please, stop— I am sorry, I am sorry!” you sob, whimpering softly as his hand caresses the curve of your bruised ass, his other gently trailing along your spine.

“There we go. Was it really that difficult?” he hums, fingers already hooking into the flimsy lace of your panties, tugging them down just enough to reveal your glistening cunt to his eyes.

“Soaked, too. Pathetic is what you are,” Tom huffs, parting your folds with his index and middle fingers—leaning over you just to add his spit to the sticky mess. His middle finger lazily drags through your slick, circling teasingly around your entrance, just shy of pushing inside. “Spread your legs, doll. Let me see.”

And that’s just what you do.

Only the tip of his finger enters at first, thrusting slowly until your hips buck and you beg him to give you more.

“Tom, please— don’t tease.” 

Smack!

You yelp at the sudden sting. It’s a reminder that you still aren’t the one giving orders—candles flickering low in the corner at the sudden shift of air.

“If you want something, address me properly.” he says, fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head backwards slightly—just so you’re able to see his strict gaze from the corner of your vision.

“I need you, sir—your fingers, anything. Please.”

He hums lowly as he returns to your cunt, coating his fingers in your slick before he dips them inside merely an inch—a satisfied, throaty groan reverberating in his chest.

“Look at yourself. Stretched open so beautifully already—sucking me right in.”

You can only offer a croaky whimper in reply, every inch, every ridge of his fingers setting your nerves aflame with lust and hunger for more—clenching down around him, hands clutching at his thighs as your nails dig into his flesh.

“More— please more, sir.” Your plea is answered just a moment later when he digs deeper, working you open around his long, slender fingers, momentarily stealing your breath away at the stretch—and his rings only add to the friction, cold metal biting into your sensitive walls with every deliberate drag of his fingers.

“You are fucking soaking me. That good?” Tom rasps, lips curving into a smirk as he curls his fingers just like he learned has your vision go dark around the edges and stars dance in front of your eyes. 

“Y— yes, God, yes,” you squeal, thighs trembling as his fingertips find the exact spot he’s been looking for—caressing the spongey spot gently until he feels you pulse and throb around him.

It’s only been three minutes since he’s entered you, and you are already dripping around him, orgasm approaching faster than you’d like.

The mere sensation of his ring-clad fingers driving in and out of your pussy in quick succession has your mind go blank, clear liquid gushing out around his digits as he works you closer and closer to your high—not caring about the mess you’re making on his fine, hand-tailored trousers.

“Please— please,” you half-sob when his thumb presses down on your swollen clit, fingers thrusting deeper—and you are ready to tip over the edge and let the pleasure he’s denied you for so long consume you.

But instead he withdraws when he feels your walls fluttering around him.

You whine at the sudden loss, his arm circling your waist again, pulling you closer to him before he smacks you three more times, too quick for you to even try to stop him—instead squealing and apologizing. For what, you don’t know exactly.

“Please what? Use your words, brat.” he says, his hand wandering from your waist to your throat, pressing down—just enough to make you feel lightheaded.

“Please let me cum, sir.” you gasp, begging for the release you’ve been craving for more than four hours now.

Tom adds another finger when he enters you again a second later, stretching you taut around him—the naughtiest moan slipping from your lips at the burning sensation between your thighs.

It reminds you of the first time he thrust himself into you—whispering soothing praises into your ear, calling you his good girl…

But today, you weren’t good.

And if you really think he’ll let you cum after all this—you are mistaken.

His thumb is back on your swollen clit as he feels you tighten, walls eagerly clenching and pulsing around him—and judging by the way your muscles tense, breath catching in your throat, you are right there. Right on the edge of the orgasm he won’t let you reach.

And then, when you’re about to tip over the edge, drowning in the overwhelming waves of your high—he pulls away at once, leaving your cunt to pulse and clamp down around nothing, a broken whimper escaping your parted lips.

Then, he slaps your clit, hard.

“Brats don’t deserve to come. And that’s precisely what you were today.”

A tear rolls down your cheek, but you don’t protest—it’s no use. Even if you did—it’d most likely result in the exact opposite of what you want.

So, you stay bent over his lap until your thighs stop trembling, and he helps you sit upright again—placing you right above his painfully hard cock. You sob, once, twice, wiping your tears on his expensive suit as his hand caresses your head.

Tom can’t help but smile to himself at the state of you—exhausted, fucked out, all while he didn’t even let you come.

Gorgeous.

He then cups your face, making you look at him and brushing his fingers over your lips.

“You soaked me, filthy girl. Clean up your mess.”

As if on command, your mouth parts for him, granting him entrance as your tongue obediently works to lick your own arousal from his skin—staring right into his chocolate brown eyes which have a satisfied glint to them.

After you’re done, he presses his lips to yours, kissing you gently—letting you rest against him before he hauls you from his lap. 

At the same time, he frees himself from the confinement of his trousers, leaving them to pool around his ankles—and just the sight of his rock-hard length has you swallow hard.

But it’s not what you expect that comes next—of course it isn’t.

“On your knees,” he drawls, threading his fingers through your hair, gently tugging you down to drop to the floor of his study. 

“And now, open your bratty mouth like the good girl your parents think you are.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | kinktober.

♡ warnings: reader is called a bitch once in the beginning (not by bucky!) !!!

“No, you’re right, Brad. I’m the asshole for expecting you not to sneak out of my apartment in the middle of the night without warning. That’s my bad.”

You blaze through the kitchen and entryway of your apartment, hot on the heels of the guy you thought was about to be your boyfriend, feeling a little guilty toward your downstairs neighbor for the way your bare feet thud against the floor. 

“I thought you just wanted something casual!” Brad says, exasperated, as he throws open your front door and stumbles out into the hall, halfway into one of his shoes. 

“He says after our third date,” you toss back. You cross your arms, leaning against the frame as you watch him struggle into the boot. “Were you even listening to the things I was saying on those? Or just waiting for me to stop talking and hoping I’d split the bills with you?” 

Brad groans. “All I said was that Caravaggio’s was really nice for a first date.”

“Yeah, well. Some of us like to make a good first impression.” 

And you had; you’d worn something nice, spent a good few hours in the shower and getting ready in front of your mirror, and you might’ve stalked his socials beforehand to have some talking points prepared ahead of time. Meanwhile, Brad had shown up in jeans and then fumbled his way through asking if they could split the check. 

Pausing by the bannister of the stairs, Brad scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. 

“What do you want me to say? Look—you’re really nice, and I had fun. Seriously. But I just wanted to hook up.” 

“You couldn’t have told me that when I asked you what you wanted?” 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “I didn’t want you to think I was a jerk. Okay?”  

“Great job you did on that,” you snap. “Pro tip: next time you try to sneak out of someone’s bed and ghost them in the middle of the night? Don’t leave your fucking phone behind so your other girlfriends can text you and wake them up before the sheets are even cold.” 

Uncrossing your arms, in your thin sleep shirt you’d tugged on to follow him out, you toss his phone at him. It skids across the floor and lands face down, its case-less, screen protector-less edges giving a satisfying crunch. 

“We’ve been on three dates,” Brad bites, crouching down with a curse to examine his phone. “What—did you think we were gonna get fucking married?” 

You tilt your head. “No, Brad. I just thought I could settle for the bare minimum, but it turns out you can’t manage to meet the bar even when it’s below the floor.” 

Brad looks at you for a second, his true colors shining through, before he scoffs and shakes his head. 

“Bitch.” 

He spins and heads for the stairs, rounding the bannister and then starting down to the ground level. You hear him stumble for a second where your eyes are still twitching, locked on where he disappeared, and a moment later, your neighbor appears in the gap. 

James’ eyes flick up to you as he pauses on the landing, then continues his steady footfalls until he reaches the door beside yours. You should say something, probably, but you’re still trying to talk yourself off the edge, and it’s not like James has ever made any effort to talk to you either. So. 

Letting your eyes fall shut, you take in a deep breath and let it out again, listening to the jingle of his keys as he pulls them out of his pocket. You wait to hear them turn in the lock, but they never do. 

When the silence stretches, James’ slow breaths and your elevated heart rate the only noise in the hall, you chance a look over at him. 

“You should stop dating assholes,” he says. 

The novelty of hearing his low, gruff voice for the first time isn’t enough to change the fact that his words hit right where it hurts. Your eyes narrow, your body pushing off the frame to turn and face him. 

“Excuse me?” 

James doesn’t bother repeating himself. Just stares. You can feel your blood pressure increasing with each time he blinks without another word. 

“You mean like the kind of assholes that don’t speak to me despite living next to each other for six months and then decide a good opener would be ‘stop dating assholes’?” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Unbelievable.” 

When he just keeps staring and it becomes obvious he doesn’t plan on saying anything else, you give up and storm back into your apartment, letting the door shut soundly behind you. You do up the locks and navigate to the kitchen on autopilot, reaching for the pain killers to combat the headache you can already feel forming behind your eyelids, washing it down with water from the tap and leaving the glass on the counter for tomorrow. 

Your bedroom feels too stifling when you walk back in, thick with lingering heat and the smell of Brad’s knockoff cologne. Spinning on your heel, you march back to the hall closet to fetch some clean blankets and drag them out to your couch instead, collapsing in a heap onto the cushions. 

You turn the television on but leave the lights off, hoping that the low volume of an old sitcom will make you feel less alone so you can get some much needed sleep. 

You’re not even an episode in when the tears come, hot and stinging and stubborn, and you’re too tired to this time to try and stop them. Instead, you bury your face into your cocoon of blankets while a laugh track plays distantly on the TV, and you let yourself pretend for a moment that things could have worked out. 

It’s still not enough to drown out the thought plastered on the backs of your eyelids, sharp and quiet: maybe it’s me. 

But that, like always, is a problem for tomorrow. 

The coffee shop you usually stop at before work is closed this Monday, so you have to leave a little earlier to get to the other one. It’s past time you should invest in one of those fancy little ones for your apartment, but the routine of stopping by the cute cafe on the corner to stock up on your much needed caffeine has become too much of a comfort to give it up now. 

The further coffee shop is pretty much the opposite of that. 

It’s loud, and crowded, and you get shoved in the shoulder more than once trying to make your way to the counter. You’re rushed through placing your order and then told to wait at the end of the display, and you tuck yourself into a corner, pulling out your phone to pass the time. 

Several people come and go in front of you, and you glance at them as they pass by. But then your eye catches on an unfortunately friendly face—and a gnarly looking, half-faded black eye bruise covering one side of his temple. 

“Brad?” you say, sticking your phone back into your pocket. “What the hell happened to your face?” 

Brad, who’d been grimacing a smile toward the barista handing him his drink, immediately drops into a scowl when he sees you. He steps off to the side and lowers his voice, obviously in a rush. 

“Seriously?” he huffs. “Your little boyfriend ran me down after I left and laid one on me for calling you a bitch.” 

You frown. “My boyfriend?” 

“Creepy guy in the leather jacket coming up the stairs? Looked a little older than us, but whatever.” 

…Barnes? You tune Brad out for a second, your thoughts scattered. James is the one that’d given him a black eye? After you fought with him too? 

The only reason you even know Barnes’ name at all is because, once, some of his mail had gotten delivered to your box instead of his in the mail room, and you’re the only two with a 3 printed in front of your boxes. It was just a credit card advertisement and a pizza coupon so it wasn’t anything particularly invasive of his privacy, but you’d finally seen his name: James Buchanan Barnes. 

It’s not adding up. You hadn’t even seen him the remainder of the weekend after Friday night (morning?), and you hadn’t heard anything else that night out in the hall or downstairs. Nothing to suggest that he’d punched someone for you. Up until now, you’d been pretty sure he hated you. 

“Rich of you to accuse me of talking to multiple people when you’re doing the same thing,” Brad continues with a grumble. “Could’ve pressed charges on the asshole.” 

Even as he says it, you can see the way he hides behind his cappuccino, the way his eyes shift off to the side. James must’ve really gotten to him. 

“I’m gonna be late,” you dismiss yourself, slipping by him to grab your drink off the counter and head for the door past the morning rush. 

You end up thinking about it all the way to work and throughout your day, confused and…flattered? It’s not like you hadn’t made your point pretty clearly, but you can’t deny that it’s nice that somebody cared enough to, well. To commit an act of physical violence to defend your honor. 

Even though Brad probably won’t stop being an asshole, he’d been different even today; hadn’t insulted you as much, never shoved at your shoulder or impeded on your personal space. And maybe, if James made him think twice about doing it to you, he might think twice about doing it to any other women too. 

Well, fuck. You’re going to have to go see Barnes. 

You wish you could say you were dreading it more. 

When you show up at his door later that night with a six pack and a tentative smile, you aren’t even sure he’ll be home, much less that he’d let you inside. 

There’s silence on the other side of the door after you knock, no shifting, no footfalls, no warning when it suddenly creaks open after a minute and James blinks at you as he leans on the doorframe. 

“I have to admit, I’m not really sure what constitutes a good gift for someone that punches my ex in the face to defend my honor,” you say with your best game face, holding up the six pack, “but I’m hoping that beer’s a good start. You seem like a beer guy.” 

The twitch in James’ brow seems vaguely concerned. He folds his arms over his chest, the lines of his black tee stretching over a tan bicep and what you’re now realizing is a prosthetic on his left, and he tracks the movement of your eyes with his own. 

“I seem like a beer guy,” he repeats blankly. 

Your smile stretches into a wince. “That was a compliment?” 

“You sure about that?” 

“Do you want the beer or not?” 

This is a thank you. You’re not here to kiss his ass. 

He sizes you up again for a second, and then steps back, using his boot to nudge the door open further. “You comin’ in?” 

The inside of his apartment is nearly a mirror of yours, your living rooms facing outward, your bedrooms up against each other on the inside wall. It’s dark, with only a lamp on by the armchair in the den, his leather jacket thrown across the back of it. You have no idea what James does as a job, only that he seems to come and go at odd hours, and that he’s usually up during the night when you’re going to sleep—which you only know because there’s a particularly creaky floorboard somewhere in here, and otherwise, he’s completely, sometimes unsettlingly, silent. 

He walks off through the space without checking over his shoulder to make sure you shut the door behind you, leaving you to stand idly by the entryway while you try to decide whether or not you should take off your shoes. But it’s not carpet in here and James is still wearing his boots, so you leave them on and follow him through the apartment toward the window that’s open to the fire escape, ducking through it behind him. 

The night air is humid, and you slip off your jacket after setting down the beers. James slips one out for each of you, knocking the necks on the railing to pop off the caps, and then hands it back as you both take a seat on either side of the metal grating. 

You wonder what he was doing out here before you got here; there’s no evidence of any other drinks, no smell of cigarettes or smoke, no books or phones or anything else to hold his attention. He takes a long sip and then glances down at the street below, and you think maybe he was just people watching. 

Just as you’re about to try to come up with something to break the tense silence, James lifts two fingers to his mouth and whistles sharply. You hear rustling from inside, and then a ball of soft white fur leaps past your head and crashes into James’ side. 

“Oh! You have a cat.” 

As the cat rubs its head against his side with a heavy purr, James glances over at you. “You allergic?” 

You rub your thumb and pointer finger together, holding it out to get the cat’s attention with a shrug. “No, I just—didn’t peg you for a cat guy, I guess.” 

“More of a beer guy, right?” 

It takes a belated second for you to realize that he’s teasing you, your eyes flicking up to the subtle tilt at the corner of his mouth. You laugh, then, and he ducks to take another sip of beer at the noise. 

“Pretty risqué tastes for a guy named James,” you hedge back. 

“Bucky,” he offers. You raise a brow, half wondering if he’s talking about the cat until he elaborates. “I go by Bucky.” 

You raise your bottle. 

“Bucky, then.” 

He waits a beat before lifting his own, clinking your glasses together as the cat gives a meow of solidarity between you. 

You knock it back, washing any remaining tension away with warm beer and the unfamiliar pleasure of a new friend. 

By the time an hour’s passed, it’s like talking to a different person. 

Not, like, entirely, because Bucky is still just as blunt and grunts his way through most of the conversation when he doesn’t have anything to add, but it’s still nice. 

You learn that he’s a veteran when he catches you subtly eyeing the prosthetic again, and that he doesn’t much like being around people; hence his haphazard outings and poor sleep schedule, the way he’d avoided you for six months, and the abruptness of his introduction the other night. When you apologize for practically inviting yourself over to his apartment, though, he eyes his cat—Alpine, you learn—nuzzling up against your hand in your lap, and admits that you might not be so bad. It feels like a win. 

This is not a date, but—God. You’re having more fun talking to him than you’ve ever had sitting across from any of the other guys you’ve gone out with. You’ve both been through two bottles already, Bucky’s shoulders have finally come down from his ears, and he’s finally meeting your eye when you talk. He lets you speak without steamrolling over you or changing the subject back to himself. He doesn’t once ogle your cleavage, even without your jacket on. You don’t have to wonder what he’s thinking, because he just sort of lays it out there whether you ask for it or not. 

For example: “He was a fuckin’ idiot.” 

Sputtering a laugh, you run a hand over Alpine’s back and shake your head. “They’re not all that bad,” you tell him weakly. 

“Sure,” he agrees too easily. He takes a long glance at you from the corner of his eye, then tilts his head back to take a long sip. “So I guess it’s your phone that’s vibrating after they fall asleep.” 

Your mouth falls open as heat rushes to your cheeks, and your laugh this time is significantly higher than the last. You’re a little tipsy, sure, but you’re not sure you’re drunk enough to discuss your lackluster sex life with your neighbor just yet. 

“Our walls aren’t that thin,” you mumble into the neck of your bottle. “How the hell did you manage to hear that?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Got good hearing.” 

The noise of the city rushes back in to fill the first lapse of silence there’s been since the conversation began, and Alpine purrs in your lap as if mocking the noise Bucky’s referring to. 

“Well what would you suggest, then?” you ask eventually, half-joking and half earnest. “It’s not like I haven’t been trying.” 

He grunts. “Never said it was your fault.” 

“That doesn’t really answer my question.” 

“S’like I said in the hall. Stop dating assholes who only care about themselves.” 

“They don’t really tend to go around advertising it,” you defend. “Sometimes they seem really great, and then—” 

“That. Right there.” He peels a finger off his bottle to point it at you. “Really great doesn’t mean good. You’re settling.”

You falter. “Since when is great worse than good?” 

“Since that little twitch in your face when you said it.” 

“Stop being so perceptive,” you tell him. 

“Stop settling,” he returns easily. 

“It’s not settling if I can’t do any better.” 

The aftertaste in your mouth turns a little sour, and you glance back down at the street below when Bucky’s expression narrows and hones in, unused to the weight. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Nothing. I just.” Your steep inhale comes out as a sigh. “Look, I know what lane I’m in, okay? I’ve tried dating better guys before and there’s always a reason I’m not good enough,” you admit lightly. “At least this way, I can blame it on them for it not working out.” 

And that’s the root of things, isn’t it? You know you’re dating assholes. A part of you does it on purpose, like it’s not even conscious anymore. Just instinct, meant to let you perpetuate an inflated version of yourself compared to people that would never be able to fulfill your needs anyway. 

But you can’t think about that too long, because then it turns into bone deep loneliness, and a spiral about how you’re running out of time, and that just makes you more desperate so the cycle starts all over again. 

It’s just that usually you’re not this transparent to other people, too. 

The clink of Bucky’s bottle hitting the grate behind you drags you back to the present, and when you turn your head, Bucky’s closer than he’d been before. Not enough to be imposing, but enough that his palm is resting flat to the grate just beside your hip, enough that the breeze blows his scent toward you every few seconds, enough that your heart begins to beat faster in your chest. 

“How ‘bout this,” he says, glancing down to your mouth and back up again. “Next time you bring somebody home and they can’t fuck you like you deserve—you come and knock on my door.”

“Like a walk of shame,” you laugh bitterly after a moment of shock, trying not to take his offer too seriously. He’s just tipsy. Has to be. 

Even still, the crooked tilt of his lips betrays you when he catches you looking at his mouth in return. 

 “I didn’t say in the morning,” Bucky reiterates, sounding jarringly sober. “I said, if you’re not satisfied, you come over as soon as the asshole’s asleep. It’ll be real poetic when he wakes up to the sound of you screamin’ for me next door.” 

His head tilts then, considering, and the way his gaze runs over your face feels like it’s his fingers instead of his eyes. 

“Then again, he probably wouldn’t even recognize you like that. Would he? Since he couldn’t fuck it outta you ‘imself?” 

“Bucky—” you say, breathier than you’d intended to. 

Before you can come up with some way to finish the thought, he grabs his bottle and leans back again, casual as ever. “Or don’t. There’s no obligation. But. Offer’s on the table, when you decide enough’s enough.” 

You catch yourself staring at his mouth several more times before you leave, and Bucky looks at you underneath the shitty hallway fluorescents like he already knows what you’ll decide. 

You try to at least act a little bit like you don’t already know too. 

It’s two in the morning, and you can’t take it anymore. 

There’s sweat drying underneath your back under your clothes, wetness smeared in between your thighs, and an ache inside of you that feels vast and restless and unsatisfied. It’s the only reason you’re in the hallway in your hastily pulled on socks and sleep shirt in the middle of the night, knocking a fist against Bucky’s door. 

You’ve been thinking about his offer for weeks now. You’d been on a few dates as you and Bucky got closer as friends, tried to forget about it, write it off as a joke. But it’s like saying it out loud that night only reinforced the fact that you knew you were getting yourself into dead ends, and now every face you look into across a dining table or in your bedroom you just end up wishing were his instead. 

You drive yourself crazy, wondering what it might be like. Would he be rough or gentle with you? Would he tease you all night until finally pushing you over the edge, or would he overwhelm you with so much pleasure from the beginning that you went a little hazy, just because he likes the way your mouth looks when it knows nothing except for his name? You already know he wouldn’t sneak out like the others—but how would he be afterward? Stoic and quiet after a thorough orgasm, or soft and sweet and wanting to keep you close?  

And then, like an entirely too belated epiphany, you realize that you don’t have to wonder anymore. 

The door creaks open not even thirty seconds after you knock, and the smile Bucky gives you in the low light is knowing and disarming and exhilarating all at once. 

He takes one look at you—half-lidded and disheveled in nothing but a t-shirt and socks, your chest still rising and falling with evidence of your unsuccessful exertion—and pulls you in. 

The door closes louder than necessary, Bucky’s attention on you instead as he grips you by the hips and backs you into the nearest wall. You gasp when your back meets it and Bucky inhales your air, greedy and close, but he doesn’t close the distance. 

Instead, like he already knows what you need without having to ask, he keeps his eyes on yours as he bends to secure both arms around your waist, then stands to full height again with you against his chest. Your feet hover inches above the ground but you don’t move to wrap your legs around his hips, the thrum of arousal inside of you simmering in a way that burns better than it ever has before. 

Your noses touch, gazes locked, the peripheral view of his apartment nothing more than a warm blur around you as he carries you through the kitchen, past the living room, across the hallway and into his bedroom. 

Your socked feet are lowered to the ground again once you’re inside, and Bucky walks you back even further, that telltale piece of wood creaking under both of your feet as you cross over it. 

And then you finally come to a stop against the far wall—the one that backs up directly to your bedroom on the other side. 

You hiss in a cautious breath, your heart racing. But it gets much harder to keep quiet when one second Bucky’s looking down at you with more heat than anyone else has ever managed before, and the next he’s on his knees. 

The broad planes of his shoulders are on full display, bare and glistening in the moonlight coming in through the window, and the material of his flannel sleep pants dulls the thud of his knees on the wood just enough to be able to pass it off as something else. 

Still looking up at you like he’s daring you to look away, Bucky lifts one of your ankles, bending your leg enough that he can turn his head and drag his mouth against the spot just above your knee. The heavy inhale he takes doesn’t go unnoticed, undoubtedly picking up the scent of your slick that’s smeared across the insides of your thighs, soaked through the material of your underwear on your hips. 

With him holding your ankle, you can’t close them either. You’re forced to hold your breath in steep anticipation as his kisses grow hotter, wetter, messier the higher he climbs up your thigh with his mouth, thoroughly appreciating the lengths you’d gone to to shave and moisturize earlier in the day. 

Someone definitely should. 

His warm palms and calloused fingers work their way up the outside of your thighs, over the curve of your hips, collecting the material of your t-shirt and pushing it up as he goes. When the material bunches underneath your breasts, he guides one of your hands to hold it there, then presses a barely-there kiss just above your navel. 

From there, he slips down the few remaining inches to finally settle his head at the apex of your thighs. You feel his nose nudge against your vulva and eventually your clit over your underwear. There’s a brief pause as he breathes you in, and then a low, deep groan buried against the material covering your core as he uses it to keep himself quiet. 

You’re not doing any better. You’re already shivering, sensitive from earlier in the night, and Bucky’s hot breath against your hotter cunt is not doing much of anything to cool you off. His lips part over the damp fabric right over your entrance, the drag of his tongue made rough and textured with the remaining degree of separation. 

You only narrowly avoid a moan, shoving the back of your free hand against your mouth to stifle it at the last second. With his chin nestled up against your entrance and his tongue rolling in waves against your clit, you clutch at the material of your shirt like it’s a handful of bedsheets, keeping your shoulder blades against the wall but rolling your hips forward against Bucky’s eager mouth. 

Before you can work up a rhythm, he presses you back into the wall firmly, the thud of your body against it making you both pause briefly. When you calm, he hooks his fingers over the edge of your underwear and finally drags them down your legs, leaving you wet and open in the cool air of his bedroom. 

The soaked fabric hangs off of his fingers once it’s been pulled off of both your ankles, and without pausing or asking permission, Bucky reaches over to his nightstand to your right and shoves them into the top drawer to keep. 

With nothing left between you, he moves a little quicker, a little more focused. He grabs your leg again and hitches it over his shoulder, curves both hands around your hips, and tilts his head back to fasten it against your cunt. 

The first press of his mouth against where you’re wet and open sends a shock through your system. Your head knocks back against the wall behind you whether you mean for it to or not, and you can’t bring yourself to care when Bucky’s nose nestles up against your clit and his tongue wastes no time in gathering your wetness just to fuck it back inside of you, tasting you from the inside out. 

He pulls back enough to drag the flat of it from the bottom of your cunt all the way up to the top, then suctions his mouth around your clit and flicks his tongue in a relentless pattern, never staying in a single place for too long. 

When you feel like you can remove it without getting yourself in trouble, you lower your fingers from your mouth and slip them into Bucky’s hair instead. His moan vibrates against you, inside of you, his lashes fluttering agreeably when you tug. 

One of his hands holds your thigh over his shoulder while the other caresses the curve of your ass. You can hardly focus on it until suddenly those fingers dig in and your other foot leaves the ground too, and you squeak out a panicked noise at the abrupt change in stability. 

You don’t need to, though—Bucky’s hands are strong and sturdy under your ass and thighs, your hand steadying in his hair, his fingers urging you to cross your ankles behind his back. The shift only draws his head closer to your cunt until there’s nowhere for him to go but dutifully forward, the hard, stubbled edges of his jaw working against you endlessly in contrast with the sweet, soft laps of his tongue. 

The noises he’s making against you get progressively rougher, deeper, hungrier, and you feel the fleeting graze of his teeth against your clit, just enough to dance along the hazy line between pleasure and pain. You’ve never been with anyone so confident before, never once been eaten out with your legs wrapped around someone’s head as your only point of support. It makes you have to trust Bucky inherently, to depend on him not only for your pleasure, but to keep you from falling, too. 

And then he takes it a step—several steps—further. 

“Bucky,” you gasp as your axis shifts once more, his grip anchor tight around your hips as he stands up with you still attached to his mouth, one of your hands thrown up flat against the ceiling as you’re shoved up and up. 

Your legs tense on either side of his head, your hips rutted forward and back arched as you grind against his tongue. He keeps you steady and you try to keep yourself quiet, your body overwhelmed by the mounting pressure in your cunt and the thrill of a position you’ve never found yourself in before. 

Bucky’s entire body is slanted toward your cunt like a compass, his strong, broad shoulders and rough face the best thing you’ve ever found yourself sitting on. 

The closer you get to coming, the more taut your muscles grow in your legs, inadvertently pushing his face away from you when it feels like too much. But he doesn’t let you go far, his hands reaching up to grip around your waist instead of your hips and thighs, and then he tugs once, sharp, hard against you so that there’s not a centimeter of space left between your slick cunt and the relentless pressure of his mouth. 

Your breathing goes tumultuous, whimpers making their way through your teeth despite how hard you try to keep them in. The noise only seems to spur him on further, something like a growl buried in between your thighs as you squirm against him, and in lieu of the way he’s been fucking you with the hard point of his tongue the last few minutes, he finally lifts up another inch to focus on your clit again. 

After the brief reprieve, the renewed pressure feels incredible. You buck against him, your impending orgasm momentarily taking precedence over your fear of falling, and Bucky’s hands dig into your hips tight enough to leave evidence behind. 

He works you expertly; flicking his tongue, suctioning his lips, rubbing the roughness of his cheeks against every last one of your sensitive nerve endings until you can’t take it anymore. 

With one hand braced against the ceiling and the other clutching his hair like a lifeline, you choke on a moan that’s louder than you mean for it to be as your body tips from closecloseclose into shattering. 

Bucky holds you even tighter through it as you ride it out, your hips rolling against him like a wave. Your stomach clenches hard, your cunt bearing down on the slick, soft muscle of his tongue, your thighs shaking hard on either side of his head. 

He laps at you through it, gentling the pressure of his mouth as you shiver with the aftershocks, his fingers easing into firm instead of sharp around your hips. 

With a final, filthy-sweet press of his lips to your clit in parting, Bucky tilts his head back and the lower half of his face, glistening with your release, finally emerges from between the grip of your trembling thighs. 

You relax your fingers in his hair, but as the gaze of your orgasm retreats, the fear of falling swoops back in to meet it. Bucky shushes you as you reach for him in a half-panic, your limbs still too loose to do much of anything but depend on him to keep you up. 

It’s a slow descent, and his whispered words soothe you as he carefully removes one thigh from his shoulder and then the other, helping you wrap them around his middle instead. He stops you before you can lower yourself fully, grip tightening again to keep you still as soon as your heaving breasts are in front of his face. 

Your nails scratch softly at the back of his head as he nudges your shirt up further with his nose and mouths at them, lips still slick with you as he smears it across your skin in pursuit of taking one of your nipples between his teeth. He doesn’t relent until it earns him another poorly concealed moan, and then he’s quick to soothe the sting with his tongue in a similar move to the one he’d used on your clit earlier. 

Only once he’s left a fresh mark on the top curve of your breast does he begin to lower your thighs from his hips, unfolding your legs so that your feet touch the floor again. 

Even then he doesn’t let go of you, a hand splayed possessively over your spine as he boxes you in against the wall until you get your balance back. Your cheek meets the bare skin of his chest, the sturdy thud of his heartbeat matching the one in between your legs. You wonder if he can feel it too. 

The hand he slides down your side tells you he isn’t done with you yet, and you’re thrilled by the prospect. It’s rare that you come first (or at all, sometimes), and even more so that a man’s able to draw out the evening long enough to actually wear you out. Two or three orgasms is pretty standard for you with a toy, and maybe one with a guy. 

You have a feeling Bucky is about to ruin you for either one of those moving forward. 

With a drag of his lips against your shoulder where your shirt has shifted to the side, he grabs your hips and turns you to face the wall, your cheek pressed up against it so you can hear the still silence on the other side. It pushes your ass directly up against the bulge of his dick through his pants, and you push up on your toes a little, moving against him to return the favor. 

Your objective gets a little skewed when Bucky’s wet kisses move from the curve of your shoulder up toward your neck. They trace up the side of it, lazy and deliberate, and you tilt your head for him as he moves up to your chin. 

One of his hands drifts up, grazing your breast again before it grips your jaw. His thumb presses down on your lower lip, opening you up for him, and then he leans in over your shoulder and kisses you with his tongue, his teeth, his lips—in that order. 

You whimper against him, pleased to have somewhere new to muffle your noises. You’re so close to your bedroom wall and you’re both getting off on it, on trying to be good while secretly hoping the other fails spectacularly at it. 

With the prosthetic draped across your stomach underneath the shirt, Bucky holds you still while he kisses you, grinding against the bare curve of your ass leisurely. 

“Y’open for me already?” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, your taste still heavy on his tongue. 

You nod eagerly, pressing a hand to the wall and pushing up higher on your toes for more. You feel his hand leave your jaw to reach down between you, shoving the band down just enough to expose his cock. 

He’s not wearing anything underneath the flannel sleep pants, his dick hard and pulsing against you, and you wonder as he ruts against the cleft of your ass if he’s thought about this as much as you have; if he’s lied awake on the nights he couldn’t get to sleep, picturing something like this. Maybe even sleeping nude with only a pair of pants on the end of the bed to slip into if you decided to knock on the door, ready to slip into you just like this if you did. 

He leans over you to claim your mouth again while he angles his cock down enough that it curves between your legs instead, sliding through the wet mess of your cunt and slicking himself up. You shudder between him and the wall, so achingly empty you could cry for it. 

The head of his cock nudges up against the underside of your clit, and you break apart from his mouth with a gasp. 

“Please, Bucky.” 

The arm around your waist tightens as it lifts you a couple of inches in the air, and Bucky kisses you hard—pointed, claiming—as he lowers you onto his cock in one easy shift of your body. 

You cry out as he fills you, and Bucky mutters a curse as he grabs your jaw again, roughly covering your mouth with his fingers. You can’t find shame right now, your body overwhelmed by the size and weight and heat, an anchor in between your legs. Your legs shake and you find yourself depending on Bucky once again to keep you upright, your upper body slumped into the wall as he takes you from behind. 

With his palm over your mouth, you let yourself get a little louder. You choke on a particularly hard thrust, moan when he begins fucking you in earnest, sink your teeth into him in retaliation when he presses his canines into your shoulder. 

He bends his knees a little so he won’t have to hold you up with his arm, using his newly freed hand to fill in the gaps between your fingers with his own where they’re splayed on the wall. They curl through and over yours until he’s squeezing your fleshy palm, pulsing with each forward movement of his hips. 

He might be muffling the noises from your mouth, but the ones coming from where the two of you connect are even more incriminating. You were wet already when you came over, wetter when he ate you out, wetter still after your first orgasm. His cock is swimming in it now, every shift and thrust audible when he moves. 

You say his name, muffled into his hand, and he must be able to feel your lips try to curve around the letters. He groans against your back, fingers flexing where they hold yours, and presses a kiss to your shoulder as he slows. 

You start to whine, but find yourself preoccupied once more when his hands slip away for good reason. Without pulling out of you, he reaches down to scoop up your weight from behind your knees, and before you can even comprehend what’s happened, his grip is wrapped all the way around you; his forearms underneath your knees, keeping them pressed to your chest while his cock still pushes up into you from underneath. 

A moan manages its way out of your throat as you scramble to grab onto him where you can, your body practically folded in half in his hold. You can only imagine the way you’d look in a mirror right now, unable to close your legs, an unimpeded view of Bucky’s cock splitting you open, his face tucked over your shoulder from behind, biceps straining to support the weight of you and his own dwindling self control. 

But Bucky doesn’t waste time looking for a reflective surface. He pulls you back from the wall and walks you toward the mattress instead, his dick moving inside of you with each step. Carrying you like a basket against his chest, he teases you with a few lift-and-drop motions before he relents, carefully lowering you forward until you’re on your hands and knees on the edge of his bed. 

It leaves him standing behind you off the side, still buried deep in you like he’d been reluctant to even leave you long enough to move a few feet. 

He steadies you with hands on your hips, smoothing over you as you push back against him, but both of you freeze when his first hard thrust makes the springs of the mattress creak loudly with the movement. There’s a brief pause where you can nearly hear him thinking, and then you’re left empty for a few aching, awful seconds when he pulls out. 

He flips you onto your back and then hooks his hands underneath your arms to toss you up toward the pillows with a bounce, kicking his pants the rest of the way off as he climbs on top of you. 

With a bruising kiss and a push of your legs back toward your chest, Bucky presses back inside of you, easy as if he’d never left. 

The pace of his thrusts this time is slow and intimate to keep the bed from creaking, overwhelming in an entirely different way. His arms box you into his embrace around your head and shoulders, his mouth on yours, your legs folded around his hips as he rocks inside of you. 

You’ve had rough sex. You’ve had quick, desperate sex that left you aching for something more. You’ve had bad sex, and you’ve had some really great sex, on occasion. 

But you’re beginning to understand what Bucky means when he says that really great isn’t always better than good. 

Good is so singular that it can’t be anything else—doesn’t need any specifying details or additives. Really great is a flash of novelty, something unexpected and fleeting. But good is inescapable, a ground floor instead of the main event. Good is the sort of thing you want to keep, even if you shouldn’t. 

Even if it’s not yours. 

Bucky fucks you good enough to make you forget about all of that. The weight of him—his eyes, his kisses, his body on top of yours—how could you possibly be expected to be thinking normally? 

One of his arms slips underneath your shoulders as he buries his face in your neck, his other hand reaching under you to press against the base of your spine and help your hips move against him. You gasp for breath with your chin propped on his shoulder, his ceiling the same but opposite of yours overhead. Your eyes flutter shut as you picture it, a world where there’s no difference between them, where you share a bed with him more nights than you ever sleep alone. 

Your fingers slip up into his hair, your other hand pressed flat against his hip as he moves. You can’t even help the sounds you’re making now, the air he’s punching out of you even when he’s forced to move so slow, the raw edge of your voice that comes out alongside it. 

Luckily, Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Can’t hold ‘em back, can you?” he murmurs against your collarbone, smearing a kiss across your skin. “All those sweet noises, just for me.” 

“Just for you,” you nod, breathless, tugging him impossibly closer. 

He hums. “I know, baby. Know you think about me when you’re fuckin’ somebody else. Know how long you’ve been waiting for this.” His teeth drag along your jugular. “Almost s’long as I have.” 

He leans up on his arms again to look at you, thumbing at your lower lip the same way he had before he’d kissed you earlier. Without closing his eyes or taking them off yours, Bucky dips to close the distance with an achingly sweet kiss, and then settles that same hand around your throat. 

“Promised I’d make you scream for me, didn’t I?” 

Your breath catches, and you’re sure he feels the way your cunt squeezes him at the idea. But still, he waits for confirmation, dilated pupils flicking between each of yours. 

You spare a fleeting thought for your bedroom on the other side of the wall, but you’ve already made up your mind. You nod. 

Bucky’s fingers flex once around your throat, the easy sway of his hips coming to a complete stop between your legs. His voice is stripped, near unrecognizable when he looks down at you with a filthy grin and says, “Good girl.” 

His cock slips out of you and your hips are yanked upward as Bucky sits up on his knees, dragging your cunt up to his mouth. With both of his arms locked around your thighs you’re left splayed open and at his mercy, your shoulders still against the sheets as blood rushes to your head and your cunt in equal, confusing but fucking incredible measure. 

“Bucky,” you moan, louder than you’ve been all night. You flex your hips against him but he’s gripping you too tight to move much, his mouth moving rough and ravenous against you. 

You choke on a pleasured sob as he mouths at your oversensitive clit, burying his face between your folds and shaking it, his own groans and growls muffled inside your body. It’s not enough to get you off, not for the second time, but the stimulation of the already buzzed nerve endings all over your cunt makes you spasm and shake, makes you grip the sheets and reach for Bucky to steady yourself, your mind dizzy with scattered pleasure. 

Just as abruptly, Bucky pulls back. He purses his lips and spits, landing hot against your entrance and dripping down, and he takes a second to smear it with his fingers before he throws one of your legs over the other, turning you onto your side in front of him. 

He fucks back into you in a fluid motion, and you nearly scream with the feeling of it. You’ve never been in so many different positions in one night before, and each one feels so different. You want to memorize all of them, the way Bucky’s cock splits you open in ways you haven’t felt before, carving out a space inside of you that won’t ever be filled in quite the same way again. 

Bracing a palm in front of your face, Bucky leans over you and sets a quick, deep rhythm. He feels so much bigger, the squeeze so much tighter this way, with your thighs pressed together on your side. You rub them together a little, unable to help yourself and keep away from the pressure it puts on your clit with each of Bucky’s thrusts. 

“Been so good,” Bucky mutters above you, brow furrowed in pleasure. “Told myself I had to wait. That you’d come to me when y’were ready for me, but—fuck,” he curses, gritting his teeth when you clench around him. “Hardest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever done. Can’t hold back now. Been waitin’ too long, babygirl. Too fuckin’ long.” 

“Don’t have to,” you tell him between thrusts. “Whatever you want, Bucky. It’s yours.” 

“Yeah?” he grunts. “What’s mine? Use your words. Let him hear you.” 

He wraps a hand around your throat again as he fucks into with quick, punctuated thrusts, but your words fade into whimpers as he grinds in at just the right angle to hit that sensitive spot inside of you. 

You make an attempt, but it all comes out jumbled and incoherent against the pillow. His hand withdraws and a second later you feel it land against the swell of your ass, sharp and sweet. You moan, and his fingers dig into your warm skin, gripping at the flesh he’d marked up seconds before. 

“Tell me, baby,” he coos, right on the edge of condescending. “S’this ass mine? Those noises? This pretty little cunt?” 

“Yes,” you cry as his palm lands against you again, hot and stinging like the tears in your eyes. “S’yours, Bucky, all of it.” 

With a growl, Bucky grabs one of your calves and spreads it up and over until it’s on the other side of him again. It spreads you wide open, splays you flat on your back on the mattress, your shirt rucked up and tears in your eyes, your cunt on full display for him to watch where he’s fucking into you. 

He reaches down to slide two fingers over your clit, splitting your folds enough to expose it to his hungry gaze. Without breaking stride in his thrusts, he dips his head and spits directly onto it, then uses his thumb to set a relentless pace against the nerves. 

You cry out as your body seizes around him, trying to channel all of the scattered points of pleasure into one linear piece. He leans down over you, watching greedily, talking through his teeth. 

“You scream my name when you come, y’understand?” 

There’s no room for argument—not that you’d have one, anyway. It’s been a long fucking time since anyone’s fucked you so hard you couldn’t speak properly, and you’d forgotten how much that depraved part of you loves it. 

“Still so tight,” Bucky goes on. “Tell me, baby—they not have what it takes to fill you up?” 

Bucky rubs you a little quicker, a little harder, hardly giving you time to come up with an answer before he continues. 

“Or are you a filthy liar, huh? Maybe you haven’t fucked anybody since I made you the offer, ‘cause you knew it’d be like this. Knew I’d fuck fuck this pretty little head so empty that all it knows when I’m finished is me.” 

You can’t catch your breath. For all his stoic silences and quiet moves, you hadn’t really expected Bucky to have a dirty mouth. The surprise of everything tonight, one after another after another, makes it hard to think straight. 

When his words register, you draw up tight around him, and he hones in on it like a predator. Dark eyes and whipfast movements, adjusting his rhythm in response. He shoves your thighs back open when they threaten to close, your noises rising higher in pitch as you climb toward a second, sharper edge. 

The kiss he presses to your lips is comforting and cruel, drawing attention to the way your mouth has fallen open and you’re helpless to get it to close now. You can hardly keep your eyes open anymore without them rolling back, but you try, because—Bucky. 

“Be loud for me, baby, c’mon. Let the whole damn building hear who owns this cunt.” 

He leans up again to watch your body clench around him, and when he removes his fingers for a second and then brings them back down in a sharp, noisy slap against your clit just as he fucks up into your spot, you follow orders to a tee. 

Your body goes tight as a bow, spine arched and absent of breath, a split second plateau before you sink into blinding, white hot pleasure, endless and unmooring. 

Bucky fucks you through it, muttering filthy sweet nothings as you call out his name, the bed squeaking and his fingers rubbing ruthlessly over your abused clit until every last tremor has worked its way through your system—and then some. 

The roughness of his movements smears your wetness across your thighs and stomach, his hips, his cock drenched in you each time he slips out and shoves back in. 

“That’s it. That’s a good fuckin’ girl,” he growls, his pace drawing frantic as your muscles clench and spasm around him. “Takin’ me so well, more than I ever could’a imagined, baby, I’m—” 

You whimper, watching dazed as he rips himself out of you at the last second and fists a hand over his cock between your legs. The noise follows, loud and slick from your cunt, and it only takes a handful more strokes for Bucky to shout as he joins you, his come landing hot and thick in ropes across your heaving stomach and breasts, a bit of it dripping down over your clit. 

“Fuck,” Bucky groans, low and long as he collapses onto one hand above you. He takes himself through the last of it, shivering as his palm smears over the head of his leaking cock. When he releases himself, it falls to nudge against your belly, rutting lazily through the marks he’d left behind. 

When he eventually falls to the side he takes you with him, your face in his hands as he sucks a kiss against your lips. It’s slower, greedier than the others; needlessly indulgent now that your other desires have each been sated. His fingers slip back into your hair and you give your last ounce of energy pressing into him until he finally pulls away. 

With a final one to your temple, Bucky rolls away toward his other nightstand and fishes blindly through the top drawer, returning with a black tee clenched in his fist. He cleans you up with it, passing broad strokes across your stomach and thighs and briefly against your cunt before he wipes off his cock, then tosses the shirt in a heap to the floor to be dealt with later. 

You’re both still lying half on top of the sheets, but neither of you move to get under them just yet. Your shirt has been pulled back down over your breasts but both of your hands are wandering, mapping out new territory with tentative, satisfied smiles. 

You wait until the only noise in the apartment is Alpine pushing through the door and curling up by your feet to clear your throat. 

“I need to confess something,” you tell him. 

He grunts, his fingers apparently too preoccupied with tracing your spine to formulate a coherent response at the moment. 

“There’s nobody in my apartment right now,” you whisper. “Hasn’t been all night. Or for the last few weeks at all, actually.” 

Bucky’s brows twitch inward toward each other, and he takes a long glance down between your legs from where he’s laying. 

“But you were already…?” 

Your face heats. “Yeah. That was—that was me, too.” 

“Fuck,” he hisses lowly, slipping his arms around your middle to tuck you in close. “Fuckin’ yourself right on the other side of this wall, thinkin’ about me ‘til you couldn’t take it anymore?” 

“Maybe,” you allow, biting down on a smile. “I couldn’t use the vibrator though. You would’ve caught me.” 

 “Should bring it over with you next time,” he teases. 

“Next time?”

His crooked grin fades into something a little softer around the edges, and he pulls back to look at you properly, mapping your eyes the way you’ve learned he does when he’s working up the courage for something. 

“Offer’s on the table,” he rasps. 

You laugh, relieved, and roll forward to press your mouths together again. He seems pleased by this chain of reactions, his chest caving to release the breath he’d been holding before as he kisses you back. 

It’s easy to settle back into comfortable quiet with your doubts soothed, easy to let yourself smile because you hadn’t really expected him to be one for physical touch either. But his arm’s still locked around your middle, nose tickling the hairs at your neck, one of his thick thighs tangled with yours as the ceiling fan cools you both down and Alpine purrs at your feet. 

“Can I stay?” you ask, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“Would be a little offended if y’didn’t,” he mumbles sleepily against your throat. “Y’like eggs? I’ll make y’breakfast.” 

“Over easy,” you confirm. 

“What?” he asks. “Oh, sorry. I was talkin’ to your vibrator. She’s feelin’ a little neglected over there.” 

You pinch his shoulder, grinning at the ceiling. “Asshole.” 

“Mm. Am I?” Bucky hums, mouthing a kiss against your neck. 

“I guess not,” you tell him carefully, “since I don’t date assholes anymore.” 

He picks his tired head up off your shoulder to look you in the eye, his expression a mix of too many different things to identify any one of them before they’re gone. 

“S’that what this is?” 

“Offer’s on the table,” you echo. 

With a shaky exhale, Bucky glances over your face again and nods to himself, then again, more firmly, to you. With a seal of his lips to your forehead, he admits, “I think I’d like that.” 

He smiles at you when he pulls back like he already knows you’re thinking the same thing. 

You try to at least act a little bit like you don’t already know too.

.

.

.

For example, spending some of your rare free time with your boyfriend, who just so happened to explain what Binns had left off with before he dozed off minutes ago—and looking unfairly handsome during it, too.

“It was during the 14th Century Wizarding Economic Bubble—in 1474, to be exact—that a goblin named Gringott founded the bank which was later named after him.” Tom explained, browsing through the pages of his textbook to find the corresponding chapter.

“Mhm,” you mumbled, drawing patterns and small figures on your desk, the surface already marked up from all the other same, boring lessons of the past school year. While students were highly encouraged to report damage to school furniture, the desk you had chosen at the very beginning of the semester was rarely occupied—it was all the way at the back, and since your professor did not make the effort to speak up during the limited minutes he was awake inevitably left students no choice but to take front seats.

It wasn’t that you needed a teacher for any subject anyway. Most of the time, Tom was more knowledgeable than any scholar Hogwarts could possibly ever recruit.

“Are you even listening? I assume this might be worth knowing for our next exam,” he muttered softly, interrupting your train of thoughts by shoving his textbook right in front of you and pointing towards the text passage he had apparently already known by heart.

Your gaze wandered from the drying black ink on your desk to your boyfriend next to you. For a long moment you just lazily stared at him—his features were molded into a genuinely concerned expression, and you had to stifle a laugh at the sight. He tried over and over again to convince you that the information you missed out on was of value, but deep down you and he both knew you’d most likely never need any of this again—your professor’s motivation being the best indicator.

“I am listening, just keep talking,” you yawned, though still trying your best to conceal your disinterest in the topic. Without further thought, Tom continued, not sparing his textbook a single glance while he enthusiastically preached the history of Gringotts to you.

And you almost, almost nodded off—until a more than inappropriate thought came to your mind and you realised that you very well could utilize the time you’d still be stuck in here.

Gently, you put your quill down and inched your hand closer to his, placing it atop—which immediately made him forget what he was just so passionately explaining to you. Your eyes sparkling with challenge, you leaned in slightly, your voice dropping to a low purr. “The exam. You’ll let me copy off you anyway, won’t you, Tommy?”

The heat of your breath ghosted over the side of his face, and Tom flinched slightly at the insinuation behind your words—he recognized the tone with which you said it all too well.

His cheeks flushed with embarrassment—feeling tingly and warm, the sweetest rosy colour spreading all the way to his ears. His beautiful brown orbs widened for a moment before he cleared his throat and quickly dropped his gaze to the words in his book, flipping the page hastily.

“Yes,” he quipped, soft and barely audible before he spoke up louder again, eager to change the topic. “So— Gringotts has been managed by goblins since it was established, except during the— uhh— late 1500s when— the Ministry took over. This did not change until…”

Your lips curled into a subtle smirk as you studied his features, suddenly all tense and nervous, the earlier confidence vanished as he rambled on about the new topic —and it was then, when he shifted in his seat, that another idea popped up in your head.

And you really should’ve just forgotten about it—however, it wouldn’t leave your mind, no matter how hard you tried to focus on his words instead. Entirely forbidden, and if anyone caught you, you’d be lucky not to be expelled—but God, the mere thought of it sent a wave of adrenaline rushing through your body, straight to your core.

“Tom, look at me.” you murmured, your smooth and soft voice causing yet another short-circuit in his brain, and he stumbled over his words before he reluctantly met your eyes.

“You are so adorable when you’re flustered.”

 “I am not—“ he quickly shook his head, but his face only grew a darker shade of red, inadvertently confirming your point.

And now, you pretty much had him where you’d wanted him. Too shy to even look at you, fingers trembling as he skipped to the next chapter.

Just a little more teasing.

You inched closer to him, body pressed against his as your hand wandered to his leg and you pressed a gentle kiss to his warm cheek.

“Oh, but you are. And I think I have a better idea of how we could pass time,” you whispered, eyes quickly glancing at the very-asleep Binns before they returned to his. Your hand slowly but surely made its way up his thigh, head dipping to place another kiss on the side of his neck.

Tom almost choked on his breath when he realised what you meant. “Here? The lesson will end soon and—“

You squeezed his thigh. “Yes, here.”

He glanced around nervously, briefly stopping when one of the students turned around to give someone a small piece of paper. “What if— someone sees us?”

The corner of your mouth curled into a teasing smile, and you grazed your knuckles over his heated cheeks. “What’s then, Tommy?” 

But before he could respond, your lips brushed against his tense jaw and the shell of his ear. “Are you afraid someone may see just how needy you are for me? How much you want this?”

The heel of your palm caressed the dent in his trousers as you said it, and a small, yet sharp sound slipped from his lips, even as he tried focusing on anything but you and your ministrations—and yet, he failed miserably.

“Please,” Tom rasped before he could stop himself, small and broken, and already chasing after your touch when you removed your hand.

“Please, what? Please make me feel good? Please stop teasing me? I will need words, Tom.”

Your touch returned to the strained material of his dress pants, gently trailing along the outline of his hardened cock until his head tipped back slightly, knuckles white from how tightly he clutched at his chair. 

“Please— please don’t stop.”

“There you go. As you wish, sweetheart.” A triumphant smile spread across your face, fingers deftly working open his zipper just enough so you were able to free him from the confinement of his trousers.

“Sweet— sweetheart,” His breath trembled when your hand wrapped firmly around his achingly hard cock, resting hot and heavy in your hand before you set a slow and gentle rhythm, your eyes never once leaving his. Tom was barely able to conceal the little sounds of pleasure he was making, face flushed, dark curls fallen over his forehead.

He resembled a broken mess, and you’d barely gotten started. 

His eyes were straining to focus on your surroundings, on students glancing at the clock at the front of the classroom, on your unmoving professor—watching them cautiously.

“Relax. Be a good boy and let me make you feel good, hm? That smart brain of yours needs a break sometimes too,” you drawled, voice soothing as you grasped his face and turned his head towards yours, away from the others.

Finally, when his conflicted eyes met yours, his body sank back against the chair. Slow but tight pumps had his eyelids flutter closed in no time, lips pressed together tightly as slick sounds began emerging from beneath the desk.

And oh, how you loved when he let his guard down for you—even here, even in a classroom full of people, he let you have your way with him. Just because you wanted it—and as long as he breathed, you’d get what you desired.

Neither when you sped up did he make any effort to stop you. Instead, he bit back his quiet gasps and groans, letting you have him completely—all vulnerable and exposed, trying his hardest to stay quiet for you.

But you’d always been one for testing his limits.

“Fuck— don’t—“ he half-shrieked, legs pressing together and eyes blown wide when you tightened your grip, rubbing your palm over the head of his cock—though he regained his composure almost immediately, too afraid someone might have heard.

“Shhh. Quiet.” You offered a cheeky grin in return, and repeated what you’d just done. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”

Tom only managed a croaky “yes,” his muscles straining to keep him seated—fighting the urge to thrust up into your hand with every ounce of restraint he had left.

However, the end of the lesson approached quicker than you thought, and it would only be a matter of time until students started shoving their unused books back inside their bags and heading towards the exit—which happened to be right next to your desk.

“If you want to cum, then do it now,” you muttered, squeezing him tighter and picking up the pace. “Or will you let everyone see just how pathetic and needy you are for me?” 

Tom quickly shook his head, chest rising and falling in quick succession as he braced himself for the inevitable. You really were cruel enough to have him teeter on the edge while your classmates were eagerly awaiting the end of the lesson, already packing up.

“Then cum for me, pretty boy. Be good and look at me when you do,” you murmured, focusing the movement of your hand entirely on the flushed and swollen head, his precum coating your palm as you teasingly rubbed over the sensitive skin—all while your other hand pumped up and down his length, so tight it almost hurt.

He was so close, twitching and pulsing in your grasp as his head leaned back, no longer able to stop himself from thrusting up into your slick hand. Just a moment later he tensed, hissing lowly as thick ropes of cum spurt from his reddened tip, coating your hand and his length with his sticky, white release.

You hummed with satisfaction, stroking him through his orgasm as you slowly watched him go limp against the chair. “There’s a good boy—making a mess all over himself and me, hm?”

Your movements didn’t stop even after he was done, giving him a few more pumps until his hand clutched your wrist and a soft, trembling whimper escaped his parted lips. 

“Please, no more.”

You let go of him then, smiling softly as you kissed his cheek again. Your eyes dropped to his trousers and the very visible stains on them, huffing a soft laugh.

“Tell me the spell to clean you up, sweetie.”

But you should’ve known Tom was nowhere in the right mind to even think about spells right then—he stuttered a few incoherent words, none of them resembling a spell even in the slightest.

And you could have done it yourself too, of course. It was one of the first spells you learned years ago—but this, this was perhaps the most fun part about the game you were playing with him.

“Concentrate. You can do it. You are a smart boy after all, aren’t you?”

When he didn’t reply, you teasingly brushed the pad of your thumb over his still-sensitive tip—a ghost of a touch, really—yet it startled him, almost choking on his breath before he gasped out an answer.

“Scourgify” 

Students were already getting up and starting to leave when you cast the spell. Instantly, his sticky release was cleaned from your palm and his cock, the stains on his trousers vanishing in the blink of an eye. You barely had time to tuck him back in before they began walking past you, chattering loudly about how useless this lesson was.

When everyone besides you two had left, you turned towards him again with a pleased smile on your lips.

“What were you talking about again?”

“I— I don’t remember.”

“Perfect.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | kinktober.

“As if!” he downs half of the glass. Abraxas turns to her then, his neck a shade of coral pink— from the alcohol probably, and he settles her with a wistful sigh as his eyes roam over her face “You know, you deserve better,” his brows furrow as though he is sympathising, reaching a hand to brush a strand of hair away from her face “a soon to be lady of your standing deserves to be spoiled and… well, he leaves room to be desired in the aspect of material things.”

A laugh escapes her mouth which she concealed with the back of her hand, she then fixed her hair, stepping away from him as she addressed him “Bold words coming from you, Malfoy.” she turns to him, the smirk lingering in spite of his dig “Your concern is admirable though altogether unnecessary, and you may confirm to Mister and Missus Malfoy that my decision remains unchanged, I continue to be uninterested.” she presents him with a small mocking curtsy before finding her way out of the gathering with a shake of her head in disbelief all whilst Abraxas thins his lips into a flat line and rolls his eyes, discarding the glasses on a nearby stand as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers and joins his mates by the fireplace.

Tom’s eyes follow her as she leaves — he savours the taste of the fruity champagne lingering in his mouth, still on his first cup because he knew better than to indulge unlike his ‘friends’. Tom was used to interacting with the same type of boring people that attended these sort of events. Individuals Slughorn collected over the years to show off like shiny trophies intended to highlight his amazing judge of character and brilliance when it came to recognising potential and Tom was aware he was next on the list of brilliant students Slughorn ‘sponsored’— but despite their usefulness for networking, he still hated attending these events. He found it terribly mind-numbing to engage in pleasantries and disliked it when people talked about themselves and their dull lives. When he did attend Slughorn’s gatherings, he preferred to observe, people were more lax when alcohol ran through their systems and more forthcoming with their tales that did actually pique his interest. And yet, he still found himself wanting to abandon the group of impressive ministry personnel (how mundane, honestly!) to instead join her— he much preferred her company were he to tell the truth. His eyes had hardened just the tiniest bit when she was accompanied by Abraxas earlier. He subtly watched as she exchanged a (fake) smile with the blond and—

“I hear you excel at all your studies despite taking on more than the average student, Mister Riddle,” Tom’s attention was sadly redirected back to… he forgot his name. Tom must have deemed him unimportant when he was introduced “that’s very impressive, especially considering that you are also head boy. Time management is hard for the youth but you seem to be doing spectacular! A fine example and role model for the younger years, if I do say so myself.”

‘Pompous prick’

Despite it, Tom being Tom liked all forms of praise regarding his brilliance and so the smile that he donned was lighter and a little more sincere than his useful ‘bashful’ ones, even if it sounded somewhat condescending and Tom was not sure where the man got off with his superiority— “Thank you, sir, I assure you it’s been somewhat difficult but worth it, I’m just honoured to have been taught and trusted by the incredible staff at Hogwarts.” (Lies. Tom’s been teaching himself since he first purchased his magic books, it is why he is able to take as many N.E.W.T.’s as he is right now.)

“Humble too, I’m sure all your professors find you a breath of fresh air.” A lady he also forgot the name of spoke and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Her gaze definitely lingered a little too long on his face for his liking. Instead of doing so however, he chuckled along with the rest of the people around him before taking a sip of his glass to hide his pursed lips up until Slughorn called him over once more. Tom excused himself from the group and trailed over to the Potions professor with a polite smile as he introduced him to Saul Croaker, an unspeakable who was legally obliged to keep his work projects to himself and whom Tom had the great pleasure of trying to coax as much information out of.

—That had kept him rather occupied for the rest of the gathering while she exited the party and headed straight to her dorm room, absolutely done for the night.

She woke up the next morning with a groan, it was the last day of may, signalling the start of exam season. After completing her N.E.W.T.’s, she would finally graduate Hogwarts and have to move on from her safe haven. Her roommates were still asleep as she dressed herself for the day, quickly using the washroom to complete her morning routine before she made her way to the great hall for breakfast.

She stifled a yawn as she entered the hall. There were already quite a few people seated at their respective tables for breakfast which prompted her to fix her hair and posture before heading over to the Slytherin table like she normally does. Her eyes scan the area, looking for a certain individual however he was not present. She takes a seat in front of Nott instead who was busy reading the Daily Prophet by the time she greeted him “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” he returns, his gaze shifting from the papers to her person before returning once more.

She lathers some jam on top of her toast before taking a bite, pulling a cup of coffee towards her in the meantime before addressing Nott once more “Say Elliott,” she takes a sip after adding some milk and sugar “where are the others?”

“They got in a little after midnight, I’m sure Abraxas is sleeping off a hangover.” Elliott smirks as he chews on his breakfast.

“And Tom?” She inquired, taking another bite of her toast. He was usually the first one here (and the first one out if he could help it).

“I assume he was in the washroom when I was leaving, his bed was empty.” She hums in response and pulls out a book to read to occupy her time, leaving Elliott to get back to his paper and plate.

Around twenty minutes later, the hall began to fill with more students coming in for breakfast. She saw Nott nod at something from her peripheral vision and looked up to find, to her delight, Tom and the rest of his roommates had finally come down for breakfast. She scooted along the bench, leaving space for Tom to take a seat beside her “Good morning.” He said softly, as he settled into the space by her right. She smiled and greeted him similarly before returning back to her book as the boys ate their food and chatted.

Her attention was pulled back from the words on a page when she felt a hand on her knee that caused her to lose her place. She lifted her gaze to stare subtly at the familiar hand which shifted to cup the area just above her knee by the tiniest inch. Her expression turned curious as she tilted her head and leaned a little closer to Tom to whisper “What is it this time?”

To his credit, Tom faced forward the whole time, eyes busy staring at something else instead of her and her curiosity grew as his hand moved higher up. She followed his line of sight to see a blank faced Abraxas looking just the tiniest bit worse for wear, struggling to hold Tom’s gaze. there was obviously a little bit of tension between the two.

She sighed softly, asking “Is this another one of your mind games again?” Tom only chuckled. He took her (second) cup of coffee and reheated it silently, taking a sip before returning it back to her. The answer was probably yes.

With the softest shake of her head in mild disapproval and amusement, she marks her place in the book and closes it over “I’m going to head to class now, Charlotte is waiting on me.” She informs him once she catches sight of her roommates standing by the entrance. She placed her book back into her bag and Tom reluctantly retracts his hand from her thigh when she slings the bag over her shoulder. She places a hand on Tom’s shoulder to balance herself as she swings her legs over the bench and stands up “Be nice.” She chides playfully.

Tom holds her hand to place a soft kiss on her knuckles, too quick for anyone to see except Abraxas. He pats her hand, batting his eyelashes innocently, tilting his head to look up at her “When am I not?” She suppresses a snort and shakes her head before saying her goodbyes to the rest of the guys.

It is after class when she next saw Tom. She found him standing outside, leaning against the stone wall with his arms folded as he stared at a nearby tree, waiting for her to walk out.

“Tom?” She calls out, breaking off from her friend with a goodbye who had to get to her next class immediately.

Tom turned to look at her and offered his arm for her to link with as he questioned “How was class?”

“We were tasked with reading over the syllabus and asking any remaining questions we had, you know the usual with the end of term.” She answers with a roll of her eyes that highlighted the boredom she suffered from. Tom hummed as he lead her further into the corridors and past the great hall.

Her brows pinched together “Where are we headed?…”

“My dorm, I left my book there.” She cocked her head to the side, curious. Tom never forgot his books ever. And they were in their final week of learning, something was definitely going on. However, she only hummed and followed along, happy to keep him company despite whatever else he probably had in mind.

Once they reached the Slytherin common room, she waited for him to mutter the password and followed behind him into the dark and empty common room (which was to be expected seeing as classes were still on) lit with the persistent flames burning in the hearth of the fireplace, green lanterns illuminating the place with a relaxing shade of green. She attempts to take a seat on one of the plush couches only for Tom to look at her with a raised brow “What are you doing?”

“What?” She huffs “Am I not allowed to sit?” Tom stares blankly at her before turning and beckoning her to follow him as he descends the stairs leading into his dormitory. She rolls her eyes at his silent command but complies regardless.

She enters his dorm room, recognising the somewhat familiar design of the room. It was always interesting seeing how different Hogwarts looked except when it came to their dorms which all seemed to be similar except for the colours. She took a seat on one of the chairs by the beds and watched as Tom grabbed his book from the nightstand beside a neatly made bed “I must have left it on Nott’s bed in a hurry as to not miss breakfast.” He lightly informs her and she hums, leg crossed over the other as he randomly places his bag one of the trunks.

“Would you like to go over some charms before we must head back for class?” Tom takes a seat on a bed and taps the spot beside him, signalling for her to come join him and she sighs but shifts to the space beside him nonetheless. He really was too bossy.

“Not a moment of break with you, huh?” She humours as she folds her arms and fixes her skirt once she has taken a seat beside him, close enough to face each other and to see the features of his face in detail but not close enough to be touching.

“As they say, no rest for the wicked.” He smirks, and pulls out his wand to non-verbally cast a charm. Her expression pinches as she tries to make out what it is exactly that changed with the magic he performed, meanwhile he leaned against the pillow, watching her expectantly. All of a sudden, it hits her. The vibration of sound waves that provided a sort of white noise throughout the dormitory instantly disappeared and the sound of her own breaths and his, filled the room.

“Did you cast a silencing charm?” She asked with crossed arms, gaze narrowing at him.

“Well done, how perceptive of you.” He nods and sits forward once more. This time, he places his wand on the nightstand nearby and uses his hand instead, with a wave, he casts a new spell and this time she hears a lock click into place, an extremely faint sound but one she picks on due to the quiet.

Her head turns to the direction of the door and she slowly lets out a firm “Tom.” She looks back at him once more and inspects him with a curious scrutiny in her gaze “Just what are you planning?”

His expression shifts ever so slightly as his eyes widen and his brows quiver in a calculated measure of innocence “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

She sucks her teeth, unimpressed “Playing coy is not your strong suit, Tom, you’re adamant on knowing things, some could say it’s a character flaw.” He chuckles in response, a rich sound despite the softness of his voice and he reaches a hand over, placing it on top of her stocking-covered knee.

“I thought I made for a rather good actor.” He ribbed, thumb caressing the plush of her thigh from where her skirt bunched up a little. She sighs.

“Perhaps with others,” she acquiesces “but I would like to think I have you somewhat partially figured out,” she watches as he inches closer to her, hand moving around her knee to hold it from below as he places her leg further onto the bed “or at least enough to know that you’re up to no good right now.”

“Correct you are.” He whispers and in an instant, he yanks her at her limb and she falls onto her back, the air abruptly exiting her lungs.

“Tom,” she whines when he settles in between her legs, both hands now holding the bend of her knees from behind as he looks down at her with his ever cocky smirk that liked to appear whenever he had the upper hand in a situation “what do you think you’re doing? We have class!”

“Not for another hour,” he reminds her and dips his head to hover over her face just for a couple of seconds as he drinks in her expression; her eyes widened in anticipation, lips parted in surprise “I think we both know an hour can feel like an eternity… Why not occupy our time while we wait?” His voice is so soft against her lips, so silky and tempting.

She concedes embarrassingly quickly, hands moving to link behind his neck as she murmurs “You’re right as always, I hate that.”

He smiles, it’s enticing and somewhat predatory and completely contrasts the soft kiss he plants on her cheek before melding his lips with hers. Tom always kissed like he had all the time in the world, soft, but undoubtedly present. His hand cradling her jaw as he slides his tongue over her lower lip before slipping it inside her mouth to taste her. This is typically the point when he becomes a starved man. Because now— now he kisses her like he has been parched for years and has only just been given a cold glass of water to stave off the sweltering heat of the sun. His body presses deeper against her, pulling her closer to him despite already having an infinitesimal amount of space between them.

She is the first to pull away, reluctantly, for some air “Tommy…” She breaths against his lips, chest heaving for more air since he greedily stole that which filled her lungs, so in character of him to just take and take. She refuses to admit that she was always a willing participant and encouraged his indulgence. Tom, ever perfect, required so little time to rejuvenate as he begun pressing kisses down her jaw and throat, nipping and licking as he trails down lower all the while his hands peel off her dress robe, and unbuttoning her blazer, discarding it onto the floor to join his own. Her shirt and tie remain on her person although they are undone. He makes no move to remove them or her skirt, probably saving her time later to avoid rummaging around the dorm before having to leave for class.

“So beautiful.” He says once he pulls away from her sternum, relishing the sight of her brassiere peeking from her unbuttoned shirt, her necklace sitting in between her collarbones, her skirt covering just the top of her thighs from where he is settled in between them. She flutters her eyes open and pulls him in by his tie to lock her lips against his once more.

Her mind feels hazy as his hands explore the bare skin of her waist and travel further up, just below her bust “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Merlin no,” she says with an exasperated breath, waiting for him to do something other than devour her with his eyes, dark and seductive as they were.

His fingers trail up her supple flesh and ignite a trail of goosebumps as he reaches behind her back and undoes the clasp with ease, aided by his long, slender fingers. He carefully pushes the material up, exposing her breasts to the chill air of the dungeon, eyes focused on her perked up nipples. He slides two fingers down the valley of her chest, drawing shallow breaths from her before lowering his face and licking a stripe up the way his fingers slid down. He then turns to the side and wraps his mouth around the perky bud of her right bosom which elicits a wanton moan out of her lips. Her legs spread further involuntarily and creates more space for him to press further against her.

“Tom,” she says breathily, feeling the sharp spikes of his cropped hair when she placed a hand on the back of his head to keep him in place, melting at the feel of him swirling his tongue over and over “please.” She begs.

He waits a few seconds before releasing her with a pop of his mouth and questioning her “‘Please’ what? I can’t know what it is you want if you don’t use your words, my love.” He looks at her with mock pity and concern and all it does is fuel her want, her need for him.

“Please touch me.”

“That’s more like it,” he looks down at her; a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips, his hair tousled from her fingers, cheeks flushed from the tension in the room and eyes hooded with desire “see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She bites her lip to hold back a retort which morphed into her withholding a whine the minute his fingers dipped to the spot between her thighs, focused on the place where she needed him the most. He slips her panties to the side, teasing a finger up and down her slit, feeling her arousal drip due to his ministrations. Tom enjoyed power and he quickly came to realise that she begrudgingly succumbed to his control whenever they got like this, with him on top, his hand working away at her, in charge of her pleasure… Yes indeed, he enjoyed all forms of power and control—

“Will you cease your teasing?!” He snapped his head back up to look at her face once more, not even realising that his gaze remained locked on his fingers and her body reacting to them at work instead of her, now exasperated, visage. He supposed it was about time to finally concede and with a huff at her tone, he slid his middle finger in (with ease, he delighted!) and added along with it his ring finger, she felt the ring which rested just above his knuckles brush against her fevered skin. Her mouth opened to form an o-shape, unable to produce any sound as she threw her head back, trying to fix her breathing.

“Pleased now, are we?” she delights him with a mixed hum and moan, her body now automatically moving into his hand as she chases her pleasure.

“Fuck, your fingers—”

With them still buried inside her, curling every once in a while, he circles an arm around her waist and rests her head against his shoulder but she does not remain still as her hips continue to move. Her hands in the meanwhile work on undoing his tie and buttons, eager to press her warm lips against his pale skin. Tom withholds a soft groan when he feels her suck on his skin, her tongue brushing against his chest and knowing she will leave her mark on him. With his focus completely on her mouth and his fingers in between her legs, he failed to notice that her hands worked at the belt holding his trousers secure on his hips. She slipped her right hand down his trousers when she succeeded loosening the confine and palmed him, granting him some relief and encouraging his fingers to make her lose her mind.

“Wait…” he gasped when she quickened her pace, and he felt himself grow embarrassingly close to his peak. She looked up at him, her glazed eyes roaming over his flushed face, so deliciously pink, and she moves her hand away to hold onto both of his shoulders. All of a sudden he extracted his hand from her core and when a whine was just tumbling out of her lips, he abruptly shoved the same fingers into her mouth to shut her up “so fucking impatient.” he tsked, amused by her spoiled nature. He then looked down and with a nod of his head to where she was just shy of fully straddling him, she knew what he was asking her to do. She licked his fingers clean and returned her hands to the waist of his trousers, pulling it down just enough to free him. Using her right hand to steady her hold by clutching his shoulder, knees on either side of his thighs, his free hand gripped her hip, helping her align herself so that she sinks onto him, her panties slipped to the side. A hiss escapes him once she is done and her walls flutter around him. feeling full to the brim. Both of their eyes roll back at the ecstacy felt. Tom pulls his fingers out of her mouth abruptly to grasp her hips and move her against him properly.

Her head drops against his shoulder once more, her mouth hanging agape as she rocks her hips in tandem with him. His hand trails up her back, snaking along till it meets the space in between her shoulder blades and splays there, supporting her body against his. Tom feels sweat gather at the base of his hair from exertion and finds her in a similar predicament, her breathing coming out in pants. With her chest flushed against his, he lowered his head to press kisses against her jaw and down the column of her throat.

“Mmmh… Tommy, I’m almost there.” she whispers, tantalisingly enticing, into his ear and he is forced to bite into her neck to prevent the moan that threatens to erupt from his mouth.

“Fuck, I don’t think I can—” he bites his lips when she squeezes around him out of nowhere and he shuts his eyes before opening them again dazed “please tell me I can finish inside you.”

It was her turn to bite her lip, she pulled her head back enough to take a good look at him as her brows scrunched together; a mixture of pleasure and worry “Tom, we can’t, what if I—”

“I’ll get you a potion, fuck knows Lestrange has at least five reliable suppliers.” he cuts her off and she looks into his glossy, pleading eyes. His hands then reaching into her hair and holding her face closer to his so that his lips brushed against his and every time he exhaled, she would inhale it directly “I want to, no I need to feel you wrapped around me when I come.” his lips connected with hers with every word he uttered. She faltered, her arms wrapping around his shoulder as she kissed him passionately.

“Fuck it, fill me up.”

His kiss devoured her as his arms came to hold her figure against him once more, except this time much more possessive as one arm settled tight around her waist while the other returned to that spot between her shoulder blades with his fingers holding onto the hair at the back of her head. They moved with a purpose, one that was completely selfish as they intended to coax an orgasm out of the other, unsurprisingly working perfectly together as a result. With a clench around him, he knew it was time to seal his lips on hers before reaching a finger to where their bodies connected and rub tight circles around her.

He drank in her moans as she came undone and she did the same with him, feeling him release inside her for the first time. Her stomach fluttered as she slumped against him and he brushed her hair away, rubbing her back while she lazily kissed his collarbone, milky white and covered with a thin sheen of sweat.

“Fuck!” she heard him yelp when his eyes caught the time on the watch that was still secure around his wrist “We’ve got to head to charms now, there’s only ten minutes left.”

She exhaled and unwillingly pulled away from his shoulder. He held her elbows as she moved from on top of him, his release accidentally spilling on the sheets of the bed and ruining her underwear “Ugh, Tommy, you ruined my panties once again!”

He rolled his eyes and reached into his nightstand, tossing a pair of underwear at the her now bra-clad chest that she had left with him last time… or so he had convinced her (she was quite certain he nicked it) “Take those off, you can have them cleaned later.” he said calmly now, buttoning his shirt up just as she was. She stood up, sending him a glare as she tucked her shirt into her skirt and rolled her underwear down her legs and tossing it at him “Don’t fap with it like a depraved naughty boy when i’m gone.” she teased as she put on her fresh pair.

“Oh no, you caught me.” he redid the tie around his collar with a scoff and smirk, looking at the underwear that fell onto the space right beside the pillow “Come on, we’ve got to deck it and I don’t think that will look good for my head boy image.”

“Right, because showing up to class looking like you just had sex during your free period is not ruining your head boy image at all, my darling boy…” She fixed her hair and stuck her tongue out at him when he lightly pushed her towards the door, her bag on his shoulder along with his.

“You are quite insufferable.” he said, a faint smirk pulling at his lips as they speed-walked through the corridors of the dungeons looking slightly disheveled (Tom was already working on their excuse to Professor Forsythe “Oh, we’re dreadfully sorry Professor, we were checking our potion we left with Professor Slughorn all the way in dungeons and accidentally got held up.”)

She snorted, matching his steps “That’s rich, coming from you and all.”

“Shush, or else I will have to dock down points from you for talking back to the head boy.”

“See? Insufferable.”

Tom leaned closer to her as they made their way up the stairs “You weren’t saying that when I spilled inside you… Almost as if you did not care if I actually did end up impregnating you.”

Her lips parted and she stammered, her skin heating up. Tom looked at her curiously as he waited for the stairs to change over “Oh, would you enjoy that? Will keep that in mind for the future… Missus Riddle.”

The Slytherin boys do not return to their dorms until after dinner and when Abraxas reaches his bed, fulling intending to rest, he sits up from his bed with a shriek, throwing his robes off.

“Which of you debauched fuckers was shagging on my bed?” came his angry yell. The boys turned to Abraxas and inspected him standing with a pair of black, lacy panties clearly ruined after a round of fun, hanging from the tip of his wand. They all looked at each other with amusement on their faces, a snicker was heard from Lestrange who crossed his arms with a wicked smirk.

“Well that is simply hilarious, who brought a girl down here and when?”

Tom walked into the room mere seconds after the question was asked and watched as the room’s focus turned to him. He gazed at them individually before settling it on Abraxas and his expression turned bright.

“Oh, I have been looking everywhere for that!” the head boy summoned it to his pocket with a wordless charm muttering something about how ‘She was going mad trying to find her favourite pair—’

He ignore their slack jaws as he walked out of the room to find his girlfriend.

© 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒-𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 —all content rights belong to mistress-riddle. do not plagiarize any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.