I'm just a little fanfic blog trying my best.

“I’m flattered,” Bucky muttered beside you, tone flat as a dry desert. He didn’t even look your way, probably didn’t want to see the way your eyes narrowed like you were about to throw something sharp at him.

Val’s smirk deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under her chin like a cartoon villain with far too much power. “You two have unresolved issues, so congratulations. You’re married now.”

Yelena let out a full snort of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.

John gave a low, gleeful whistle. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Why can’t you send Walker?” you snapped, jerking a thumb at him. “He already looks like he belongs on a honeymoon with his ego.”

“He have emotional capacity of wrecking ball,” Alexei chimed in, voice thick with his Russian accent, waving a hand dismissively. “Very destructive, not subtle.”

“No, I don’t—” John started to protest, indignant.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “You cried at Fast and Furious 7, and it wasn’t even the sad part.”

John scowled. “It had layers.”

She dropped a thick file onto the table. Glossy surveillance photos slid free, including a few charred, smoking blueprints and a shot of Raskovic toasting champagne in a cabana.

“His last shipment,” Val continued, “levelled half a research compound in Tunisia. I need charm, subtlety. Not testosterone."

You let out a disbelieving huff and gestured vaguely in Bucky’s direction without looking at him. “And you think this has charm?”

“I ooze charm,” Bucky said flatly.

You finally turned to glance at him. “Yeah, I can see that. Real honeymoon material.”

Yelena grinned wide, leaning across the table toward you like she was settling in for the drama. “This is going to be so entertaining.”

“Better than reality TV,” Ava added, her boots kicked up on the table, legs crossed lazily.

Alexei clapped his hands together, beaming like someone’s very drunk uncle at a wedding. “Marriage is beautiful thing, bond of love. Trust."

You turned your gaze back to Val, still hoping against reason that she would crack and admit this was some twisted, long-game prank. “There has to be another way.”

She gave you that look. The one that always meant: I could have you killed and get away with it. And then she smiled, teeth sharp and polished.

“Not unless you want to tell the weapons dealer you’re siblings who sometimes make out.”

You blinked, as John gagged audibly in the background.

“…Fine,” you muttered, jaw clenching.

Bucky didn’t even react. He just let out a grunt, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a dramatic flourish, Val produced two small velvet boxes from her bag and slid them across the table. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Barnes. Honeymoon begins in twenty-four hours. And if either of you screw this up, if he suspects anything, you’re both done. There are no second chances with Raskovic. None.”

You flipped open your box. Inside, a slim platinum band gleamed under the overhead lights. It looked delicate, elegant, like something a real wife would wear, if she didn’t want to commit murder against her husband before check-in.

Val’s voice was cool as steel. “Play the part. Laugh. Kiss. Look like you can’t keep your hands off each other. Be convincing.”

“Oh, we’ll be convincing,” Bucky muttered as he slid the ring onto his finger, his voice almost too casual. “Won’t we, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy imagining what it would feel like to punch your fake husband in the face.

Six Hours Later

“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” you muttered, yanking your suitcase behind you as the team's transport SUV barrelled down a sun-drenched coastal road, the ocean stretching endlessly beside it like a taunt.

The scent of saltwater mixed with the heat of the asphalt, the resort town glinting in the distance like something out of a luxury magazine ad you would never willingly sign up for.

Bucky’s voice cut through the silence from the driver’s seat. “Because you have a hero complex,” he said, one hand firm on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the armrest like he wasn’t wearing a metaphorical wedding ring that made your eye twitch. “And you like pretending you don’t.”

You scoffed, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. “Because I was assigned to this.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re reckless and don’t listen to orders.”

Your head snapped toward him, the suitcase thudding into your shin as you turned in your seat. “Because you're a controlling jackass who never takes the stick out of his—”

“Children,” came John’s voice through the SUV’s overhead comms, the speaker crackling just enough to ruin the moment. “Behave. Uncle Walker’s listening in.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“I’m placing bets,” Yelena chimed in, the sound of chewing echoing faintly behind her smug tone. “Three days before they fuck. Two before they kill each other.”

“Both, maybe same night,” Alexei added almost cheerfully in the background, as if he were discussing weather patterns.

You let out a long, exasperated breath and turned back to the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding the slow blink of disbelief at your life choices.

Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from the dash.

“You should rest,” he said, casting a sidelong glance your way. “You’re crankier than usual.”

You crossed your arms, slumping just enough to make your annoyance known. “Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn't married the most aggravating man on the planet.”

Bucky smirked like you’d handed him a trophy. “I didn’t realise I outranked Walker.”

“I’m flattered,” came John’s voice again, low and mildly wounded. “Thanks, guys. Warms the heart.”

Twenty Minutes Later – Resort Arrival

The second your foot hit the ground, you nearly choked on the air.

The resort was obscene—like someone gave a billionaire an unlimited budget and said, go nuts.

The entrance was framed with cascading white orchids, marble walkways that looked freshly polished gleamed under the golden tropical sun, and an honest-to-god quartet played soft jazz somewhere near a sculpted garden arch.

Fountains bubbled lazily with rose petals floating on the surface, and in the distance, gauzy white silk cabanas shimmered beside an infinity pool that looked like it led directly into the ocean. Uniformed staff moved like clockwork, trays of champagne glasses catching the light like diamonds.

Bucky stepped up beside you, duffel slung over his shoulder, and took it all in with an arched brow. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re in a Bond villain’s wet dream.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Try not to glower too hard. We’re supposed to be happy newlyweds, remember?”

His gaze flicked to you, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh or maybe bite. “Try not to stab anyone with your heels.”

You didn’t reply. Not because he was right, but because the stilettos Val made you pack could absolutely be used as a weapon. And likely would.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a blessing. The check-in lobby was all white marble and gold accents, with soft lighting that made your skin glow unnaturally perfect.

A stunning concierge greeted you with the kind of practiced smile that made you want to start lying immediately.

“Welcome to El Alma Dorada, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” she said, hands clasped over a sleek tablet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Before you could even fake a smile, Bucky’s hand slid into yours.

It was warm—calloused, solid, and entirely too steady. You blinked down at the contact just as he turned on a grin so smooth it knocked the wind out of you.

He leaned in a little, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the press of his thumb brushing slow, affectionate circles against your knuckles.

“Couldn’t wait to get here,” he said easily, voice pitched low and full of some fabricated warmth. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

Your mouth went a little dry.

“…Uh—yeah,” you stammered, smile slow to appear as you forced yourself to lean into his shoulder like it was second nature. “We’re just so excited to start our new life together.”

His hand squeezed yours—subtle, but firm. Reminding you.

Play the part.

You turned your head just enough to rest lightly against his bicep, stretching your grin until your cheeks ached. “So excited.”

The concierge giggled, clearly charmed. “Your honeymoon suite is ready, and the champagne has been chilled. You’ll find rose petals and—”

“Perfect,” Bucky cut in smoothly, his voice suddenly thick with something intimate, possessive. “Can’t keep my hands off her.”

Your stomach flipped so fast it made you dizzy.

There was a cough—stifled, but unmistakable through the comms. Someone was definitely listening.

Probably Yelena. Or John, trying not to laugh himself into an aneurysm.

“Aw,” Yelena cooed through the comms, voice syrup-sweet. “You two are so cute I’m gonna throw up.”

And told yourself not to murder your fake husband until at least after the complimentary breakfast.

The suite was ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around half the space, bathing the room in warm, golden afternoon light. The ocean shimmered beyond the glass in postcard perfection, the view so breathtaking it too pristine to be real.

The ivory stone floors gleamed under your heels, each click echoing faintly as you stepped further inside. Silk-draped furniture was arranged like a magazine spread, and on the private balcony, a plunge pool glistened like a sapphire.

A bottle of vintage champagne waited on ice by the sitting area, and just past that, a trail of red rose petals led delicately toward—

“Oh, hell no.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes locked ahead, body gone still.

Bucky stepped in behind you and raised a brow as he followed your line of sight. He didn’t say anything, just strolled past with calm and tossed your suitcase beside his own like the room didn’t feel like a honeymoon-themed fever dream.

The bed, if you could even call it that, was massive. King-sized, or maybe some custom size beyond your comprehension. It was piled with pristine white linens, oversized down pillows, and a tufted headboard that screamed expensive sin.

The rose petals continued onto the mattress like an arrow pointing straight to your worst nightmare.

Just one bed.

Of course.

You let out a slow, withering breath. “Real polite of you,” you muttered dryly as Bucky moved toward the closet like this was just another mission and not the set of some soft-core romance movie.

“I’m your husband, remember?” he shot back without looking at you, voice dripping with sarcastic charm that made your eye twitch.

You stepped further into the room, suitcase wheels clicking softly across the marble as your gaze remained stubbornly on the bed. “One bed,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Of course.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said immediately, nodding toward a chaise lounge in the corner.

It was upholstered in gold-tinged fabric, delicate and ornamental. Clearly decorative. Barely big enough for one leg, let alone a super soldier.

You turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What are we, five?”

His brow rose. “I just figured—”

“We can share the bed,” you cut in, voice quieter now, trying not to sound as reluctant as you felt. “It’s not like we haven’t been in worse situations.”

He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name. Surprise, maybe. Something unreadable, something that made your stomach tighten for half a second.

But then it was gone, shuttered behind the same mask he always wore when things got a little too real.

“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “Whatever you want, princess.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the vanity, focusing on unpacking anything just to keep your hands busy. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The words came out smooth, sarcastic, like everything else from his mouth—but the undertone lingered. He moved toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower.

And then—like he knew you were watching—he reached up and began undoing the top button of his shirt.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

One button. Then the next. Then the next.

You watched—damn it, of course you watched. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bucky shirtless, but this wasn’t mid-mission or after a fight.

There was no adrenaline. No distraction. Just him, standing in honeyed sunlight, undoing each button with casual ease like he wasn’t setting your pulse on fire.

He shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, folding it neatly before placing it at the edge of the bed. His left arm remained wrapped in a sleek black compression sleeve, but the shimmer of gold vibranium still peeked through.

His chest was broad and solid, scarred in places, inked in others. Each line of muscle moved with practiced grace, abs flexing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

And then, just to finish you off, the bastard looked at you.

“Want me to leave the door open while I shower?” he asked, tone light. Innocent. Too innocent.

Your mouth went dry. “Why the hell would I want that?”

He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement as he tilted his head. “Thought you might want to join me. Water pressure’s supposed to be incredible.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the heat rising up your neck betrayed you. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.”

You jerked your gaze to the minibar, to the flowers, anywhere that wasn’t his bare chest or that infuriating mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stepped closer as he passed—barefoot, because of course he was—his voice lowering to a near whisper. You could feel the warmth of him as he brushed by, feel the smugness radiating off every inch.

“Just say the word.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with frustrating calm.

You stood there for a long beat, staring at the etched floral pattern on the wall. Your heart thumped uncomfortably, your skin too warm, your thoughts, well, they didn’t belong anywhere near a mission file.

This was going to be a problem.

Your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey lovebirds,” Yelena said sweetly, voice soaked in amusement. “Remember the comms are still on, yes? We can hear everything.”

You groaned, ripped the tiny device from your ear, and tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally betrayed you.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

a/n: here is me hoping you enjoyed this chapter! love ya and stay safe out there!

He’s been avoiding your gaze all evening.

Until now.

You feel it when he looks at you. Like heat, sudden and suffocating. That stare — hot, possessive, slow, crawling up your bare legs like smoke, drinking in every inch of exposed skin in your tiny denim shorts. 

Your tank top clings in all the right places, sweat beading at the nape of your neck. But it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes drag over your body, deliberate, slow, like he’s undressing you right there in front of everyone.

And maybe he is.

You raise your drink to your lips, taking a long sip just to distract from the flush creeping up your throat. But your eyes stay locked on his. You don’t look away. Not when he tilts his head the slightest bit, raises a brow like he’s already imagining how you’ll sound when you’re whining his name again.

You glance to your dad—still deep in conversation, laughing too loud with someone from work. Good. Distracted.

You’ve played this game with Bucky before. The stolen glances. The tension thick enough to choke on. The brushing past each other in hallways. The pretending that night never happened.

But tonight—it’s different.

There’s something heavier in the way he looks at you. 

Hungrier. Like he’s tired of pretending.

You remember every time he’s had his way with you.

It had started last summer. Another barbecue. Another night where the beer had flowed too easy and your shorts were just a little too short. You’d been buzzed, warm and lazy in the heat. 

He was drunk. Looser than usual, mouthier, staring too long. The house was quiet by the end of it, most of the guests long gone, your dad passed out upstairs, the stereo still murmuring something low and slow through the speakers.

You’d been licking the last of a popsicle from your fingers in the kitchen, half on purpose, half because it felt good against the heat, and you could feel him watching.

“Jesus,” he groaned from the doorway, his voice thick, wrecked. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You turned, slow and coy, leaning back on the counter. Let your tank top slide just a little lower.

“Just cooling off,” you said, like it meant nothing.

But his eyes were dark, hungry, jaw clenched tight as he stepped into the room.

One hand landed beside your hip, warm and calloused against the counter. The other slid up your thigh, rough and daring, knuckles brushing the edge of your shorts.

You didn’t stop him.

“You don’t wanna play with fire, dollface,” he murmured.

You met his gaze, steady. “Maybe I do.”

And that was it.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Mouth hot, insistent, devouring. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, pulling you close until there was nothing between you but heat.

You clawed at his belt, the clatter of the buckle loud in the stillness, and then he was lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

“I shouldn’t,” he rasped against your neck, even as he pushed your shorts down your thighs, his fingers dragging along bare skin.

“Fuck, your dad—”

“Is upstairs,” you whispered, breath hitching as your legs wrapped around him. “Asleep.”

His eyes were wild. Torn.

But he didn’t stop.

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal motion that made you choke on a gasp, your back arching, fingers gripping the edge of the counter like it could keep you grounded.

“Oh my god—”

“That what you want, baby?” he snarled, dragging out just to slam back in. “Want daddy’s best friend to fuck you stupid?”

Your head tipped back, mouth open in a moan you barely bit back, legs locked around his hips.

It was filthy. It was wrong.

It was perfect.

You remembered how he’d gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him while he fucked you through it, rough and relentless, the sound of your bodies slapping together echoing off the tile. 

You remembered the way you bit into his shoulder when you came, muffling your scream in his flesh, and the way he groaned your name like it broke him.

You remembered the way he looked afterward, too.

Hair a mess, sweat gleaming at his temple, lips kiss-bruised and red. Wrecked. Guilty. Starving for more.

And it didn’t stop there.

It never did.

That night had turned into a secret you wore like a second skin. One that burned beneath your clothes. One that only he could touch.

The weeks that followed blurred into a string of reckless, filthy nights. He’d show up with a six-pack, laughing with your dad like nothing had changed, and then, by midnight, he’d be in your bed, hand clamped over your mouth, his body pressed flush against yours as he fucked you slow and deep, every inch of him buried inside you.

“You gotta keep quiet, princess,” he’d murmur into your ear, tongue flicking the shell of it. “Don’t wanna wake daddy, do you?”

You’d shake your head, teary-eyed from how good it felt. From how bad it was. From how much hotter that made it.

One night, he took you in the garage.

Bent you over the hood of your dad’s car, rough fingers in your hair, panties shoved to the side. The metal was cold under your skin, but his body was fire behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other curved over your mouth as he pounded into you, teeth bared in a snarl every time you moaned his name.

“Such a fuckin’ tease,” he gritted out, voice dark and filthy. “Always walking around in those little shorts like you don’t know what it does to me.”

Another time, it was the guest bathroom.

Your hands braced on the mirror, fogging the glass with your breath as he fucked you from behind. 

His fingers had played between your thighs, teasing, relentless, until you were shaking, gasping his name against the wall while he whispered how pretty you sounded when you came. Then he was inside you again, rough and hungry, growling against your shoulder as you clenched around him.

“Can’t get enough of this pussy,” he’d mutter, slamming into you harder. “So fuckin’ tight for me. Always so ready.”

It was always fast. Always desperate.

But nothing compared to the morning you woke up sore and aching, your thighs trembling with leftover pleasure—and saw the faintest bite mark blooming on your skin.

High on your inner thigh. Just where only he would ever see.

You wore it all day like a secret brand.

Pulling your shorts down just enough to hide it whenever you moved, even though a sick little part of you wanted someone to notice.

And the next time he saw it, saw you tugging your waistband down to hide it?

He smirked.

That same wicked smirk he wore now—leaning against the railing, watching you like he already knows he’s going to ruin you again tonight.

Like he’s already planning how.

Now, in the present, you’re staring at him again from across the patio, thighs clenching at the memory.

You shouldn’t be thinking about it. 

Not here. Not in broad daylight. 

Not when your dad is just a few feet away, laughing with a beer in hand, completely unaware of the filthy things his best friend’s done to you, who had always painted innocent in his eyes. Completely oblivious to the way your body is already reacting, slick and aching—just from a look.

You shift your weight, subtly. The rough seam of your shorts drags across your bare heat, and it’s almost too much. You bite your lip. Your nails dig into your plastic cup.

Bucky pushes off the rail, lazy and slow, that same beer bottle dangling from his fingers. His walk is confident—a little too confident—the kind of swagger that says he isn’t asking for anything.

He’s taking it.

You hold your ground, letting your gaze slide over him shamelessly as he approaches. The way his broad chest stretches the thin cotton of his shirt. The way his jeans cling to his thighs. That familiar twitch in his jaw when he sees the way your legs are crossed—shorts riding just high enough to give him a glimpse of what he already knows is there.

“Those shorts should be illegal,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, meant for you and you alone. His tone is thick with heat, amusement, and want.

You blink up at him, slow and innocent. “I wore them because it’s hot.”

“Mmm.” His gaze dips again, lingering on the curve of your thighs. “You have no idea.”

You smirk, lifting your drink to your lips. “You keep staring like that, someone might notice.”

He grins, wicked and unrepentant. “Let them. You’ve been eye-fucking me all damn day.”

Your heart skips. Your stomach tightens.

Because he’s right—and because now, you don’t want to wait another second.

“You want to keep pretending,” he says softly, leaning in just enough for your skin to prickle, “or do you want to finish what we started?”

You meet his gaze, steady, unflinching. “You’re the one dragging it out. You wanna fuck me or not?”

He breathes out a laugh, low, dark, full of promise. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you, princess. I’m just deciding how many ways I wanna fuck you.”

Your knees nearly buckle.

Then his hand wraps around your wrist.

Casual. Calm, like he’s not about to desecrate the laundry room of your childhood home. Like he hasn’t already played this game a hundred times.

He leads you inside, moving fast but not rushed. The hallway is quiet—the music outside muffled through the thick patio doors. 

The air’s cooler here, darker. 

And the moment the laundry room door clicks shut behind you, it’s like something snaps.

Bucky grabs you by the waist and slams you back against it, his mouth crashing into yours. It’s desperate—hungry—months of restraint breaking all at once.

His hands are on your thighs, your hips, dragging you closer as his tongue pushes past your lips. You moan into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging your nails across his scalp until he growls.

“I’ve thought about this every night since that first time,” he snarls, kissing down your throat, biting at your skin. “You. Spread open. Moaning my name.”

You let your head fall back, gasping as he sucks a bruise into the soft skin below your jaw. His hands slip beneath the hem of your shorts—and he drops to his knees.

Rough palms press your thighs apart, pushing until you’re forced to widen your stance. He huffs a laugh.

“No panties?” His eyes flick up, gleaming with something dark. “Knew you were a fucking tease.”

“I figured you’d want easy access,” you whisper, breathless already.

He groans. Low and filthy. “Brat.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot, wet and devouring.

His tongue drags through your folds like he’s starved for it, lips sealing over your clit, sucking hard. You cry out, your hands shooting to the doorframe behind you for balance as your legs tremble.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

He pulls back just far enough to smirk against your thigh. “That’s it, baby. Say my name like that again.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

Two fingers slide into you, thick and rough, curling as his tongue returns to your clit. He moves in sync—tongue swirling, fingers pumping—merciless and skilled. You grind against his face, unable to help yourself, chasing that heat curling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Such a greedy little thing,” he mutters, voice muffled against you. “Look at you, soaking my hand already.”

You come hard. Your whole body seizes, your thighs clenching around his head, a moan ripping from your throat that you barely manage to swallow down.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps working you through it, licking every drop, drinking down your release like it’s the only thing he needs. When he finally stands, he licks his fingers clean slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Still think you can handle more?” he murmurs.

You nod, dazed and breathless.

He kisses you again—hot and filthy—and then he’s turning you around with a rough grip on your waist, shoving your shorts down past your knees. Your bare ass hits the edge of the washing machine. The cool metal sends a shiver through your spine.

“Spread your legs,” he orders. “Wider.”

You obey. Of course you do.

The sound of his zipper opening is loud in the small room. Then he’s pressed up behind you, the thick head of his cock teasing through your slick folds. You whimper, grinding back against him, needy beyond words.

“So impatient,” he tuts, fisting a hand in your hair. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I need you to fuck me. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks—”

“Yeah?” he growls, lining himself up. “Thinking about me bending you over in your daddy’s house like a filthy little slut?”

You moan, loud, eyes fluttering.

Then he thrusts in—hard.

Your cry is guttural, punched out of your lungs as he fills you in one brutal stroke. Your hands scramble for purchase on the washing machine, your body jolting with every deep thrust.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans. “Like you were made for me.”

“Harder,” you manage, already shaking.

He gives it to you. Hard, fast and relentless.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you back to meet every thrust, and your legs threaten to give out with each one. He’s panting now, right against your ear, his voice rough and wrecked.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growls, yanking your head back by your hair. “Bent over like a little cockdrunk toy while your dad’s twenty feet away?”

You nod helplessly, mouth open, eyes rolling.

“I should pull out and make you taste yourself off my cock,” he grits out. “Make you clean up your own mess.”

“Do it,” you whimper. “Use me however you want.”

He curses. Loud. Slams into you even harder.

“Jesus” he groans. “You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

Your second orgasm builds fast, your body too sensitive, too strung out. And when it hits, it rips through you—a blinding wave of heat that has you sobbing his name, your nails raking across the metal as you convulse around him.

He feels it. Hears it.

And with one final thrust, he presses you down hard against the machine and groans your name as he comes inside you, thick and deep, holding you in place while he pulses through it.

You stay like that for a beat.

Breathless, boneless and wrecked.

His chest against your back, his breath warm on your neck.

Then he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Next time, you’re on your knees.”

You laugh, hoarse and wicked. “Next time, I’m riding you in your truck.”

He chuckles, pulling back to zip himself up, swatting your ass with a little too much fondness. “Fucking brat.”

You fix your shorts with shaking hands, tugging them up over your still-aching thighs. He’s already peeking out the door, checking for an escape route.

All clear.

He slips out first, walking like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just fuck you senseless in the laundry room.

You follow a minute later, legs trembling, mouth still tasting him.

No one notices. No one ever does.

And Bucky?

He’s already back on the patio. Leaning against the rail like the sin he is.

But when your eyes meet his across the yard, that heat in his stare.

You know he’s not done with you yet.

Not even close.

a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves 💕

You didn’t have to look to know it was him—you felt it, the shift in the air, the slow exhale of someone finally crossing a threshold where they didn’t have to pretend anymore.

Boots first. Then the soft thump of a coat landing across the arm of the couch.

He didn’t say anything.

He never did, not right away.

You stayed facing the stove, letting him come to you on his own time.

A moment passed.

Then—arms.

One wrapped low around your waist, tugging you back gently into a solid chest; the other snaked across your stomach, anchoring you there. His body curved into yours like he hadn’t seen you in years.

His breath was warm against the side of your neck. A little uneven.

You leaned into it, tilting your head back just slightly, lips parting into a soft smile as your hand came up to rest over his forearm.

“Hi,” you said softly, your voice curling with quiet affection.

He didn’t answer.

Just bent slightly to press his mouth to your shoulder, slow and heavy.

Your smile softened further.

Raising your free hand, you brushed his fingers where they rested on your stomach. “Dinner’s almost done,” you murmured. “Ten minutes.”

Still nothing.

Not from lack of care.

You could feel it—the way his grip tightened slightly, the way his breath caught on the inhale like he wanted to speak but couldn’t quite yet.

He didn’t need to.

You turned your head and pressed a kiss to his jaw, light, lingering.

Then, softer:

“Rough day?”

You felt the sigh leave him before you heard it.

You turned slowly in his arms, the hem of your dress brushing against his thighs as you faced him. His grip didn’t loosen—if anything, it tightened, hands settling low on your back like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold on just right.

Your arms came up around his neck, fingers sliding gently into his hair, nails grazing the back of his scalp just enough to make him sigh—deep, and low in his chest.

His eyes met yours then.

Tired. Heavy-lidded. Something behind them flickering—yearning, but buried under layers of restraint.

You leaned in and kissed his jaw. Once. Then again. Then slowly dragged your lips toward the corner of his mouth, your voice no louder than a hum.

“Talk to me,” you whispered, your words brushing his skin. “What do you need, baby?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But his hands curled tighter around your waist, fingers gripping like he could mold you to his chest. His head dipped slightly, forehead brushing yours, his breath shaky now—shaky in that rare way that only happened when everything he carried all day finally started to slip.

You left another kiss, just below his ear.

He swallowed.

Still no words.

But you could feel it now—how close he was to breaking.

His breath dragged unevenly against your cheek, warm and unsteady. His hands roamed your back like he didn’t know where to settle, like nothing was enough—not touch, not closeness, not even this space between you.

His lips grazed your skin—first at your cheekbone, then your jaw, trailing lower until they reached the column of your neck. There was no finesse to it, no seduction—just desperation in the way his mouth lingered, the way his breathing faltered like every second closer to you took something unbearable off his shoulders.

And then—

“Please,” he whispered.

You froze for just a breath.

The word landed soft but heavy.

He said it again, voice lower this time. Rougher.

“Please…”

His lips pressed into your skin again, then opened—teeth grazing just enough to feel, just enough to ache.

You didn’t answer.

You just let him come apart.

“Please, I…” He faltered, and one hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, gently, reverently. “I don’t—I don’t know what—”

His forehead dropped against your temple.

And again, like it was the only thing he could say—

“Please.”

You let out a slow breath against his neck, your lips brushing just under his jaw.

“Dinner can wait,” you murmured.

His whole body responded—barely perceptible, but you felt it. A tension releasing, just enough.

Your hand slid down to his chest, then lower, fingers lacing with his as you stepped back and gently pulled him with you—toward the couch.

He didn’t resist.

Didn’t say a word.

He followed, eyes glassy, lips parted, as if he were still caught between asking and needing.

You pushed him down with the barest pressure to his shoulders.

He sat.

Head tilted slightly back. Breath shallow. Hands on his thighs, like he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you.

You climbed into his lap, straddling him slow, your knees bracketing his hips, your dress sliding high over your thighs.

Your hands rested lightly on his chest.

He looked up at you like he was drowning and you were the only breath he had left.

Your voice came soft, controlled.

But your gaze burned.

“Tell me what you want, James.”

He blinked slowly. Swallowed. His jaw flexed—an instinctive resistance. Not because he didn’t want. Because he did, too much.

“I…” His voice caught.

You leaned in, lips barely brushing his.

“What do you need from me?”

He closed his eyes.

And whispered again—

“Everything.”

You didn’t answer him.

Not with words.

Your hands moved to his tie, slow and precise, fingers loosening the knot with the kind of care that made his breath hitch low in his throat. The silk slid free, and you dropped it beside the couch without looking.

His eyes stayed on you the entire time—wide, dark, needy—like he still didn’t believe you were really doing this, like at any second he might wake up back in some sterile committee room with nothing but cold coffee and colder stares.

You leaned in and kissed just beneath his ear.

“Shh,” you whispered, your lips brushing his skin.

Then you worked open the first button on his shirt.

Then the second.

Each one a soft sound in the quiet room.

You spread the fabric slowly, kissing the new skin you revealed—his collarbone, the line between his pecs, the edge of a scar near his ribs. Your mouth moved lower, your pace unhurried. Every press of your lips said I see you. Every graze of your fingers said you’re safe now.

You heard the exhale he gave—shaky, wrecked.

You undid his belt, but didn’t pull it off yet.

Not yet.

Instead, your palms smoothed up his chest as you kissed your way back up, until your mouth hovered just over his.

His hands still hadn’t moved. Still pressed to his thighs like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

Then whispered:

“Tell me what part of you needs me most.”

You felt him twitch beneath you—barely contained tension. His breath came shallow now, mouth parted, pupils blown wide as he stared up at you like you were unraveling him with nothing but silence and touch.

Your fingers slid down his chest again, tracing along the line of muscle to the open buttons of his shirt. You pushed the fabric further aside, exposing the skin beneath, then leaned down and kissed him again. Right over his sternum. Soft. Patient.

Another kiss, just beneath his ribs.

Then lower.

When your lips brushed the top of his beltline, you felt him tense, his thighs shifting under your knees. Still, his hands hadn’t moved—gripping his legs like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You raised your head, met his eyes.

Then, without a word, slid off his lap—slow, graceful.

You settled onto your knees between his legs, skirt pooling around you.

He watched you, breath catching.

Your palms pressed lightly to his thighs.

“Still waiting,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly. “You haven’t told me what part of you needs me most.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. Hands trembling now.

You leaned in, lips grazing just over the fabric at his waist—not kissing, just hovering.

He let out a soft, helpless sound. A breath. A plea in the shape of a whimper.

You raised your eyes again, slow and deliberate.

“James,” you said, tone like a velvet knife, “I won’t give you what you want until you ask for it.”

He closed his eyes. His fists clenched. His whole body shook with restraint.

And then—

His voice cracked.

“Please,” he whispered. “Touch me. I need—fuck, I need your mouth, I need your hands, I need you.”

You smiled, slow and warm, before pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

“Good boy,” you breathed.

Your lips grazed the inside of his thigh again, slower this time, letting the warmth of your breath sink into his skin.

He let out a soft, broken sound—something between a sigh and a moan—his hips shifting just slightly under your hands.

Your hands moved with deliberate ease, undoing his belt with a soft clink, then sliding the zipper down slow enough to make him tremble. His hips jerked slightly as you pushed his slacks and briefs down just far enough, exposing him to the cool air—and to your gaze.

He was already hard, already flushed, already aching for you.

You didn’t rush.

No, that would be merciful.

You leaned in and kissed the crease of his thigh first. Then the base. Then, finally, the tip—barely a kiss.

He groaned like it hurt.

Your hand wrapped gently around the base, thumb brushing his skin with care. You stroked him once, slow, then again, watching his jaw tighten, his eyes fluttering as his hands finally moved—to the edge of the couch, gripping it like he was holding on for dear life.

You kissed him again. Then licked—slow, from base to tip.

His whole body arched just slightly, a soft gasp breaking past his lips.

“Fuck—” he whispered, nearly breathless.

You took him into your mouth then, warm and slow, your lips sealing around him like a promise. You didn’t rush. You savored. Let your tongue trace every inch, let your throat ease open for him bit by bit.

His hands fisted tighter on the couch.

And then—

One of them slid to your hair.

Not pulling.

Just holding.

Like he needed the contact, not the control.

You hummed around him, slow and deep, and felt him shake.

His voice was wrecked now, low and hoarse.

“God, you feel—so fucking good, I can’t—please don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

You devoured him.

Tender. Controlled. Ruthless.

And when he started to come—hips twitching, breath choking in his throat—you pulled back just slightly, letting your hand take over, your mouth moving to his stomach, kissing him softly as he pulsed in your palm.

He collapsed into it, body shuddering, voice a mess of your name and curses and gratitude.

When he finally opened his eyes, you were still there between his knees, looking up at him like he was the only thing in the world worth touching.

His chest was still rising and falling unevenly, skin flushed, hair mussed from where his hands had gripped his own thighs like restraint was the only thing keeping him grounded.

But the moment your hand released him—when your touch left his skin—he whined.

Not loudly.

Not desperate.

But helpless.

His hand tightened in your hair, not pulling—pleading. Eyes glassy, unfocused, begging without words.

And you knew.

You didn’t speak.

You rose slowly, still holding his gaze, and crawled into his lap—knee by knee, thighs sliding over his, your chest brushing his as you straddled him again. He sat back, legs parted beneath you, arms limp at his sides like the effort of holding back had gutted him.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“You’re still not done, are you?” you whispered.

He shook his head slowly. “No—need more—I need all of you, I can’t—” His hands gripped your waist then, finally, anchoring himself in the curve of your body. “Please don’t stop touching me.”

You kissed his temple.

Then his cheekbone.

Your hands moved to undo the rest of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, baring more of him to the soft light. His body was hard, scarred, beautiful. And yours.

“Shh,” you murmured. “You’ve been so good for me. I’ll take care of you.”

You slid your hips against his, slow and deliberate, your heat grinding over him—slick, teasing, just enough to make him moan like it pained him.

His fingers dug into your skin.

“Let me inside,” he begged, voice cracking, “please—just let me feel you.”

You reached between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance—slow, slick, perfectly controlled.

And as you sank down on him, inch by inch, you felt him shatter beneath you.

His hands clutched at your hips, his breath caught, and the groan he let out was raw, needy—the sound of a man who had finally come home.

You didn’t rush.

You moved against him with the same sensual dominance as before—rolling your hips, rocking into him, letting him fill every inch of you until he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be without you.

“God,” he whispered, forehead pressed to your collarbone, “you’re everything, you’re everything—”

You cradled his head in your hands, your lips brushing his temple again.

And you fucked him like he was yours.

Because he was.

You rolled your hips over him in slow, deliberate waves, your hands splayed across his bare chest to steady yourself as he filled you—deep, stretching, perfect.

Every movement was controlled, sensual, designed to keep him right at the edge, trembling under the weight of every soft sound you coaxed from his mouth.

He buried his face against your neck, his lips moving with quiet desperation over your skin. Please. More. Don’t stop.

You could feel his body trying to surge upward, to chase the pace—but your hands pushed him back, gently but firmly, pinning him to the couch.

“Let me,” you whispered, breath hot against his ear. “You just feel.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, fingers flexing against your hips like he was trying not to fall apart right there. But he didn’t fight it. He couldn’t. Not when the way you rode him made his whole body tremble.

Your movements were slow, intoxicating, building rhythm with the kind of unbearable patience that made him clutch at you, chest rising fast, soft curses breaking from his throat.

“I—fuck, I’m gonna—” he gasped, head dropping back against the couch.

You slowed even more.

His eyes flew open, panicked, begging.

“No,” he groaned, “please don’t stop—don’t stop—”

You leaned forward, hands sliding up his chest, your mouth hovering just above his. “Look at me.”

He did.

Wide-eyed. Flushed. Open.

“This is mine,” you whispered, rolling your hips harder once, your walls tightening around him.

He cried out, breath shattering.

“You’re mine.”

His hands gripped your waist so hard it bordered on desperate.

“Yes—yes, I’m yours, I’m yours, I—please—”

You kissed him then.

Not gently.

Not softly.

You took his mouth the way you took his body—completely.

He moaned into you, bucking once, twice—then came with a shudder that wracked his whole frame, his arms pulling you tight against his chest as if you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not yet.

You drew out every second of it—rocking him through the pleasure, letting him come down only when his voice went soft and his grip loosened, trembling with the aftershocks.

When you finally stopped, your forehead rested against his, your breathing just as uneven now—his name still warm on your lips.

And all he could say, again and again, was:

“Thank you. Thank you. Fuck, I love you.”

You didn’t let him breathe for long.

Before the shudders even fully left his body, you kissed him again—deeper, hungrier, lips parting to take the end of his moan into your mouth. You drank the sound like it was his confession. Your tongue met his, slow and sure, dragging every unspoken word out of him.

He tried to speak again—tried to say thank you, maybe, or I love you again—but the words never made it out.

Because your lips left his mouth and moved to his throat, and your tongue found the line just under his jaw.

He gasped, head falling back, throat bared completely as your mouth claimed him there.

Your tongue was slow, deliberate—possessive as you licked and sucked the skin, not enough to bruise, but enough to make him tremble beneath you. Your name slipped from his lips again, broken, aching.

“Please,” he whimpered again, not even knowing what he was begging for now.

He twitched beneath you, and without thinking—completely overstimulated—he thrust upward once, sharp and needy, hips bucking into the tight heat he was still buried in.

The sound he made was desperate—half-pleasure, half-pain.

You moaned softly into his throat, hips grinding down in response.

“You’re still hard for me,” you whispered, tongue curling around the words against his skin. “Even now.”

His hands spasmed at your hips, as if to say he didn’t mean to. As if to say he couldn’t help it.

You pulled back just enough to look down at him.

His eyes were half-lidded, cheeks flushed, mouth still parted.

“Again?” you asked, voice low and devastatingly soft.

He nodded—tiny, helpless.

“I don’t care if it hurts,” he whispered hoarsely. “I just need to feel you.”

Your nails dragged slowly down his chest, watching him flinch under the burn of your touch. He was still trembling, still gasping softly, the overstimulation rippling through every muscle—but his cock was hard inside you again, pulsing with that unbearable need neither of you had put to rest.

You braced your hands against his chest and rolled your hips once—deep and slow, enough to make him groan, deep in his throat, as his hands clutched at your thighs.

“F-fuck—” he choked, eyes squeezing shut.

His head tilted back against the couch cushions, neck exposed, jaw clenched. Sweat beaded at his temple, his lips red and swollen from your earlier kisses.

You moved again.

Harder this time.

And his hips jerked in response, the sound he made somewhere between a cry and a moan, like he didn’t know if he could take it or if he’d beg for more.

“You’re not done,” you whispered darkly, leaning down, as you kissed him again—this time biting his bottom lip until he gasped. “You said you wanted everything. So give me everything.”

His hands gripped your ass now, digging into the soft curve of you as he tried to meet your rhythm—uneven, wrecked, raw.

You rode him hard now, hips slapping into his, your body taking what it wanted—what it owned. His head lolled, his moans breaking with each thrust, and every time your name left his mouth it sounded like devotion.

“Please—God, please, I’m not—I can’t—” he stuttered, voice hoarse and trembling.

You caught his face between your hands, made him look at you.

“Look at me,” you hissed, rolling your hips even deeper, grinding down until he gasped. “Come for me again.”

And he did.

Harder than before—his whole body convulsing, back arching as he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew, clinging to you like he’d come apart without you holding him together.

You didn’t let him go.

You stayed on top of him, breath heavy, your forehead pressed to his, his arms tight around your waist.

He was shaking.

Ruined.

Yours.

His body was trembling beneath you, drenched in sweat and breathless, his chest rising and falling in uneven, desperate pulls. His hands still gripped your hips, but there was no strength left in them—just the ghost of that need that had burned through him moments ago.

You softened your hold on him, slowly leaning forward, pressing your chest to his, and wrapping your arms gently around his shoulders. His forehead dropped to your collarbone, face buried in your skin, every breath he took brushing warm against the hollow of your throat.

“Shh…” you whispered, lips against his temple. “That’s it. You’re okay.”

He didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

You felt the way his hands clutched you tighter—just a little. As if he needed the reminder that you were still there, that this was real, that he wasn’t lost somewhere inside his own head.

You rocked your hips once, gently, just enough to keep him grounded.

“Such a good boy,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his hair.

He let out a shuddering exhale, something like a sob tucked beneath it—but it wasn’t from sadness.

It was release.

The kind no one else ever let him have.

You kissed the side of his head. “You gave me everything. Just like I asked.”

His arms slid around your waist now, clinging to you fully, his face still pressed to your skin like it was the only safe place he knew.

“Just breathe,” you whispered, one hand stroking down his back. “You don’t have to say anything. Just stay right here.”

He nodded once.

And for a long while, there was no more need. No words. Just the two of you tangled together—his body finally still, his breath finally even, your warmth the only thing tethering him back to peace.