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Somehow, you end up at Bucky’s.
Your ex is still at his place, where you just left. Your own apartment is small and dark and if you’re alone right now, you’re inevitably going to spiral. Your friends never liked him in the first place, sure, but you’re not in the mood to celebrate just yet.
You doubt most people are, less than an hour after a breakup.
Your first thought other than them is your dad’s place. It’s a ways outside the city and you and him aren’t really that close. At best, he’ll probably give you a one-armed hug and awkwardly try to make a joke to lighten the tension that’ll accidentally hurt your feelings, but you’re desperate. Maybe he’ll let you crash in the guest bedroom and slip out tomorrow while he’s at work and you’re hopefully a little steadier on your feet.
Except that it’s raining so much it sounds like static on the hood of your car, and when you get your dad’s voicemail, he’s out of the country for work until next week.
You don’t pull off the road, because the moment you stop moving you’re going to break down completely. You’re already out of the city, so you head toward the only other place you can go without turning around, some wounded part of you taking the wheel, getting you to some place that feels safe.
Your father isn’t much of a sentimental man. Ever since he retired from the service he’s poured himself into his business, using the long hours and the travel as an excuse to ignore dealing with the trauma you know he doesn’t talk about.
That’s where he met Bucky—a handful of years younger and probably a little wiser too, they’d served together for nearly ten years until your father burned in and out and Bucky lost his arm in the service. In the years since, you’ve crossed paths with Bucky often, trying to draw your father out of his shell.
Where your father’s other friends have been varying shades of disrespectful to you over the years, Bucky’s always been kind. Reliable, responsible, even protective at times. Between your bleak childhood and your lackluster relationships, you’ve never really had that from anyone else before.
That’s what you use to rationalize your decision to go there now, when it’s raining and dark and nearing one o’clock in the morning. You feel angry and hurt, yeah, but mostly just—unsteady. Your independence makes it difficult to admit as much to anyone out loud, but Bucky won’t be rude or patronizing. He’ll give you somewhere to wait it out until you’re somewhat okay again. Or as close as you can be, you guess.
Bucky’s particular about his security measures, so you know he sees the headlights coming up the drive even through the rain. You pull up and park, grabbing your phone and leaving everything else behind. Bucky’s house is off the main road and surrounded by trees, not like your apartment building where people break into car windows every other night. It’ll be safe here, just like you will.
You squint at the yellow light in the window as you blaze a path toward the front steps, your jacket tugged up over your head. You’ve hardly knocked before Bucky opens it with a signature frown, but it softens when your own lips tremble.
Without asking questions, he tugs you off the porch and inside the house, and the rush of warmth you feel only makes your eyes water more. He checks you over for injuries—a reflex he’s never trained himself out of—before helping you out of your jacket and to the dining table.
“Sorry. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, and I was already headed this way. My dad’s out of town. And all my friends would just say I told you so, which is really just—“ you hiccup on a sob, despite your best efforts, “—not what I need to hear right now.”
“Hey. You’re always welcome to come here. You know that. Y’don’t gotta come up with a reason.” Bucky tugs a chair of his own in front of yours and reaches out with his flesh hand to rub up and down your arm, working heat back into the spot. With the other one, carefully, he catches a drop of moisture from your chin before it can fall. “C’mere. Who’re these tears for, huh?”
You walk him through the lead up to getting here, leaving out some of the grittier details that’re still too fresh to share without making you more upset. His thumb rubbing circles into your arm keeps you grounded enough to get through it, your nervous system tilting a little more toward tentative calm than impending breakdown.
This is why you came here, you think; because being around Bucky is like exhaling when you’ve been holding your breath your entire life.
You burn yourself out from every angle—with work, with your friends, in your relationships, offering to take on as much as you can so that you’re useful. Needed. But then what does that leave leftover for you?
You’re tired of trying to earn things. Desire, respect, love. But you don’t know how to stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Bucky says seriously when you’re finished talking, fingers twitching on your arm while you shiver from the cold.
“You don’t have to do that.” Your smile is wobbly; you can never really tell if he’s joking or not. “Believe me, I’ve already said my piece. I don’t think he wants to talk to me ever again.”
“His loss,” Bucky grumbles.
You nod, but the momentary confidence doesn’t last despite the hardened edge of Bucky’s furrowed brow. His eyes dart to it when your lower lip shakes again, helpless to stop it, and you shrug.
“I’m just—” your breath hitches.
“Just what, sweetheart?”
“I’m just so tired.”
You sob again, and Bucky yanks your chair forward, rain water be damned, and folds you into a hug. His hand on the back of your head feels like relief, his arm big enough around your shoulders to make you feel not quite so out of place anymore.
“Tired of what, honey?”
“Of trying so hard. I’m the one that reaches out, schedules dates, makes reservations. I’m the one that remembers anniversaries and birthdays. The one that has to remind people to love me,” you muffle into his shirt, clenching it in your fist. “So then, when they leave, it’s like—I’m cleaned out. I wasted all my energy and time and feelings on somebody else and they’re fine, relieved, even but I’m—empty.”
You have to stop to catch your breath for a minute, but Bucky waits you out. He’s always been attentive like that, the one to circle back and ask what you were thinking when everyone else cut you off. He makes silence feel like an invitation instead of an accusation.
“And after a while, it’s so easy to think—is it me? I’m trying to be good, to do all the right things to make them want to stay but maybe—maybe I’m—stifling them, or—”
“Hey,” Bucky does stop you then, pulling back to look you in the eye. “You are good. Anybody who can’t see that doesn’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Okay?”
It’s not a monologue, but you don’t need one of those anyway. It’s easy to believe the things Bucky says, so straightforward and firm, light about certain things but sharp when it comes to people he cares about.
It still kind of shocks you that you fall into that category.
With a tilt of his head, Bucky squeezes with the hands he’s got on your shoulders and nods toward the stairs.
“Go take a shower. Use the one in my room—it’s got all the fancy soaps and nice towels and shit—and when you come back down, I’ll have something for you to eat.”
“Bucky,” you shake your head. “You don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t,” he says. “Go.”
Too tired to deny yourself the comfort, you offer him a small smile as he heads for the kitchen and you move toward the hallway.
You’re not good at taking orders.
Somehow, with Bucky, it doesn’t seem like much of a sacrifice.
+
Bucky’s shower is fucking amazing.
You don’t ever want to leave it. The water pressure is fantastic, the temperature consistently warm around you, the fog on the glass panels around you making you feel soft and sheltered. And he was right—there’s a shelf to the side full of the ‘fancy shit’, so you take your pick of a nice soap and a body wash that smells like him, taking your time the way you can’t in your own apartment.
Halfway through, there’s a knock on the ensuite door.
“Yeah?” you call over the shower.
“You want me to throw your clothes in the dryer for you? I can leave you a change for when you get out.”
You sigh. “Yeah, Bucky. That’d be great. Thank you.”
You can’t see much through the frosted glass, but the vague shape of Bucky on the other side of the shower as he swipes your wet clothes and leaves you a fresh change of his own make you flush regardless. You glance down at your body as the water runs over it and down the drain, touching your fingertips to several spots that catch your eye. You know your ex had a tendency to say things he didn’t mean when he got his feelings hurt, but a few of them had hit a little too close to home tonight.
You wonder if Bucky would have the same things to say about you under the right circumstances, or if maybe men’s tastes change with age. You’ve had a bad pick, but they can’t all be liars, surely.
The worst part of this is that you’re not even that upset about this ex specifically. If you’re honest with yourself, you could never envision anything long term with him anyway. But you keep doing this—keep meeting men you think you can make a home out of and getting upset when they don’t change. You’d meant what you accidentally let slip to Bucky; that after so much, you begin to realize that you’re the common denominator here.
Unwilling to spiral right at the end of what had turned out to be a nice reprieve of a shower, you turn off the water and grab the soft towel, stepping onto the mat beside the tub and dry off.
You steal a little of Bucky’s lotion and mouthwash, wiping underneath your tired eyes with a wet edge of the towel. The clothes Bucky left for you are obviously his, and you flush when you notice his boxers in place of your regular underwear. He must’ve taken it to be washed with the rest of your clothes.
In a soft red long-sleeved shirt and his boxers, you leave the flannel sleep pants he’d left on the counter. You’re already warm from the shower, and his underwear reaches about to where a pair of shorts would rest on your thigh, even with the band rolled several times at your hips to keep them up.
You get déjà vu walking down the stairs, even though you’ve never done it quite like this before. The rumble of the laundry is subtle in the background as your bare feet cross over dark hardwood floors and angled rugs, the smell of warm, freshly made food rushing to greet you as you get closer to the lamp-lit living room and the kitchen.
And there’s Bucky when you get there, flipping off the stove and grabbing plates like it’s not bothering him to have to do this for you. To have you here in general. You feel restless with the need to help, but you know he won’t let you.
The table’s already set when you get to it, a glass of water waiting. You take a seat and sip slowly on it, hoping it’ll ease the knot already forming again in your throat. All of this is as much a comfort as it is a reminder of all that you’ve always wanted but don’t yet have yourself. Your father didn’t bother making much of a home, so it’s always been something you’ve wanted to make on your own when you were older.
What Bucky has here, it’s effortless.
And it’s not yours, no matter how much you wish it was.
“Thank you,” you tell Bucky when he sets a warm plate in front of you, keeping your head down against his watchful gaze.
And it is watchful—you can feel his eyes on you while you eat, his presence comforting even if his conversation has always skewed a little more toward silence if it’s not you filling it up. You tell yourself you’re imagining the way he lingers longer than usual, that it can’t be any of the same things you’re thinking about: you making yourself at home, eating his food, wearing his clothes, smelling like him. You’re trying all of this on, not keeping it. You need to get ahold of yourself.
But when the food’s gone and Bucky moves your plates aside, you don’t have anything left to keep yourself distracted, and your eyes water again.
“Feel like an idiot,” you laugh, digging your palms into them roughly. “He’s not worth crying over.”
Bucky reaches over to drag your hands away. “I’d agree with that. But it’s okay to cry. Most people just shove it down and ignore it. You’ve always been a little softer than that,” he says, thumb traveling back and forth against your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, either.”
“Feels like there is,” you argue halfheartedly. “I just wish people wouldn’t say they want the same things I do and then change their minds.”
Bucky’s head tilts then, thoughtful.
“What do you want?”
“I want—this,” you gesture around Bucky’s house. “Hot meals instead of takeout. A house instead of my shitty apartment. Somebody to come home to that actually wants to see me. That doesn’t want all-in and then gets sick of me before the year’s even over.”
With a heavy breath and a furrow in his brow that tells you he’s working to come up with the right thing to say, Bucky squeezes your wrists on top of the table in reassurance.
“You deserve everything you want,” he says.
“Do I?”
You struggle to swallow, but Bucky remains firm.
“Yes. You do.”
Both of you linger for another few moments before you stand to clear the table. Bucky deals with the place settings and the glasses while you carry the plates and silverware to the sink.
Muscle memory you shouldn’t have takes over as you turn the tap to warm and run a hand under it to check, then reach for the stopper to put in the drain so it’ll fill. You drizzle dish soap in next and turn the water off when there’s a shallow few inches, dipping your hands and one of the plates into the bubbles.
It’s where you are when Bucky joins you a minute later, glasses in hand. He steps up beside you, dumping the remaining water down the other side of the sink before he sets the glasses down and presses a hand to your hip over his shirt.
“Go sit down. You’re not cleanin’ up.”
“It’s the least I can do, Bucky.”
“The least you can do is let me take care of you.”
Something about the assurance in his voice, about the words—your desires laid out so clearly in a way that not only implies that they’re okay to want, but also that they can be seen at all without you having to ask, to beg, to say anything at all—makes you whimper.
Bucky’s like a furnace beside you, the noise you made unavoidable with his keen senses. You freeze with your hands in the water, gripping the soapy plate like a lifeline as Bucky slots into place directly behind you.
“I want that,” you admit in a whisper, your eyes clenched shut.
Bucky bends to nose at your covered shoulder, inhaling. “I know, sweetheart. Y’always have.”
His body eclipses yours completely as he slips his own hands in alongside yours, past the cuff of the rolled sleeves and underneath the water. He pulls the plate from your grip and your hands from the water altogether, reaching for the rag. Methodically, carefully, he dries your fingers and palms until only a little dampness resides in the webbing between digits and the tiny lines that make up your knuckles.
When he sets the rag aside, his own fingers replace it. They slide through the gaps in yours, his right linked with your left and vice versa, as he tugs you back against his chest and holds you there with the criss-cross of his arms over your stomach. Even the prosthetic, you notice, feels warm tonight.
It’s special, one of the first and only of its kind; a tailor-made prototype he’d been awarded for his sacrifice in favor of saving the lives of others. He’s always careful with it, careful with you when he touches you with it. You’ve never minded it. It’s just another thing that makes him sturdy, strong. Capable.
“This is nice,” you tell him quietly, afraid to fracture the moment if you’re too loud.
He exhales against your shoulder again, shakier this time as his mouth grazes the fabric. “You feel real nice in my arms. Fit like a glove.”
Your breathing quickens. “Bucky…”
“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he says, mistaking your want for warning. “Want you to be comfortable, sweetheart. Want you to feel safe.”
“Don’t let go,” you border on pleading, turning to meet his eye up over your shoulder.
He’s already looking at you when you do. His flesh hand, more damp with water than your dry ones, slowly disentangles itself from you. You feel his fingertips graze up the outside of your wrist, the barest of touches as he lifts it up past your chest that’s bare underneath his shirt. Finally he reaches your face, grazing your hair with his knuckles.
When you lean your head back against his shoulder, he grips your jaw with his fingers. At first it’s innocent enough, his thumb stroking over your cheek, your chin. But when he reaches your mouth, you can feel the shift as his gaze grows heavy.
A graze of his thumb against the corner of your lips makes them part, your breath warm through the gap. You nearly stop altogether when he presses against the padding over your lower one, swollen from your teeth and slick with the water at dinner. You struggle to think of anything at all at the moment, but you know that you haven’t been touched like this before. Like maybe you’re just as capable of breaking as everyone else is, even if you don’t show it.
Bucky knows. Regardless of your differences or how fleeting your interactions are, he sees you, and the thrill of being understood is something you’ve long since believed you’d never feel again.
The seam of your mouth opens further at the gentle prodding of his thumb, unable to look away from him as he traces around the slack curve with the digit. The dip of your cupid’s bow, the full center of your lower lip before it thins at the corners again.
The way his thumb fits neatly into the suction of your lips when he slips it past them like it was made to be there.
You close your mouth around it, tentative as you press against his fingerprint with your tongue, and Bucky hisses in a breath from behind.
“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, slipping his thumb out again to spread your spit across your lips, eyes glistening at the sight. “It’s yours.”
Without turning around, you reach your free hand back to grip the side of his face and pull him toward your mouth. He has to dip low to meet you but he does it without complaint, his exhale against your mouth nearly as relieved as yours against his.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, your jaw aching from being turned over your shoulder as Bucky’s hand settles loosely over the front of your neck to hold you steady, his tongue content to roam freely as it explores your mouth. He kisses you slowly, deeply, thoroughly enough that you feel it in all your limbs. The way you picture it in the movies, like something finally slotting into place.
“I want you, Bucky,” you breathe when he parts for air, making certain there’s no confusion.
With a shuddering breath, Bucky drops a hand from your throat to squeeze your hip. “Love havin’ you here. Y’know that? In my house. Wearin’ my clothes. S’like a dream.”
“I like knowing I can come here,” you tell him honestly.
“Always. You come and tell me when you need me and I’m there. Got it?”
As you nod, Bucky moves the hair from your neck. He leans in close again, undoubtedly catching the scent of his body wash on your skin, and you shiver almost violently when his mouth seals against your pulse. He sucks on the spot, patient, deliberate, then grazes the sensitive area with his teeth before moving on to your shoulder.
His shirt’s big on you, so it doesn’t take much to nudge the collar enough that it falls off one shoulder. You gasp at the cool air against what the shirt had kept so warm, but Bucky hesitates before he lowers his mouth again.
“Hey,” he presses into your cheek. “You sure about this?”
“I usually just cry in my apartment after a breakup,” you manage with a shaky chuckle. “I think I’m allowed to have an ill-advised rebound at least once.”
At once, Bucky’s grip slackens around you, halfway between holding on and letting go.
His tone is carefully neutral when he asks, “S’that what this is to you?”
You glance down at the soapy water and shake your head, your false smile evaporating with your nerves.
“No.”
“Gotta be clearer than that,” Bucky tells you. “You’re too important to fuck this up over a misunderstanding.”
Asking you to think clearly right now is criminal, but that tender, emotional part of you understands where he’s coming from you. It’s the same one inside of your own head that’s screaming at you in big, bold, unignorable letters: this is not casual.
By design, it can’t be. You’ve wanted this for too long for it to be anything other than life changing.
Leaving no room for misunderstanding, you use the grip you have on his prosthetic hand to drag it down off your abdomen, past your hips, in between your legs. Bucky inhales sharply when you urge his fingers to press right up against your cunt through the thin fabric of his boxers, and you whimper an exhale in response at the pressure.
His digits twitch over your entrance, and then slide up to press directly against your clit. “Need me here?”
“This isn’t a rebound,” you tell him urgently. “If—if that’s okay with you.”
“If it’s okay with me?” He huffs a mean little laugh, using the prosthetic fingers to peel one leg of the boxers to the side while his flesh hand lowers between your thighs to meet it. “If it was up to me, you’d never leave.”
The first touch of warm fingers against you pulls a moan from your chest as you lean back against the hot, solid weight of his body. Truthfully, you’d been a little wet earlier just from the thought of him handling your underwear and you wearing his clothes. But that’s nothing compared to the way your body’s responded since Bucky was actually in proximity, close enough to experience with your senses and not just with your mind.
Dipping two fingers across your entrance, Bucky gathers enough slick on his fingers to drag it up, rubbing in slow circles over your clit. You cling to the arm he’s got secure around your hips as you try to keep from tilting into the pressure, turning your face into his neck to escape the intensity of his touch.
He takes his time, rubbing you in hazy circles, dipping down to tease against the spread of your cunt, splitting two fingers on either side of your clit to squeeze until you shudder in his arms.
“Want me inside?”
You nod. “Please.”
Bending, he finally presses his mouth against your exposed shoulder. “I’ve got you. Makin’ it nice and easy for me—got my boxers all wet, didn’t you? So I can just slide right in?”
In theory, yes. This is more excited than you’ve been with most of your other partners, the fabric damp against you and smearing against the top of your thighs. But you’ve also always been tight, and the way your muscles clench at the sound of Bucky’s voice isn’t doing much to help you.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Let me in,” Bucky encourages, thick middle finger tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. He dips it inside of you in teasing intervals until you relax enough for him to sink in to the first knuckle, both of you sighing with it. “There we go. S’better, isn’t it?”
You tremble out an answer, momentarily lost in the wave of his finger as it slides in and out of you, fluid and hot and unbelievable. He sucks another mark into your skin as he works it all the way inside and rocks you on it until it’s comfortable, and then begins to ease in another.
“Know you’ve been achin’ for me. I can fix it, honey. Gonna make it all better. Okay? Y’let me do that for you?”
He drags his lips back across your shoulder and up the side of your neck, your head rolled to the side to bare it to him. His kiss is sweet, chaste, nothing like the stretch of his second digit tucked inside of your cunt.
“Just wanna take care’a you, sweet girl,” he continues with a rasp, curling the digits and holding you like that. “All I’ve ever wanted.”
“Bucky,” you plead.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he urges. “S’that the spot? Feel good? Know y’are—grippin’ me so tight. Trying to keep me, huh?”
The drag of them in and out of you makes you weak in the knees, Bucky’s weight grounding you steady as he holds you between himself and the sink. The water’s gone cold, the dishes abandoned, and you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that this is something you could keep.
“Don’t have to worry about that, honey. Couldn’t stay away from you if I tried,” Bucky goes on. “And God, I’ve tried. Promise I have, sweetheart. Tried to be good.”
“So have I,” you confess, your brain lagging behind your mouth. You feel Bucky’s head turn against your cheek, intrigued.
“Yeah? You been thinkin’ about me too, sweet girl?”
Well. If you’re admitting things.
“S’the only way I could ever…with—”
“Don’t,” Bucky stops you firmly, prosthetic closing in a grip on your jaw. “Don't you dare say another name while I’m inside you.”
“Bucky,” you whimper.
His touch turns sweeter at the noise, stroking over your cheek. “Shh, s’okay. I’ll give you whatever you want, honey, promise. But I don’t want there to be any mistake of who’s makin’ you feel so good. You understand?”
“I—I understand, Bucky,” you acquiesce easily.
“Good.” He turns you further so he can smear his mouth against yours again. “That’s a good girl, sweetheart. Thank you.”
Between your legs, your cunt has had ample time to learn the shape of Bucky’s fingers. His focus narrows, pinpoints, the bumps of his knuckles a wonderful ache every time they curve past your entrance and settle inside of you again.
You cling to his forearms as both of his hands delve in between your thighs the same way they had the water earlier, confident and determined. His flesh fingers curl up inside of you and hone in on your sweet spot as cool metal ones settle firmly over the bump of your clit, and you’re trapped in sensation as he rocks you on them, drawing you deeper and deeper into the warmth in your core.
“Give me one,” he growls against your ear, taking the lobe between his teeth as he works you quicker. “Been waitin’ for it for so long, sweetheart. Got no idea. Give it to me, know you can.”
Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes following a similar trajectory as you push into the heat of his hands. He’s all around you, inescapable, taking control in the way you crave but never give anyone enough power to actually execute.
You’d give just about anything to Bucky, and it’s terrifying. It’s exciting.
Your first orgasm hits you fast and hard and leaves you reeling after the steep edge, your body clenching and shivering as it tries to decide if it wants more or needs a break. You cling to Bucky where you can as you ride out the waves, your hips rolling up against his hands, his deft fingers working you all the way through it before he finally pulls them away.
When your feet are finally flat to the hardwood again, you sway in his grip.
“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “Easy. Little shaky, huh? Hold onto me. I’ve got you.”
He turns you and slips an arm underneath your back and your knees; a move that you would’ve protested if you could find any words at the moment. But all you do right now is focus on catching your breath, a fist clutching his shirt as he carries you out of the kitchen and pauses at the base of the stairs—Bucky’s bedroom to one side of the hallway, the guest room on the other.
You’re relieved when he asks, “Can I take you to my bed?”
Within a minute of your breathless yes he’s got you deposited onto his sheets, your body bouncing a little with his eagerness. You land in the center of his bed, your elbows propping you up, your chest rising and falling quickly as you watch him watching you.
His shirt has ridden up your hip with all the movement, and his boxers are crooked on your hips, slanted out of place from his hands inside of them. Bucky steps up to circle one of your ankles with his fingers, and you feel the nerves edging back in the longer he talks with his eyes instead of his mouth.
“Are you gonna fuck me?” you ask in a rush, hoping to avert his attention but flushing at your own forwardness. Bucky’s eyes flick up to yours, his mouth twitching something a little fond and a little filthy, and he shakes his head.
“Gonna do something a whole lot better than just fuckin’ you, sweet girl. Keep this on,” he says, tugging at the shirt before he pushes it further up your torso to rest atop your ribs. “Lay back. Lemme look at you.”
Easing slowly backward again, you try to let yourself relax into the plush softness of Bucky’s sheets. Your ex was a difficult man to please. He wanted you on top a lot of the time so he could lie back, but then there was always something else to nitpick. He didn’t like the lingerie you’d chosen, but he’d say you weren’t trying if you wore your regular underwear, as if you’d woken up in the morning thinking what would he like? He’d finish fast and then claim he was too tired to get you off, but the very existence of your vibrator in the nightstand was like a personal offence. He was insecure, just like a lot of the others had been. And you, a people pleaser to a fault, had gone out of your way to be what they wanted despite your own needs, even when some part of you knew it would always be a losing game.
It’s probably one of the things that first attracted you to Bucky. He just owns everything he does. Calm and self-assured but never cocky about it, willing to speak up and readapt if he makes mistakes.
You have to know yourself before you can trust yourself, and Bucky’s a man that knows, intimately, what he wants.
On your back with him, you feel on display in a much different way. Instead of holding your breath, waiting for him to point out something wrong or that needs changing, it’s almost thrilling, watching his gaze run over you and wondering what’s going to come out of his mouth next.
He plants a knee on the mattress beside your leg, his eyes following his body up and up until he reaches your face. He’s not shy about gripping the back of your neck to pull you up to his mouth, and the firm hold on such a vulnerable spot makes you gasp against his lips.
He kisses you until you’re pliant enough to fall back against the sheets completely, and then his mouth begins to trail south.
The tip of your chin and the underside of your jaw, the divot at the base of your throat and your collarbones. He drags his lips over the fabric of his shirt pooled over your breasts, his kisses turning momentarily wet and slow when he manages to find the peak of your nipple beneath the material. You whine, fingers slipping into his hair, but he keeps moving down between your ribs with a flicker of a grin on its way to something a little darker.
“You don’t deserve to be fucked,” he rasps, smoothing a kiss underneath your navel as his fingers hook into the boxers. “Gonna love on this sweet body ‘til you forget any of those other names. ‘Til there’s only mine.”
With his biceps curled around your thighs, Bucky promptly yanks you to the edge of the mattress. Your heartbeat flips and flutters as he kneels on the floor peeling the boxers off completely and leaving you bare in front of him.
Tugging your legs to rest over his shoulders, Bucky turns his face into the skin above the inside of your knee and inhales. His exhale is a groan as he bites a kiss into the sensitive area, then makes his way up toward the slick, warm apex of your thighs.
You cry out at the first press of his mouth against your cunt, bare and uninhibited. You’re a mess from his fingers earlier and Bucky’s tongue is on a mission to taste more than it is to clean you up, dragging rough circles around your clit and dipping down to bury itself inside of you before he sweeps up to do it all again.
You’ve never heard him make noises like this before, low and muffled into the folds of your cunt while he takes his fill. It’d be a lot either way, but you’re still a little twitchy from your first orgasm, and Bucky eats you out with a precision that’s impossible to escape from. Your back arches on the sheets, your own throat raw with your sounds, your hands grappling at the sheets by your hips.
When you manage to tilt your chin to your chest to look between your legs, Bucky’s already watching you.
His stubble is coarse against your skin, face flushed and smeared with your wetness, eyes dark and half-lidded with the sweep of his dark lashes. You’re so busy watching him that you hardly register his hands slipping under your thighs and up, skimming your hips on his way toward your chest.
His fingers take his shirt even higher, his gaze momentarily dipping as he reaches your breasts. Your spine arches further, the weight of your breasts hot and heavy in his hands. You’re caught between the flick of his thumbs across your nipples and the equally as enticing shape his tongue takes as it ravages your cunt, dizzy with the force of your head falling backward as you moan.
You feel so worked up you could almost cry with it, desperate in a way that you seldom allow yourself to be. It treads that tantalizing line between control and surrender—even when you were people pleasing, that was a way to keep hold of the situation in your own way. With Bucky, all of your weak spots like magnets to his hands and mouth and attention, there’s nowhere left to hide.
You aren’t sure you want to anymore. Not with him.
Bucky exhales, hot and slick against the crease of your thigh as he separates from you long enough to speak. “Taste so good, sweetheart. Give me one more and I’ll fill you up, give this needy cunt what you’ve been missing.”
It’s all the reprieve you get before he’s dipping back into you with his mouth, the noises obscene as he sucks and swivels and teases you with the barest hint of his teeth. Your chest seizes as your release builds again, threatening to overwhelm you with how steep you were thrown into it.
You reach out for Bucky on instinct, and his hands slip off your breasts to tangle with your fingers. He holds them on top of your stomach, using the grip to steady your hips from bucking out of his reach. You can’t stop moving, your muscles tensing in rhythmic waves, your body mimicking its climax in anticipation before you’ve even reached it; like it has no doubt that Bucky will get you there.
And he does, moments later, practically growling against your cunt while you hump against his face. He’s fixed points where you’re all fluid movement, electricity sparking at the places you connect.
Your second orgasm leaves you even more off balance, sensitive, aching for more even as you tremble with the aftershocks. You can feel yourself spasming around nothing, the tease of Bucky’s chin cruel where it touches the entrance of your cunt but doesn’t give you anything inside.
With a contrastingly sweet kiss to your clit, Bucky pushes off of his knees. He stands above you at the foot of the bed, watching you catch your breath as he strips himself of his shirt, pants, and boxers. You bite your lip at the first sight of him completely bare before you, even more than the time at the lake in his sinfully small bathing suit. That image had been in your fantasies for—well, it hadn’t ever really left.
Needy for touch after having been left aching for it, you sit up, Bucky’s shirt falling back down around your hips as you reach for him. He lets you for a minute, your arms circling his hips to pull him close as he leans down to lick the taste of yourself onto your tongue. It’s heady, hot, your face burning when he pulls back to watch you savor it while he thumbs at your lower lip.
One hand holds the back of your neck while the other reaches in between your thighs again, his fingers dipping into the seam of your cunt with little resistance.
“We need a condom, sweetheart?”
You debate it for a moment, Bucky’s touch patient while you think, and surprised when you shake your head.
“I’m on the pill. And no one else has ever—without, before,” you admit, losing your nerve toward the end of it.
He groans as he leans down to kiss you again. “Gonna be the death of me,” Bucky mutters, looking all too happy about it while he does.
With his hands under your arms, Bucky moves you up the bed again until your head is on his pillows. There’s a part of you that’s liking the possession of all of this more than you have any right to; Bucky’s bed, his sheets, his shirt, his scent all over you, his body draped over you like a filthy, loving embrace.
And you want more.
“Need you,” you gasp as he settles himself in between your thighs, his broad hips widening the split, making room.
Held up by his elbows, Bucky leans down to nudge his nose with yours and kiss you slow and sweet. “Know you do, baby. I need you too.”
The slide of his mouth against yours soothes some of that frantic ache inside of you, gives you something to focus on instead of the emptiness. You feel so safe here, so small—but never in the way that the others made you feel. Bucky kisses you, holds you like you mean something to him. God, you want to.
You inhale sharply when you feel him rub the tip of his cock against you, smearing it through your wetness. It circles your sensitive clit and then dips down to nudge at your entrance, Bucky’s hand on top of your head, his eyes locked on yours as he begins to push slowly.
The stretch as the head of his cock slips inside makes both of you shudder. Bucky’s breathing through his teeth but he keeps his tone gentle when he says, “Deep breath. You’ve got it. Gonna let my cock inside like you did my fingers?”
“S’big,” you offer despite your nod, hypnotized by the precipice between empty and filled as Bucky pushes in a little further.
“I know, honey. But you were made to take it, weren’t you?” he asks, lips pressed to your cheek, the corner of your eye. His voice roughens into something less composed. “Nobody else was good enough. Couldn’t fill you up like this. Give you what you needed.”
You nod again, helpless as your cunt bears down around him and draws him inside you further. You whimper and Bucky curses into your hair, trembling with carefully grasped control. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and tucks his face against yours as he works himself in inch by slow inch, your body opening up for him with his gentle coaxing.
“So fuckin’ tight. So soft around me. Like—fuck,” Bucky swears, finally slipping inside you to the hilt as you clench around him. “S’like comin’ home.”
Your voice trembles around his name, tears swimming in your eyes. “Bucky.”
“That’s it. Just my name. All mine,” Bucky agrees, pressing salty kisses against your eyelids. “Sounds so pretty when you say it, sweetheart. Want you to say it when you come.”
He pulls out of you a little before sinking back in, and a breathy moan punches its way out of your chest. You cling to his arms, his shoulders, his back, unable to contain everything he’s making you feel.
You’ve never been allowed to show much emotion. It was immature, or annoying, or an inconvenience. But Bucky isn’t scared of your feelings, and he knows better than to stop when you cry. It’s catharsis, a release better than the orgasms, in some ways. Something truly only Bucky could give you.
It’s more intense face to face, when Bucky can watch you and hold you and kiss you as much as he wants. He fucks you—makes love to you, even—with an unspoken understanding that you hadn’t even achieved with your ex after months of dating.
It could all be so simple, if only it wasn’t.
Bucky lifts one of your thighs around him so he can sink in even deeper, the pace of his thrusts more focused on feeling instead of speed. He’s bare inside of you, every curve and ridge of his cock intimately acquainted with your cunt, taking his shape. He breathes hot against your mouth, sharing air, watching your wet eyes and letting both of you feel every second of it.
“Love that you came to me. Knew I’d take care of you,” he kisses the curve of your top lip gently, then the lower one as his fingers twitch in your hair. “Been waitin’. Hoping.”
“Me too,” you breathe. “M’sorry I waited so long.”
Bucky shakes his head. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. Would’ve waited as long s’it took.”
The hitch in your breath gets stolen by Bucky’s tongue as it dips into your mouth again, deep and eager to map out every last inch of you. His hips move a little faster, hand smoothing over the outside of your thigh as he rocks into you with just a bit more force, and the extra momentum makes the head of his cock nudge up against your spot.
Leaning up on his elbow, Bucky reaches down between your bodies, shoving his shirt up over your breasts again for his mouth, tucking his hand between your legs to feel where you’re connected.
“Want you to give me one more, baby. Wanna feel you fall apart around me, huh?” He swirls his tongue around your nipple, sucking it into his mouth. “Gonna get this sweet cunt used to me. Make it all mine.”
His fingers settle on your clit with single-minded determination, but he lacks all of the ignorant, over eager chaos of other hands that have done the same. He’s careful to watch your face for when he finds just the right pressure, the right spot, your body responding to him as your nails dig into his bicep, your ankle at his lower back, your cunt tight like a vice around him.
His cock curves up into you right where you need it, thick and full and soothing the ache just as much as its sure to leave another behind, and his fingers bumping against your already sensitive clit and the top of your opening have you gasping on the sheets as you chase yet another climax.
You let Bucky be your anchor again as the sensation takes you over, your blood humming with the satisfaction of physical connection and long awaited intimacy. He keeps you spread out for him every time you try to shy away, murmurs encouragement and praise into your jaw and lets you cry for him as much as you need.
You go tumbling over the edge for a third time, and every bit of it is slow. The build, the plateau, the shivering rush of lingering aftershocks that leaves you clinging to Bucky not just as an anchor, but as a lifeline.
“Good girl,” Bucky growls, kissing your slack mouth without breaking the pace of his hips. “My girl. So good, honey. Y’okay?”
It takes you a minute but you nod, shakily reaching for his hand on the pillow to press your palms together. “Don’t stop,” you whisper.
Huffing a disbelieving laugh, Bucky squeezes your hand. “Not gonna stop. Drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy.” He turns his mouth into your cheek. “Where d’you want it, sweetheart?”
“Inside,” you tell him.
He falters. “You sure?”
“Please, Bucky.”
With your own body satisfied and thoroughly spent after three orgasms, you’re able to focus on him a little more. You relax as much as you can as his grip goes tight as his noises devolve into nothing but filth and need, hips rutting into you quickly now, a hazy smile on your lips as you wrap an arm around his shoulder. Not people pleasing and holding out until it’s over, but wishing it would last just so you could keep him close to you a little while longer.
This could never have been just a rebound for you, but you still aren’t sure what the future holds. You’ll make the most of what you can get.
So you hold him the way he held you, finding your voice so you can press declarations of your own want into his ear, cradling his roughness with your softness; giving him a place to meet in the middle, just like he’s always been for you.
“C’mon, Bucky,” you murmur, aiming for confident but landing somewhere more like achingly earnest when you add, “wanna feel you come inside me. Make me yours.”
Like you have just as much power over him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, Bucky does.
+
You linger in the afterglow for a long time.
Bucky’s room is nice and cool against your warm skin, the lamplight soft enough to keep you in that hazy headspace for as long as you please. You’re not sure how much time passes, only that you spend it pressed against Bucky, your legs tangled underneath the sheets, one of his hands curved around your hip, the other splayed over your chest to memorize the rhythm of your breathing.
You never find the courage to ask him if this is as much of a novelty for him as it is for you, but you assume it is. Neither of you can seem to stop marveling at the way your bodies fit together, the way it’s easy, the way a piece of him is still leaking out onto your thighs and his fingers as he gathers it up and tucks it back inside of you, desperate to hold on just as much as you are.
The promise of another shower has been made, but you’re having trouble finding the motivation the more you trade lazy kisses back and forth with Bucky. You could fall asleep right here in his arms if he let you, and you’re pretty certain he would, until your phone pings from downstairs, your ringtone cutting through the pleasant silence.
“I’ll get it,” Bucky presses into your mouth, peeling himself away. “We should shower before bed anyway.”
You let him go, albeit a bit reluctantly, and ease yourself into a sit against the headboard while he ventures downstairs, completely nude, to fetch your phone. You can’t help your giddy smile, hiding it behind your hand as you hear him climb the stairs again.
He passes through the doorway, flipping your phone over to hand to you, but his eyes catch on the screen and his expression shifts before he can hide it from you.
“Um.”
You sit up a little more. “What is it?”
“It’s your dad.”
Real life drops back on top of you harder than the rain from outside, a wave of nausea making you slip back against the headboard again. You slide a hand over your face.
“Fuck. I called him earlier, on the way—he’s probably just now seeing it with the time difference.” You struggle to swallow against the knot in your throat. “Fuck. Bucky. What was I thinking? I—”
“Hey, c’mere,” Bucky tosses your phone on the bed, rounding it to sit next to you. He presses a hand to your cheek to get you to look at him and searches your eyes, same as he’s always done to check if you’re okay. “You regret any of what we did?”
“No,” you exhale. “No. I mean, I—I’ve wanted for…a long time.”
“Me too.” He gives you a fraction of a smile, his thumb moving back and forth over your jaw. “It’s been a long night for you. You should text him back so he knows you’re okay, rinse off and try to get some rest, and we’ll talk it all out in the morning. We’ll make a plan. Okay?”
Turning into his palm, you make yourself take a slow breath in, then out. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Bucky.”
“‘Course.” He pulls away and stands, then hesitates. “I can take the guest bed if you want some space.”
Your stomach knots. “Will you stay? I don’t want to be alone.”
Bucky looks at you for a long moment, and you let him. He’s always been able to see through you, and there’s nothing you feel like hiding at the moment. Eventually he returns, pressing his lips to the top of your head and offering you a hand.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You send off a quick text and borrow a toothbrush while he runs the bath, the ensuite filling up with more of that comforting scent you’ve been clinging to all evening. You’re glad for the slight change of plans; you’re not really sure you could stand long enough for a shower anyway.
His tub is large and spacious, leaving plenty of room to encompass both of you without spilling anything over the sides. The warmth of the water feels divine, rippling as you lean back against his chest completely bare for the first time, any lingering remains of tension disappearing among the soapy bubbles.
You feel Bucky’s mouth moving against your temple when he speaks, his hands tracing constellations over your skin underneath the water.
“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll get you back to bed.”
You drift off to the promise, soft and sated in momentary calm.
Somehow, it’s the easiest thing.