x3zerochanx3 - Tumblr blog

x3zerochanx3 · 1 month ago

Text

Wolf Like Me

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!

Summary: To celebrate your birthday, your friend Olivia takes you out to the new dance hall and bar that opened up in the heart of Wabang. This is where you encounter a mysterious and brooding bull rider, and learn about what the ‘Cowboy Hat Rule’ is all about.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Rhett is super forward in this and an absolute flirt (and that type of cowboy deserves a warning in and of itself lol.)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up guys, this is fantasy lol), Oral Sex (female and male receiving), Fingering, Cum Play, Dirty Talk, Rhett and Readers freaks kind of get matched here (consensually of course), Spanking, Finger Sucking, Cum Eating, Breath Play/Choking (nothing extreme), Sex is a bit on the rougher side, Biting, Scratching, Spit/Drool Kink, Nipple/Breast Play

Author’s Note: Y’all…Jeeheeeez. As per usual I loved writing this damn thing, it’s a little shorter than usual, but I did my best to meet the request/idea! I loved writing RAF today :) Enjoy Friends <3

Word Count: 10,649

You didn’t notice Rhett Abbott when you walked into the dance hall that night.

You were too distracted by the rhythmic music–low twangs and the aching pull of a steel guitar–echoing through the wide-planked room like it belonged to another century. Too distracted by the warm buzz of laughter, boot heels scuffing the pine floor, and the way your best friend Olivia was dragging you toward the bar with both hands clasped around your wrist like she was hauling you toward salvation.

It was your birthday, and Olivia had promised she was going to “make you feel like the hottest girl west of the goddamn Mississippi”–her words, not yours. Truly, you didn’t even want to come out tonight. The outfit had taken too long, your hair wouldn’t sit right, and you felt like you were on the brink of discomfort. You wanted to do something quiet, something lowkey. But Olivia had shown up at your door in a short red dress, a glittering birthday sash that you left ‘accidentally’ at your house, and a paper tiara you refused to wear–declaring that the night was already planned, and you didn’t get a say.

So here you were.

Being tugged through a packed crowd of cowboys, ranch hands, and men in pearl-snap shirts, all of them sweaty and golden under the soft glow of hanging pot lights. The air smelled like fresh wood polish, kicked-up sawdust, spilled whiskey, and a faint trace of cherry tobacco. Warm, sticky, and electric.

The men tipped their hats.

Not at Olivia, though she grinned and waved like a local celebrity.

They tipped them specifically at you.

At the birthday girl in a pale pink sundress with lace at the hem, fishnets under your boots, and a wary smile that said you weren’t quite used to being the one everyone looked at. You could feel their stares trailing along your legs, your hips, and the soft dip of your collarbone where Olivia had dusted on glitter without asking. You weren’t used to being looked at like you were a hot commodity, but evidently there was no way of avoiding it tonight, which made you dread the rest of the events to come.

Olivia paused just long enough to shoot you a wicked grin over her shoulder.

”Told you that you looked hot.” You rolled your eyes at the comment but didn’t argue, as you tried not to trip in your boots while she hauled you forward.

”Liv, you better slow down before I break my leg.” You warned, but she only laughed and kept pulling, dragging you past another cluster of men near the dance floor, through the warmth of bodies and music and the harsh scent of leather, straight towards the row of cherry-red stools lining the bar.

Across the dance hall, Rhett Abbott was nursing his second beer of the night, with his eyes glued to the whole scene in front of him.

From the moment you stepped through the door–head ducked, your glossy red lip caught between your teeth, with your dress fluttering around your thighs like it had a mind of its own–he had been locked in. He was seated in the back, near the edge of the room where the lighting softened and the crowd thinned. There was a half-drunk bottle of beer in his hand, and his hat was tilted forward just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes.

Over the music Rhett was able to catch your little protest to your friend who was tugging you through the crowd. It seemed like you didn’t have the type of voice made for yelling, but he found that endearing in a way, and it made him even more curious about you.

He leaned back in his chair just enough to get a full view of you when you finally stopped moving, watching the way you climbed ever so delicately onto one of the red barstools, adjusting the hem of your pink dress as you sat, smoothing the lacy trim along your thighs like you were praying it would stay put while you were sitting.

Then your other hand slid along the black fishnets that were stretched over your skin, fingertips dragging like it was a casual distraction for you, not even realizing how mesmerizing it looked from where he was sitting.

He didn’t blink, and he could’ve sworn he had stopped breathing for a bit.

He just sat there with his legs spread wide, his bottle of beer sweating between his fingers, watching as you scanned the dance hall like you were trying to understand the place–read the room, maybe decide what kind of trouble you were in.

It didn’t really matter what conclusion you came to though, because for Rhett, he had already made up his mind. You were definitely the kind of trouble he liked, and whether he liked it or not he would either be leaving with you tonight, or he would have your number in his phone.

The only thing that interrupted the thick haze of Rhett’s one-sided fixation was the familiar thud of a chair scraping across the floor beside him, and the sudden drop of two bottles onto the barrel table behind them.

It was Perry.

”Whatcha lookin’ at?” He asked, breath already warm with alcohol. He slid into the seat next to Rhett, knocking their knees together without much care. He didn’t answer right away. He just tipped the beer bottle to his lips, letting the bitter liquid sit cold in his mouth for a second before swallowing. The condensation rolled down over his knuckles, wetting the denim on his thighs. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then nodded toward the bar.

“The girl in the pink dress.” Perry leaned a bit, resting his elbow on the table as he followed Rhett’s line of sight. When he finally found you–bent toward Olivia now, lips curled in a laugh at something she had whispered–his brows lifted in surprise. The movement of your body made the hem of your dress ride up just a little higher, revealing a glimpse of your upper thigh between lace and netting, and Rhett’s jaw flexed as he watched one of your boots twist lightly on its heel. Still unaware that you were being studied.

Perry let out a low hum, amused.

”Interestin’ choice. Never seen a number like her ‘round here. Think she’s new?” Rhett shrugged.

”Woulnd’t know,” He muttered, “Y’know I’m not one to socialize.” Perry barked out a laugh.

”Says the guy sittin’ in the middle of a goddamn dance hall.” Rhett shook his head, glancing down at his beer.

”Just a reminder…You’re the one that dragged me here tonight. I came for moral support, remember?” Perry smirked, eyes still scanning over you.

”Yeah, well…It looks like there’s another reason why you’re gonna be stayin’ here with me for the next few hours huh?” Rhett didn’t respond. He just took another swig of beer, throat bobbing with the swallow, his eyes trained on the way your mouth moved as you leaned into Olivia again, clearly arguing about something.

At the bar, you were trying not to combust from secondhand embarrassment.

”Liv, for the love of god, did you have to order the blowjob shot?” You hissed through your teeth, voice pitched low. Olivia just grinned, absolutely unbothered, chin propped in her palm as she batted her lashes at you.

“C’mon, Y/N. Lighten up. It’s your birthday. You look hot as hell, and you might as well act like it.” You groaned quietly, sinking a bit in your stool, only to be yanked upright again by the arrival of the bartender, who slid two tall shot glasses onto the counter with a devilish smirk.

Thick whipped cream spiraled over the rim of each glass, piled high and fluffy like a little storm cloud. The liquid inside was creamy gold, layered like dessert, and smelled sickly sweet with something deceptively strong underneath. Bailey’s, Amaretto, maybe a little vodka–danger in a glass.

“You ladies know the drill,” The bartender drawled, clearly entertained. “Hands behind your back. Shoot ’em back, no cheating.”

“Oh god,” You muttered, your voice barely audible over the twang of fiddle in the background. The lights in the dance hall felt hotter now, like a spotlight had been angled just for you, and you could feel the weight of nearby stares settle on your skin. You weren’t imagining it. A few heads had turned. A few eyes had wandered. The subtle scrape of barstools shifting nearby confirmed it.

Olivia winked at you, “Let’s drop this birthday girl.” You let out a long sigh and stood up, squaring your shoulder and putting your hands dutifully behind your back. The movement made your dress ride up slightly in the back, and you could feel air sweep across the skin on the back of your thighs. You heard a whistle from a few feet away, and Olivia–ever the provocateur–blew a little kiss toward the source.

The bartender began his countdown. “Three…Two…”

You closed your eyes for a second. When you opened them again, you leaned in.

“One!”

You wrapped your lips around the glass with practiced hesitation, the cold rim smudged with sugar and cream, and tipped it back.

The shot hit your mouth like silk and sugar–thick, cool whipped cream dissolving almost immediately against the heat of your tongue. It was followed by the velvety weight of Irish cream and almond–rich, nutty, warm. A burn chased it down, subtle but definite, like the echo of a fireplace in your chest.

It was sticky, sweet, and entirely too indulgent.

You swallowed hard, the whipped cream hitting the back of your throat in a way that made your eyes flutter shut for a half-second before you pulled the empty glass from between your teeth. Your lips were smeared with cream and alcohol, and as you straightened back up, you used the corner of a cocktail napkin to wipe your mouth, dragging it across your lower lips with slow precision.

There was laughter. Applause, even–low and amused from someone a few stools down. You shot Olivia a deadly glare.

She beamed back, smug. “That’s the spirit.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to set your empty glass down, the bartender took it with a small chuckle, shaking his head.

”An absolute natural,” He commented, smirking like he’d seen your type try and fail a hundred times to take the shot properly–only you had just nailed it. You let out a soft laugh, cheeks already heating up from more than just the alcohol.

”Mind if I get a vodka cran so I can nurse my embarrassment?” He laughed, pouring out a shot for another patron with ease.

”Sure thing. This one’s on the house…” You smiled, genuine and soft.

”Thanks. That’s really nice of you.” Olivia leaned over, her body brushing yours as she pressed a warm palm to your thigh.

“I’m gonna head to the washroom real quick. Watch my stuff?” She asked, already motioning to her purse before you could answer.

“Of course,” You replied, nodding, eyes following her as she slipped off the stool and disappeared into the crowd of bodies–red dress catching the low lights, the sway of her hips a beacon among the shuffle of boots and denim. You exhaled a small sigh, turning a bit toward the bar to avoid the eyes you still felt on you. The bartender was pouring vodka now–cold and clear over two large cubes of ice that clinked quietly as they settled in the glass. He topped it with cranberry, the liquid blooming red like blood in water. You bit your bottom lip, rubbing your hand absently along the seam of your fishnets, fingertips tracing the delicate grid across your thigh. You were just trying to keep your hands busy. Just trying to calm the heat that still simmered under your skin.

The drink slid in front of you. You murmured a “thank you” and took a small sip–sweet, tart, and sharp enough to draw your shoulders down.

That’s when you heard him.

A low voice behind you–gruff, but smooth like weather-worn leather. Deep enough to run a shiver right down your spine.

“You can put the rest of her drinks on my tab,” The man said to the bartender, casual and confident, like it wasn’t up for debate. You blinked and turned, slowly.

And there he was.

A man you’d never seen before, but who somehow looked like he belonged to this very place. Like he was the bar, the boots, the dust, and the heat.

His light brown cowboy hat was worn but not beat-up, tilted just enough to cast a faint shadow over his eyes. His hair curled slightly around the nape of his neck–light brown, a little longer than expected, a little messy in that intentional way that made you wonder what it looked like after a long ride or a rough night.

He had a white t-shirt clinging to the hard lines of his chest beneath a red plaid button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar left open. His arms looked strong–sun-darkened and veined, with a silver ring of a scar trailing across one of his forearms like a whisper of old danger.

And his jeans…Lord.

They fit him perfectly.

Snug where it counted, loose where it didn’t. Faded denim pulled taut over thighs that could’ve belonged to a damn Clydesdale–thick and muscular, the kind of legs that looked like they could keep him locked to a bull, or have someone’s legs locked around them. Worn leather boots finished the look–scuffed, muddy in places, but solid. Reliable.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he smirked, one hand hooking into the belt loop at his hip, his body turned toward yours like it had nowhere else to be.

You gave him a slow smile, your pulse picking up just enough to notice. You took another slow sip of your drink, letting the tartness curl over your tongue as you studied him beneath the brim of his hat.

“You sure you wanna do that?” You asked, nodding toward the bar. “My friend can drink quite a bit. She might run your tab dry.”

He didn’t flinch. Just smiled wider, teeth gleaming beneath that cowboy charm as he stepped closer–boots solid on the floor, the heat of him radiating like a campfire as he claimed the stool directly across from you. He sat like he owned the damn thing–hips spread wide, arms relaxed over the edge of the counter, body tilted ever so slightly toward yours like gravity had chosen you and there was nothing he could do about it.

“I’m positive,” He replied, voice syrup-smooth and low as hell. “I owe her one anyways.”

You tilted your head, arching a brow. “Do you know her?”He gave a small shake of his head, his light brown hair brushing the back of his collar.

“No…No, I don’t.” His smile curved slower now, sly and sweet. “I just owe her for convincin’ you to take that shot.” Your heart stuttered–just a beat, just enough to make your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. You looked down at your drink to hide it, swirling the melting ice.

“It was very impressive,” he added, voice barely above a murmur now. “Gotta say… I’m not usually one for public displays, but that? That made my night.”

Your cheeks went warm again, hotter than they had at the bar earlier, and you tried to play it off by taking another sip of your vodka cran. You could feel the alcohol beginning to coil in your belly like a soft ember, loosening your shoulders just enough to look back up at him.

“Well…Thank you,” You responded, your voice quieter this time.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped–just for a second–down your frame, lingering at the hem of your pink sundress where it met black fishnet. You watched his jaw tick, subtle but there. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip before he lifted his gaze again, catching your eyes.

“Name’s Rhett, by the way.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and nodded, offering your name in return, “Y/N.”

Rhett gave a slow nod, like he was tasting it. Like he planned on saying it again, but later, under very different circumstances.

“Pretty name,” He murmured, his voice going lower again, touched with something that felt like a promise.

You broke eye contact for a moment, letting your gaze fall to the buttons of his open plaid shirt, the slight curl of hair at the hollow of his throat, the rise and fall of his chest as he exhaled slowly. His hands rested lightly on his thighs, long fingers tapping once against the denim.

When you looked back up, you found him watching you with the same unrelenting intensity he’d had since the moment he walked up–but this time, something was different.

He reached for his hat.

With two fingers hooked under the brim, he pulled it from his head and leaned across the space between you. His hair was swept back away from his face, and it looked smooth, not a strand overlapping another, like he had combed it multiple times to get it just right. The room shrank with the gesture–music fading, laughter dulling to a hum–until it was just him, you, and the air between your bodies.

“You ever worn one before?” He asked, his eyes flicking to your lips.

You blinked. “A hat?”

“A cowboy hat.” He corrected. You shook your head.

He smirked. “Then you’re overdue.”

And with that, Rhett gently placed the hat on your head.

It settled heavy and warm, the inner band still laced with his heat, the scent of him–leather, pine, sweat, and something darker–curling around your senses like smoke. The brim framed your vision, narrowing your world to him, and the second you looked back up at him, you saw it: the shift. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. And his eyes darkened with a heat so sharp it nearly knocked the breath from your chest.

“There,” He said, his voice gone rougher now, like gravel over honey. “That’s better…Goes well with your outfit.” You gave a half-laugh, unsure what to do with the sudden weight of it all, with the way your thighs pressed together involuntarily beneath your dress.

“And…What do I do with it?” You asked, fingers lightly adjusting the brim. He leaned in closer–close enough for you to see the dark little flecks of black in his ice blue eyes, close enough to feel the soft rasp of his breath ghost over your cheek.

“You can give it to me at the end of the night.” He murmured, voice like sin, “Looks better on you anyways.” Rhett’s mouth ticked up into a slow, crooked smirk, and with a wink, he rose from his stool.

“I’ll be around…” He murmured, low and easy, like it was a promise–not a possibility. You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering, a little dazed from the weight of his gaze, the scent of his hat still warm against your temples. You nodded slowly, lips parting with a soft smile you hadn’t even realized was coming.

“…Okay,” You breathed, barely loud enough to rise above the low pulse of steel guitar vibrating through the floorboards. But Rhett caught it. You knew he did, because his eyes flared with quiet satisfaction before he tipped his chin and turned away, boots dragging slow and heavy as he sauntered back through the crowd. He didn’t glance back. You were still watching the spot where he’d stood when Olivia reappeared, hair slightly fluffed from the bathroom hand dryer and a knowing smirk already curling across her face.

“I leave you alone for one minute,” She announced, dropping onto her stool and reaching for her drink, “and you’ve got some guy’s cowboy hat on your head?” You turned to face her, half-startled, half-embarrassed, your fingers instinctively adjusting the brim.

“He put it on me,” You said with a shrug, trying to play it off even though your heart was still rabbiting in your chest. “He was also a really big flirt. And–he put our drinks on his tab.” Olivia let out a delighted little laugh, eyes gleaming as she reached over and plucked the drink out of your hand without asking.

“Oh, honey,” She murmured mockingly, shaking her head fondly before taking a long sip. “You do know what wearing another man’s cowboy hat means, right?” You blinked. Your brows knit together, pulse hitching just slightly.

”…It means something?” That sent Olivia into a full cackle. She nearly choked on your drink, setting it down with a thunk before wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“God, this is exactly why you need to come to the circuit with me sometime,” She said, voice hushed but intense. “You’d know these things. Out there, we’ve got a saying. The Cowboy Hat Rule.” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“What rule?”

“If you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” Olivia said with a devilish grin. Your jaw dropped slightly, lips parting in stunned disbelief.

“Excuse me?” She snorted and stole another sip of your drink.

”It’s a very common rule.” You were still reeling, pulse fluttering somewhere between your ribs and your throat, when Olivia tilted her head slightly and asked, “Who’s the guy, anyway?” You hesitated for a second, eyes scanning the room instinctively–and then you spotted him. Across the bar, Rhett stood laughing with another man, shoulders relaxed, one boot crossed over the other while he leaned back against a support beam like he was posing for a western calendar. His hatless head caught the light now, soft brown waves brushing the nape of his neck, and that same flirtatious smile dancing at the edge of his mouth while he took a lazy swig from his bottle, paying attention to the man beside him who was talking his head off. You nodded toward him. Olivia followed your gaze. Her jaw went slack.

“…Jesus. Christ,” She whispered like it was a prayer and a curse. “Rhett Abbott gave you his hat?” Your brows furrowed slightly.

”You know him?” Olivia stared at you, absolutely stunned, before handing you back your drink.

”He’s, like…Wabang’s unofficial rodeo royalty. Son of Royal Abbott. Rides like an absolute demon…And apparently,” She paused, reaching over to adjust the hat on your head, “He knows what he’s doing when it comes to the flirting game.” You reached up to adjust the brim absently again, heart still pounding as you glanced back over at Rhett.

“Well…” You muttered, keeping your voice low, “Do I give him the damn hat back now?”

Olivia turned to look at you like you’d just suggested leaving a cash prize on the bar and walking out. Her eyebrows shot up, and she leaned in close, voice pitched like a secret, her smile wicked.

“I wouldn’t,” She said, head tilting toward Rhett with theatrical drama. “Look at that hot piece of ass. There’s no way he wouldn’t give you the most memorable birthday of your life… Hell, he might even water that dry spell you’ve been goin’ through.”

You damn near choked on your vodka cran. Gulped once, hard, as you looked back at him–at the way Rhett’s broad shoulders shifted when he laughed at something the guy next to him said, how his grin cracked wide and real for a second before settling back into that slow smirk. He lifted the bottle to his lips and tilted his head back, and your eyes tracked the curve of his throat as he drank. His free hand flexed over his belt buckle like it was second nature–just a little twitch, but enough to stir something low and molten in your belly.

“It was an intentional dry spell,” You mumbled into your drink, voice muffled by glass as you took another long sip.

Olivia let out a bark of laughter and clinked her glass against yours.

“Well,” she said, “consider the intentional dry spell officially over. Your crops are definitely gonna be watered tomorrow.”

You groaned. “God, please stop saying it like that.”

“What? It’s true,” She replied, eyes twinkling, “And he looks like he knows exactly how to plow a field if you catch my drift.”

You scrunched your nose, cringing. “Liv.”

“Sorry, sorry,” She said, laughing now, “you’re right. That was too far.”

You looked down at your drink, swirling the ice again, lips pressed into a thin line as your mind raced. There was no way you were just imagining the heat in his voice. The way he looked at you. The deliberate placement of the hat. The low, lazy line about giving it back “at the end of the night.” You could still feel the weight of it. Still smell him every time you inhaled.

“Guess I’ll need a few more of these for the confidence boost,” You muttered, motioning to your vodka cran. Olivia laughed softly, already flagging down the bartender again.

“Honey,” She said, “I think you’ll need something harder than that.”

The bartender came back over, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “What can I get y’all?”

“Two whiskey gingers,” Olivia said without hesitation, nodding toward you. “Birthday girl needs a little liquid courage.”

“Coming right up.”

———————————

The end of the night came quicker than you expected–swept away by the burn of whiskey, the thrum of music, and the hum of conversation that softened with each passing hour. The dance floor had thinned to a scattered patchwork of swaying couples and drunken line dancers, while the crowd at the bar had mostly dwindled to a few regulars nursing nightcaps and conversations that slurred at the edges. The air had grown heavier with heat, perfumed by spilled liquor, worn leather, and the sticky trace of perfume clinging to cotton.

You were perched delicately on your stool again, your third whiskey ginger half-melted beside you, fingers lazily dragging circles in the condensation on the glass. Olivia had already made her exit–though not before whispering a scandalous play-by-play of her own evening into your ear, complete with a wink and a kiss on your cheek. “I’ll text you when I’m safe,” she’d promised, glittering and flushed, arm wrapped around the waist of a tall rancher who looked at her like she was going to absolutely rock his world. Typical Liv.

And then you were alone.

Almost.

You felt him before you saw him. The shift in the air. The weight of a stare landing soft and deliberate on your skin.

You turned just as Rhett approached the bar.

He walked with that same quiet swagger–slow and sure, like he had all the time in the world. Like the earth moved for him, not the other way around. He leaned forward on one elbow, nodding to the bartender with a tilt of his chin.

“Just gonna close my tab out,” He said casually, and then–almost like it was an afterthought–he turned to you. The second his eyes landed on you, that lazy, crooked smile pulled across his mouth. He let his gaze drop down to the hat still perched on your head before coming back to meet your eyes.

“Still goin’ strong with my hat, huh?” He asked, voice low and rich with something warmer than amusement. “Figured by this point it’d be off.” You tilted your head slightly, letting the corners of your lips curl in that same slow, teasing fashion.

“Well…I was informed by my friend what it means to wear another cowboy’s hat,” You started, letting your fingers toy with the brim, “And I thought I’d make my intentions clear.” His brows lifted, intrigued. His smile twitched wider.

“Is that right?” He murmured, leaning in just a touch, the smell of smoke, leather, and whiskey coiling in the air between you. “And what would those intentions be?” You held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

Then slowly–deliberately–you slipped your bottom lip between your teeth, dragging it back with a soft click.

“Going home with the original owner.”

The look that passed over Rhett’s face wasn’t subtle.

His grin faltered–just barely–replaced by something darker, slower, molten. His gaze dropped to your lips, then to your thighs, then back again. And when he looked at you this time, it was like he’d already made up his mind. The weight of his stare alone had your knees brushing together, your heart thudding slow and thick beneath your ribs. He hummed low, something deep in his chest.

“Sounds like a plan…” His voice was so casual, so easy, like you’d just suggested grabbing a late-night milkshake and not going back to his place to sin your way through the final hours of your birthday. “There’s a hotel just down the street,” He added, cocking his head toward the door, “Quiet little place, good enough for the night.” You smiled at him, slow and soft and a little dizzy from the whiskey and everything he was–his scent, his voice, the way he filled the air just by standing in it.

“Let’s go there then.” He gave a small nod, eyes lingering on your mouth like he was already imagining exactly what he’d do to it.

“Alright.” The bartender came back over, card in hand, and Rhett reached for it, sliding it back into his wallet before nodding politely in thanks. Then he glanced over at you again–those baby blues catching in the low amber light.

“Hope you enjoy the rest of your birthday,” The bartender said with a knowing little smile.

“Oh boy,” Rhett murmured, half to you, half to himself as he slipped his wallet into his back pocket. “Now I really gotta pull out all the stops to make this a memorable night for you.” You could feel your cheeks warm, heat blooming in the curve of your neck as you looked down, a quiet laugh escaping your lips.

“Pretty sure it’s already memorable,” you said, brushing a hand along the side of his flannel sleeve as you stepped closer to him, your shoulder grazing his arm. He turned slightly to face you, one brow raised, his head tilting as that smirk returned in full force.

“Oh yeah?” He asked, voice teasing, low. “How so?” You shrugged, blinking up at him beneath the brim of his own hat.

“Well…For one, I’m going home with someone tonight.” Rhett’s grin grew.

“And two?” He prompted, stepping just a little closer now, close enough that the scent of his cologne–woodsmoke, cedar, a hint of sweat and clean cotton–was the only thing you could breathe.

You swallowed, lips quirking. “Two…He’s a really good-looking guy.”

Rhett let out a low laugh, warm and smooth, and his hand came up to touch the brim of the hat gently–his fingers brushing against your temple as he adjusted it on your head.

“Damn right he is,” he murmured, thumb ghosting down the side of your cheek before he tipped his head toward the door. “C’mon, birthday girl.”

He held out a hand.

And you took it without hesitation.

—————————

The hotel wasn’t far–just a short walk down the gravel-flanked main drag, past a shuttered bakery and a post office that looked like it hadn’t seen fresh paint since the late ’80s. The building itself was tucked behind a stretch of tall hedges, half-hidden from the street, with a wraparound porch and rocking chairs that creaked faintly in the warm night air. A single neon vacancy sign buzzed above the office window, casting a tired pink glow over the entrance. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t have looked twice at on any other night–but with Rhett’s hand wrapped around yours, steady and sure, it felt like the most intimate destination in the world.

He opened the door for you, the soft jingle of the bell above the frame sounding loud in the quiet lobby. The room smelled like old pine, air freshener, and faint cigarette smoke sealed into the wallpaper. The front desk was unmanned at first, until an older woman shuffled out from the back, gray curls and bifocals, wearing a cardigan and a sleepy expression.

Rhett handled the whole thing.

Didn’t even glance back at you, just pulled his wallet from his back pocket with one hand, leaned against the counter with the other, and murmured low and polite as he gave his name and card. She handed him a room key without asking many questions, likely used to cowboys checking in for the night with barely a nod.

You stayed off to the side, pretending not to listen, eyes roaming over the walls. A pair of watercolor paintings hung there–both vaguely pastoral scenes. One was a faded field with a broken fence and the other showed an old windmill framed by clouds. You focused on the way the brushstrokes swirled like tired ghosts across the canvas, your breath slowly evening out as your nerves twisted into something heavier…Thicker.

Rhett turned back to you, key card in hand, and tipped his chin. “C’mon.”

The hallway was quiet. Dimly lit with warm yellow sconces that lined the walls in soft pools of light. The carpet was dark green with small geometric patterns. Your boots made little sound against it as you followed him, heart thudding louder with every step. Room 108. His hand hovered over the knob for just a moment before he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

You stepped in first.

The room smelled like cedar cleaner and the faintest hint of vanilla. A queen-sized bed sat in the middle of the room with a wood headboard carved in a faded floral motif. The bedding was plain–crisp white sheets tucked military-tight, a tan blanket folded neatly across the bottom. A pair of lamps flanked the bed on matching end tables, their amber glow soft and low, casting long shadows against the taupe walls.

There was a leather armchair near the window. Beige curtains swayed faintly from the breeze slipping in through the AC vent. A small dresser stood across from the bed, on top of which rested a flatscreen TV that didn’t look like it worked. The carpet here was slightly frayed in the corners. There was a framed photograph on the wall–black-and-white horses running through a field at full sprint.

You stood still for a second, staring at the picture.

“You alright?” Rhett asked, voice rough, a little quieter now that you were alone again. You turned to face him.

“Yeah,” You said softly. “It’s just…Quiet.”

His lips quirked slightly, and he stepped in, letting the door close behind him with a quiet click.

“That’s kind of the idea.” He tossed the key on the nightstand and crossed the room with slow steps, his eyes never once leaving yours. The space between you shrank inch by inch. You backed up slightly, your knees brushing the edge of the bed now. Your heart was pounding, lips parted as you looked up at him, the golden lamplight catching in the strands of his soft brown hair and glinting off his belt buckle.

“If you wanna back out now…” He murmured, voice low and rough-edged, softer than it had been all night, “…We don’t have to do anythin’. I could sleep on the recliner.” His chin dipped toward the leather chair by the window, though he didn’t move. “I’d be fine with that.” You blinked up at him, the soft hum of the AC cutting through the stillness.

“No,” You said quietly, shaking your head. “It’s just nerves. That’s all.” His mouth curled into something almost tender–almost boyish. That crooked smile you’d seen at the bar, now softened with something warmer, deeper.

”Anythin’ I can do to ease ‘em?” He asked, and you could feel the heat of his breath fanning over your cheek now, carrying smoke and beer and something sweeter you couldn’t quite place. Your breath caught slightly, chest tightening with want and wonder.

You met his eyes.

“Kiss me?”

That one question came out softer than you meant it to. Almost a whisper. But it landed hard between you, like the snap of a rope pulled taut.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. His voice turned gravel-sweet.

“Gladly.”

One word, spoken like a vow.

His hand came up slow–fingertips brushing lightly along your jaw, just enough pressure to tilt your chin. His thumb hovered by your cheekbone, the pad calloused but warm. He stared at you for a heartbeat longer, like he needed to memorize the exact way you looked under this light, with his hat on your head and your lips parted for him.

Then he leaned in.

His mouth met yours gently, not tentative, but deliberate–like he didn’t want to rush. Like he needed you to feel it.

The kiss was warm, coaxing, slow-burning.

He tasted like heat and strong craft beer and the faintest echo of mint gum, his lips were plush but firm, moving over yours with tenderness. Like you were something sacred. His other hand settled at your waist, pulling you closer until your legs bumped his boots, until the front of his jeans pressed up against the soft cotton of your dress and your fingers rose instinctively to grip his hips.

You could feel the denim under your palms–stiff and warm, stretched tight over the thick muscles of his thighs. You curled your fingers against it, anchoring yourself to him as he kissed you deeper. His hand at your jaw slid back to cradle the base of your skull, fingers pressing just barely in your hair, his thumb dragging soft across your cheek like he couldn’t stop touching you.

And just when you thought he might pull back, he kissed you again–this time slower, hotter, mouth opening against yours like he couldn’t help it. You let out a breathless little sound, not quite a moan, more like surprise melted into want.

His hand tightened just slightly on your waist.

You could feel every inch of him now–his belt buckle brushing your belly, the curve of his thigh between yours, the warm, solid heat of his chest pressing into yours through the thin barrier of your dress. You broke the kiss for just a moment to breathe, and he didn’t move far–just rested his forehead against yours, his breath fanning over your lips as his hand rubbed soothing circles along your waist.

“You okay?” He murmured, voice like the edge of a drawl wrapped in silk.

You nodded slowly, catching your bottom lip between your teeth, still tasting him.

“Better than okay.” Your breath barely had time to steady before Rhett was kissing you again—hotter this time, more urgent. His hand roamed down your back and slipped around your waist, tugging you flush against him, denim dragging over the soft cotton of your dress in a way that made your thighs clench and your belly twist.

Your hands found the edges of his open flannel, fingers curling into the soft fabric before pushing it back over his shoulders. He let you, barely pulling his mouth from yours as he shimmyed out of the sleeves, the material slipping down his arms and pooling to the floor with a dull whisper of cotton. Underneath, his white t-shirt was already riding up slightly–your fingers grazing skin and waistband as he exhaled slowly against your cheek, like your touch alone was winding him up. He reached up between you, fingers brushing along the brim of the hat still perched on your head.

“Think I oughta keep this safe,” He murmured, voice hoarse with affection. He plucked it off gently, his knuckles brushing your temple as he set it reverently on the nightstand.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he brought his hand down to the bow at the collar of your dress.

You stilled.

His fingers toyed with the soft ribbon for a moment, eyes locked on yours. “This okay?” he murmured, breath ghosting over your cheek.

You nodded, and he tugged it loose. The knot gave with a gentle sigh of fabric, and the pink cotton shifted—slipping slightly lower, the tops of your breasts peeking out. His gaze dropped. His breath caught. You felt it before you saw it—his body tense, jaw ticking as his hand slid along your shoulder, pushing the strap down.

Then the other.

The dress slid like water down your arms, catching at your hips for a moment before falling to the floor in a soft heap. You stood there in nothing but your black fishnet stockings and a pale pink thong—Rhett’s eyes drinking you in like he’d never seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, low and reverent.

Then he stepped closer.

He dipped his head, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your neck, your collarbone, then lower—down the swell of your chest. His hands cupped your breasts, rough palms sliding over soft skin, thumbs brushing your nipples as he gently squeezed them together.

“Prettiest damn birthday girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, dragging the tip of his tongue between the valley of your breasts before tracing one curve, slowly. His mouth was hot, wet, and eager. When his tongue finally found your nipple, he licked softly—testing—before wrapping his lips around it and sucking gently.

You gasped.

Your fingers found his hair immediately, tangling into those soft brown waves as your other hand clawed at the front of his t-shirt, tugging hard. He chuckled low against your chest, breath hot over your skin as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Want it off?” he asked, playful, his voice all gravel and heat.

You nodded, dazed. “Off. Now.”

Rhett stepped back just enough to grab the hem of his shirt. He peeled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, muscles flexing as he tossed it carelessly onto the floor beside your dress. Your eyes dropped to his chest–solid, tan, faint freckles along his collar, and right there on his right side was a tattoo. A bull rider mid-ride, etched in black in. You stared at it for a second, then lifted your hand and pressed your palm over it, fingers splayed across his chest. He inhaled sharply at the contact, muscles twitching under your touch.

Then he kissed you again—deeper this time. Messy. Desperate.

His hands gripped your hips as you both stumbled back toward the bed, mouths still locked, teeth catching on lips. You felt his belt buckle press to your stomach, then his hands slid lower, gripping your ass through the thin lace of your panties, hoisting you up effortlessly.

You let out a quiet gasp as your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms still looped around his shoulders. He carried you the final few steps, then gently dropped you onto the mattress.

The springs creaked beneath your weight.

Rhett climbed over you, his body settling on top of yours, warm and heavy, solid in all the right places. You arched instinctively beneath him, gasping at the sensation of his skin against yours, the thick outline of his cock pressing through denim, nestled between your thighs.He leaned down and kissed you again, slower now, but deeper–his tongue sliding against yours with lazy heat, like he was tasting you one last time before devouring you for real. His hips shifted between your thighs, the rough drag of his jeans catching against the delicate lace of your thong, and he rutted into you just once–slow and steady. The thick outline of his cock pressed against your core, firm and demanding, making you gasp into his mouth.

“Fuck,” You whispered, breath catching.

His hands slid down to your thighs, fingers spreading wide as he squeezed the soft flesh there–possessive, anchoring. You felt the way his thumbs circled just under the curve of your ass, his hips rocking forward again with barely-there friction. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips buck up against him.

“Goddamn, you feel good like this,” He groaned, forehead resting briefly against yours. “Warm…Fuckin’ soft.” His lips brushed your cheek, then down to your jaw, then lower. His kisses trailed along your throat, slow and wet, tongue flicking out to taste the skin before he sucked a mark just beneath your ear. His hands never stopped their slow worship of your thighs–petting, kneading, coaxing you open beneath him.

Then as his lips brushed your collarbone he murmured, “Gonna go down on you…” Your eyes fluttered open, already hazed with heat. His voice curled through you like smoke.

“Get you nice and ready for me.” A soft, broken sound left your throat. You nodded quickly.

“Please.” Rhett didn’t make you wait. He kissed down your chest, tongue lapping at the rise of your breasts as his hands trailed lower, sliding beneath your thighs and lifting. With a sharp tug, he hooked his fingers into your underwear and fishnets and dragged them down your legs, the lace catching at your thighs before peeling away, soaked and clinging. He tossed them aside carelessly, his eyes locked between your legs now–gaze molten, jaw tight.

“Fuck, baby…” He groaned. “Look at you.” You squirmed beneath him, flushed and trembling, as he settled between your thighs and pushed them up–your knees bending toward your chest. His palms pressed firm against the backs of your thighs, spreading you wide open.

Then he lowered his head–and spat.

The thick sound of it hit your core with obscene heat, spit dribbling over your folds and mixing with the arousal already dripping from you. You gasped–body jolting, thighs twitching as he blew softly on the mess he’d made.

“Messy little thing,” He muttered, voice low and hungry. “Bet you taste even better than you look.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, filthy.

He licked a long stripe up your center, groaning at the taste, then went right back in. His tongue was eager and messy, dipping into you, flicking over your clit, then circling it with maddening precision. He moaned into you like he was drunk on it–like eating you was the only thing that mattered in the whole goddamn world.

”Rhett…Oh fuck.” You gasped. He groaned deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your soaked folds as he buried his face even deeper between your thighs.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart…” Rhett rasped against your skin, his voice thick, melting with hunger. “You’re drippin’ all over me…You know that? Goddamn.” He didn’t even sound real–like something carved from grit and sin, dipped in alcohol, then baptized in your arousal. His tongue lapped another wet, heated stripe over you, deliberately slow, almost reverent. Then he shifted–just slightly–gripping your thighs and spreading them wider, forcing your knees even closer to your chest.

“Keep ‘em open for me, baby,” He murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a split second, and fuck–the look on his face.

Heat.

Worship.

Filth.

He looked like a man starved, his jaw gleaming in the low light from the lamp, cheeks flushed, chin shiny with arousal and spit. The sight alone made your whole body twitch, and he grinned when he felt it–like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“You see this?” He whispered, dragging two fingers along your slick seam, collecting the mess of spit and arousal, holding them up so you could see the strings stretch between them. “This is from me. You’re so fuckin’ wet for m.” His voice was a low drawl now, and it sank straight into your belly like fire.

Then–without warning–he slipped those fingers back down and pressed one inside you.

Slow.

Deep.

You moaned, head tipping back into the pillows, hips rolling up toward him on instinct.

“Oh yeah…” Rhett groaned. “Tight little pussy takin’ me so well already. Gonna feel like fuckin’ heaven around my cock, ain’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t need one. He was too busy easing another finger in–stretching you slightly, curling just right–while his mouth went right back to work on your clit.

His tongue moved in lazy, filthy circles. Then sharp, focused flicks. He licked you like he knew your body better than you did, like he had been born to be right here, between your thighs, tongue and fingers coaxing you open while he moaned into the mess he was making of you.

“Look at you…” He muttered between licks, breath hot and ragged. “Tremblin’ for me. Fuckin’ soaked. So good…Taste better than I ever fuckin’ imagined.” He sucked your clit into his mouth, then let it go with a pop before licking flat and slow across it again.

You writhed. Whimpered. Your thighs flexed around his shoulders, but he just tightened his grip, holding you wide open like you were something precious–and obscene.

“You were made for this, weren’t you?” He whispered, his voice thick and desperate now, his fingers fucking into you with steady, curling precision. “Made to cum for me. Look at this pussy…It’s all mine tonight.” His nose brushed against your clit as he pressed deeper, tongue flicking and swirling, fingers thrusting harder now.

You could barely speak, your hands clutching the sheets, his name tumbling out between moans.

“Rhett…Oh my god…Don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop!”

He didn’t.

He fucking devoured you.

His face was buried between your legs like he planned to die there, licking and sucking and grinding his mouth against you while his fingers pumped harder, faster, curling with every stroke. You could hear the sounds–slick, wet, obscene–echoing in the quiet room, mixing with your breathless whimpers and his low, greedy growls.

He pulled back just enough to breathe for a second, his chin and mouth absolutely glistening. The sight of him–his lips shiny, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with lust—it was almost too much.

He kissed your inner thigh, tongue dragging hot and slow along the skin before he spoke again, voice wrecked and soaked in need.

“You’re gonna cum for me now, darlin’,” He murmured, “You hear me? Gonna finish all over my fuckin’ face. Let me have it.” Then he dove back in.

And fuck, he meant it.

His fingers curled perfectly against your sweet spot, thrusting deep, while his mouth sealed around your clit and sucked–hard, hungry, like he needed you to fall apart just to breathe. Your body jerked, thighs trembling, hands flying to his hair and gripping hard as the heat in your belly coiled tight and snapped.

You came hard.

With a cry. With your back arching off the bed and your thighs clamping around his ears.

Rhett groaned into it, drinking every drop, fingers slowing just slightly as he coaxed you through it. His tongue didn’t stop until you were shaking–until you whimpered his name, voice breaking like glass, begging for a second just to breathe.

Only then did he pull back, mouth and chin utterly soaked, his tongue dragging across his lips like he was savoring every drop of you.

“Goddamn,” He muttered, voice hoarse with need. “You taste like a sin.” Then he leaned up and kissed your thigh again, then the other, leaving little wet prints with his mouth. He pressed his cheek against the inside of your leg, still panting slightly, and chuckled low, “Absolutely amazing.” You let out a breathy laugh, still riding the aftershocks, your hand sliding through his messy, dampened curls. He looked up at you from between your legs with something that felt like awe in his eyes–like he couldn’t believe you were real. You leaned down and kissed the crown of his head, then trailed your lips to his temple.

“Your turn,” you murmured.

Rhett blinked, still dazed. “Huh?”

You smiled as you gently pushed his chest until he rolled back onto the mattress, his eyes widening slightly as he landed flat on his back. You straddled his lap with a smug little smirk, your thighs trembling just barely as they settled on either side of his hips.

“Don’t play dumb,” You purred, dragging your hands down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach. “You made me cum so hard I saw stars…And now I wanna return the favor.”

Rhett groaned, his hands finding your hips.

“Darlin’…”

You leaned in and kissed his jaw, letting your lips drag across the stubble before whispering into his ear, “But you’ve still got all these clothes on…”

You sat back, tugging playfully at the waistband of his jeans. “Seems unfair, don’t you think?”

He huffed a laugh, hips twitching slightly beneath you.

“You’re somethin’ else,” He mused, but he was already lifting his hips to help you. You scooted back down his thighs, fingers popping the button open with ease.

“Lift for me,” You instructed, giving his thigh a playful tap, and he obeyed without hesitation. As you dragged the zipper down, you could already see the bulge straining beneath his boxers, thick and heavy. You tried to tug the jeans down his thighs, but they were snug–unforgiving over those strong, thick legs. You both laughed as he groaned and kicked at the denim, trying to get them the hell off.

“Goddamn tight-ass Wrangler bullshit,” He muttered, and you laughed louder, catching the heel of his jeans to help yank them the rest of the way off.

When he was finally free, you tossed the jeans onto the floor and crawled back up, kneeling between his legs. His boxers were still on–barely–riding low on his hips, and the outline of his cock was unmistakable now. The tip was already straining the fabric, a dark patch of precome spreading over the front.

You smiled slowly.

“Well, hello there,” You murmured, pressing your hand softly over the bulge. He sucked in a breath, hips twitching under your palm.

“Y/N…” He warned softly. You ignored him. Hooked your fingers into the waistband and tugged the boxers down just enough to free him. His cock sprang up–thick, flushed, veiny and already leaking.

Your mouth watered.

You stroked him once, then twice–just enough to make him hiss, his fingers curling into the sheets at his sides.

“You’re so hard already,” You whispered, kissing the base of his shaft. “God, Rhett…”

You flattened your tongue and dragged it up the length of him slowly. His thighs flexed beneath you, and you could feel his breath stutter.

“Shit.”

You licked again–little kitten licks over the head, catching the bead of precum with your tongue and humming at the bitter saltiness. He let out a broken sound, head tipping back against the pillow.

“Feels good?” You asked, voice sweet and laced with filth.

“Fuck, yeah it does,” He rasped.

You let some spit pool on your tongue–then leaned over him and let it fall from your lips, slow and lazy, landing right on the tip of his cock. It dribbled down the shaft, mixing with precome, catching the light.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhett groaned.

You wrapped your hand around the base, spreading the spit and slick, stroking him slow–then faster. Just enough to make his thighs tense again.

“Look at you,” You whispered, licking a drop from your lower lip. “So big, baby. So hard. You look like you’re about to lose your mind.”

He reached for you, fingers threading into your hair as you leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the head.

And then your mouth wrapped around him–just the tip at first, tongue swirling, lips tight.

“F-Fuck,” He gasped. “Y/N…Shit–”

You moaned around him, and the vibrations made his hips jerk.

You took more of him in, bobbing your head, slow at first, stroking the base with your hand while your tongue teased every inch you could reach. Your other hand slid up his thigh, nails grazing lightly, and he bucked beneath you again.

“You keep doin’ that,” He warned, breathless and broken, “I’m gonna cum. I swear…Darlin’–you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

You pulled off with a pop, stroking him once more before leaning over his chest, lips brushing his collarbone.

“Well,” you whispered, lips curling wickedly, “We can’t have that…Not yet.” You kissed his jaw, then his mouth–wet and hungry–his own taste still lingering on your tongue.

“Because I want to feel you inside me.” You added. Rhett growled low in his throat at your words–like it snapped something loose in him. His hand flexed hard around your hip, and he pushed up suddenly, sitting against the headboard with you still straddling his lap.

“You want it, darlin’?” He rasped, voice like thunder low in his chest. “Want me to fuck you raw?”

Your breath caught, heart skittering behind your ribs. You nodded, lips parted.

“Yes.”

He kissed you immediately–harder now, deeper. All tongue and heat and teeth clashing, hands splayed wide across your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. His hips rolled up into yours, letting you feel just how heavy and thick he was, his cock sliding against your soaked core with a drag that made you gasp into his mouth.

“Fuck, you’re ready for me,” He muttered against your lips. “All wet and pretty for my cock.”

You whined at that, grinding down instinctively.

“Take what you want…” You reached between your bodies, gripping him by the base and guiding him to your entrance. He let out a low, broken moan the second the head of his cock brushed your folds–soaked and dripping from his mouth and your own need.

“Shit…Fuck, you’re so warm,” He hissed as you sank down, inch by inch, the thick length of him pushing into you slow and steady. You both gasped when he bottomed out, your thighs trembling around his, your walls fluttering tight around his cock.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhett grunted, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.” You didn’t move for a second–just sat there with him buried to the hilt, both of you breathing hard, skin damp and flushed, your nails clawing lightly at his chest while he palmed your ass, thumbs digging in.

Then you began to move.

Slow at first, rising just enough for him to nearly slip out, then sliding back down and grinding your hips forward. His head lolled back against the headboard as he groaned deep.

“Shit, darlin’, you ride like you were made for it,” He rasped, hands guiding you now, urging you into a steady rhythm. “That’s it…Fuckin’ take it. Just like that.”

You bounced a little faster, your soaked core clenching down around him, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing soft and wet in the quiet room.

“You look so good ridin’ me,” He groaned, one hand sliding up to your waist while the other smoothed down your thigh, then reached behind you–crack!–a sharp smack to your ass that made you yelp and clench around him.

“Fuck, Rhett!”

He grinned, breathless. “Yeah? You like that?”

You nodded, dazed, already leaning into the next one.

“Then be a good girl,” He growled. “Take your fuckin’ spanking.”

You rode him harder as his palm connected with your ass again–sharp, hot, and followed by the soothing brush of his fingers. He left heat blooming in your skin and made your thighs shake, his cock hitting deep with every bounce.

You crashed forward to kiss him again, tongue licking into his mouth with a filthy moan, and he caught it–messy and hot, drool slipping from the corner of your mouths as you ground together. He reached up and fisted your hair suddenly, yanking just enough to make your mouth pop open on a gasp.

“You gonna cum on this cock?” He rasped against your lips. “Drip all over me while I fuck you stupid?”

You moaned loud, completely wrecked.

“Yes…Yes, please, harder…”He grabbed your hips and flipped you in a blur, landing you on your back with your legs still spread wide and his cock still inside you, already thrusting again, this time deep and deliberate, making the headboard creak.

“Goddamn…Fuck, you take me so fuckin’ well,” He groaned, thrusting hard. You clung to him, moaning like a prayer, and then his hand came up to your throat. He didn’t squeeze–just pressed his palm there, thumb cradling your jaw, fingers wrapping around the sides of your neck.

“Still good?” He panted.

You nodded, already melting under the pressure.

“Yeah. Don’t stop.” He squeezed–just enough to make your head swim.

“Look at you,” He murmured. “My pretty little birthday girl. Givin’ it all up for me.”

You were already starting to unravel.

He leaned down and spit into your mouth.

You moaned as you swallowed it, your fingers digging into his hair, dragging his face to yours for a kiss so messy and deep it felt like your souls were being wrung out together. His cock never stopped moving–slow, grinding thrusts that hit deep, angling upward to hit your g-spot again and again.

“I wanna make you cum on me again,” He whispered, licking into your mouth between words. “Wanna feel you pulse around my cock, make a goddamn mess of me.”

“Then do it,” You choked out. “Fuck me, Rhett…Fuck me hard.”

He lost it then–thrusting faster, rougher, teeth gritted as he slammed into you, your breasts bouncing with every thrust, his hand coming down to slap one nipple, then roll it between his fingers.

“Come on, baby,” he urged, voice ragged, “Be a good girl–cum for me. Let me feel that pretty pussy squeeze me.”

You sobbed his name, your body arching, and then it hit–your climax ripping through you like lightning, making you clamp down hard around him as you cried out. Rhett shouted, his hips jerking erratically as he chased his own high.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ cum,” He gasped. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” You begged. “Inside me…Please, Rhett, fill me up.”

He groaned like he was dying, then with a broken growl, slammed deep one last time and spilled inside you–hot, thick spurts filling your pussy as he trembled above you.

He stayed there, buried deep, panting against your throat, his whole body twitching. You stroked his hair as he caught his breath, his cock still pulsing inside you, his cum already starting to leak out around him. After a moment, he groaned and slowly pulled out. He sat back on his heels, his eyes dropping to where your legs were still spread, his cum already dripping onto the sheets.

“Shit,” He breathed. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You smiled weakly, flushed and ruined. He dipped two fingers between your legs and dragged his cum back into your folds, then scooped some up and brought it to your lips.

“Open.”You obeyed, letting him slide his fingers into your mouth. You sucked gently, tongue swirling, and he groaned deep in his chest.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

He leaned over you, kissed your swollen lips, and whispered, “Happy fuckin’ birthday, darlin’…”

805 notes · View notes

x3zerochanx3 · 2 months ago

Text

Better For You

tags: John Walker x fem!reader, MENTIONS OF UNALIVING, (please dont read if you struggle with those thoughts even a little, its only like two sentences, but seriously, theres help if you need it cutie), ANGST (because im me and i just like being sad i guess), mention of alcohol/alcoholism/drinking to be okay, lots of cussing, cheating reader (you are the villain in this i guess *shrugs* what can you do about it), SMUT: dirty talk, mentions of choking, p in v, oral (fem!recieving), fingering, IF I MISSED ANY PLEASE TELL ME!!

a/n: holy cow, firstly, i think i was possessed by the ghost of Angst past while writing this, or it may have just been me listening to Pushing It Down and Praying, potato, potato. SECONDLY, as i said in the tags, PLEASE DONT READ IF YOU STRUGGLE WITH UNALIVING MENTIONS, yes it is only two sentences, but still, i care about you cuties, so please please heed the warning. And THIRDLY... everyone clap for me, i wrote smut without laughing at the word ‘cock’ too much. I still laughed alot, it just looks so funny to me, cock. Anywho... enjoy this 10.2k words of heartbreak, laughter, and of course, some good ol’ fashioned smut. Love you cuties, thanks for the love on my posts, and as always criticism is welcomed! Happy (not so happy) reading!

10.2k words (please dont look at me like that, i have too many words in my head, now you cuties suffer the consequences of said words)

You kiss your boyfriend goodbye, shutting your eyes and imagining him. Your boyfriend doesn't seem to notice anything different about the kiss. Doesn't notice how you move your lips a little more against his, how your eyes flutter shut, the way your hands reach up to feel for dog tags that aren't there.

You pull away, giving him a loving smile as you whisper a soft, almost non-existent “I love you,” only then do you open your eyes. You keep the smile on your face as you turn away from him, walking towards your car, not looking back, not wanting to see if he still wasn't him.

You hated Saturday nights, not because of the busy bar, not even because of the grabby hands from the older men. No, you hated Saturday nights because of how they remind you about just how depraved this stupid fucking town is. The older men eye-fucking the waitresses as they pass, forgetting that there's at least a twenty-year age gap between them and their objects of affection.

It was the same every weekend, stupid patrons that reeked of the whiskey you were pouring. They all told the same story “I loved her, I was good to her, and what did I get in return? ‘Not tonight honey I have a headache,’ and a bitchy attitude.” All of it accompanied by the same round of ‘Here, here's’ that just rammed it into your head, all men are the same.

You poured another whiskey sour, placing a slice of lemon on the rim when you heard him.

“Hey, honey, can I get a whiskey, neat, maybe with one of those lemons on the rim?” The nickname hit an exposed nerve ending, that's what every patron in this bar called you, and there was another man acting like your nametag wasn't splayed on your chest. But the twitch in your eye was calmed by the tone of his voice, something almost baritone to it made you want to fall into a trance.

You got into your car, placing the key in the ignition and turning the key, the small Nissan Rogue engine rumbling to life, headlights flicking on, illuminating your boyfriends house. You give him another small wave, your hand resting on the ‘12’ of the steering wheel.

John Walker had a different story as you poured his drink,

“I shouldn't be here honestly,” He had commented with a rough laugh, staring at the glass as you fill it two thirds of the way with the amber colored liquid. “I couldn't take care of my own son,” He gave you a wave as if to offer up the information specifically to you. “Got drunk constantly, just scrolled on my phone and tried to forget about how much of a loser I was—am, I'm still a fucking loser.”

You hesitated as you handed him his glass, usually you would zone out and stand there, listening to the same sob story repeatedly, hoping that your ‘listening’ ear would get you a better tip. But part of you wanted to listen to him, to hear his tale. He was admitting that he was the problem...

And dammit you should've heeded the warning.

The street leading out of your boyfriend's house is quiet as you drive with the windows down, Lizzy McAlpine coming softly through your speakers. You get onto the highway, zoning out as you drive, your mind thinking about everything, about how you feel so on edge around your boyfriend, the way he doesn't get your jokes, how he doesn't listen to you during sex, just kind of feeling around until he thinks you're satisfied then getting off in two minutes. Thinking about it all makes you grip the wheel harder, knuckles turning white, because he's not perfect, but he's stable.

After an hour or two of talking on and off with John, you had realized you enjoyed his presence across the bar, something that rarely ever happened...more like never happened. You found yourself laughing at his jokes, he laughed at yours as well. The two of you ping ponging in the conversation, seemingly feeding off the other’s energy, causing the words to just flow.

You found yourself a little disappointed when he pressed his large palm to the bar, standing up as he looked around at the empty establishment.

“I guess I'm holding you up, huh?” he gave you a crooked grin, the gesture emphasizing the slight crow's feet around the corners of his eyes.

You leaned against the bar across from him, looked around for a moment, before you sighed softly, “Yeah, yeah probably should close up or something.” You grabbed the towel off your shoulder and started wiping down the laminated wooden counter, the fingerprint smudges wiped away just like how the conversation seemed to dissipate.

He laughed, pulled out his wallet, “Well don't sound so enthusiastic about me leaving.” you heard the cocky grin on his face before you looked up to see the evidence.

“Well, I mean, I do have to close,” you shrugged, palms flat on the bar as you lean on it, dirtying the just cleaned bar. “But that doesn't mean we have to stop talking,” you cocked an eyebrow at him.

His blonde eyebrows shot up, his blue eyes looked you up and down before his grin widened into a toothy smile as he set down a twenty on the bar, “Yeah? Y’wanna keep talking, honey?” you'd never admit how much you liked him calling you that.

Your zoning out had made your body going on autopilot, taking an exit that isn’t the one to your apartment complex. You have a millisecond of confusion before you realize where you’re going, a feeling of guilt creeps up into your throat, you start to grab at your phone to get you turned around, back on the main highway.

Instead of leading you straight back to the main road, it shows you a way that you don't know if you trust yourself enough to take without derailing from your current mission to get home. You keep driving, following the gps as it takes you down the familiar roads, each streetlight leading you closer and closer to something that seems to pull at you like a fly to a sticky trap.

John insisted on taking you out on a proper first date, not wanting to call the two of you talking while you worked, a first date. He’d shown up to your apartment with a small bouquet of flowers, dressed in a button up and suit jacket, beard trimmed, and that same soft smile you admired so much. He’s a gentleman, you found out quickly, opening doors for you, paying for your food, holding your heels at the end of the night when your feet started to ache, giving you his suit jacket.

“I'm simply saying that old westerns are cinematic masterpieces,” His hands moved as he emphasized his point.

You snorted, pulling his jacket tighter around your shoulders, “And I'm simply saying that that sounds like something my father would say,” you shook your head, looked over at him.

“Your dad has good taste. The apple obviously has fallen very far from the tree, unfortunately,”

You zoned out a little, looking at him, the way his button up was taut over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up showing off his thick forearms. The way his beard covered up the sharp line of his jaw, his thick waist, not completely flat, and if you had to guess, he didn't have a glistening six pack, probably just a thick line of muscle there, a thin layer of fat over it. But dammit all if that didn't make you want to just claw your nails down it—

“Honey, you're staring,” he didn't even look over at you, just kept walking as he grabbed your hand to keep you from running into a pole.

“I am not” you rolled your eyes, interlocked your fingers with his as he walked on the side closest to the street.

“Mmhmm... I know I'm ugly honey you ain’t gotta remind me of that,” it almost sounds like he's joking, like he's trying to get you to join in on the self-deprecating joke, but you didn't, you simply cocked your head at him, pulled him to a stop.

“What?” he asked softly as the two of you stopped walking under a streetlight.

“You’re handsome, you know that right?”

You would've thought you had suddenly grown five heads with the way he looked at you. He quickly schooled his expression into a neutral one, shrugged, “Yeah, yeah I know,”

His words may have claimed to be self-assured, but the way the tips of his ears went red, his eyes dodging yours, it all pointed to a hidden insecurity you had just prodded at.

“I mean it, you're very handsome, I'm surprised you don't hear that often.”

He looked down at you, taking a small step towards you. His free hand not holding yours found the side of your neck, his thumb brushed against your pulse, “Thank you honey,” his eyes found yours, blue irises making an involuntary smile bloom your face.

“You sure like calling me honey, don't you?”

“Because you're warm,” he leaned down, his nose bumped against yours, “and I bet you taste even sweeter than honey, so maybe I should give you a new nickname,” his lips brushed against yours, your own parting a little as your hands found his sides.

“How about sugar?” he asked quietly, his eyes searched yours, almost silently asking for permission to kiss you.

You nodded, “Sugar is nice,” you leaned up on your tip toes and pressed your lips against his.

You tap the steering wheel as you drive, ‘Pushing It Down and Praying’ by Lizzy McAlpine blasting louder in your speakers, almost making them distort the tune. The roads twist and curve, you missed the turn eleven miles ago and can't bring yourself to turn around. You keep driving, almost willing the road to not lead where you know you it will.

Tears stung at your eyes, you couldn't understand why he did this. Why he pushed you away when he was obviously struggling. It was the third time you had tried calling him, you eventually gave up and headed over to his apartment. You knocked on the door until you heard the soft click of a lock being undone.

He looked like shit, eye bags more defined, an olive-green shirt taut over his shoulders and chest. He reeked of the whiskey he was probably drowning himself in. “I told you, you shouldn't come over,”

You shook your head, pressed a palm against the door, “I'm not letting you drink yourself to death, John.”

He rolled his eyes, the usual vibrant blue now dulled by the alcohol and thoughts chewing him up from the inside out. “I'm not drinking myself to death, it's only a few drinks, just- just leave,” he attempted to shut the door, your shoe wedged itself between the frame and the wooden door.

“John... don't shut me out, don't do this again.” you pleaded with him, big doe eyes watery with tears. The door creaked open until his arm rested flat against the back side of it, his broad frame filling the doorway.

“You need to leave.” his voice, rough and lifeless, no longer holding the smooth, baritone tonality that you loved so much, grated your ears. He sounded like he was one more shot of whiskey away from grabbing the firearm beneath his pillow and making sure you wouldn't have a reason to come back here again.

“I'm not leaving, and one day, maybe you'll be smart and get it through your thick head that I'm not going to just leave when you're struggling, john, because I care about you, I-”

He held his hand up, palm facing you, “Stop, stop talking,” the words carrying more bite than he had meant for them to. John got like that whenever you attempted to get more than just the shallow part of him, he got snappy. Like a dog that's been in a kennel far too long, biting at hands that try to pet it. It's why it'll never be adopted, never be loved fully. It's been left in a cage to rot and believes anyone who tries to get it out, simply wants to bribe it out into open air, only to shut it back in.

“Don't say you love me, please honey, you don't love me, you don't care about me, you don't—”

“You can't tell me what I feel John; you can't tell me that I don't care about you because i do—”

You felt his hand wrap around your wrist, easily pulling you into his apartment. The door slammed shut behind you, “You don't! You don't care about me! You shouldn't! I'm an asshole! I'm a fucking loser! I drink when I'm angry, I get angrier and I snap, and dammit sugar I don't wanna snap at you—so please- please just leave.” his words started loud, getting quieter as he continued to speak.

You stared up at him, he’d heard you talk about how you react to yelling, especially in close quarters. Your eyes glassy, shoulders hunched in on yourself, your lip trembled.

His expression softened at you, his eyes shut for a moment, he looked away from you, “I'm sorry sugar, I’m- fuck.” he shook his head.

You sniffled, blinked away the inevitable tears, “No, no it’s okay,” you attempted to assure him, your voice shook, but he kept shaking his head.

“No baby, it's not okay, look at you, fuck, I'm- I'm a fucking terrible person, you- you should leave,” he pulled away from you.

In your emotional turmoil, you reached for him. You reached for him like you would a lifeline when you're drowning at sea, hoping, praying, you can wrap your fingers around it.

He pulled away.

When your car is placed into park, your mind seems to come back into your body. Your hands fall off the steering wheel, your head turning as you look at the door of the apartment complex. You shouldn't be here, this is wrong, you have a loving boyfriend just a short drive away. You could drive back and spend the night at his house. Youve never stayed over at his house, and you don't think you ever will. You can't stand the thought of waking up to someone that isn't him, not when you know what it's like to.

You felt his beard at the back of your neck. He was always extra touchy the days after a big fight, almost like a silent apology for his stupidity. Thats what John claimed it was, the way he always snapped when you tried to get too close, tried to break down the walls around his heart. How he always pushed you away when all you wanted was to bury yourself beneath his skin, become a part of him.

You stretched beneath his dark comforter; a soft groan left your lips. His strong arms wrapped tighter around your middle, his nose laid on the side of your neck, inhaled as if he was trying to huff your scent.

“G’mornin’ sugar,” his voice made you shiver, the rough tone of it made thicker by the haze of sleep.

You reached behind you, carded your fingers through his blonde hair, “Mornin’ baby,”

His lips found your pulse, slowly moving over it, his tongue lying flat against the skin there, like he was trying to memorize how fast your heart had beat when he started to move his right hand up under his shirt on your frame. All of it was uncharacteristically soft of him, the way he slowly moved you until you were on your back, your hands tangled in his soft hair as he pushed the material up until it was hitched up above your breasts, your doe eyes soft and wide up at him, still a little groggy with sleep.

“John,” you'd whisper his name softly, tried to assure him he didn't need to make apologies like this, the teary eyed ‘I'm sorry’s last night were enough. But he wouldn't listen, continuing to kiss down your body, you swear you can hear him whispering against your soft skin.

“So sweet t’me,”

“Don't deserve you honey,”

“Too good t’me, my pretty girl,”

You wouldn't stop him, just continuing to sigh and moan his name quietly, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue found the aching spot between your thighs, still sore from the last night’s ‘apology’. His tongue found your clit like a heat seeking missile finding its target, slowly circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, each time mumbling “I'm sorry,” or “So sweet, pretty girl,”

Your sneakers hardly made any noise as you walked up the stone staircase to his door, you take your time, looking around as you ascend the stairs, almost scared someone might see you, see you crawling back, your hand glides over the black metal railing, trying to ground yourself in the moment. You know this is wrong, you know you should turn around, but the memories keep bombarding you, forcing your feet to continue up the stairs until your stalking down the concrete floor to his door.

John knew you weren't the best cook, so he’d always pick you up and bring you grocery shopping with him. Showed you the best type of beef to get for whatever the two of you planned to cook that night. He had a weird (cute) habit of spinning you in the ice cream aisle, every time the two of you were walking down it. You were walking down the cold freezer section, the slight squeaking of the wheels behind you indicated he was still following you as you stopped in front of the pints of ice cream.

His large hands found your waist and you smiled, “You always do this,” you rolled your eyes, he just smiled right back at you. He moved his head over your shoulder so he could look at you, “And you love it.”

As if on cue, he grabbed your right hand and pulled it until you were hand in hand, outstretched, almost reaching for him. He slowly pulled your hand above your head, twirling it, forcing you into a soft spin.

You were almost tempted to forget about the screaming match the two of you had a few days prior...

Almost

You lift your fist to the wood, hovering it in front of the wooden door. You swallow, mind racing as your head tries to connect with your heart, trying to force your feet back down the steps and into your car. Have you ever wanted something that you knew was bad for you? You know you could just text your boyfriend, call him, be reminded of the loving arms waiting for you, just a short fifteen-minute drive on the highway away.

The door opens without you knocking on it.

It hurt, hurt more than any shot you would get from the doctor, any scrape or cut you had gotten. Nothing could compare to the day you had to make the decision to leave him, to cut it off, to pull the roots that Jonathan F. Walker had planted in your heart. You cried, a lot, before you even talked to him about it.

The two of you had been having an off few weeks, not just days, weeks. Weeks of no communication, weeks of hot then cold, one morning he wants nothing to do with you, then the next he's begging you for just five more minutes. You had had enough, you couldn't take it, your mental health deteriorating with each swing of the pendulum,

You sat in his living room, eyes already teary as you heard his key insert itself into his lock. He just looked at you for a few moments, before he clocked the bleary look in your eyes. His expression slowly dropped, almost like he could sense what this was, what was about to happen. “Can we talk?” you had asked softly.

John wasn't a quitter, he bickered with you about it, claiming this to just be another ‘dip in the line of your relationship’ that it would pass, everyone goes through this. But you explained to him how much hurt you were going through, how with every dip, your mental wellbeing seemed to get worse. It all made you question your self-worth.

And oh god when you said that he nearly dropped to his knees in front of the chair you sat in. What he had been doing was making you feel worthless? He had made you feel worthless? All he wanted to do was jump out of the window, ensuring you would never feel worthless again. He wanted to take away the pain so fast, make sure you only ever felt good things, especially coming from him.

You cried as you dug the heels of your palms into your eyes, shaking your head as he tried to beg you to stay.

“I promise I'll get better, baby, I never meant to hurt you, I swear honey, please,” he had asked begged you. You forced yourself up from the chair, sniffling as you wiped your nose on your sleeve, “This is for both of us, baby, I'm sorry,” you sobbed because promises were just words.

The apartment was quieter without you in it, brightening the space in a way only you could. John never forgave himself for hurting you, he promised himself if he ever got the chance to have you again, he would rather die than hurt you like that again. But if he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't have blamed you if you never wanted to see him again. The gun under his pillow looked more and more tempting each night that passed.

Then he got the notification of movement near his door.

You stare up into his blue eyes, for a split-second thinking ‘Why did I ever break up with him?’ until the memories wash over you like an ice-cold shower. But it leaves you shivering, wanting to curl up with him. He’s wearing a tight navy shirt, grey sweatpants, he stares down at you, eyes briefly flicking over your appearance.

The way your shirt collar has been stretched so it shows off your shoulder, the necklace with an initial on it, ‘B’, his jaw clenches at seeing the letter. He doesn't say a word, he just opens the door a little wider, silently inviting you in.

You walk in without thinking, your feet moving as if on autopilot, walking into the familiar apartment. You hated yourself a little more each time you came over, even if it was only for a night. You look to your right, seeing the small kitchen, white tiles, a bottle of Jack Daniels open with a glass next to it. He walks past you towards the bottle, grabbing out another glass. You start to shake your head, “I don't-” he turns his head, arching an eyebrow at you as if to silently ask “really?” you sigh, nodding as you walk over to the kitchen. You lean against the counter, hip pressing into the cold tile.

“What was it?” he pours the amber liquid into the two glasses.

You cock your head, “What was what?”

“Did he make a shitty joke? Not laugh at yours? Say something only a douchebag would say?” he clarifies, “Why are you here again?”

You feel immediate guilt, you shouldn't be here, none of that happened, you're just greedy needing him like oxygen. “I- I shouldn't be here.” you mutter, taking the glass from him.

He leans against the counter across from you, holding the other glass in his hand as he watches you, “You shouldn't.” he repeats, “But you are.”

You look at him, giving him a look that he can decipher as ‘please don't’. “I don't know why I'm here—” you sling the glass back, gulping the entire drink in one shot.

“I do.” he grabs the empty glass from you, your fingers brushing against his, neither of you pull away. “You need more,” he hands you his still full glass, pouring more of the amber liquid into the empty one. “You need more than just stable, that’s why you come over here,”

He says it like it's a fact, just as easily known as the fact that the sky is blue. You don't correct him; you don't argue that you don't need him. You just stare at him, this time taking a sip of the whiskey, the liquid bitter on your tongue.

“I don't wanna have sex,” you couldn't tell if you believed the words as you said them, but you said them anyways, “I just need to talk,”

He gives you a sincere look, setting down his glass, “I’d never force you to do anything, sugar,”

Dammit, those words made you want him more.

You shake your head, “Stop saying that, sugar, and stop talking like that.”

He simply raises his eyebrow, “Like what? Say that I'm not going to force you to do anything with me? Treat you with human decency—”

“I mean when you say things like that, when you call me sugar, it makes me want to have sex with you and we both know how that always ends up.”

The words hang in silence for a moment, both of you staring at each other like you’re one accidental touch from combusting.

“You feel guilty as hell in the morning, and I feel like shit for making you feel like that.” his hands rest on either side of his thick waist, clutching the counter behind him.

You lean back against the counter across from him, eyes trailing down to stare at the wall, “Fuck,” the word comes out as a whisper, your head lulling back, exposing your throat.

He watches the silver initial gleam against your throat, ‘B’, even the image of that thing on your neck makes him want to scream.

“He doesn't know you prefer gold.” the statement should be phrased as a question, but it’s more so a fact.

He grabs the glass next to him, taking a small sip of the whiskey as you respond, not straightening your neck to look at him. “I wear both—”

“But you prefer gold—”

“Dammit just drop it okay?”

John sits in silence, staring at the initial, his mind racing with what he could've done differently to make there be a ‘J’ hanging from your neck.

“I don't know what to do.” you admit softly, bringing your head up a little to make eye contact with him.

“You should leave,” he doesn't say it with malice, there's no bite in the words, just a simple offer-up of advice.

You look at him, your eyes starting to sting with tears, “I don't want to,” you whisper, putting down the glass and gripping the counter behind you.

His expression softens at you, “Don't cry sugar, you know I hate seeing you cry,” he pushes off the counter, taking a small step towards you. His large hands find your face and cup your cheeks, wiping the few tears that have already tracked down them.

You sniffle, looking up at him, “I know, I just- dammit, why couldn't you be him?” the words make his hands freeze on your face. He’s tempted to get angry with you, to ask why you're trying to compare him to some fantasy picture of him as a stable constant in your life. Something you proudly display on your neck, instead, he's reduced to late night conversations, watching you cry over the guilt of being in love with someone you can never fully have.

“I’ll never be him, sugar, you know that. There’s no use in crying over it.” his voice is soft, his thumbs rubbing over your soft cheeks. “I'm too far gone, I drink too much, I snap at you, sugar. You know I don't wanna hurt you like I already have.”

More tears spill over your cheeks as you listen to him, because you know has right, you know he’ll forever be the angry drunk ex-captain America. And yet you can't help but want him, you know he's bad for you, you know it'll hurt all over again, but you can't stop yourself as you close your eyes.

His lips press against the tear stains on your cheeks, gently moving over the salty tracks on your skin, before he moves up to your forehead, “So pretty, even when you cry.” you let out a soft laugh

“Shut up, I'm an ugly crier.” you blink up at him.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, even when you cry. Don't you dare call yourself an ugly crier.” his lips press against your nose.

You tilt your head up just enough to meet his lips, he pulls away by a centimeter, “Sugar... you're gonna regret this.” you know he's right, but you can't stop the whisper from leaving your lips, “Just one kiss?” you look up at him.

He stares down at your doe eyes, the way they're glassy with tears, how plump your lips look, how your cheeks are flushed from crying.

“Just one.”

His lips meet yours in a soft kiss, moving against your mouth in a way that only he knows how to. Your hand reaches up and grasps the dog tags around his neck, your thumb gliding over the steel, feeling the engravement of his name on it. Your other hand slides up his chest, carding through the hair just above his neck. He starts to pull away, his hands sliding down from your cheeks to your waist.

“Sugar—”

“Just one more.”

You pull him down to your level, lips moving a little more against his. He kisses your back, he never was able to say no to you, especially when you seemed so needy.

The kiss starts to devolve, his fingers digging into your waist, crumpling your shirt. His broad frame pushes you back against the counter, your lower back pressing against the tile. Your nails scratch gently at his scalp, causing a low grunt to make its way out of his throat. You take advantage of his open mouth and delve your tongue in between his lips, tasting the bitter liquid on his tongue.

He grunts a little louder, bending down, without breaking the kiss, and grabbing your thighs. He sets you onto the tiled counter, his hands massaging the fat of your thighs, greedy to feel the skin not concealed by your shorts. He pulls away from your lips, moving his mouth down to your jaw as you shove your hips forward to meet his. He mumbles something intelligible against your neck before his hands are leaving your thighs and coming up behind your neck.

You feel your necklace come unclasped as he moves his lips up to your ear “As fun as it sounds to fuck you with another man’s initial around your neck, I think we’d both prefer my hand over this stupid fucking necklace.” your head lulls back as you nod, giving him a weak “mmhmm,”

He tosses the silver pendant to the kitchen floor, a small clink letting the both of you know it hit the ground. His lips are back on your neck, moving over your pulse, his tongue laving over the skin, like he’s addicted to the taste of you. You feel his teeth start to graze against your soft skin and you push a little at his shoulders, “No marks, no marks, baby,”

He laughs against your neck, “Can't call me baby and ask me to not leave marks in the same sentence, sugar,”

You try to come up with an excuse to get him to not leave marks, but your thoughts are interrupted as you feel him start to create a hickey in your skin, just under your jaw. The sensation of his teeth biting softly at the junction makes your head spin. You push his head a little more into your neck, “Mm you seem awfully needy for someone who doesn't want me to leave my mark on her, honey”

You whine, pushing your hips forward against his, he grunts against your neck, pulling away just enough to stare at the mark, “You always look so pretty with my teeth marks on you, sugar.” you tug at his hair, forcing him against your lips again.

He grabs at the undersides of your thighs, lifting you off the counter and walking towards his bedroom, acting like you weighed nothing. You detach from his lips, kissing down his jaw and neck, “Fuck, I bet you don't act like this with that pretty boy, huh? Bet you're not as needy for him as you are f’me honey.”

You nip at the soft spot beneath his ear, “Could never be this needy for anyone but you, John,” he nearly buckles, shoving you up against the wall on his way to his room. “Baby... you can't, fuck I'm trying to focus on not dropping you.”

You laugh against his skin, letting your tongue run over the mark, soothing the skin and him at the same time, “Sorry,” you pull back a little, giving him a soft smile.

“You’re too pretty to be saying sorry about anything,” one of his hands comes up to rest against your cheek, his eyes half-lidded as they stare down at you.

He carries you down the hallway, your forehead resting against his shoulder, hand wrapped around the back of his neck. You hear a soft thud of the door as he closes it with his foot, before you're deposited onto the bed. You lean back on your hands, looking up at him with your lip pulled between your teeth.

He looks like he’s about to lose it, “Oh fuck you for using that face right now.”

You let out a giggle, “I wish you would,” you feign ignorance, your smile making his heart do backflips while simultaneously pumping all his blood down south.

John pokes his tongue into his cheek, “Don't get cheeky with me, sugar, I can see right through you,”

You lean up, sitting up on your knees so you're almost eye-level with him, “Yeah?” you ask softly before reaching down and pulling off your shirt. You don't break eye contact with him as you lean down and pull off your shorts, leaving you in a flimsy sleep bra and plain cotton panties that are already bearing the evidence of your arousal.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” his blue eyes darken as they trail down your form, staring at your chest for a moment before he's leaning forward, forcing you onto your back. You smile up at him as your hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to yours. He kisses you like you might lead him to salvation, like in this very moment, nothing exists outside of the two of you.

You feel his calloused hands start to wander, moving down to your ribs, fingers sliding under the material of your bra. He only pulls away to tug off the fabric, eyes immediately dragging down to the bare skin of your breasts. He hands cup the sides of your rib cage, thumbs brushing over the outsides of them. “So fucking perfect, you're telling me he doesn't want to make sure this isn't properly taken care of?” it's a rhetorical question but you still answer with a head shake, big doe eyes trained on his, pink bottom lip jutting out a little.

“Oh god bless it, honey, I hope you never stop coming to me.” his voice drops a few octaves before his mouth is back on you, quickly pressing a kiss to your lips before moving down. His mouth leaves a pretty trail of hickeys down your neck, to your collarbone, before he starts to give special attention to your tits. You gasp as his mouth encircles one of your nipples, making it harden into a peak. Your back arches and he smiles, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as his hands rub up and down your sides.

You tug at his hair, letting out a soft, “John, baby,” he seems to double down, lips moving over your chest with adoration, seemingly worshipping you through his mouth.

His lips move to your other breast, nipple now painfully hardening into a peak, you hear a soft, “Gotta make sure this one gets some lovin’ too, pretty girl.” before his mouth is on you. His hands press and massage at your sides, thumbs pressing against your hip bones as he finally detaches from your chest, kissing down further onto your stomach.

He leaves hickeys on the pudge of your tummy, making sure to look up at you as he does so. “Perfect everywhere, sugar.”

Your hand cards through his hair as he moves towards your cotton panties, his eyes land on the damp patch of material, blue irises flicking up to you. “Is this all for me, honey?” you pull your lip between your teeth, looking down at him as you nod. He presses his mouth against the wet spot, tongue laving at the material. Your legs tense as you feel his hot breath over you, even with the barrier of cotton between his mouth and your pussy.

His tongue moves against the cotton, trying to get any sort of taste of you from it. You tug at his hair, “John... baby please,” he smiles against the fabric, calloused fingers moving to pull your panties down. He sits up, pulling the material all the way down, his eyes never leaving yours, until he tosses the cotton aside, leaving your thighs bare, and your wet entrance on display for him. “I will never understand how a man could see this and not want you to feel the most earth-shattering pleasure.” he says the words mostly to himself, his mouth already watering at the sight.

He scoots down until your legs are over his shoulders, the sensitive skin of your thighs twitching as his beard rubs against them, his mouth leaving soft kisses against the now-irritated skin as a silent apology. His eyes find yours, your lip still pulled between your teeth, eyes staring down at him, “Thats it, sugar, you just keep those pretty eyes on me,” his eyes seem to get glassier as he gets closer to your core.

Your hips jolt a little as you feel the coarse hair of his beard brush up against your sensitive entrance. The way he's lavishing your thighs with kisses has already made you more wet than you have ever felt with your boyfriend. The thought makes a quick pang of guilt shoot through you, and, almost as if on cue, his mouth finds your aching cunt.

John aced almost every category in the military and in high school, including marksmanship. He could see the target from a half mile away and get a bullseye without breaking a sweat. So, the fact that he could find your clit the first time he went down on you wasn't surprising. But even now, he used that knowledge against you. His tongue sweeping over your weeping entrance, you clench around nothing, “Fuck, john,” he loves to hear his name from your lips, even if it is in annoyance that he won't give you what you so desperately want.

The tip of his tongue moves over your slit, his nose bumping against the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Oh my god, holy shit-” you gasp, thighs clenching around his head, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He smiles as he starts to push his tongue into your dripping core, your nails scratching against his scalp. His beard scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but that is the last thing on your find as his tongue starts to gently move in and out of your entrance.

He can't hear anything, your thighs flush against his ears, his big hands splaying on the outsides of them as he whispers nothing but praise into you, “Taste so fucking good sugar, swear to fuck, never tasted anything better,” his tongue moves up and circles around your clit, a cocky smile gracing his face as you jolt. Your hips shift against his face as he works the sensitive bud, making his tongue move faster.

“John, fuck baby, I'm getting there. Shit, please don't stop.” You plead, not wanting to be left on edge like you were just a few hours ago by your boyfriend.

He just shakes his head, lips detaching from your clit just long enough to gasp out a quick, “Wouldn't dream of it, honey,” before he's back, eating you out like a man starved. You could swear he enjoys this more than you do. The way his eyes flutter shut as his tongue laps at your core, how he grunts and groans into you each time you tighten your thighs around his head, or the way his hips grind into his mattress beneath him when you tug at his hair.

You feel the familiar knot start to tighten in your stomach as you shift your hips against his face, he lets you use his mouth to get off, letting you tug and pull at his hair, he’d let you ride his face until he couldn't breathe if you asked.

Because the truth is, John needs this, more than you do, he craves being used, being needed like this. The way you moan and mewl his name so softly into the air of his bedroom makes his chest fill with pride, pride that he is the one making you feel good, he's the one that's getting you off with just his tongue. The way you taste is just one of the many perks he loves about eating you out.

Your back arches as the knot tightens further, you squeeze your thighs around his head, your hand getting tighter in his hair. “John, John baby fuck—please im-” you don't get to warn him properly, cumming on his tongue in the next moment. His name becomes a prayer on your lips, the only thing you can think of. He takes every last bit of you, not letting anything leak down onto his sheets.

Only when you're pushing at his forehead, pleading with him, “Baby, fuck—’s too much,” and his vision is tunneling from the lack of oxygen, does he pull away. He leans up, letting your legs fall from his shoulders, his beard is soaked through with your release. You lay back, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, he leans back onto his haunches, you hear the bed creak as he moves. When you bring your head up, your met with the sight of a blissed-out John, staring directly at your soaked pussy, now leaking with your fluids. He catches your eye, giving you a half smile, “She’s so pretty like this, honey,”

He was always a master at dirty talking. You swear he could get you off with his words alone.

You feel his fingers run up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, you let out a soft groan, your back arching, “John,” you stare down at him, he doesn't look at you, his eyes still stuck on the way your thighs shake a little as he presses his middle finger up against your slit. You jolt, eyes fluttering shut, “Damn, sugar, I know it's been a month or two since the last time, but you really... really tightened up while you were away, didn't you?”

He talks about the time between your late-night visits to him like you were simply on vacation, not creating a whole other life with someone else. Because if he thought about it too much, he’d go find the ‘B’ of your necklace, (although, he already knows where the guy went to preschool, he couldn’t just let you date anyone), and make sure he never contacted you again.

His middle finger sinks in slowly, just to the first knuckle, your back arches. “Was it being on edge around him the whole time? Hmm?” he pushes the digit deeper. He can't decide if he wants to watch your face, or the way your entrance is nearly pulling his finger in, “Maybe it was having to fake it every time the two of you had sex,” you squeeze around him at that, “Ohh it was that wasn't it baby?” he pauses, leaning over you as he pushes just a little more until he reaches the base of his finger.

“Don't you worry, honey, you won't have to fake it with me,” he assures you, his free hand gripping the pillow near your head as he pulls his finger out, pushing it back in. His eyes trail down your frame, his head bowing as he looks between your legs, he pushes another finger in. Your legs scoot wider, allowing his thick frame to sit between them, “Oh look at her, so sweet, so needy for me, is that it?” he coos softly, his nose bumping against your cheek.

You stare up at him, your hands interlocked behind his head, “John, baby, fuck-” you shudder as he pulls his fingers out of you, leaning back onto his haunches. You follow him, leaning up and pressing your lips against his.

He’s taken by surprise at your initiative, his lips moving instinctively against yours. You tug at his shirt, hands sliding under the material, feeling the slightly pudgy area of his waist. You’ve always loved that area on him, the way he didn't have a six-pack, but you knew he was strong. The way it looked in a suit, all of him, broad, thick, and muscled, dammit you loved all of it.

He tugs off his shirt, his dog tags hitting his chest with a soft clink, you grab at them, your thumb sliding over the bumps that display his name and rank. He pushes you back onto the bed and you whine, reaching for his sweatpants.

“Sugar, you gotta wait, I was serious about you being tighter than usual, I'm not lying when I say you're uptight,” he comments, his fingers sliding back down between your legs. You relax into the bed, letting out a soft moan as he slides his digits into you again, finding you less tight than earlier. “Did my pretty girl just need to relax a little?” he asks quietly, sliding his fingers in and out of you at a moderate pace. You nod, relaxing more and more around his digits.

“So- so good baby, fuck- you always treat me so good,” your back arches a little as he curls his fingers inside of you, finding the spongy spot you could never find by yourself. You stare up at him, doe eyed and blissed out, the flush on your cheeks still present from your last orgasm.

He stares down at you for a moment, his fingers freezing their movement, his brain short-circuits, and he pulls them out of you.

“So fucking gorgeous, swear to fuck, best thing I've ever seen,” he's over your body in a second, big frame encasing you on the bed as his lips find yours again. The kiss is hungrier, more desperate, like he's been starving for you and you've just given him permission to take what he wants.

He pushes down his sweatpants, his cock hitting his stomach, already hard and leaking. He winces at the way it almost hurts to not be inside of you at that very moment, he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him, “I trust you,” your eyes are filled with nothing but sincerity, but even so...

“I know you do honey, and it's really sweet that you wanna take me raw, but I gotta be honest, with how fucking good you look right now, and how painfully hard I am, I don't trust myself to pull out without getting you pregnant, so we’re gonna use a condom, mkay? Mkay.” he leans down and kisses your cheek as he grabs the small foil packet from his nightstand.

You shift on the bed, feeling the way your release has leaked down to the sheets, causing your thighs to stick to them. He hovers back over you, his arm braced next to your head. You reach up and grab his bicep, nails softly digging into the skin as you stare down between your two bodies. He wraps a hand around himself, letting out a soft grunt as he pushes the head of his cock up against your entrance. “Dammit honey, I'm not gonna last long, just- just a warning,”

He hates how warm he feels when you smile up at him, “Neither am I, baby,”

John pushes in slowly, letting your weeping cunt surround him, he can feel every inch of you. You’re a little surprised with how easily you're taking him, your pussy not tightening in anticipation or nerves, just enveloping him easily.

“Oh, you take it so good, honey, so good,” his nose bumps against yours as he gets you to look up at him, “Just been waitin’ for me, haven't you, sugar?” he lets out a soft laugh, not to mock, more in amazement. He slides in fully, and you feel it, he fills you up in a way no other man could, and as guilty as you felt for having the thought, that feeling is replaced by pleasure as he pulls out and slams back in.

“Cmon, sugar, lost you there for a second, I want your attention on me, yeah that's it,” he pulls out slowly, pushing all his length back in at once, making the air leave your lungs in one quick gasp.

“John,”

“Thats my name sugar, be sure to wear it out.”

You look up to see his cocky smile above you, his eyes soften a little as they look down at yours, his thrusts getting a little faster. You let out a soft grunt with each hit of his pelvic bone against your clit, the coarse hair of his happy trail overstimulating it. Your nails digging deeper into his bicep as he pulls his other arm up to brace next to you, his hips moving quicker, deeper into you. You can tell he's starting to get lost, the glassy look he gets in his blue eyes, the way he starts talking without even realizing what he's saying.

“Wish- fuck- wish I could be better for you, honey.”

“Wanna be so much better, just for you, get to have this every night,”

“Wanna be the one to fuck you into oblivion, not some fucking pretty boy.”

His thrusts get angrier, his nose scrunching up as he grunts, hiding his face next to yours, his forehead pressing against the sheets next to your head. “Fuck this- you feel so fucking good, haven't- dammit- haven't fucked no one else since you, sugar, nothing, nothing, can compare to how you feel,” he's rambling, his mouth not shutting up, as much as he wishes it would.

You whimper into his neck, your eyes squeezing shut as you tighten around him. That earns a loud groan from him, one of his hands coming up to brace against the headboard as he changes the angle of his hips. His cock starts to bully your cervix, you throw your head back, moaning his name as you see stars, “John, baby, fuck- that feels so good,”

“That’s right honey, fuck- fucking squeeze me, god you feel so good around me, so damn good, making me lose my fucking mind.” he moves even faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

You tense around him as you start to feel the knot in your stomach tighten again, you scratch at his back, “John, baby- I'm gonna cum,” you whine, your chest heaving. He takes the hint, still moving at a fast pace, but making sure to roll his hips into yours, letting your clit feel his pelvic bone, his cock reaching a place inside of you, you never thought possible.

“Oh, there she is, there's my pretty girl,” his voice is muffled as your eyes roll back into your head, you start babbling his name, repeatedly. You can't think of anything else, can't think of the guilt you'll surely feel tomorrow morning, how you have a boyfriend who could never make you feel this good, you can only think of his cock and how deep he is and how good his praise is making you feel.

“Take it, fuck- take it all, sugar, you can-” only after you arch your back, squeezing around him so hard it forces him to slow down by a fraction, does he start to chase his own high. His hips move at an erratic pace, slamming into you with so much force, it makes the bed creak with every thrust. “I'm gonna- fuck- I'm gonna-” if it weren't for the haze of two orgasms, or the fact that you could feel your cervix being bruised by the head of his cock, you could swear you hear him say a quick, quiet, “God I love you,” as he cums.

You both pant as he tries to keep his weight off you, keeping his cock inside of you for a few moments. You hold each other, his thick arms wrapped around your back, your arms wrapped around his neck, holding his face into your shoulder.

Your entire body feels like jello as he pulls out, leaning back on his haunches and staring down at you. Your eyes are half-lidded as he rubs his palms over your thighs, “You okay, honey? Did I get too rough?” you laugh softly, knowing that is a fraction of how rough he can be. “No baby, you didn't hurt me, I'm okay.” you nod, assuring him.

The bed creaks as he gets up, walking to the bathroom, you hear the sink turn on, then off. Your head turns as you watch him pick up his boxers, pulling them on before grabbing his shirt and tossing it next to you on the bed. You start to try and sit up, letting out a small grunt. “Hey, sugar, don't try and move right now, I just fucked you into oblivion.” you can hear the cocky grin in his voice.

You look up at him as he drags a soft, damp, wash cloth down your thighs. You groan softly, “John, baby,” he nods,

“I know sugar, I know, but I gotta clean y’up, or you're gonna get sticky, then you're gonna get irritated, and I don't want either of those things,” you laugh because you know he's right.

After cleaning you up, he pulls his shirt over your head, helping you get into a more comfortable position against his chest, your leg hiked up over his abdomen as his arm is wrapped around your shoulder. His free hand cups the outside of your thigh on his stomach, his thumb swiping across the skin.

You can already feel the guilt start to creep into the edges of your mind, and as if he can read it, his hand leaves your thigh to tuck your hair behind your ear, “Hey... sugar, don't go getting all fuzzy-headed on me now,” you nod, “I'm okay, just... thinking,”

“Thats never good,”

You swat softly at his chest, “Loser,”

He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips, and kissing it before mumbling against the skin, “How about you get some sleep, loser” he suggests, guiding your hand to his dog tags as he reaches over and flicks off the light.

You fall asleep quickly to the sound of his heartbeat in your ears, the way the steel of his dog tags feel beneath your palm lulls you to sleep. John holds you through the night, his eyes reluctantly falling shut, he doesn't want this to be over, doesn't want this to be possibly the last night you come over, but he knows better than to get his hopes up.

Your phone ringing jolts you out of bed, you quickly crawl to the end of the bed, grabbing at your shorts to find it. You hit answer before looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?” your voice is hoarse, the night before taking a toll on your vocal cords, along with it being almost 7 in the morning.

“Hey... baby? Yeah, I'm at your place and you're not here. I was gonna see if you wanted to go out to breakfast or something, y’know, since you never really stay over.”

A bucket of cold ice water might as well have been dumped on your head. You stay stock still, not knowing what to say, the bitter feeling is back in your throat, the guilt gnawing away at your conscience.

“Baby?” your boyfriend calls your pet name again, it makes you nauseous.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry Beau, I'm at a friend's house, accidentally took the wrong exit and figured I'd just stay the night, we had some catching up to do.” all technically the truth. You glance back at John, expecting him to still be asleep, but that man was awake before you ever even opened your eyes.

His blue eyes bore into yours, almost silently asking you to hang up and forget about the plans, forget about your boyfriend and stay here.

“Oh, okay, well I know you have work tonight, so I'll see you tomorrow maybe?” your boyfriend sounds hopeful it all makes you just wanna cry. You just give him a small, almost silent, “Mmhmm,” and hang up. Your eyes don't leave john’s as you put your phone down, sitting up on your knees.

He should be angry, should be pissed off that he's technically the ‘other woman’ in this scenario, but the way your eyes well up with tears. It makes him want to call your boyfriend back and tell him to never call you again. It's too early for you to already be crying, he finds himself wanting to comfort you, “Don't cry sugar, hey, you're too pretty to cry.” he grabs at your arm, pulling you into a hug. You press your face into his chest, sniffling as the tears threaten to drown you, “I'm a terrible fucking person,” your voice is shaky. He shakes his head, “No you're not honey, I should've told you to leave last night and I didn't, because I'm a selfish bastard who wants you and only you.”

He cups your cheek with his warm palm, looking down at you, you sniffle, “I shouldn't be here,”

He nods, “I know, but you always find your way back here and if I'm being honest, sugar, i don't want you to stop coming back to me.” John is an honest man, he can't help telling you the truth, even if it makes you want to crawl into him and never see your boyfriend ever again.

You stare up at him, swallowing hard before asking, “Why couldn't you be better?”

You felt the love for him, it would always cause an ache in your heart, but you knew, you knew this would always fall apart, even if it did feel good as it crumbled.

He shakes his head, “I'm not what you need honey, as bad as I wanna be all you could ever want or need, I'm not. You deserve so much better,” he pauses, kissing your nose, “But as long as you keep coming back, I'll never turn you away, and if that's my fault or yours, I'll take the blame every time.”

You cry into his chest for another hour, until you fall asleep. When you wake up again at 10am, the sun has risen, birds chirp as if it's any other day, and your eyes are puffy from crying yourself to sleep a few hours ago.

You lean up, feeling his arms fall from around you. He stayed awake, now looking up at you as you sit up, looking over your shoulder at him. You move in silence as you get out of his bed, legs wobbly, your insides throbbing with an ache that would only ever be filled by him. He doesn't say a word as you walk out of his bedroom with his shirt on, he just silently follows you, ignoring the way your perfume lingers for a few moments behind you.

You grab your keys off the counter, where two untouched glasses of whiskey sit, you don't know it, but he's going to tear up pouring the glass with the lip gloss stain on it out into the sink like it's just another day. His hand hovers over your lower back as he leads you to his front door, opening it for you. You step out into the warm summer air of the morning, grimacing despite the pleasant day. As you walk down the concrete slab of flooring, you look back, aching to see him just one more time.

There he stands, John Walker, leaning against his doorframe, bare chested, boxers low on his hips, a few love bites littering his neck, nothing compared to how you look, acting as if your heart isn't actively breaking with each step you take away from him. What you'll never know, never realize, is that his hear is aching more than yours...

Wanting, but never having, wishing, but it never coming true, that if he could be better for anyone, even if just for a few minutes, that he could be better for you.

=========================================================================

p.s. sorry for the long ahh authors note and tag.

109 notes · View notes

x3zerochanx3 · 2 months ago

Text

You Up? (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: Bucky Barnes felt exhausted, out of touch with the times, and surprisingly vulnerable, when he asked you to teach him how to use Snapchat. You didn’t expect that he’d start sending you late night snaps from his bed, and he didn’t expect you’d send them back.

Word Count: 5.3K Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, age gap, sexting, old-ass man baffled by modern technology, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem!receiving)

Kitchen, 1:04 AM

The hum of the fridge was the only sound in the kitchen until the cupboard door creaked behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder, spoon still in your mouth, and there he was: James Buchanan Barnes. Sweatpants, black t-shirt, dog tags faintly catching the light. Silent as a ghost.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Bucky murmured, stepping in with a nod.

“You didn’t,” you said around a mouthful of cereal. “You always move like all… stealthy like that?”

“Occupational hazard I guess.”

You watched him open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and lean against the counter. He looked tired. Not exhausted the way he usually did post-mission, but something softer. Restless.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Didn’t try,” he replied. “Didn’t feel like staring at the ceiling yet.”

You swallowed your bite and gave a half-smile. “Same.”

Bucky’s eyes landed on your phone next to the bowl. “That the one that makes your face look like a cat?”

You blinked. “What?”

He gestured toward it, brow pinched in confusion. “There’s this app. You were showing Yelena yesterday. It"s got filters, right? Turns your voice all squeaky?”

“Snapchat?”

“Yeah, that one.” He cleared his throat. “Can you explain it to me?”

You paused, spoon halfway to your mouth again.

“…You want me to teach you Snapchat?”

“I don’t want to,” he muttered, a little sheepish. “But the kid we pulled out of that HYDRA site yesterday, I think he sent me something. Said he’d ‘snap me later.’ I have no idea what that means.”

You blinked again. Then you laughed.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. “I’m serious.”

“No, I believe you,” you said through a grin. “It’s just… you asking me to teach you Snapchat is like…I don’t know. A medieval peasant asking about TikTok.”

He looked unimpressed. “I know what TikTok is.”

“Do you?”

He didn’t answer.

Still smiling, you unlocked your phone and turned it toward him. “Alright. Let’s start with the basics.”

He sat beside you at the island, arms folded as you explained how to take snaps, send them, use filters, and view stories. He was attentive, really attentive, the way soldiers listened during briefing. Like it mattered.

“You’ve got to press and hold to record video,” you said, demonstrating. “And that’s where the filters are. Tap through them. And that,” you pointed, “that’s my Bitmoji. Don’t laugh at her.”

He stared at the cartoon version of you on screen, blinking slowly. “That doesn’t look anything like you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“And people use this… why?”

You shrugged. “To send life updates. Memes. Flirt. Post thirst traps.”

Bucky frowned. “Traps?”

You just grinned. “You’ll figure it out. There's also a normal chat feature, kind of like text messaging. All of this disappears after a certain amount of time unless you change some settings around.”

He was still looking at the screen like it was speaking another language. “There’s too many apps now. Used to be, you just called someone. Or wrote a damn letter.”

You leaned back on your stool, watching him with a small smile. “You really are a hundred years old, huh?”

“I’m a hundred and nine,” he corrected, dry.

There was a beat.

Neither of you moved.

Your smile softened. “Well… if you ever want help with anything else, I got you.”

Bucky’s expression twitched. Something between amused and unreadable.

“Noted.”

He stood, finishing his water, and turned to leave. Then paused at the doorway.

“Thanks for the lesson.”

“Anytime.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway, and then you gathered your bowl and phone and padded off toward your room. Just another late night in the Watchtower.

Your Room, 1:32 AM.

You’d just climbed into bed, blanket pulled up to your chest, when your phone buzzed.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

You sat up straight.

No. Way.

You tapped it.

It was a blurry picture.

You could see the corner of a pillow. Part of his stubbled jaw. A little bit of his collarbone. Shadows.

Caption: “Did I do this right?”

Your heart flipped.

You snapped a reply. Smirking into the camera, hair a mess, and your blanket pulled up to your chin.

“you did perfect, grandpa”

Two minutes later: @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“You’re lucky I like you.”

And for a long, long time, you just stared at the screen, smiling into the dark.

Your Room, The Following Night, 1:04 AM

You told yourself to go to bed.

Your brain was, as always, too busy.

But when you finally crawled under the covers and picked up your phone again, your heart jumped.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

It was a photo of his face, dim, sleepy, barely visible. He was in bed. The sheets were pulled up to his chest. He looked... soft. Human.

The caption: “Are you awake?”

Your breath caught, and you stared at the screen for a while.

The snap sat, open. Just Bucky in his bed, dim and warm and undeniably attractive in that relaxed, casual way. He hadn’t posed. He hadn’t tried. And that was the problem.

There was something unguarded about it.

And something very deliberate.

You bit your lip and flopped back against the pillows.

You swiped to reply before you could think too hard. You adjusted the camera before taking the picture.

You, your face. Messy hair, moonlight brushing your cheekbone. You looked sleepy. Flushed.

The caption: “yeah. you?”

You hit send. Regret hit a second later.

But it didn’t last long.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

This one was darker, just the vague silhouette of his chest and shoulder, the curve of his dog tag chain barely visible against his collarbone.

The caption: “I can't sleep either. My brain is too loud.”

Your heart tugged.

That same tight ache from earlier. The kind that came with late nights and soft confessions from people who rarely if ever gave them.

You took another snap.

Half of your face. Blurry.

The caption: “what are you thinking about?”

There was a pause.

Long enough to make you incredibly anxious.

Then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“You.”

You blinked.

Your stomach dropped straight through the mattress.

Not subtle. Not vague. Just the truth.

You stared at the chat, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Then you exhaled.

Screw it.

Snap sent: Your bare thigh on top of the blanket, the bottom hem of your shirt just barely visible.

The caption: “say more.”

The typing bubble started.

Stopped.

Started again.

You imagined him lying there, debating if he should answer. Imagined him in that dark room, lit only by the screen, chewing the inside of his cheek while his brain screamed not to do this.

Then your phone buzzed again.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

It's his face this time. Jaw tight. Eyes dark.

The caption: “This is dangerous.”

You stared at the message.

Then you snapped back, sending a blurry, close-up shot of your mouth.

The caption: “probably. and?”

No response.

Not for several minutes.

And then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“Go to sleep, kid.”

You rolled your eyes, and sent your reply.

“whatever you say, gramps.”

And you both laid awake all night.

Your room, 7:02AM

The quiet hum of the Watchtower felt heavier than usual, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

You rolled over, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding too fast for this early in the morning. You replayed last night’s snaps in your mind; the way his words had set your skin on fire, the way the space between you had felt electric and raw.

The problem was: now that the night had passed, you weren’t sure what to do with all that heat.

He knew what the snaps meant.

You knew it, too.

But neither of you had any intentions of saying a word about it.

Not yet.

Kitchen, 8:17AM

You made your way to the kitchen, muscles tight and breath shallow.

You found Bucky already there, leaning against the counter, nursing a black coffee. The quiet between you stretched thin and taut.

He glanced up as you approached, eyes wary but soft.

“Morning,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Morning,” he replied, clearing his throat.

Neither of you moved to fill the silence.

You poured yourself some coffee, hands trembling just slightly.

Your eyes met his over the rim of your mug.

You wanted to ask him if last night had been a mistake.

You wanted to say something. Anything.

But all you managed was, “Did you sleep at all?”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Not really.”

The confession hung in the air, heavier than either of you expected.

You shifted, setting your mug down.

“I wasn’t expecting that snap.”

He looked at you then, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Neither was I.”

The space between you felt charged, alive.

You could feel the invisible thread pulling tighter.

But fear held both your tongues.

Neither wanted to be the first to say what was already known.

The Watchtower began to creak with the early stirrings of the team.

You heard footsteps, then John’s voice carrying down the hall.

“Hey, you two! There's breakfast in the lounge.”

Bucky shot you a glance, an unspoken question hanging there.

You nodded.

Later, sitting across from each other in the lounge, the rest of the team buzzed with casual chatter around you both.

But the silence between you was noticeable.

You caught Bucky’s gaze a few times. Each time, his eyes flickered with something raw and unsure.

At one point, Yelena nudged you, a teasing smirk on her lips.

“Something going on?” she asked softly.

You just shook your head, lips twitching.

She shrugged and sipped her coffee, but you caught her watching Bucky with sharp eyes.

Your Room, 12:38AM

You told yourself you weren’t going to do this again.

You were going to go to sleep. Like a normal person. Like someone who didn’t stay up fantasizing about a hundred-year-old man with a vibranium arm, copious amounts of trauma, and a voice that made you ache.

But still, Your fingers drifted across your phone, opening Snapchat before you could talk yourself out of it.

You snapped a photo from the bridge of your nose up, just your eyes. Sleepy. Bored. Safe.

The caption: “you up?”

A minute passed. Then two.

Then:

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“I thought we agreed that this is dangerous.”

Your heart thudded. You blinked at the screen.

No greeting. No pretense. Just… that.

Your fingers hovered over for a moment, contemplating before you replied.

“Couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t planning to snap you but alas.”

He replied instantly.

“Funny. I was hoping you would.”

You stared.

It wasn’t anything dirty, not really.

But it hit.

You felt it in your chest, in your stomach. Between your thighs.

You swallowed hard.

Your sleep shirt had ridden up a bit. You pulled the blanket aside and adjusted the angle, snapping a photo of your bare thigh, only the soft curve of skin showing.

The caption: “so now what?”

The reply didn’t come right away.

When it did, your breath caught.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

The empty side of his bed. A poorly drawn arrow pointing to the pillow.

The caption: “I wish you were here.”

You exhaled sharply.

Your stomach flipped.

He was always so careful. So distant. Always trying to pull away just enough to keep you at bay.

But this?

This was something.

You snapped a photo of your face, one eyebrow raised as if you were challenging him. Your skin flushed, and your shirt revealing a hint of cleavage.

The caption: “and if I was?”

You stared at the screen. Waiting.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

His hand. The metal one. Resting flat on his stomach. His muscles tight. You could see the waistband of his sweatpants.

The caption: “Then I’d ruin you.”

You sat up in bed, legs suddenly restless under the sheets.

You sent back a snap, one of just your shoulder and neck, blurry.

The caption: “i’d let you.”

He opened it immediately.

The typing bubble flickered.

Then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“This is a bad idea.”

You replied.

“a really, really bad one.”

No reply came after that.

But you saw him open it.

And for the second night in a row, neither of you slept.

Your Room, 8:07AM

You tried not to rush through your morning routine.

You kept your hoodie zipped all the way up and your hair a little messier than usual, hoping it would hide the restless tension thrumming just beneath your skin. You hadn’t slept. You’d spent the night scrolling back to that final snap, your thumb hovering over the screen long after your phone dimmed.

He hadn’t replied.

But he’d seen it.

That soft, hazy photo of your shoulder. That quiet admission. And of course, was it a bad idea?

a really, really bad one.

You knew the message wasn’t just about sex. Not really. It was about the whole idea of you and him. About what it would mean to cross that line, and what they’d both lose if it went wrong.

You told yourself it was fine. You weren’t disappointed. You were a grown-ass woman who could handle a little sexual tension.

However, you were a grown-ass woman who found herself avoiding the lounge. Skipping breakfast. Keeping her head down.

Which is exactly why you ended up wandering into the kitchen, distracted, hoodie sleeves pushed over your hands, only to freeze at the sight of him.

Bucky.

Standing in front of the open fridge, looking just as tired as you felt.

He was in sweatpants. The ones you'd seen last night in that snap, the waistband resting low on his hips. His hair was still wet from a shower, and when he turned and saw you, his entire body stilled like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn't.

You weren’t sure what expression was on your face, but his eyes softened just slightly, like he could feel whatever heat still lingered from the night before.

“Morning,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

“Hey,” you replied. You forced yourself to move to the coffee machine, gripping the mug a little too tightly. “Sleep okay?”

He hesitated. You didn’t look at him, but you felt it, the way he paused before answering.

“Yeah,” he lied.

You smiled into your mug, looking up at him. “Liar.”

He grinned.

You kept your back to him, letting the silence stretch.

But the silence was disrupted by John Walker entering the room.

“Morning, sunshine squad,” he said, grabbing an apple off of the counter and taking a bite. “You two look like hell.”

You both ignored him.

He leaned on the counter, chewing obnoxiously.

“Sooooo,” he said, stretching the word out, “I got the craziest snap from Bucky last night.”

You blinked.

Bucky froze.

“What?” you asked carefully.

John smirked. “Yeah. Real late. Opened it around 1am. Thought it was a mistake.”

You felt your stomach tighten.

Bucky turned toward him slowly, brows furrowed. “What snap?”

John pulled out his phone and scrolled with theatrical flair. Then he turned the screen to you both and…

There it was.

A dimly lit snap of Bucky’s bare stomach, metal hand resting against his skin.

And the caption, clear as day: “Then I’d ruin you.”

Your jaw dropped.

Bucky looked like he’d just been hit by a truck.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, covering your mouth.

John burst out laughing. “I know that wasn’t meant for me, but damn if I’m not a little curious.”

“I meant to send that to her,” Bucky said without thinking, then immediately shut his eyes, realizing what he’d just admitted.

You choked on your coffee.

John’s eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” he said. “You were sexting her. You nasty old bastard.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to disappear.

“I’m still figuring out how this app works,” he muttered, voice tight. “I didn’t realize it sent to you too.”

“I didn’t need to know that,” John said gleefully. “But I’m so glad I do.”

“Forget this happened, Walker,” Bucky said.

“Oh,” John said, still messing with his phone. “I'll be screenshotting it for blackmail purposes. This is gold.”

Bucky looked like he was weighing the pros and cons of tossing him out the window.

John winked at you. “Just say the word if you ever want a guy under eighty-five.”

“Get out,” Bucky growled.

John held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Don’t break your hip over it.”

He left, whistling.

The door closed behind him, leaving you and Bucky in the thickest silence yet.

You didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then finally…

“I would,” you whispered, “let you.”

Bucky sighed and leaned against the counter. “You’re trouble.”

You bit your lip, watching him quietly.

A flirtatious smirk crept across his face. He tried to suppress it. He grabbed his coffee mug and sauntered out of the kitchen without another word.

Your Room, 11:17 PM

You hadn’t spoken to him since that morning.

Not really.

You’d seen him in passing; at training, during a strategy briefing, when Yelena threw popcorn at Alexei’s head during movie night, but the tension had shifted. It was no longer something building slowly between you, unspoken and dangerous.

It was active.

It demanded attention.

And now you couldn’t look at him without remembering that snap. Without hearing the words in his voice.

Then I’d ruin you.

You had replayed it in your head so many times, you weren’t sure if you were turned on or emotionally unstable. Realistically, both.

You stared at the ceiling for a while after turning the lights out, curled beneath the blanket, your phone resting on your chest like a paperweight.

He hadn’t snapped you.

Not all day.

You told yourself that was good. Smart. Mature. He was pulling back. Being careful.

But you didn’t want to be careful anymore.

Not with him.

Not tonight.

So you opened Snapchat. Again.

You turned on the front-facing camera, adjusting the angle until it was just your mouth and chin. Lips parted. A little bit wicked.

The caption: “this still dangerous?”

You hesitated only a second before hitting send.

Then you waited.

Long enough to regret it. Long enough to bite your lip, curse under your breath, throw the blanket over your face like that would somehow undo what you’d just done, and yell into your pillow.

And then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

It was a shot of his hand. The metal one, resting against his chest.

The caption: “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your breath caught.

This time, you didn’t reply right away.

You needed him to say more.

You needed him to risk it.

You needed to make him sweat a little.

A minute passed.

Then another.

And finally:

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“What are you wearing?”

You stared at the message, heart thudding in your chest. Heart thudding everywhere.

You rolled slowly onto your side, letting the blanket fall lower.

Sleep shirt. Bare thighs.

You adjusted the camera carefully, making sure it was suggestive, not graphic. A tease. A temptation. A glimpse of your hip, and the tiniest hint of blue lace panties, and the hem of your shirt.

The caption: “come find out.”

There was no pause this time.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

A selfie now. Bucky’s face. Hair tousled. Jaw clenched. His cheeks warm.

He looked… desperate.

The caption: “Don’t tempt me. I swear to god.”

Your thighs pressed together.

You opened the camera again, this time bringing the shot closer. Your fingers curled under your hem, not showing anything, but hinting at everything.

The caption: “i want you to.”

Another snap came instantly.

His bare chest. Dog tags. Muscle.

The caption:“Tell me what you’d let me do.”

You exhaled, hot and shaky.

Your whole body buzzed. Every inch of you begging for contact, even through a screen.

You snapped a photo of your shoulder, your collarbone, and your throat.

The caption: “i'd let you pin me down.”

Your phone buzzed immediately.

His hand. Gripping the bedsheet this time. White-knuckled.

The caption: “And then?”

You snapped back before you lost your nerve, fingers grazing just above your panties, shirt still hiked up high.

The caption: “Touch me. Make me squirm. Make me come.”

Another photo arrived in seconds.

His torso this time, arm flexed, abs tight. His skin glowed under dim light, sweat along his collarbone.

The caption: “You’d be begging me not to stop.”

A quiet, desperate noise escaped your mouth.

You adjusted again, this time your hand disappeared beneath the sheets, between your legs, nothing visible but everything implied.

The caption: “i’m already begging”

There was a longer pause this time.

You stared at the screen. Waiting.

You could feel the hesitation. The way he fought himself every step of the way.

And then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“This is a really bad idea.”

You stared at it.

Bit your lip.

And sent the final snap for the night.

A photo of your pillow. Empty beside you. Invitation, suggestion, ache.

The caption: “Still, might be worth it.”

You waited.

Watched as he opened it.

The reply never came.

But you knew.

You both knew.

Kitchen, 8:05 AM

The kitchen was too quiet again.

You stared at the toaster, watching it slowly brown two slices of bread, pretending your heart wasn’t still thudding from last night. Pretending you hadn’t spent the past eight hours tossing under your sheets, skin hot, mind louder than it had any right to be.

He never replied.

Not after your last snap.

But you saw him open it. You knew what that silence meant.

And still, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked. That low light. That look in his eyes. Like he wanted you. Like he was struggling not to want you more.

You shifted on your feet, hoodie sleeves covering your fingers, trying not to look like you were waiting for him.

But then, he walked in.

Bucky.

Damp hair. Long sleeves. That damn quiet tension clinging to his shoulders like a shadow. He stopped when he saw you. Not startled. Just still.

You didn’t look away.

“Morning,” you said softly.

He nodded. “Morning.”

He moved past you to the fridge. His hand hovered on the handle. His back to you.

You stayed where you were, clutching your mug with both hands.

The silence stretched.

Thick.

“You didn’t reply,” you said finally, voice just above a whisper.

He closed his eyes for a second before turning, leaning back against the counter.

“I wanted to,” he said. His voice was rough. “But I didn’t trust myself not to come upstairs.”

Your stomach flipped.

He looked tired. Worn. And guilty.

Your throat tightened. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” he said instantly. “I regret not stopping this before it started.”

That stung.

Even if it was fair. Understandable.

Even if you knew it wasn’t just about the flirting. Or the sexting.

It was about the line you kept crossing. And what it would mean when it broke for real.

“You think I can’t handle you?” you asked quietly.

He looked at you then, directly.

“I think you don’t know what you’re inviting,” he said.

And then, softer, “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You opened your mouth, ready to say something, anything, but you didn’t get the chance.

Because John Walker chose that exact moment to walk in. Again.

“Wow,” he said, biting into an energy bar. “You two have the most intense breakfasts I’ve ever seen.”

You both turned toward him in sync, like a pair of teenagers caught passing notes.

John grinned. “I’m assuming that I’m the only one of the three of us who didn’t get a snap last night?”

Bucky scowled. You stared down at your coffee.

John snorted. “Come on. Don’t look so guilty. I’m just impressed you figured out how to snap without sending it to the whole team this time.”

“Walker,” Bucky said, as a warning.

But John wasn’t done.

He leaned his hip against the counter, looking right at you with a smirk, "Whatever is good for team morale, I guess.”

John turned to the cabinet, fishing for a mug, and muttered to himself, “I give it two more nights before one of you caves.”

“What was that?” you asked innocently.

He grinned. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just betting against Bucky’s self-control.”

Your Room, 1:16 AM

You weren’t going to do it.

You weren’t going to open Snapchat.

You weren’t going to reach out first.

You weren’t going to let your whole body ache over someone who clearly didn’t want to cross the line… even though he wanted you.

But still, the app sat there. Waiting. And so did the tension. And so did you.

You scrolled back through the thread, past the soft snaps, the suggestive ones, the ones where he said too much without saying anything at all.

He was trying so hard, but he hadn’t stopped looking at you like he was two seconds away from ruining everything.

You pulled your blanket tighter, took a slow breath, and snapped a photo; just your fingers tangled in the sheets on your bed. Feeling brave, you typed it out.

The caption: “i keep thinking about how your mouth would feel on my skin.”

You sent it.

Then immediately wished you hadn’t.

But then, before you had time to panic, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

His chest, bare. Lit only by the glow of the phone. The curve of his shoulder, where his skin met with metal.

The caption: “Is that what you want?”

You sat up. Heart pounding.

Your thighs pressed together beneath the blanket. Goosebumps across your skin. Every nerve in your body screamed.

You snapped a photo from the waist up, angled carefully. Your sleep shirt clung to the curve of your chest, just a hint of cleavage visible and your hard nipples visible through the fabric. Your expression said the rest.

The caption: “you already know it is.”

He opened it immediately.

You waited.

You didn’t expect what came next.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“Open your door.”

You froze.

Then stared at it.

Then, you launched yourself out of bed, heart hammering so hard you thought it might bruise bone. You flung the blanket aside and scrambled to your feet.

You barely made it halfway across the room before there was a knock.

Three fast knocks. Barely loud enough to hear.

You opened the door, and there he was.

Bucky. Shirtless. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, chest rising like he’d sprinted the whole way to your room.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

You just stared… and then you reached.

Your fingers curled into his chest like you’d earned the right by now. Like he was already yours. He surged forward, slamming the door shut behind him without ever looking back, lips crashing into yours with the kind of need that didn’t ask permission.

His hands were rough, urgent, gripping your waist and pulling you into him until there wasn’t a breath between you.

You moaned into his mouth, heat rushing through you as he backed you into the wall. His hips pinned you there. You could feel him, already hard through the thin fabric of his sweats, thick and heavy, pressing right where you needed him most.

“I feel like you're supposed to say you shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, voice wrecked. His mouth brushed your jaw, your cheek, your throat. “I know,” he growled, “so tell me to go.”

You didn't.

Instead, you grabbed a fistful of his hair and crashed your mouth against his.

He groaned, deep from his chest, before grabbing the backs of your thighs and hoisting you up, your legs wrapping tight around his waist.

“I mean it,” he rasped, carrying you toward the bed. “Tell me to leave. Right now.”

You clung to him, pulse hammering. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He kissed you hard, like it was the only thing keeping him alive. One hand slid up under your shirt, dragging it over your ribs, possessive. The other gripped your ass, squeezed hard, like he’d been dying to do it for years.

You barely had time to gasp before he carried you to the bed, as if he couldn’t wait another second. He dropped you onto the mattress, then peeled your clothes off with shaking hands—desperate, reverent, like he needed to see all of you *now* or he’d break.

“Jesus,” he muttered, looking down at you, eyes blown wide. “You’re unreal.”

“Then get inside me,” you said, breathless. “Don’t make me beg.”

“Oh, I want you to beg,” he rasped, crawling over you, mouth trailing down your chest, biting just enough to make you gasp. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

You arched up against him. “Then have me god damnit.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He dropped to his knees on the floor with you still wrapped around him, peeled your panties down and shoved your thighs apart. His mouth was on you in seconds. His tongue hot and greedy, lapping between your folds, groaning like he was devouring his last meal. You cried out, hips bucking into his face, and he didn’t stop, just locked his arms around your thighs and fucked you with his tongue until you were shaking.

“God, oh my god, Bucky, I’m gonna-”

“Do it,” he growled, voice thick, jaw slick with you. “Let me taste it.”

You shattered.

Your body locked up and trembled, a sob tearing from your throat as you came on his tongue, legs shaking around his shoulders. He kept going, licking you through it until you whimpered from the stimulation, clawing at his shoulders.

He stood, wild-eyed, flushed, jaw tight, and shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock.

Big. Thick. Veins prominent.

He bent you over the mattress, dragged your ass back into position, and slid inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—” he groaned, head dropping between your shoulder blades. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You gasped, your back arching, nails digging into the mattress. “Don’t stop. God, please don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

He fucked you like he meant to break you. Every thrust hit deep, hard, hungry. Metal hand around your throat, the other gripping your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you. You were soaked. Sloppy, hot, pulsing around him, and he couldn’t stop the filthy words from pouring out.

“This what you wanted, sweetheart?” he rasped in your ear. “Wanted me to ruin you like this? You thinking about it every time I walk into a room?”

“Yes!” You cried out, helpless, twitching under him. “I’m so close, please- please-”

“I wanna feel you come.”

You did.

Loud. Messy. Legs trembling, vision white-hot.

Bucky swore, pulled you upright with your back against his chest, fucked into you hard a few more times, and then he came with a rough moan, teeth gritted, arms wrapped tight around you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

His breath came fast and ragged against your shoulder.

You both collapsed onto the bed, your limbs tangled, skin slick, and nerves fried.

“Still think it’s a bad idea?” you whispered into the quiet.

He laughed. Hoarse. Spent.

“Absolutely.”

And then he kissed you again, deep, slow, filthy, and he didn’t stop for a long, long time.

2K notes · View notes

x3zerochanx3 · 2 months ago

Text

The Look 😍

CHRIS EVANS as STEVE ROGERS AVENGERS: INFINITY WAR (2018) dir. The Russo Brothers

3K notes · View notes

x3zerochanx3 · 2 months ago

Text

GOOD NEWSSSSSSSSSSS!!! SHES DEADDDDDDDD!!!! THE WICKED WITCH OF THE WEST IS DEAD.

credits: not mine :)

3K notes · View notes

x3zerochanx3 · 2 months ago

Text

❤️❤️

about time

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, Time travel romance (accidental, unexplained), Slow burn and eventual smut, Soft Dom!Bucky (1940s and modern), Filthy Smut in multiple timelines, creampie, fingering, oral (F! receiving), Memory loss and recovery, Heartache and longing, Uniform kink / Sargent kink, Emotional intensity, Post-Winter Soldier trauma (referenced), Implied trauma from Hydra, Soft angst and emotional vulnerability

word count: 18k

Summary: Bucky Barnes never looked at you twice. Too cold. Too distant. Too focused on the mission. You were too much, he said—too loud, too close, too everything. So you stopped trying. Then you woke up in 1943. And he was there—James Buchanan Barnes, all charm and swagger and soft smiles, looking at you like you hung the stars. Flirting like it was breathing. Touching like he already knew your body. Calling you his girl. You told yourself it wasn’t real. That you couldn’t stay. But seven days in the past can ruin a person. Especially when the present is waiting. And when you come back? He remembers. All of it.

notes – not proofread. could have been like 40k words. inspired by an ask from the amazing @niinesb

Tags: @eeveedream @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

You weren’t exactly sure what you’d done to piss off James Buchanan Barnes.

Scratch that—you were sure. Absolutely nothing.

From the moment you were assigned to the New Avengers team six months ago, Bucky had been cold to you. Not cold like the others had warned—he didn’t brood in corners or snap like a feral animal. No, Bucky Barnes was cold in the way someone gets when they’ve already made up their mind about you. Dismissive. Clipped. Quick with an eye roll or a grunt, but never more.

He talked to everyone else on the team just fine. Friendly enough with Bob. Dryly funny with Yelena. Even gave Ava a half-smile now and then. But you? You were the ghost in the room.

The thorn in his side. The fly in his drink.

You’d tried to brush it off at first. Not everyone clicked immediately, right? But now, half a year into shared missions, debriefs, and long nights of tactical planning, the pattern was impossible to ignore. Every time you so much as opened your mouth, Bucky’s jaw clenched like he’d rather chew broken glass than hear your voice.

And honestly? It was starting to piss you off.

You were a good soldier. Smart. Quick. Sharp. You never gave him attitude, never pushed his buttons—not even when he deserved it. But his contempt had a weight now, digging into your shoulders like an extra pack you hadn’t trained for.

Which is how you ended up in the quinjet, hunched over a StarkPad, chewing the inside of your cheek, while Bucky sat across from you radiating icy silence.

The mission had been simple. Quick recon of a possible Hydra remnant site tucked in the mountains of Romania. In and out. Nothing serious. You were riding shotgun with Bucky because he was the only other one free. Lucky you.

He hadn’t spoken a word to you the entire flight. And you’d finally had enough.

“Hey, Barnes,” you said without looking up. “Question for you.”

His sigh was audible. Heavy. Like you were personally dragging him through hell.

“Do you hate me,” you asked, voice light, “or is this just your sparkling personality?”

You finally looked up to meet his eyes—and regretted it instantly.

Steel blue. Cold as a bayonet. He didn’t even blink.

“If I hated you,” he said slowly, “you’d know it.”

Oof. Okay.

“So it is your personality,” you muttered. That earned you a scoff. He turned back to the mission readout like you weren’t worth the energy. Something inside you cracked. A hairline fracture along a fault that had been building for months.

You tried again.

“I just don’t get it. You talk to everyone else. Laugh with them, even. But me?” You tilted your head. “I’m invisible unless I mess up. Which I haven’t, by the way. So what gives?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. For a second, you thought he might actually ignore you again. But then he stood up with that heavy, silent grace, every inch of him thick with annoyance, and came to stand in front of you.

You didn’t flinch. But your spine locked straight.

He was tall. Broad. His vibranium arm glinted under the lights, catching in the shadows of his dark tactical jacket. His mouth twisted as he looked down at you—like just seeing you irritated him.

“You really wanna know?”

Your stomach tightened. But you nodded.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Shook his head once like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “You’re not my type.”

Silence.

That was it?

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You asked,” he said with a shrug. “That’s your answer.”

You stood up, toe-to-toe now. “So your issue with me is that I’m not—what? Fuckable enough to be worth talking to?”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything, Barnes. You said it like it explained why you treat me like a damn ghost.”

He took a step closer, and for the first time, the tension in the air shifted. It wasn’t just cold—it was charged. Static and heat, friction and frost. “You want the truth?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed, nodded again.

He leaned in slightly. “You’re loud. You talk too much. You care about people even when it’s not practical. You make jokes at the worst times. You have a tendency to take unnecessary risks just to make a point. And yeah,” he added, voice sharp, “you’re not my type.”

You tried to cover the hurt that sliced through you. Tried to hold your chin up, tried not to show it.

“Got it,” you said. “I’ll stop bothering you.”

You turned back to the StarkPad, heart stinging in your chest—but the rattle of turbulence snapped your attention forward.

“Brace,” Bucky barked, voice all soldier again. “Something’s—”

The quinjet shook violently. Alarms screamed. You felt the stomach-dropping lurch of altitude loss—but no fire, no explosion.

Just light.

Blinding, golden light ripped through the cabin like a living storm. You barely had time to gasp before everything went white.

When the world stopped spinning, your knees hit cobblestone. You gasped, sucking air into your lungs, fingers scraping against pavement. The sound of a horn blared nearby.

You blinked hard—once, twice, trying to make sense of the image forming around you. Streetlamps. Yellow taxis—not modern ones. Men in hats. Women in long skirts. Big band music drifting from an open window. A newsboy shouting something about a war.

And across the street, leaning against a lamppost with wide, stunned eyes…

…was Bucky Barnes.

But not the one you knew.

This Bucky looked younger. Cleaner. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a white undershirt beneath his leather jacket. Hair slicked, lips curled in a slow, curious smile as his eyes swept over you like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire goddamn city.

Then he pushed off the lamppost, swagger in his step, and crossed the street with a grin so charming it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth as bourbon, “ain’t you somethin’ out of a dream.”

You were still on your knees. Still breathless. Still gripping the edge of a time-shocked world where the air smelled like diesel and warm pretzels and before.

Your eyes scanned him like they were starving. It was Bucky—but brighter. Still heavy with muscle, but leaner than the man who’d grow into the soldier you knew. Hair combed back but falling in a rogue wave across his forehead. That smile? Easy and devastating. That voice? Playful. Brooklyn born and bred.

You opened your mouth to speak—and realized you had no idea what to say.

“Whoa, hey—” he stepped closer, crouching now, one knee hitting the cobblestone in front of you. “You alright, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

You choked on the lump forming in your throat. God, this was real. “Y-Yeah,” you rasped. “Just… lost my balance.”

He let out a soft laugh and offered his hand. “Lemme help you up.” His touch was warm—real—and so solid you could’ve sobbed. He pulled you to your feet like you weighed nothing, and you swayed, trying to adjust to the world around you.

Streetcars. People in fedoras and high-waisted skirts. Signs with war bond slogans. This wasn’t cosplay. This was Brooklyn. In the 1940s.

And this version of Bucky Barnes was still holding your hand.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, scanning your face like he could read everything beneath your skin.

You nodded. “Yeah. I just… hit my head.”

“Might explain the outfit,” he muttered, eyes trailing down your tactical gear.

You looked down at yourself—black ops uniform, boots, StarkTech wristband—and winced. “Oh my God,” you whispered. “I look insane.”

“You look like the future,” he said, grinning again. “Which is workin’ for you, don’t get me wrong. Just… kinda makes me wonder if I hit my head too.”

He released your hand only to circle you once, eyeing the details. “I mean—damn, doll. You armed under all that?”

You choked out a laugh. “You have no idea.”

That made him smile wider. “I’m Bucky,” he offered, stepping in front of you again. “Bucky Barnes.”

The way he said it—like it should mean something—hit you in the ribs. You nodded slowly, lips twitching.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I know.”

That made him pause. He tilted his head, curious. “Have we met?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. Just… heard about you.”

“Well,” he said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket and eyeing you with clear, unfiltered interest, “can’t say I’d forget a face like yours.”

Jesus Christ.

You were going to pass out.

He looked at you like you were something he’d been waiting for without knowing it. Like he wanted to taste you and know your middle name and build you a life all in the same breath.

This Bucky hadn’t been broken yet. No Hydra. No war trauma. No cold walls or clipped tones. Just a guy who looked like he’d kiss you on the sidewalk and mean it.

“Well, you’re clearly lost,” he continued, glancing around. “And I’m a gentleman. Let me buy you a coffee while you, uh—figure out what year you think it is.”

You bit your lip. “You’re just gonna take in a strange woman who might be crazy?”

“Sweetheart,” he said, stepping in again, “I’ve done dumber things for less beautiful girls.” That shouldn’t have made your stomach flip. But it did. God help you. “Besides,” he added, low, “you don’t look crazy. You look scared.”

That shut you up. Hard.

He held your gaze for a long, quiet beat. “Come on,” he said finally, touching the small of your back. “Let’s get you warm.”

He took you to a corner diner two blocks away, all neon and tile and glass sugar dispensers. He ordered two coffees and a slice of cherry pie to split, because “you look like you need something sweet,” and when you sat across from him in the booth, he watched you like a man trying to memorize every blink.

“So,” he said, stirring his coffee. “You from around here? Or… very far away?”

You hesitated. But when you looked into those eyes—so open, so alive—you couldn’t lie. “Far,” you said quietly.

“How far?”

“Too far.”

His brows lifted. “Well damn, you speak in riddles, too. Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

You smirked despite yourself.

His gaze softened. “You really okay?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I’m better now.”

Something flickered in his eyes. That was the moment, you’d realize later. That tiny second when something in him decided: Mine. “Tell you what,” he said, voice lower now. “You stick with me. I’ll get you through the week.”

“The week?”

“Yeah. However long you’re here. You let me take care of you, alright?”

Your throat dried. “Why?”

That grin again—slower this time. Hungrier. “‘Cause I like you,” he said simply. “A lot. And I’ve only known you fifteen minutes.”

You sat back, overwhelmed. This was him. Bucky. And he was everything the world had burned out of him in the years that followed. He was safe. Warm. And he already wanted you like it meant something.

“I don’t have anywhere to stay,” you said softly.

“I’ve got a couch,” he offered. “Or you can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You gave him a look.

He raised both palms, mock-innocent. “I swear on my Ma, sweetheart. I’ll be good for ya.”

“Something tells me you don’t like being good.”

That grin tilted wicked. “Wouldn’t you like to find out.”

Oh God.

You were in so much trouble.

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand after the diner. Not when he helped you into his coat because your tactical suit was turning heads. Not when he guided you across the crosswalk, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Not even when you hesitated in front of a department store window, caught by the sight of a 1940s dress that made your brain skip.

He saw your look, then turned to you with that grin again—like he’d found another excuse to spoil you. “You like that one?”

You blinked. “It’s… pretty.”

“Well then, doll,” he said, cocking a brow, “guess we’re going shopping.”

“Bucky—”

“Ah ah,” he cut you off. “Don’t argue with a man on a mission.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but he was already pulling you inside. Fifteen minutes later, you stood barefoot in a curtained stall, blinking down at yourself in the soft blue dress he’d picked: simple, elegant, with cap sleeves and a cinched waist. The reflection made your heart stutter. You looked like you belonged there.

You stepped out slowly. Bucky was leaning against a post near the register, hands in his pockets, hair ruffled from the wind outside. He turned, saw you—and stopped breathing.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You glanced down. “Too much?”

He took a step forward. “You’re gonna kill a man walkin’ down the street in that.”

You flushed. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You’re the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

You didn’t know what to say. He looked at you like he’d touched heaven and found it soft and smiling in front of him. When he stepped closer, you half expected him to kiss you.

But instead, he ducked his head, and his voice dropped. “You want it?”

“I—”

He held up his hands. “I’ll get it. No strings, no pressure. Just figured… you deserve to feel good.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t even know me.”

He met your eyes. “Then let me.”

The day passed like a fever dream. He took you to a street vendor for hot dogs with mustard so sharp it made your nose burn. Then ice cream—vanilla soft serve dipped in chocolate, and when you got a little on your lip, he wiped it with his thumb and licked it clean.

You swore you saw stars.

You wandered through Central Park, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about Steve, about the army, about Coney Island. You told him stories you twisted into sounding like fiction—space-age tech and high-stakes rescues and an apartment you were pretty sure didn’t exist yet.

He listened like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. Like your voice could write constellations. At one point, he caught you smiling at him—really smiling—and said, “You got a laugh that’d bring a man to his knees, sweetheart.”

You blinked. “That a line?”

“Nah.” He grinned. “Lines are for dames who don’t matter.”

You flushed again. He was too good at this. Too warm, too easy, too much. And yet—he wasn’t pushing. Just circling you like he couldn’t help it.

As the sun dipped low, throwing warm pink across the skyline, he turned to you with a soft, boyish smile. “I know the perfect place to watch it set,” he said. “Come on.”

He brought you to a rooftop he claimed belonged to a friend of a friend. You had to climb a narrow iron staircase behind a row of brownstones, but when you stepped out onto the tarpaper and looked over the edge—it was breathtaking.

Brooklyn stretched below you like a sleeping beast. Orange-pink clouds curled above factory chimneys, and the river caught the light like molten gold.

Bucky spread out his jacket for you to sit on and unwrapped a still-warm pretzel from his coat pocket like a magician. “Thought ahead,” he said proudly. “Street vendor. Best in the borough.”

You laughed and took a bite. He watched you chew like it was pornographic. “What?” you said, grinning with your mouth full.

“Just,” he leaned back on his elbows beside you, “you’ve got this thing when you eat. Like it’s the first time. All soft eyes and quiet sounds. You’re gonna drive me insane, doll.”

You nearly choked.

His grin only deepened. “I’m serious. If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna have to throw myself off this roof before I do something stupid.”

You turned to him fully, eyes scanning the boyish cut of his jaw, the shine in his hair, the slope of his neck where it met his collarbone. He was so alive. So untouched by what was coming.

Your voice was quiet. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re brave,” he said. “You’re funny. You talk like you’ve been places no one else has. You walk like someone who’s used to leading. But your eyes?”

He leaned in, just slightly. “Your eyes look tired. Like they’ve seen too much.” You sucked in a breath. “And if you need someone to take care of you for a little while,” he whispered, “I’d like to volunteer.”

God. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your heart was thundering and you didn’t trust your voice. Instead, you leaned your head against his shoulder. And Bucky let out the softest sigh, like he’d been waiting all day for that.

As night fell, the stars came out—distant, cold, beautiful. Bucky shifted beside you and murmured into your hair, “I got a place not far from here.”

You lifted your head.

“You can crash there, seriously,” he added quickly. “Nothing funny. You’ll have a real bed. And I’ll be a gentleman.”

You searched his face. He meant it. He wasn’t pushing—he was offering. Safety. Warmth. Something dangerously close to kindness.

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

His smile could’ve lit the skyline. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He stood, held out his hand. “Let’s get you home, doll.”

You took it and didn’t let go.

Bucky’s apartment was on the third floor of a brick walk-up with uneven stairs and a door that stuck halfway shut. He kicked it open with the heel of his boot, holding the frame for you with one hand and flicking on the light with the other. It was small. Warm. A little messy in the way only boys could manage. Shoes tossed by the radiator. A stack of comics on the side table. Two bedrooms. One couch. A kitchen barely big enough for two people to stand in.

But it was home.

You stepped inside slowly, feeling out of place again. A time traveler in borrowed skin. Bucky watched you carefully. Not leer-like. Not calculating. Just… quietly fascinated.

“Sorry it’s nothin’ fancy,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We make it work.”

“We?” you asked, turning to him.

Before he could answer, a soft, congested cough came from one of the bedrooms. Then—

“Buck? That you?”

Your eyes widened. That voice. You’d know it anywhere. But when the man himself stepped out—tousled blond hair, thin limbs, big sweater sleeves pushed to the elbows—you nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Steve Rogers,” Bucky said proudly, motioning toward him like he’d just invented the guy. “My best pal. Steve, this is—uh…”

He turned to you, face flickering with sudden sheepishness. “…Actually, I don’t know your name.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

He looked… stricken. Steve coughed again. “Well, she’s beautiful, whoever she is.”

Bucky snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to blush. “It’s Y/N.”

Steve smiled, warm and wheezy. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

You nodded, still a little dazed. Pre-serum Steve Rogers stood five feet tall and maybe weighed 110 pounds soaking wet—but something about his quiet presence, his kind eyes, made the room feel safer.

“Y/N’s stayin’ the night,” Bucky added casually, like this was normal. “She had kind of a rough day.”

Steve gave him a look. “What kind of rough?”

“The kind we’re not askin’ about,” Bucky said gently, shooting you a glance. “She just needs a place to breathe.”

Steve nodded once. “Well. You’re welcome here.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

Bucky gave you his bedroom. He insisted—said the couch had “just the right spring for his back,” and besides, you needed it more. The sheets were clean. The room smelled like shaving cream and cedar soap. He tossed you one of his shirts to sleep in and left a glass of water on the nightstand.

“I’ll be out here if you need anything,” he said from the doorway, voice quiet now. “Bathroom’s to the left. There’s a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Might be a little stiff.”

You turned, shirt bunched in your hands. “Bucky?”

He paused. You looked at him, soft now. Small. The day had been dizzying, impossible. But he’d been real. Solid. Warm in a way you hadn’t felt in so long.

“Thank you,” you said.

Something passed through his eyes. He nodded once.

“You’re safe here.”

Then he pulled the door halfway closed. And you stood there in his shirt, holding your breath.

You didn’t sleep right away. Too much noise in your head. Too much ache in your chest.

Bucky’s scent was everywhere—clean and warm, like skin and cotton and the faint trace of motor oil. His pillow was soft. His bed was wide. And your body didn’t quite feel like yours.

You lay in the dark listening to the sounds of the city beyond the window, and then—closer—Bucky and Steve’s voices in the living room. Low. Murmured.

“Where’d you find her?”

“She kinda… fell into my arms.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah. Wasn’t gonna let her sleep on the street, Steve.”

“…You like her.”

A pause.

“You know I’m not a love at first sight kind of guy, punk. But I do think she’s the most interesting girl I’ve ever met.”

“Does she know that?”

“Nope.”

“You gonna tell her?”

“…Not tonight.”

You bit your lip and rolled over, heart in your throat.

Hours passed. The city never slept. Neither did you. You kept thinking about the way he looked at you—like he couldn’t decide if you were real. Like he wanted you to be.

And it hit you, quiet and sharp: He didn’t know what was coming. Didn’t know what he’d be turned into. What he’d lose. What he’d become.

The Bucky you knew in your time was scarred. Hardened. Full of ice and metal and regret. He barely looked at you. Barely let himself want anything. But this Bucky? He had no armor yet. And he’d already given you his bed.

You didn’t know how long you could stay here. Not just in this apartment— in this time. In this skin that didn’t feel like it belonged to this era. In this borrowed warmth. In this strange, dizzying version of the world that had somehow wrapped you in velvet and soft jazz and the smell of motor oil and old books.

Every step you took beside Bucky Barnes felt like it might be your last. Every look he gave you—sweet, unguarded, curious—chipped away at your common sense like water carving out rock.

You knew the science. You knew enough about temporal anomalies and Stark’s tech and SHIELD’s experimental files to understand what might have happened. But that didn’t help you now. There were no labs. No comms. No breadcrumbs to follow.

Just him.

And God help you, he made you want to stop looking.

The day had passed like it belonged to someone else’s life. Bucky had taken you to bookstores where the pages smelled like old smoke and glue, and the clerk greeted him by name. He insisted on buying you a pocket notebook—“for all those riddles you speak in”—and grinned so wide when you took it that it almost hurt.

You’d laughed more than you had in months. Not the polite kind. Not the public kind. The real kind. The kind that cracked something open.

You didn’t let yourself think about your Bucky—not yet. The one in your time. The one who’d brushed you off like static. Who’d said you weren’t his type. Who’d looked through you like glass.

He was probably glad you were gone.

You weren’t naive. You knew when someone wanted you to disappear. He probably thought of your absence as a relief—less friction on the team, one less nuisance to endure. You doubted he’d even ask where you went. Why would he? You were forgettable, weren’t you? Loud. Reckless. Not his type.

But this Bucky? This Bucky bought you a fucking pretzel and smiled at you like he couldn’t wait to hear what you’d say next. And it was ruining you.

When he’d turned to you after lunch and said, “I wanna take you dancing,” you’d hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you did. Because you wanted to step into whatever he was offering and never look back. Because part of you—the part that was tired, aching, worn thin from years of tight grips and clipped words and gritted teeth—wanted this to be real. Wanted to lean into the warmth in his voice, the promise in his smile, and the easy safety of the world he lived in, where the most dangerous thing was falling too fast for someone you barely knew.

It terrified you.

You blinked up at him, standing there in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, the hum of the city buzzing behind him. His hands were in his coat pockets, hair catching the winter sun, mouth twitching like he already knew what you were going to say.

So you covered your heart with a joke. “Are you trying to win me over?”

He didn’t flinch. His grin widened—slow, lazy, a little dangerous—like he’d been waiting for the challenge.

“Is it working?”

You snorted softly, looking away. It was. Of course it was. You’d never been so seen—not by him, not by the version of him you knew in your time. This Bucky didn’t just notice you. He leaned into you. Flirted like it was breathing. Made you feel like the only woman on the sidewalk, in the city, in the whole goddamn decade.

Still, you rolled your eyes—kept your cool. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“You like it.”

You met his eyes. He wasn’t cocky, not really. There was no cruelty in his teasing. It was softer than that. Sweeter. Like he wanted to make you smile just to see how your face moved when you did.

“I’m not easy to win,” you said, voice quiet now. Serious.

His grin faded—not gone, just gentled. “I wouldn’t like you if you were.”

That made your chest ache. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped walking until he stepped in close, just enough to crowd your senses without touching you.

His voice dropped to something warm. Earnest. Almost shy. “I just wanna show you a good time. Somethin’ real. Something that makes you forget,” He paused, looking down. “Whatever it is you’re runnin’ from.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t told him anything. Not really. But he knew. Somehow.

You nodded. Barely. Just enough. He took it like a promise.

“Good,” he said, softer now. “Because you deserve that, doll.” And he held out his hand. “Come on. I’ve got the perfect place.”

You hesitated one second longer, searching his face for anything that might betray his easy charm, some hint of ulterior motive. But all you saw was kindness. And curiosity. And a hope that felt almost too big for such a small, quiet moment.

So you took his hand and you didn’t let go.

The place he brought you to was tucked in the corner of a quiet block, down a narrow set of stairs behind a faded green door with a flickering neon sign overhead that just read The Blue Room. You might have missed it if he hadn’t pointed it out — it looked like a supply entrance for the bakery next door. But the sound leaking from the cracks in the brick said otherwise.

Inside, it was nothing like the polished lounges of your time. No pristine marble floors or LED lighting. No velvet ropes or high ceilings or overpriced cocktails in minimalist glasses. No one took your name. No one checked your ID. You just walked in, and the room breathed.

The floors creaked beneath your feet, well-worn and uneven from decades of dancing. The walls were a soft, tarnished gold. The lighting was low and warm, thick with the glow of amber sconces and the soft haze of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. A saxophone moaned gently from the corner, weaving through the air like silk.

The room was full but not packed, humming with a low buzz of conversation and laughter. Soldiers in dress uniforms twirled girls in cherry-lipped smiles and pin-curled hair. Waitresses with trays full of glasses moved gracefully between tables, laughing at familiar jokes, winking at customers. A few men in suspenders and sleeves rolled to their elbows leaned at the bar, nodding along to the music. The rhythm of the place was slow, warm, alive — like a heartbeat.

You stood near the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed. It was beautiful. Not fancy. Not curated. Just human. A moment frozen in time, and for once, not in the terrifying way.

Then Bucky stepped up behind you, his presence as steady and grounding as ever. His hand slipped gently into yours, warm and calloused and easy. His breath brushed your ear. “C’mon,” he murmured. “We don’t have to do the fast ones.”

You turned your head slightly, startled. “I didn’t say yes.”

His voice was low, teasing. “You didn’t say no.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “I don’t know how to dance like this.”

His smile grew, slow and sincere. “You don’t have to. Just follow me.”

You weren’t graceful. The moment your feet hit the floor, it became clear that you were not going to be the belle of the ball. You stepped the wrong way on the first beat, nearly caught your toe under your own heel, and mumbled an apology under your breath.

But Bucky caught you. Both hands steady on your hips, he guided you easily, gently correcting your footing without a word. His touch was firm but not presumptuous — careful in the way of someone who knew how to lead without making it a performance.

“Hey,” he said softly, eyes locking with yours in a way that made your stomach flutter. “I got you.”

You believed him. And so, you followed. It wasn’t perfect. You fumbled once or twice, still too stiff, too aware of the people around you. But Bucky didn’t care. He never looked away from you. Never laughed at your missteps. He just kept smiling — not the cocky grin from earlier, but something gentler. Something that felt like care.

The music was slow enough that your body had time to adjust. You stopped worrying about the beat. About who might be watching. About anything except the pressure of his hand at your back and the slow, lazy sway of his hips as he pulled you gently into rhythm with him.

Your chest brushed his on the next turn. Your fingers curled in his hand. Your feet forgot to trip. And suddenly, the room disappeared. The lights, the laughter, the music — all of it melted away until there was only him. The solid weight of his body guiding yours. The quiet concentration on his face. The faint smile tugging at his lips like he was proud of you for trying.

You forgot the cold way your Bucky used to look through you like you were a noise he didn’t have time for. This Bucky was looking at you like you were something rare. Something wanted.

As the music slowed, so did the dance. The swing faded into a bluesy sway, and the air around you thickened. You drifted closer to him, feet finding him without thinking, hips brushing just enough to be felt. His arm moved lower on your waist. Not possessive. Not inappropriate. Just there. A promise. A question he wasn’t asking yet.

Your bodies met in that soft, electric way—not quite flush, not quite separate—like gravity was trying to stitch you together but hadn’t made up its mind yet.

His breath was warm at your temple. You felt him inhale. Felt his chest rise. “You’re a fast learner,” he murmured, voice like smoke and honey.

You smiled without meaning to. “You’re a good teacher.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Nah,” he said, eyes dropping to your lips, just for a second. “I just like holdin’ you.”

You should’ve pulled away but you didn’t. You stayed pressed to his chest, breathing in the scent of him—clean skin, worn cotton, cedar soap, and something unmistakably him. Something warm and masculine and steady, like a lighthouse in a storm.

You didn’t think. You didn’t speak. You felt like glass. Like one more touch might break you in half—not from pain, but from want.

The walk back to the apartment was quiet. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… full. Every step was lined with things unsaid. You didn’t hold hands, but your arms kept brushing. Your shoulders bumped once. He looked at you like he wanted to speak, but never quite found the words. And you were glad for the silence. Because you didn’t trust yourself to say the right thing, either.

You were too full of him. His warmth. His voice. The ache in your chest from how easy he made it feel to be seen. Wanted. It wasn’t real. You knew that.

When you reached the front steps, Bucky opened the door for you like always, hand warm at the small of your back. You climbed the stairs side by side, but slower now.

Halfway up, he glanced sideways. “You cold?”

You turned toward him. His voice sounded almost shy now. Younger. You shook your head. “No. I’m okay.”

Still, he stopped. Unwrapped his scarf. And without asking, draped it gently around your shoulders. It was warm from his skin. It smelled like him. You swallowed hard, heart aching. He was killing you. Piece by piece.

Steve was already asleep when you entered. Curled on the couch like a question mark, blanket pulled halfway over his chest, one sock slipping off the edge of his foot. His mouth was slightly open. You smiled faintly.

Bucky leaned down, pulled the blanket up over his friend’s chest, and muttered, “Night, punk,” so soft you weren’t sure Steve even heard it.

Then he turned to you, thumb hooked in his belt loop, brow raised. “You can take the bed again.”

You stopped in your tracks. He did too. “…You sure?” you asked.

He nodded, calm. “Course.”

You stared at him. Everything in you boiling over. This man was letting you sleep in his bed. Cook in his kitchen. Take up space in his life like you belonged there despite knowing you less than 48 hours. And he hadn’t tried anything. Not once. Not a single move out of place.

He wasn’t trying to fuck you. He was just taking care of you. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You turned, slowly. “I mean,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “you don’t have to give it up every night. It’s your bed.”

He blinked.

You hesitated. Then, with heat rushing to your cheeks, you rushed out, “I don’t mind sharing.” His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. You rushed ahead again before he could misread it. “You don’t have to be a gentleman,” you murmured. “But I know you will be.”

He stared at you like he was memorizing the way your lips moved. The way you looked when you offered him softness. “You sure, doll?”

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

His voice came out hoarse. Quiet. “Okay.”

You lay side by side in the dark. Not touching. Not speaking. The space between you stretched like a fault line. You could feel his presence — the heat of his body, the rise and fall of his chest, the unspoken tension thick in the air. You faced the wall. He faced the ceiling. And your thoughts were screaming.

You need to get back. You can’t stay here. This is a dream. It’s not yours. He’s not yours. And the Bucky who is? He probably doesn’t care.

You pulled the blanket higher. Bit your lip. You were starting to forget what it felt like to be unwanted. To be looked through. To be told—without words—that you were wrong. This Bucky made you feel like a miracle and you didn’t know how much longer you could stand it.

“Still awake?” he whispered.

“…Yeah.”

He shifted slightly beside you. Not toward you. Just enough to make his voice clearer. “I’m glad you came,” he said.

You stayed silent.

“Even if I don’t understand how,” he added. “Even if you vanish tomorrow. I’m still glad I met you.”

You turned your head slowly. He was staring up at the ceiling, hands folded across his stomach.

His voice was quieter now. “You make the room feel brighter.”

Your throat clenched. “You’re good at making people feel safe,” you whispered, surprised by how true it sounded.

He smiled, just barely. “I want you to feel that.”

You watched him breathe. One long, steady inhale. One soft, contented exhale. Then, almost reverently, you whispered, “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He closed his eyes. “Goodnight, doll.”

And somehow, in that borrowed bed, in that borrowed life, in a time that wasn’t yours… You felt more seen than you ever had in the world you left behind.

You woke to the sound of a pot clattering in the kitchen. It was still early. Pale morning light crept between the slats of the blinds, drawing soft gold lines across the bedsheets. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the world. The room smelled like toast.

Bucky was gone.

You sat up—stiff, dazed, wearing his shirt, the covers still warm where he’d slept beside you. Just sleep. Restful. Safe. The way he’d whispered goodnight, doll still echoed in your chest.

You padded out to the kitchen on bare feet, finding him hunched over the stove in a plain white tee, sleeves tight over his biceps. He looked domestic, casual—like something out of a magazine cover. He was humming, gently off-key, spatula in one hand, frying eggs in a pan that crackled under the weight of sizzling butter.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps. His smile was immediate. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

You folded your arms, leaning against the wall. “Are you always up before sunrise?”

“Army habit,” he said, flipping the egg with a little too much flourish. “Steve hates it.”

You grinned. “You’re making breakfast?”

“I’m makin’ you breakfast.”

That made your stomach twist. He slid a plate onto the table—eggs, toast, a sliver of jam. He even poured coffee into a chipped mug and added cream without asking, like he’d been paying attention.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Wanted to,” he said simply. “It’s day three. Figured I had to impress you eventually.”

You tried not to let your smile grow too much. “You’re doing a good job.”

He looked down—sheepish now. Boyish. It made your chest ache. You ate together at the tiny table, knees brushing again. You talked about nothing and everything. He asked about your favorite music, your favorite food, your favorite season. He made up fake answers for himself when you refused to give too much away. He called you doll like it was your name and leaned in every time you laughed.

And when you told him—teasing, playfully—that he wasn’t as charming as he thought he was, he gave you a look so soft, so fond, that it knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“You’re trouble,” you whispered, gaze flickering down to his mouth without meaning to.

His voice dropped. “You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, “I’m gonna do somethin’ stupid.”

Your pulse spiked. You stood abruptly. “I should… brush my teeth.”

He stood with you. “Yeah. Right. I’ll clean this up.”

But as you turned toward the bathroom, his fingers caught your wrist.

“Hey.”

You paused. Turned. He didn’t speak — not right away. He just stared at you for a long, quiet second, eyes sweeping your face like he was trying to memorize it all before it slipped away. And then, slowly, he stepped closer. His voice was low. Careful. Nothing but honesty in it. “Can I kiss you?”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t playing. He wasn’t pushing. He was asking. You nodded. Just once. And then he kissed you like it meant something. Not greedy. Not showy. Just warm. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as his lips pressed to yours. He tasted like coffee and sugar, and something about the way he breathed through his nose, like he didn’t want to scare you—it undid you.

You kissed him back. Softly. Gently. Once, and then again. And when you pulled back, he stayed close—forehead nearly resting against yours.

“I’ve been wantin’ to do that since you stumbled into my arms,” he whispered.

You smiled, heart racing. “Only took you three days.”

He grinned. “You’re a tough nut to crack.”

He dreamed of you. That was how it started. The second night after your disappearance, Bucky Barnes tossed and turned in a cold sweat, sheets tangled around his waist, a dull ache in his chest. He didn’t remember falling asleep—just the moment his eyelids closed, and suddenly there you were.

Spinning in his arms in some haze-lit dancehall, wearing a soft blue dress and a smile that should’ve stopped time. He saw the way your hem twirled, the curve of your mouth when you laughed, the exact shape of your hand in his. And he could feel it—the way you fit against him, the press of your waist under his hand, the ghost of your body flush to his.

He remembered wanting to kiss you. Desperately. Like it had been building for days, and the music had just slowed, and your lips were right there, soft and flushed and parted, and he was leaning in—

And then he woke up. Hard. Sweating. Angry. Not because the dream ended. But because it wasn’t a dream. Not really. It didn’t feel like one.

The next day, it got worse. He saw you. Not really—you were still missing, still gone, still ripped from the quinjet in a flash of light and chaos—but he saw you. Flickers. Glimpses.

The curve of your jaw in profile when he blinked too long. The swish of a skirt that didn’t exist anymore. The echo of your voice calling his name—not with contempt, not with frustration, but fondly. Sweetly. The way no one ever did.

And then, just before dawn, another memory. He was standing in the kitchen, making coffee. And you walked in. Hair rumpled. His shirt on your frame. Bare legs. Sleepy eyes. You smiled at him like he hung the fucking moon. And he knew—knew—that you’d slept in his bed. That he’d pulled the covers over you. That you’d whispered Goodnight, Bucky and fallen asleep breathing against his chest.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But he could feel the ghost of your body in his arms like it had been.

By the third full day, he was losing his grip. No one else seemed to notice.

Ava kept checking mission logs, trying to figure out what had happened. Yelena was deep in a debrief with Valentina, arguing over how to get you back if “they all just punch and shoot”. The team operated like a machine—even short one person—and no one had the time or bandwidth to question why Bucky had started pacing at night. Why his mouth was always half open like he was about to ask a question he didn’t understand. Why he kept whispering your name when he thought no one could hear.

But it was there. Gnawing. He couldn’t stop seeing it. The way your lips had looked in that blue dress. The way your eyes had closed when he leaned in to kiss you in the sunlight. The brush of your leg against his at the breakfast table. The soft gasp you gave when he kissed you again—unshaven, half-dressed, still tasting of coffee and sleep.

And the need he’d felt then—God, the need. He remembered wanting to bend you over the counter, morning breath and all. He remembered wanting to fuck you slow, messy, still dazed with sleep. Remembered wanting to say things to you he’d never said to anyone. He remembered your mouth on his, the small, surprised sound you made when he licked into you like he’d been starving.

But he didn’t. Because it never happened. Right?

He pressed his palms into his eyes hard enough to see stars. He didn’t know what the hell was happening. What the fuck kind of cruel hallucination this was. He hadn’t even liked you. Right?

You were loud. Reckless. Irritating. Always questioning him. Always lingering too long in rooms he wanted to be alone in. You smiled at everyone like you weren’t afraid of breaking. You cared. And he’d hated that. Because he couldn’t care. Not then. Not when it meant letting someone see how fucking lonely he really was. But now? Now you were gone. And he couldn’t stop tasting you.

He jerked off to the memory that night. Couldn’t help it. His hand was rough. Quick. Angry. He grunted your name once and bit it back the second time, hand flying faster over his cock like he could chase the feeling down. He remembered how your lips had felt when he’d kissed them. How warm you’d been in his arms. The sound of your laugh. The way you whispered stay when he offered to sleep on the floor.

And he came hard—faster than he meant to. Spilling into his hand with a breathless, broken groan. When it was over, he sat there, hunched and shaking, guilt rotting him from the inside out. Because if none of it was real… Why did it hurt like it was?

He didn’t sleep again that night. He just stared at the ceiling. Waiting for the next memory. Waiting for you.

You woke before him. His arm was heavy around your waist, anchoring you to the bed. His chest pressed warm to your back, breath slow and steady against your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, eyes closed, letting yourself believe it was real. That this was your life. That you belonged to this time. To him.

You didn’t. You knew that. But God, you wanted to.

You turned your head slowly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in the morning light. Hair tousled. Lips parted. Brow relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in your own time. There was no weight on him here. No decades of pain. No Hydra. No Winter Soldier. Just a man who kissed you like he wanted you.

And he did. He proved it every time he handed you coffee before you asked. Every time his fingers brushed yours a second too long. Every time he said your name like he was trying it on his tongue just to see how it tasted.

That morning, when he woke, he blinked at you sleepily, hand tightening at your hip. “Hi,” he rasped, voice rough and warm.

You smiled. “Hi.”

“You’re still here.”

You blinked. “You thought I wouldn’t be?”

He swallowed. “Didn’t know if I’d dreamt it.”

Your breath caught. “I’m real.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, cupping your cheek. “You are.”

He kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered.

You didn’t leave the apartment that day. The rain came early, whispering against the windowpanes in a steady rhythm, soft enough to ignore but constant enough to quiet the world outside. The city moved on without you. For once, that felt like a blessing.

You sat together on the couch, legs curled beneath you, one of Bucky’s tattered paperbacks in your hands. Something about spies or gangsters or both—you hadn’t been paying attention. Not really. Not with the way his thigh brushed yours, solid and warm, every time he shifted to turn a page.

He was beside you, reading something well-loved, the spine bent like it had been cracked a hundred times. He didn’t say much. Just hummed sometimes—soft and low—or tapped his fingers along the margins like the silence needed something to hold.

At one point, he leaned forward, reached for a slice of sandwich from the plate on the coffee table, and held it out to you without looking up.

You blinked. “That for me?”

“No,” he said dryly. “I was feeding the ghost.”

You grinned and took it, letting your fingers brush his just long enough to feel the tension curl between your knuckles. He smirked but didn’t comment.

Later, when Steve finally returned—soaked to the bone, arms full of groceries—he dropped the bags, muttered something about the sidewalk being a “goddamn ice rink,” and disappeared into the bathroom.

You were half-finished with your second sandwich when Bucky rose from the couch, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with the wooden spoon from the drying rack. You barely noticed until you heard the crackling static of a record player, the soft scratch and warble of something old and velvety rising beneath the hiss.

Then came Ella Fitzgerald.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood in the middle of the room in his socks and undershirt, raised the spoon to his lips, and started lip-syncing dramatically to Dream a Little Dream of Me.

You choked on your bite, clapping a hand over your mouth as he reached for an imaginary note in the air like he was singing onstage at the Apollo. When he turned and pointed to you—brows raised, doing the finger waggle like he was flirting with a thousand-person audience—you lost it. Laughter burst out of you, sharp and real and loud, curling your spine over your knees as tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

Then Steve walked out of the bathroom—towel around his neck, expression already tired—and stopped dead. He looked at Bucky. He looked at the wooden spoon. He looked at you, curled up, breathless from laughing. Then he just turned around and walked back into the bathroom without a word.

That only made it worse. You laughed until you couldn’t breathe. Bucky bowed deeply, grinning. “I take requests, sweetheart.”

Long after Steve had fallen asleep on the couch, you found Bucky standing in the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the soft, steady drip of the leaky sink and the occasional creak of the old wood beneath your bare feet.

He hadn’t turned on the main light. Just the one above the sink—a narrow golden glow that softened the corners of the room and turned him into a silhouette carved in amber. He was barefoot, leaning over the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows, two glasses of water resting beside his hand.

You stood in the doorway for a beat too long just watching him. The slope of his back. The breadth of his shoulders. The way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. He looked tired. But not heavy. Not like your Bucky.

He looked real. And for a second, you wanted to tell him. Everything. Who you were. What year it was. Why the way he looked at you now was going to break something open in you for a man who didn’t even know he had a heart left.

But instead, you stepped into the kitchen. Quiet. Barefoot. He turned before you could speak. And for a moment, he just looked at you. Really looked. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. Cotton pants slung low across your hips, the cotton of his undershirt slipping off one shoulder, collar loose enough to bare the line of your neck and the dip of your collarbone. You didn’t speak either. You didn’t need to.

He set both glasses down, stepped forward, and reached for your hand. You didn’t ask where the music came from. Maybe it was playing faintly from the radio left on low in the living room. Maybe it was just in his head. Maybe in yours. It didn’t matter.

He pulled you in close, one hand curling around your waist, the other lifting your hand to his chest. No one said a word. He spun you once, slow—no rhythm, no technique, just instinct and want—and when you turned back into him, you stayed there. His chest to yours. Your cheek brushing the warm cotton of his shirt, right over his heart. You felt it. The way it sped up. The way it kept time for both of you.

He didn’t make a move. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t kiss you. He just held you. Let you sway with him in the soft gold of the kitchen, your bare feet stepping with his in unspoken rhythm. You fit against him like you’d been built to. After a minute, he whispered your name. Just once.

You looked up. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just stared. Stared at you like he already felt time slipping away. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered. Like he wanted to memorize this moment — this version of you, in his shirt, in his arms, in the low light of a life that hadn’t been shattered yet.

Your breath hitched as you said, quietly, “Bucky.”

That was all it took. He kissed you slow. Hands on your jaw, tilting your face up, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you might break if he pressed too hard. His mouth was warm and tentative at first, like he was asking a question with every touch of his lips. But you answered it. You kissed him back. Messy. Needy. And then it all unraveled.

He groaned into your mouth, pulled you up into his arms, and walked you backward toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss. He didn’t drop you. Didn’t toss you onto the bed. He laid you down. Reverent. Gentle. Like he’d been handed a miracle. His body came over yours, all heat and muscle and quiet restraint. But his hands — God, his hands were shaking.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, like it hurt to speak.

“Yes,” you nodded, eyes shining.

That broke something in him. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something precious. Not a single sharp motion. Not a single impatient yank. He ran his fingers up your thighs like he was learning your shape. Dragged his knuckles along the underside of your breasts like he’d never touched softness before. When he finally stripped off his own shirt, you saw him bare for the first time — strong, solid, scarred in the way only a soldier can be. But his eyes were soft. Gentle. Starved.

He kissed his way down your stomach like it was sacred ground. His palms flattened along your hips as he settled between your legs, broad shoulders pressing your thighs apart. You could barely breathe—not with the look in his eyes, not with the reverent heat of his breath just above where you ached.

“Spread those pretty legs for me, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, as though it was the simplest request in the world.

You obeyed. You had no choice. Bucky slid his hands behind your knees and pushed—gently, but firm enough to open you wide for him. His eyes dropped to your glistening folds, and for a second, he just stared. He looked hungry.

He let out a quiet groan, like the sight of you alone was too much. “Goddamn,” he muttered, dragging his thumbs along your inner thighs. “You always get this wet when a man treats you right?”

You swallowed hard. “No one’s ever—”

He glanced up. His face changed. “No one’s ever what, doll?”

You hesitated. Flushed. “No one’s ever… taken their time.”

His brow twitched. Then he leaned in—slow, nose dragging up your slit without touching, just breathing you in. “Then they were all fools,” he rasped. He licked you once—one slow, devastating stroke from your dripping entrance to the swell of your clit—and you nearly came off the bed. He chuckled, low and dark. “Easy,” he murmured. “Ain’t even started yet.”

His tongue circled you with precision—soft and teasing at first, then firmer, wetter, focused. His lips wrapped around your clit and sucked, slow and rhythmic, like he wanted it from you. You whimpered, hips arching, but his arm came across your waist, pinning you down.

“None of that,” he said against your skin. “Stay right there, baby. Let me do my job.” Then his fingers came into play. One thick digit slipped inside you, slow and careful. “God, you’re tight,” he groaned, knuckle-deep already. “Squeezin’ me like a vice. You sure you want all of me tonight?”

You moaned helplessly. “Yes—fuck, please—”

He added a second finger. You gasped. He grinned. “Better hold on,” he murmured, fingers curling just right. “Got a rule, sweetheart. My girl always cums first.”

His mouth dropped back to your clit as his fingers began to move — slow pumps, twisting, searching, finding that perfect spot that made you see stars. When he hit it, he knew. “Oh yeah,” he breathed. “Right there, huh? That’s your spot. Look at you, baby. Look how good you take my fingers.”

You were babbling now, legs trembling, hands in his hair as he worked you open. He groaned when you tugged hard. “That’s it, sweetheart. Use me. Come on. I wanna feel you gush on my fuckin’ hand.” His lips suctioned over your clit as his fingers thrust faster, curling harder, and your back arched.

“Bucky—oh God—”

“Cum for me, doll,” he growled into your cunt. “Come on. Soak me. Show me how sweet this pussy is.”

And you did. You shattered around him with a cry, thighs shaking, nails dragging down his shoulders as your orgasm tore through you like a tidal wave. He didn’t stop. Not until you whimpered his name in broken gasps, trying to pull away. Only then did he lift his mouth—slick on his chin, pupils blown wide—and smile down at you like he’d just stolen heaven from the gods.

“Still want me inside?” he asked, voice hoarse and reverent.

“God, yes.”

Then he rose above you, bracing his weight on one forearm as he looked down—and for a moment, he didn’t move. He just hovered there, eyes fixed where your bodies met, the flushed tip of his cock glistening against your soaked entrance.

Your legs wrapped around his waist almost without thinking, your thighs trembling from the orgasm he’d just pulled out of you. You felt boneless, undone—but greedy. He dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds once, twice, catching at your clit with a low hiss through his teeth.

“You’re takin’ me so good already,” he murmured, voice gone husky and reverent, like he was in awe of you. “Pussy so wet for me… she knows who she belongs to, huh?”

“Bucky,” you whimpered, fisting the sheet beside you.

He met your eyes. And then—finally—he pushed in. Slow. Deep. Thick. You gasped at the stretch, your mouth falling open as he filled you inch by inch, the pressure stealing your breath. It was too much — and not enough. It was perfect. His cock was hot and hard and wide, dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you, and still he kept going, hips sinking until he bottomed out.

You felt it. Felt him press so deep it made your stomach flutter, made your chest tighten, made your eyes sting. Your body opened for him like it had been waiting—not just for someone, but for him.

His mouth dropped open as he bottomed out, forehead pressing to yours, both of you gasping in the dark. “Fuck,” he choked out. “So tight… baby, you feel that? Feels like heaven. Like you were made for me.”

You could only nod, breath ragged. He didn’t move at first. Just held there, buried to the hilt, like he was trying not to fall apart. Like the moment deserved silence. Like your body deserved worship. Then—gently—he pulled back. And thrust in again. Slower than before. Deeper. Like he was memorizing every second. You moaned, hips rising to meet him.

“Attagirl,” he whispered, his voice low and wrecked. “That’s it. Take it. Let me in, baby. Let me love you right.”

And he did. He rocked into you with a rhythm that was patient and deliberate, the kind that said I’m not just fucking you—I’m keeping you.

His hand found yours, fingers lacing together as he drove deeper, grounding you, tethering you to him like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. “Never had it this good,” he rasped against your neck. “You know that? Never felt anything close to this.”

You were crying, just a little—from the fullness, from the sweetness, from the way he kissed your tear when it slipped down your cheek.

“Beautiful fuckin’ girl,” he groaned. “My sweet little doll. You’re perfect. Perfect.” Every time he thrust, your breath caught. His hips rolled, slow and heavy, grinding you open. He shifted one hand down between your bodies and rubbed your clit in gentle circles, and you cried out, arching into him.

“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “C’mon, sweetheart. Wanna feel you milk my cock. Wanna feel that sweet pussy squeeze me while I tell you how good you are.”

“Bucky—”

“That’s it. Say my name. Cum on it. Soak me. Show me how much you love this.”

And when you broke again—shattering, spasming, sobbing into his mouth—he felt it. He fucked you through it, slower now, hips stuttering as your body clung to his. Then he groaned, long and low, and you felt the heat of him spill inside you, thick and deep and endless. He stayed buried in you. Panting. Shaking. His lips brushed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ve got you, doll. Always. Just stay with me.”

And even though neither of you said it. you both knew it was more than a fuck. More than a fever dream. It was a promise. Even if time didn’t keep it.

It started in the margins. Barely-there flickers at the corners of your vision. The strange chill in your bones that didn’t match the weather. A shimmer in the mirror when you looked too long. A brief, pulsing hum beneath your skin — like your body could already feel time starting to catch up.

You didn’t tell him. Not at first. Because how could you? Because last night, he held you like he had all the time in the world. Touched you like he’d been born to know your body. Fell asleep with your face tucked under his jaw, one arm curled around your waist, a soft, tired kiss pressed to your forehead in the dark.

You woke up to birdsong and his breath at the back of your neck, and for a few aching seconds, you forgot what year it was. Forgot about the man who’d let you fall through the cracks of the future. Forgot everything except this boy — this man — who worshiped you with his hands, with his voice, with every careful kiss like he wanted to build a home in your skin.

Then the knock came. Three short raps against the door.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice, muffled. “It’s the Lieutenant.”

You felt him tense behind you. His fingers gripped your hip once, then slipped away. He stood slowly, bare feet on creaking wood. He looked down at you, eyes shadowed. Said nothing. But you saw it.

The shift. The war creeping back in. The seconds slipping. He got dressed in silence. Uniform laid out on the edge of the bed, ironed within an inch of its life. You sat up slowly, knees pulled to your chest, one of his shirts clutched tight around your body.

He tried to smile. “You gonna miss me, doll?” he asked, light and low, smoothing a hand through his hair in the mirror.

You swallowed. “You’ll only be gone a few hours.”

“Still worth missin’, ain’t I?”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, you rose, stepped up behind him, and wrapped your arms around his waist. You laid your cheek between his shoulder blades, fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket like you could hold him in place. He turned in your arms. Tipped your chin up and kissed you slow. Not rushed. Not goodbye. Just slow.

His fingers threaded into your hair. His thumb brushed your cheek. And when he pulled back, he searched your eyes. “Promise me you’ll be here when I get back.”

You opened your mouth. Stopped. Then nodded.

He nodded too. But the look in his eyes—it wasn’t sure. You watched him leave from the window.

He paused once on the street, tilted his head back like he could feel you watching, and lifted a hand in a lazy, cocky salute. Then he turned and disappeared into the late-morning light.

And suddenly the apartment was too quiet. The edges of things started to blur again—just a little. The shadows stretched longer. Your reflection in the glass flickered, unfamiliar. You sat on the bed and curled your arms around your knees.

I don’t want to go. But you could feel it now. Like static in your bones. Like a slow, rising tide. Time wasn’t going to ask permission. It was coming. And you didn’t know how much longer you had.

You didn’t hear the door open. But you felt it. The moment he crossed the threshold, the air in the apartment shifted. Like gravity remembered what it was meant for. You turned from the kitchen—heart already pounding—just as the floor creaked behind you. And there he was. Framed in the doorway. Rain-spattered and flushed from the cold. His jacket was still buttoned, dog tags swaying from his neck, dark hair slicked back except for one piece that had fallen across his forehead. His eyes found you instantly.

And he froze. Took a single step forward and the door fall shut behind him. “You wait up for me, doll?”

Your throat went dry. He looked dangerous. That uniform—olive green, pressed, perfect—stretched across his broad chest like it belonged there. The patches on his sleeve. The shine of the brass. The belt cinched tight across his waist.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He moved closer. Bootsteps measured. “You been thinkin’ about me, sweetheart?”

You backed into the counter as he approached, nodding again—heart hammering so loud you could barely hear your own voice. “All day,” you whispered.

He made a soft sound. Something like a growl. Then his hands were on your waist, spinning you around, bending you over the kitchen counter with a controlled kind of force that made you gasp.

“You know what this uniform means, right?” he rasped against your ear. “Means I make the rules, doll.”

You nodded, breathless.

“Means you say yes when I give an order.”

“…Yes, Sarge.”

That did it. He groaned — full-bodied, filthy — and shoved your panties down in one rough motion, his palm dragging up between your legs. “Fuck, baby. Still so wet for me.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. Just dropped to his knees, shoved your thighs apart, and buried his face between your legs like he’d dreamed about it all day. “Been thinkin’ about this sweet little cunt since I left,” he growled, tongue dragging through your folds. “Missed the taste of you. Thought about you drippin’ all over my cock while I sat in that cold-ass truck, pretendin’ I wasn’t hard as a fuckin’ rifle.”

You moaned—loud, shameless—and he spanked your ass once, just enough to make you yelp.

“Keep still,” he snapped. “Let me fuckin’ eat.” And he did. Tongue firm and fast, his mouth latching to your clit with filthy, practiced hunger. His fingers slid into you deep and curling, finding that spot that made you cry out—legs shaking, cheek pressed to the counter.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Fuckin’ cum on my face. Let me feel you.” You broke like a wave, clenching around his fingers, panting his name like a prayer. But he didn’t stop—just grunted against your pussy, tongue dragging up everything he’d coaxed out of you.

By the time he stood, your knees were buckling. He undid his belt with one sharp motion, the clink of the buckle echoing through the kitchen like thunder. Then he shoved his trousers down just enough, wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, and slammed into you in one deep, devastating thrust.

You screamed. He groaned—guttural and raw—then bent over your back, panting into your neck. “Fuck, sweetheart. You feel that? That’s your pussy stretchin’ around your Sarge’s cock. You take it like you were born for it.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely think. He was fucking you hard now, deep and relentless, still in his uniform—jacket straining, tags hitting your back, boots still on. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. “Say it,” he growled. “Say who owns this pussy.”

“You—Bucky—fuck—Sarge—”

“That’s right. You’re my girl. My sweet little thing. This pussy’s mine. I earned it.”

You were close again—too fast—sobbing with how full you felt. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you upright, still fucking into you from behind. His other hand covered your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make your head spin.

“Wanna cum again?” he whispered, mouth against your ear. “Gonna let me feel this pretty cunt squeeze me while I fill you up?”

“Yes— Sarge, please!”

He growled. Then slammed into you harder. “Cum.” He ordered.

You shattered. Came so hard your vision went white, your body trembling in his arms, and he groaned—loud and broken—as he emptied into you with a few rough, desperate thrusts.

“Fuck— take it, baby, take all of it, that’s it, sweetheart—God, you’re so perfect for me. Never letting you go.” And when it was over, he collapsed against your back, breathing hard, pressing kisses to your shoulder as you both trembled. He didn’t pull out right away. Didn’t let you go. Just held you there—full, spent, loved. Then whispered, like it broke something in him, “Don’t go while I’m gone tomorrow.”

He fell asleep with his face tucked into your chest, one hand fisted in your shirt, the other curled beneath your ribs like he was afraid of letting go. His breathing was slow now. Deep. But not peaceful — not entirely. Even in sleep, he held you with too much need. Like his body knew something he didn’t. Like it sensed the way time frayed at the edges of this moment. Like it was bracing for a goodbye it didn’t have words for.

You smoothed your fingers gently through his hair, watching the lines on his face relax in the dim amber of the bedside lamp. His lashes brushed your skin. His mouth, that filthy, reverent, hungry mouth, was parted against your collarbone, soft breaths spilling onto your skin like prayer.

God, he was so young like this. Unburdened. Untouched by war, by pain, by the endless weight of guilt you knew he’d carry one day. There were no ghosts in his eyes yet. No metal arm. No frozen decades of silence and screaming. Not yet. And it ached. Your throat burned because you knew what was coming. You knew what the world would do to him.

How it would carve the softness from his voice. How it would dull the light in his eyes. How it would twist his memories and make him doubt every good thing he’d ever been. Every kind word. Every instinct to love. Every night he ever held someone like this. Held you like this. And you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t protect him from the decades that would follow.

But God, you wanted to. You blinked back tears and pulled the blanket higher around you both, trying not to think about how your time here was running out. How it would happen tomorrow. Or the day after. How you would wake up, or fall asleep, or blink, and suddenly this version of him—this warm, open, man—would be gone.

And in his place? The man you left behind. The man who barely looked at you. The man whose voice was a blade. The man who’d scoffed at your jokes and narrowed his eyes when you spoke and clenched his jaw every time you so much as entered the room.

You used to think he hated you. You used to believe it—really believe it. But now? Now you weren’t so sure. Because when you looked at this Bucky—the one asleep in your arms—you could feel it. The truth of him. That hidden, aching softness. That same bite. That same stubborn mouth and steel spine. But layered with something else, too—something gentle. Something good.

And maybe… Maybe that version of him—the one in your time—still had this softness buried somewhere. Buried deep beneath the decades. Buried beneath Hydra and blood and silence and shame. Maybe he still remembered how to touch you like this. Maybe he wanted to. Maybe he had once, long ago, before the world broke him in half.

You pressed your lips to his temple—so softly he didn’t stir—and let your eyes fall shut. You could fall in love with this version so easily. You already had.

It started with the air. Still and strange. Like the apartment was holding its breath.

You felt it before you opened your eyes — the prickling across your skin, the pressure in your chest, the hum beneath your ribs like a string being pulled tight.

No sound. No birds.

Just time, waiting.

You turned your head and found him still beside you — bare-chested, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown over your stomach. He was half-buried in sleep, lips parted, lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. Peaceful. For now.

You watched him for a long time. Memorizing the slope of his nose, the fullness of his mouth, the creases in his brow that hadn’t hardened yet. The boy inside the man. The one the future would forget.

But you wouldn’t.

You could never.

Because you loved him now.

You loved him.

Even if you never got to say it.

It got worse as the sun rose. The shimmer started in the corners of the room—not light, not shadow, something else. A pulse in the air. A fraying of edges. The wall by the window flickered once, twice—like a tear in the fabric of now.

Time was pulling.

No. Not yet. Please.

You sat up with a gasp. His arm slipped from your stomach. He stirred, frowning.

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice already cracking. “Wake up.”

He groaned softly. “Mmm… what time is it?”

“I think— I think it’s happening.”

His eyes snapped open. “What?”

You couldn’t answer. Because the wall across the room was glowing now—pulsing gold, thin and bright and wrong.

He followed your gaze and understood.

“No,” he breathed. “No, no, no—not yet.”

You were already crying.

He sat up fast, hands cupping your face. “Tell me how to stop it. Tell me how to keep you.”

“I don’t know.” You sobbed. “I don’t know.”

“Then stay,” he rasped. “Please. Just stay. I’ll take you somewhere far—off-grid. I'll desert. We’ll figure it out, I swear. Just—”

“Buck,” you whispered, shattering. “I can’t. I think— I think I was never supposed to stay. I think it’s taking me back.”

He was shaking his head. Still denying it. His fingers curled tighter in your hair. “No. No, I just got you. My girl.”

You were both crying now. The glow spread. The air buzzed.

You pressed your forehead to his. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be with me. Please—” He crushed his mouth to yours, kissing you hard, wet, desperate. His hands slid down your back, gripping you like he could hold you here. “Just one more time. Let me—please—I need—”

You kissed him back and nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “One more.”

You made love like it was a promise. Like it was the last chapter of a book neither of you wanted to finish.

No rush.

No frenzy.

Just him.

Moving over you—slow, reverent—slipping inside like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like your bodies had been made for this exact kind of goodbye.

He braced over you, cradling your face in both hands as he sank into you, a groan clawing out of his chest as your body welcomed him. “Still so tight, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “Still mine. All mine.”

You cried beneath him. Tears rolling hot into your hair. Wrapping your legs around his waist, threading your fingers into his hair, clutching him closer like you could keep him. Like holding him tighter might anchor you here.

He fucked you in long, aching strokes. His forehead pressed to yours. Breath shaking. Mouth trembling. “You feel so good, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Gonna miss this. Miss you. I don’t wanna forget. Don’t wanna forget you.”

“You won’t,” you whispered.

But he shook his head—like he didn’t believe you. Like he was already trying to memorize every inch of your face.

And something cracked inside you.

“Listen to me, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “You can’t forget. No matter what happens. No matter what the world takes from you—don’t let it take this.”

He stilled for just a moment—eyes locked on yours, confusion flickering deep behind the glassy haze of lust and heartbreak. “What are you talkin’ about—?”

“You have to hold onto this,” you breathed. “Please. To this bed. This morning. This touch. This—us. Because the world is going to hurt you. It’s going to take things from you you don’t even know how to name yet.”

He shook his head again. “No. Don’t—don’t say that—”

“But you have to fight. Even if you don’t know why, even if you can’t remember my name—you have to feel me. Somewhere. Please.”

He went still. Like your words punched straight through him. Then he kissed you—open-mouthed, crushing, broken. And he started moving again—deeper now. Slower. Each stroke a kind of vow.

“I won’t forget,” he whispered. “I swear to God, doll—I won’t.”

You cried harder. “I love you,” you said suddenly—unguarded, wild. “I love you. I don’t care if it’s only been a week. I don’t care if I never see you again. You need to know that. You need to feel that.”

“I do,” he said, voice wrecked. “I do, baby. I feel it. I feel all of it. Every time I touch you—fuck—every time I hear you say my name.” He kissed you deep. “Say it again,” he begged.

“Bucky—” you panted.

“Again.”

“Bucky. My Bucky.”

He moaned deep in his throat—and that was it. He came inside you with a sound that shattered something between you, clutching your body to his like he could fuck the memory of you into his bones.

He held you through it. Mouth against your skin. Trembling. “Gonna find you again,” he whispered. “Even if I forget—I’ll find you. I’ll feel you in my hands. I’ll taste you in my dreams. You’ll always be mine, doll. Always.”

And you—

You kissed him like the world was ending.

Because for you, it was.

The bed was still warm when he woke up alone. Bucky sat up slowly, chest heaving, eyes already stinging.

Your side of the sheets sat empty. Not rumpled. Not tucked back in. Just… gone. Like you had never been there. His hand found the hollow you’d left behind and pressed into it, hard. Like he could wring the memory back from the cotton. Like he could keep you there through sheer will.

You had warned him. He knew. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the weight of it. The absence.

The apartment was too quiet. Too clean. Too fucking cold.

He stood, bare-chested, dog tags swinging against his chest, and paced the room like a man trying to retrace his own shadow.

Then he stopped and reached for the small drawer in the nightstand. He fished out a pen and ran into the kitchen. He tore a piece of paper from the back of Steve’s sketchbook. His hands were trembling as he wrote. Ink blotting at the corners where his grip shook too hard.

But he didn’t stop. He wrote it all.

Your name.

Your voice.

Your laugh.

The way you had looked the first time you’d danced with him barefoot in the kitchen. The way you had cried when he made love to you the last time—like you were etching the memory into your soul.

He wrote how your fingers felt tangled in his hair. How you clung to him when you came.

How you had warned him, begged him to remember. To fight. And he wrote that he would. That no matter what happened—no matter what came for him—he would hold on to this.

To you.

He folded the note carefully. Pressed a kiss to it. And tucked it into the lining of his jacket pocket—the one he always wore.

He would keep it close. Even if he forgot. Even if the war chewed him up and spit him out.

Even if the world stripped away his name, his mind, and his mercy—somewhere, buried deep in muscle and bone, you would remain.

He woke up choking on your name. Not a scream. Not a gasp. A whisper. Ragged. Crushed. Alive.

His body jolted upright in the dark, drenched in sweat, heart galloping like it was still inside you, still chasing your pulse. His sheets were tangled. His fists clenched. And his cock—hard. Throbbing. Still aching for you like it hadn’t been decades. Like you were still beneath him, soft and wet and whispering Bucky, my Bucky, over and over like a benediction.

He dragged a shaking hand over his face.

No.

No, no, no—

It hadn’t been a dream.

It had been real.

The scent of you was still on his pillow. The taste of your mouth still on his tongue. The feel of your thighs trembling around his hips, the warmth of your tears soaking into his chest, the sound of your breath hitching when he pushed inside you slow that first time. He remembered his words that last time, “Still so tight, baby. Still mine.”

He felt like he was dying because he remembered. All of it.

The way your hand fit in his. The swing of your hips in his undershirt. The sound of your laugh in his kitchen while he made sandwiches. The way your lip trembled when you begged him to remember you.

He remembered you. Not just your body.

You.

The way you stared too long. The way you acted like you didn’t care but couldn’t look away. The way you kissed him like you knew. Like you’d already lost him once.

And now—

Now he understood why.

He stumbled out of bed like a man possessed. Shirtless. Barefoot. Half-hard and half-mad. He paced his apartment, muttering your name, running both hands through his hair like the memory physically hurt.

Because it did.

It hurt.

He’d loved you.

He’d fallen in love with you. In less than a week. Like some fucking storybook. And when you disappeared—when you were ripped from his arms, from his bed, from his fucking life—he’d spent the rest of that night on his knees in the bedroom, sobbing into his hands like a man broken in two.

And then?

The rest of his life had unfolded. The war. The capture. The fall. The silence. The knives.

The loss.

And somewhere inside that hollowed-out version of himself, some piece of you had still clung to him. The way he reached for someone in his dreams and woke up screaming. The way he hated that Ella Fitzgerald song without knowing why.

The way he’d first seen you, months ago, in this timeline—and something inside him screamed.

But he hadn’t known.

Until now.

Until this.

You had come to him.

You’d warned him.

Told him to fight. Told him to remember.

And he had.

It had just taken 80 years.

His phone buzzed. He didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Not when he could still feel you—pressed to his chest, moaning in his ear, whispering I love you, Bucky, as you came around him for the last time.

God, he missed you. He needed you.

“Say it again.”

“Bucky—”

“Again.”

“Bucky. My Bucky.”

He groaned aloud, fisting his hand against his hard length through his boxers. It wasn’t about getting off. It was about the ache. The craving. His body remembered you, and it was screaming for you.

But this wasn’t just physical.

No, this was worse.

He wanted to hold you again. Feed you again. Watch you dance in your pajamas and laugh at his stupid jokes and scold Steve for walking in without knocking.

He wanted to wake up to you again.

And he couldn’t.

You were gone.

But then—a thought. A flash. A whisper of his voice telling you he'd find you.

He froze. Heart hammering.

And for the first time in decades, Bucky Barnes felt something more powerful than shame or rage or regret.

Hope.

If you’d found him once— If you’d come to him when the world least expected it— Then maybe, just maybe—

He could find you too.

He stood in the middle of his apartment. Bare chest rising and falling. Eyes burning.

And whispered, “I remember you.”

You woke up in your apartment.

Face down. Cold sheets. A bruise on your hip in the exact shape of his hand.

For a few moments, you thought maybe you were dreaming. That your body had conjured it all — the smoke and the saxophones, the cheap soap and the undershirts, the kiss he gave you on the kitchen floor, and the goodbye that cracked you in two.

But then you sat up.

And the pain in your chest was real.

The grief of it came fast. Hard. Hot behind your eyes.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Just stared at the ceiling and whispered, “Bucky,” like he might still be beside you. Like the word might pull you back.

It didn’t.

You went back to the Tower the next morning.

Yelena hugged you so tight your ribs ached. Ava hovered at your elbow, quiet but present. Bob pulled you into a jostled, almost shy embrace before disappearing again like a mirage, and Alexei—bless him—cried openly and loudly and accused everyone of underreacting.

You smiled for them.

Laughed at the right beats.

And when John came into the room and stared at you for a full five seconds before silently pulling you into his chest, you let him.

You didn’t talk about what happened.

Not in any real way.

Just said you got sucked into a time loop. Weird glitch in the fabric of space-time. Mission interference. You said it casually, like you didn’t wake up aching for a man who hadn’t been born yet.

They explained they’d tried everything.

Sensors. Search teams. Portal triggers. Bob even tried to “resonate the quantum field” with a spoon and a synthesizer. It didn’t work. None of it did.

They said it was like you’d vanished. Like the world had briefly unstitched.

And then—just as suddenly—you were back.

No burn marks. No radiation. No warning.

Just… back.

You nodded and thanked them and changed the subject.

What were you supposed to say? That you’d fallen in love with a man from 1943? That you’d left him in bed with your name on his lips? That he’d held you like he already knew how the world would tear him apart?

You didn’t say any of it. You couldn’t. Because Bucky wasn’t there.

He’d left on assignment the day before your return.

You didn’t cry until three days later.

Not when you woke up alone. Not when you unpacked the old undershirt that still smelled like him. Not when you turned the radio on, hoping — needing — to hear Ella Fitzgerald just to prove he’d existed at all.

But then you dropped a coffee mug. Shattered it across the kitchen tile.

And something inside you broke with it.

You sank to your knees in the shards and cried so hard you thought your lungs might cave in.

Because you hadn’t just lost him.

You’d left him.

You kept seeing him.

Not in front of you. Not in the mirror. But behind your eyes. In your dreams. In the corner of your peripheral vision every time you walked into a room that almost smelled like 1943.

You thought you heard him once in the hallway.

Turned so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

It wasn’t him.

It was never him.

Because he wasn’t here.

And what would you even say, if he was?

What could you say?

I’m sorry I vanished mid-kiss? Sorry I warned you about the future without telling you what was coming? Without stopping it? Sorry I let you hold me like I was yours and then disappeared like a ghost?

You tried to imagine it. The way he’d look at you. What his face would do.

Would he remember? Would he know?

Or worse — would he not?

Would he just stare at you like you were a stranger again? Would he greet you with a nod and a grunt and go back to sharpening his knives?

You didn’t know what would be worse: him forgetting or him remembering everything.

Because if he did remember—

You’d have to live with the sound of his voice breaking when he begged you not to go. You’d have to look into his eyes and see the ghost of that final kiss, that final fuck, that final heartbeat he gave you in the dark.

You’d have to look at him and remember the exact moment your body stopped being yours and became his.

And you didn’t know if you could survive that.

—

What would you say to him?

You whispered it into your pillow at night, just to hear it aloud.

“Bucky, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t want to leave.”

“I didn’t want to forget.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Not for one second.”

You’d beg him to understand.

You’d grab his face in your hands and kiss him like it had only been a day. Like no time had passed. Like your body still remembered him the way his remembered you.

If he remembered.

If he didn’t… you’d die quietly.

If he did… maybe you’d finally get a taste of what it felt like to be remembered. Wanted. Chosen. Again.

But only if the universe was kind.

And it rarely was.

Until it was. Until the universe gave you one small mercy. Until you stepped into that briefing room — same as you always had, boots steady and heart quiet — and saw him.

Bucky Barnes.

Alive. Whole. Waiting.

And staring at you like he’d spent the last eighty years crawling his way back from death just to see you one more time.

You stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-thought. Mid-breath.

He was across the room. Half-shadowed in the corner like he was trying to blend into the walls. Arms crossed tight. Shoulders drawn. Head low.

But his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Fixed on you like you were gravity itself. Like if he blinked, you might vanish again. Like he could still feel your thighs clenched around his waist and your mouth whispering don’t forget me, Bucky into the dark.

Your pulse skipped.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You were just here for a mission briefing. Standard debrief. In and out. You’d done this a hundred times. Your badge had buzzed at the gate. The elevator hummed you up, clean and sterile. The Tower lights flickered like always. Controlled. Normal.

Until now.

Until him.

Until the breath caught in your throat and the floor dropped out from beneath you.

You weren’t ready for this. Maybe you were hallucinating that he looked like he remembered. Maybe you were so delusional that you were making up things in his gaze.

He hadn’t moved. He looked just like he had a week ago when you stood across from him before the mission. Before the quinjet. He just stood still, looking at you across the room. Not even a shift in his stance.

But something in him had shifted.

His hand twitched at his side as your gaze traced his form. His lips parted slightly. And somehow… you knew. For certain.

This wasn’t the same man who used to glance past you in the hallway. Who snapped his gum and looked bored in meetings. This wasn’t the version of Bucky who kept his distance and ducked out of group dinners early.

No.

This was the man who had kissed your fingers across a chipped 1940s kitchen table and danced with you barefoot in the hallway. The man who’d cradled your body in trembling hands and slid into you with a reverence that stole your name from your own lips. This was the man who had begged you to stay.

And now he was here. Staring at you. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning. Breathing like it hurt.

He looked older. Of course he did. But different, too — like the lines in his face had finally met purpose. Like the cold weight in his chest had thawed and spilled open.

Because you were here. Because he remembered. He remembered everything.

The rest of the team kept talking—Bob cracking a joke, Yelena shoving John, Ava sighing—but none of it mattered. Because he was looking at you like nothing else existed.

And then he moved.

Silent. Direct.

One long stride after another, silent and steady until he was in front of you, shadow falling across your chest.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there. Breathing hard. Staring like he didn’t trust his own eyes.

You opened your mouth—

But he beat you to it.

“Come with me,” he said, voice low.

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer. You just followed.

He grabbed your wrist and led you down the hall, past the elevators, past the armory, into a supply closet you hadn’t used in months. He opened the door, shoved you inside, and locked it behind you. The fluorescent light flickered. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Tell me it was real.” He said finally, looking down at you, chest rising and falling with the weight of his breath.

You swallowed. “It was real.”

A flash behind his eyes. Relief. Rage. Desire. He stepped closer, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was forcing himself not to grab you. Not yet.

“You remember?” he asked.

You nodded.

His voice dropped. “Do you know what it did to me? The moment you disappeared out of my arms?”

Your throat tightened.

“You were gone. One second you were beneath me. Breathing my name. Crying. And the next…” He shook his head. “I searched everywhere. Thought maybe I’d dreamed you up. Gone mad.”

You tried to breathe, but your chest was a furnace. “I wasn’t gone,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to go.”

He stared at you for one long, shaking second.

And then—

“I want a taste,” he said hoarsely. “Again. No. I need a taste.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

So you didn’t. You just stepped into him—hands fisting his shirt, mouth crashing against his like you hadn’t kissed him in nearly a century.

He groaned into your lips like it hurt to be gentle. Like he’d waited too long and dreamed too much to hold back now. His hands were everywhere—jaw, hips, waist, back. He kissed you like a man who knew you. Who’d mapped every sigh, every moan, every place your body broke open under him.

Because he had. Because he remembered.

You gasped as he backed you into the door, his thigh slotting between yours with brutal purpose. He swallowed it whole.

“God, Doll,” he rasped. “I thought I’d never get to touch you again.”

“I thought you forgot.”

He growled. “Never. I remembered every second. The way you kissed me in that kitchen. The sound you made when I first slid my fingers inside you. How tight you were when I finally fucked you—”

You whimpered.

“I dreamed it all, every night. Woke up so hard it hurt. Had to bite my knuckles to keep from screaming your name.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. “I came thinking about you every time, baby. Every time.”

You pulled him closer, breathing in gasps against his mouth. “Then let me in,” you whispered. “Now.”

He kissed you again—rougher, hungrier, trembling.

“I already am,” he breathed.

Then he lifted you—arms under your thighs, back hitting the wall—and kissed you like the sky might fall down around him if he stopped.

Your hands flew to his face, your fingers in his hair.

His body caged yours against the door. Heat. Muscle. Need.

And this time—

This time he didn’t have to fuck you like it was goodbye. Because you were here. Now. Again. And he wasn’t letting go.

You moaned as his mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, down your neck. Wet, desperate kisses that bordered on worship. He groaned like he needed it—needed you—just to survive.

His hands slid under your shirt. Not soft. Not hesitant.

Possessive.

“Off,” he growled against your throat. “Need to feel you.”

You tore at the hem, dragging your top over your head as he shoved your bra aside with trembling fingers. Your nipples peaked instantly in the chill, and he groaned at the sight, mouth closing over one like he was losing his mind.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s right,” he murmured. “Say my name again. I earned that name, baby.”

You cried out as he sucked hard, flicking with his tongue while one hand shoved your pants down your thighs. He didn’t even take them off—just pushed them down far enough to touch what he really wanted.

And god, the sound he made when his fingers slid against your soaked panties—low and guttural—like it took everything in him not to come on the spot.

“Fuck—” He dropped his head to your shoulder. “You’re so wet. You missed me, huh?”

You whimpered. He tugged your panties aside and sank two thick fingers into you in one slow, greedy push. You nearly screamed.

“Jesus—!”

“Still so tight, sweetheart,” he groaned, rocking them in and out. “Still mine. Still fuckin’ perfect.”

You writhed against the door, heels digging into his back as he curled his fingers and rubbed that spot inside you that had your eyes rolling.

“I got a rule,” he panted, kissing your collarbone. “My girl always comes first.” Your head fell back. Your heart lurched as you remembered the first time you heard those words.

He dropped to his knees.

Just like that.

Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just hooked your leg over his shoulder and buried his face between your thighs like a man made to kneel.

“Bucky—!”

You slapped a hand against your mouth as his tongue slid over your clit, broad and filthy, licking you like a man possessed.

He growled against you, then looked up—eyes dark and blown. “You better take that hand off your mouth, doll,” he rasped, voice raw. “You been quiet for eighty fuckin’ years. Let me hear you now.”

You dropped it.

And he went in.

Tongue circling your clit, fingers fucking up into you with perfect rhythm. He devoured you like it was his last meal—like he needed to memorize your taste before time could steal you again.

“Oh fuck—oh my god—”

You were shaking. Writhing. Gasping. Every nerve pulled tight as he groaned into your cunt, messily mouthing at your clit like a man drowning in devotion.

“You’re gonna come for me, baby,” he said, sliding his mouth up just long enough to pant the words into your core. “Gonna come all over my fuckin’ face, aren’t you?”

“Yes—”

He didn’t stop. Not once. His mouth was ruthless, his fingers steady, his filthy Brooklyn praise flooding your ears. “That’s it. Show me. Fuckin’ love how this pussy tastes. Made for me.”

You came with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking against his mouth as he moaned and licked you through it. You were still twitching when he stood.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, rubbing your slick down his cock through his pants. “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.”

Then he undid his fly. And the breath punched out of your lungs. Thick. Heavy. Desperate. He stroked it once, slow.

“You ready?”

You nodded, eyes wide.

“No, sweetheart. Say it.”

“I’m ready,” you gasped. “I need you.”

That was all it took.

He grabbed your thighs, hauled you higher, and lined himself up. “You’re takin’ me so good already,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ tight… can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me, baby.”

And then he pushed in.

Slow.

Deep.

And it was like being split wide open by something you’d begged to remember. His cock stretched you to the edge, inch after thick inch until you could feel him in your throat.

Your mouth fell open.

He groaned into it. “God damn,” he hissed, fucking into you with one long, shuddering thrust. “Still the best I ever had. Still mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours—”

He kissed you then, deep and messy and thankful. Because this time? There was no ticking clock.

Just you. Just him. And the kind of fucking that doesn’t end in goodbye.

You never made it back to the debrief.

You tried.

God, you tried.

But the moment Bucky came—with a hoarse, broken groan buried in your neck, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him upright—he didn’t let you go. Didn’t even try. He just held you there, trembling, still buried inside you like he couldn’t bear the thought of not being part of your body.

And then he whispered. “Fuck the debrief.” You laughed, breathless. He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. Your temple. “Fuck the mission. Fuck the timeline. I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight again.”

You didn’t fight it.

You let him take your hand, zip you back into your top, and pull you down the hallway like a man on borrowed time. Every teammate you passed turned to speak—Bob raised a hand, John started to ask a question—but Bucky didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even look at them.

Just kept his hand locked in yours and led you straight to his quarters.

The door shut with a soft hiss behind you.

Then everything went still.

He stepped close. Closer than the supply closet had allowed. Both hands coming up to cradle your face like he was still afraid you might vanish if he looked away.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said, voice low, wrecked. “I don’t understand any of it. Why you were there. Why I remembered.”

You stayed silent. Letting him speak.

Letting him feel.

“But I’m glad. I’m so fuckin’ glad, doll.”

His eyes shone.

“I remember dancing with you. I remember the way your lips looked in candlelight. I remember how you smelled when you laid on my chest. I remember your voice when you said my name the first time I touched you there.”

You swallowed thickly.

He dropped his forehead to yours. “I remember how you warned me. How you told me to fight.”

His hands were shaking. “I don’t know if I ever would’ve made it without that.”

You reached for him. Curled your fingers in the collar of his shirt and pressed your lips to his—soft, trembling, endless.

He kissed you like it meant something.

Like it was everything.

And when you finally pulled back, when your breath was shaking between you and his thumbs brushed tears from your cheeks, he asked the question that broke you:

“Does this mean I get to keep you this time?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him.

At this version of Bucky—this blend of past and present, of soldier and lover, of man and myth and everything in between.

You saw it all now.

You remembered it all now.

The slow smiles. The gentle touches. The fucking in the dark that felt like worship. The way he whispered don’t forget me like it was a prayer.

You leaned in, kissed him once, and whispered, ��Yeah, Bucky. I’m yours.”

His eyes fluttered closed. He exhaled like it was the first breath he’d taken since 1943. Then he pulled you to the bed. No sex. No hunger. Just hands. Just heartbeats. Just him folding you into his arms like the long war was finally over. And he’d won.

It happened late one night.

Days had passed since the reunion. You were back at the tower. Back in your room, which somehow felt too modern, too cold, too still—despite the warmth of the man who now never left your bed.

Bucky lay behind you, arm curled around your waist, fingers splayed just under the hem of your shirt like he still needed proof you were real.

Your bodies were tangled under the covers, but neither of you had made a move in hours. Not for sex. Not even for sleep.

He was too quiet. Too still.

You turned in his arms to face him. “You good?”

His eyes flicked open. Pale and sharp, even in the dark. Then he nodded once. Hesitated. And said, rough and low, “I lied, you know.”

Your brows furrowed. “About what?”

He exhaled, looking past you for a moment—through the air, through the years. “Back then. Before. When I said you weren’t my type.”

You blinked, breath catching.

He brought a hand to your cheek, brushing your skin like it was glass. “You were exactly my type. Always were.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Just stared at him.

“But you reminded me,” he continued, voice soft now, “of everything I thought I couldn’t have. Everything I thought I didn’t deserve. Not with the blood on my hands. Not with the shit the world had made me.”

Your throat tightened.

“And I hated it,” he whispered. “Hated that you made me want things I didn’t think I could ever be again.”

You reached for his wrist and held it there, palm to cheek. Anchoring him.

He swallowed. “I saw you laugh, and I wanted to keep it. I saw the way you looked at me, and I wanted to be worth it. But I wasn’t ready. Not then.”

You shifted closer. “You didn’t have to be ready then. You just had to let me close.”

He met your eyes, guilt shadowed deep in the lines of his face. “I couldn’t,” he said. “But I wanted to.”

You smiled—sad and soft and a little tired. “You know I liked you, right? Even before?”

His breath caught.

“I always did,” you said. “Even when you were an asshole. Even when you looked through me like I wasn’t there. I still… I still saw you.”

His brows furrowed.

“And now I’m glad,” you continued, “that I got to see the man you used to be. Back then. In 1943.”

He closed his eyes like that year still lived under his skin.

“Because now I understand,” you whispered. “You didn’t change. You just got hurt. You just got… taken.”

His grip on you tightened.

You leaned in, touched your forehead to his. “And I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. I know who you are now. All of you. And I love that man.”

He shuddered a breath.

Then his arms wrapped around you—not in lust, not even in desperation—but in something softer. Something older.

Something like home.

He kissed your hair. And when he whispered “I love you too, doll” into the dark, it didn’t sound like a confession.

It sounded like a memory, finally given permission to be true.

977 notes · View notes