Chapter 2
When you had first moved into the Avengers tower, you had gawked at the size of it. They had told you that since there were so many rooms and so few members on the team, you could choose any room you wanted on any floor you wanted.
You had just happened to choose the room on the same floor as Bucky — a floor that the two of you shared alone. It had been one of your worst mistakes. You always seemed to catch him in the corridor and had to awkwardly engage with him.
Tonight is no exception: you regret your previous decision even more. How the fuck were you supposed to avoid him if he literally lived a couple metres away from you? You just couldn’t shake the feeling of his hands all over you, of his tongue down your throat, his chest pressed to yours.
But the panic that's building in your chest is short-lived as you realise that you won't have to deal with any awkward interactions in the corridor. Bucky drops you off at home in silence and before you can even say anything to him, he's reversing the car out of the driveway and speeding away. It makes you sigh but you're happy not to have to deal with him.
You just wish that you could shake him out of your head. When you get to your room, you lean against the door and suck in a deep breath, trying in vain to direct your thoughts to other things.
It doesn't work.
You draw your bottom lip between your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut as his words play through your mind.
For me to fuck you senseless.
You swallow, hands balling up the material of the dress in a vain attempt to ground yourself. “Shit,” you whisper to yourself, crossing over to the bed and laying down. You unstrap the gun from around your thigh and place it on the bedside table, sighs leaving your lips as you remember the feeling of his fingers tracing the soft skin between your thighs.
Are you really going to do this? And for him - of all people - him?
Use your words, doll.
Even in your mind, you can’t escape the gruffness of his accent, how it makes your toes curl. You close your eyes, hand splaying over your lower stomach, reaching down further. You can't just lie here... your body is too needy right now to just ignore it.
You don’t have to even take the dress off, just have to shift it to the side as you slowly stroke your middle finger over your underwear. The lace feels soft and it’s a deep red to match your dress — did he see it? When he had you pinned against the wall, his knee pressing against you — did he see?
You chew your lip as you circle your clothed clit; not nearly enough friction, not nearly enough pressure to alleviate that ache within you. You’ve been aching since he kissed you, the whole car ride home and now finally you were going to take care of it.
You slip your fingers under the waistband of the lace panties, gasping slightly when your fingers trace over your clit. You’re already wet; have been for hours now and you spread that over your yourself, allowing your fingers to circle faster.
You start to think about him doing this to you instead, how much bigger his fingers would be, how good the texture of the callouses on his fingertips would feel. Did he really mean it when he said he would fuck the bratty attitude out of you? You shiver as you think about it.
You sigh as your middle finger circles your entrance, teasing yourself slightly. Is that something you want, doll?
His fingers would be so much better, able to curl and hit places inside of you that you couldn’t reach. You moan when you imagine him doing this to you with his left hand, his metal hand.
You’ve always known that he’s been slightly insecure of it, that he hardly let others see it. But you can only think of how good that cold metal would feel as it soothed over your hot skin, how those fingers would never get tired of curling into you.
You sigh his name as you imagine his lips pressed to the pulse point in your neck, sucking into the soft skin and leaving a bruise that you’d have to cover in the morning, lest the rest of the tower know what you were doing.
“Shit, Shit, Bucky,” the moans tumble from your lips, your eyes squeezing shut. “More, Buck, more.”
You sink your finger all the way in, gasping at the feel of it, hating that it’s not enough — too small and thin to feel full, to feel claimed the way you want to be. But it has to do, you’re too desperate and worked up right now.
You add a second finger, curling both up to hit the spot that has you keening forward, legs spreading wider so that you can reach deeper inside of yourself as you try to fuck your fingers.
“Oh God Bucky, fuck… yes,” your words are breathless, nonsense dripping from your lips as you imagine him rolling your tits in his palms, thumbs rubbing over the nipples. That Brooklyn accent slurring words into your ear could be enough to send you tumbling over the edge and you're startled by how much you want that, want him.
You gasp as your movements become more erratic, desperately trying to satiate that yearning inside of your bones. You ignore the burn in your wrist, pushing past it. You’re almost there… just a little bit more.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper into the dark, “don’t stop, oh Sergeant... feels so good.”
You’re not sure why you said that, it just comes out of your mouth as you lose yourself in your haze. You figure it would turn you on to call him that and it does — you can feel yourself starting to clench around your fingers as your body prepares to start crashing.
“Oh shit,” you moan loudly, “I’m about to cum Sergeant.”
You whisper the title into the air like it's a prayer leaving your lips, chasing that euphoric feeling within you. You're bucking your hips to meet the thrusts of your fingers, eyes scrunched and your free hand balling up the sheets of the bed. You're imagining his lips on your throat, trailing sloppy kisses up to your jaw, large hands spanning over the width of your body. And you're so close to finding that relief that you've been chasing the whole evening, you whine out:
"Sergeant, yes."
“Fuck, doll.”
You scream in fright. Your eyes shoot open and you scream as you catch sight of him standing in the doorway. You tear your hands away from yourself and grab the blanket to pull over your legs, your cheeks HEATING with white-hot embarrassment.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” you’re yelling, hands shaking as you realise that he saw you — that he heard you. God, where’s your gun? You’re going to shoot yourself in the head.
Bucky swallows, looking at you as if you had just slapped him soundly across his face. “You… I…”
”Don’t you knock?” you shriek, pulling more of the blanket over yourself.
“You… I was coming home,” he swallows again through the words, his voice hoarse as he speaks. “I heard… heard you calling for me.”
“Get out!” you scream, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. But you don’t know if it’s because of your ruined orgasm or from the sheer mortification of this whole event.
He opens his mouth to say something but you throw a pillow across the room at him. “I said get out, Bucky!”
He drags his feet as he leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound of it echoes through you, resonates deep in your bones as you sigh and throw yourself back on the bed, eyes facing the ceiling.
God, you fucking hate him.
—
Four days pass where you actively do everything in your power to avoid Bucky. It’s a little tricky considering that both of your rooms are next to each other, but you’re determined to scale the side of the building and climb in through your bedroom window if you have to. (Realistically, you could surely ask Peter to let you cling to his back whilst he does just that.)
For the most part, you do manage to completely avoid him. You know you can’t do it forever but you honestly have no idea how you’re very going to face him again after what he caught you doing. How are you ever going to come back from this?
You slump down on the couch sandwiched between Nat and Wanda; two of your closest friends besides Peter. You haven't told them what happened that night, instead kept it bottled up inside of you and ready to take it to the grave.
"Well, he's invited," Nat says idly, stretching out onto the couch. "So, I suppose we'll meet him tonight."
Shit. You haven't been listening.
"Um... who's coming tonight?" you ask sheepishly.
Wanda scoffs from beside you and pats your shoulder. "You gotta stop daydreaming, honey."
"My personality trait," you shrug. "Who?"
"Some douchebag named John Walker," Nat sighs out. "Some new agent that we're going to work with on a case of mine."
"Why can't you handle it by yourself?" you question, eyebrows raising. "Surely, you're enough to deal with it."
Nat's clearly annoyed by the situation. She sighs and scrubs her face with her hand. "He has a good team of people and apparently they have a lead. I didn't have a choice, Fury just assigned him to my mission."
"I've met him before," Wanda says slowly. "There's just something about him that I don't like."
"So, I'm guessing Steve's the one who invited him to tonight?" you surmise.
"Always the peacemaker, that one," Nat says but she smiles. "Our Captain America... bringing us together and fostering harmony between the team."
You hear the echo of his boots hitting the stairs before you see him enter the kitchen. Sam is with him, chatting to him about something that you just can't be bothered to pay attention to; because you can see that Bucky's just worked out, can see the sweat on his forehead and the way he's tied his hair up into a ponytail to keep it out of his eyes - and that's just far too distracting.
Sam sees the three of you sitting on the couch and greets you all enthusiastically. Bucky, of course, says nothing. Shocker.
He pours coffee into his mug, his muscles accentuated by the tight-fitting black tank that he wears. Sam's back is to you all now, still caught up in the debate he's having with the Sergeant - with Bucky. Fuck, what's wrong with you?
He reaches for something on the top shelf, forcing his shirt to ride up and expose the rock-hard set of abs there. If he’s doing this on purpose, you want to slap him across his face. He doesn’t look up at you once, pretending that you’re not there.
That’s perfectly fine with you.
”Why are you tenser than usual?” Nat asks you, looking at you quizzically.
”I told you,” Wanda chimes in, her eyes shifting to Bucky before she smirks at you. “Something definitely happened on that mission.”
“Did you guys get into a fight or something?” Nat continues her prodding, unobservant to the way you keep stealing glances at Bucky’s bare arms.
“Something like that,” you mutter, annoyance brewing in your blood.
You want to stop talking; you're frightened that that super-soldier hearing can pick up this conversation. The last thing that you need to do is embarrass yourself further.
"I'm gonna go," you say and stand up. Your movement causes his eyes to flash to you now and he watches you over the rim of his coffee cup, nodding along and offering a sentence or two to Sam occasionally. He leans back on the counter, his biceps straining and you swear that he almost smirks. You figure if he's playing a game... you might as well play too, right?
Round one: Fight!
You purposely let your phone slip through your fingers and bend down to pick it up. You let your shirt fall a little so that it shows off your cleavage before you straighten up in a snap. You make sure to let out a contented sigh as you stretch the muscles in your back, pulling your arms back and making sure that your breasts strain against the material of your shirt.
"Bye girls, see you tonight," you say cheerily, starting to leave.
You walk out of the room but manage to conceal the smug grin that threatens to spread through your face. He can pretend all he wants that he's not affected by you, but you noticed how rigid his whole body became and how tightly he started clutching that mug.
K.O.
-
Okay, Wanda wasn't wrong. You fucking hate John too.
He talks throughout dinner, telling you all about his military experience and training. It's boring and you catch Sam and Bucky exchanging judging glances between each other a few times, but they don't say outright anything. Tony doesn't attend; gets Pepper to say that he's too busy with work to step away but you know that he's just taken her out to dinner.
After John starts his fourth story of the night about how he's saved so many people from whatever the fuck, you're ready to drive your steak-knife through your eye by 'accident' as an excuse to leave.
"I mean, you should know all about it right?" John laughs, addressing you by your name. Uhhhhh... why the fuck is he talking to you - and what the fuck is he talking to you about?
Your eyes snap up from your plate and notice that everyone at the table is staring at you, waiting for your response. You swallow a little nervously and Wanda hides her laugh behind a cough.
"I for one, think she fits in just fine," Nat rushes to your defence and you could honestly kiss her.
"Oh, I'm sure she does," John continues and then he shrugs. "But still, as someone with such little ability... it must get a bit daunting to work alongside the Avengers?"
He's laughing as he says it, like it's some big joke - like he's not tactlessly calling you inadequate right to your face.
"Why do you say I have little ability?" you ask, trying to keep the harshness out of your voice as you speak. You clutch your wine glass just a bit tighter.
"Well, I mean," and he laughs again, "everyone here fits the job description a little better than you do, don't you think? They've either been superiorly enhanced, have magical abilities or have built themselves an iron suit to fly around in."
And there it is. The ongoing belief that you don't deserve your place amongst them, that you're too weak or small, or not enough to be here. You've heard it all before, everything he's saying is not anything new. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.
"I have none of those things," Nat argues and her tone is sharp. "Neither does Clint."
"Oh please," John chuckles, still incorrectly under the assumption that he's actually being charming. "Nobody would ever doubt the capabilities of the Black Widow herself and Hawkeye. I'm just saying that-"
"Nobody here is unhappy with her performance on this team."
You freeze as the words leave his mouth. He's barely said two words this whole evening and now he's... he's... defending you.
Bucky sits back in his chair, eyes fixed on John, almost challenging him to say anything else.
Unfortunately, John doesn't interpret the threat correctly and he scrambles to regain his footing in this conversation. "I mean, of course I'm not saying that you guys are - but weren't you just paired with the Winter Soldier on a current mission? It's gotta be intimidating to be with someone who's infamous for being a deadly shot. I couldn't have been the only one who was surprised when he was cleared for duty-"
Your turn.
"Bucky's not the Soldier anymore," you grit. "That wasn't him."
"Of course not, but that doesn't change what he did-"
Crack.
"Fuck!" you shout, shaking your hand as glass sprays everywhere. You were holding the cheap glass so tightly that it actually shattered in your hand, cutting through your flesh. You're not sure if the red stains on the tablecloth are from the red wine you were drinking or if its from your blood. You wince, removing a shard of glass from your palm and stand up to leave the room.
"Shit, are you okay?" Steve asks immediately jumping to your side.
"I'm fine, really," you say quickly, as everyone starts worrying. "Really, it's just a small cut. I'm just going to rinse my hand and I'll be back in a second, don't get up."
You reassure everyone again before you leave the room, clutching at your palm. You're brimming with anger, hands practically trembling with it as you enter the kitchen and lean against the counter. You're just about to turn on the tap and rinse out your hand when you hear a set of footsteps entering the kitchen from behind you.
Before you can even turn around, his chest is pressed to your back and he's snaking one hand around your waist. "Sorry, I just wanted a glass from the cabinet here."
He reaches up from behind you to get a glass, inadvertently pressing your hips into the marble of the kitchen counter as he does it. You know full well that there's already a wine glass sitting on that table that he's been nursing for the whole dinner.
But you're angry, your palm is stinging and you weirdly feel calmer with his large hand around your hip, so you don't move away from him. You actually feel yourself keening into his touch and that's all the invitation that he needs.
He sets the glass down beside your arm, both hands now at your hips as he dips his head down so that his mouth is situated right by your ear.
"Haven't seen you in a while, doll," he says quietly.
You're trying (and failing) to act like he doesn't have such a massive impact on you. "That's because I didn't want to see you."
"Oh, really now," and you can feel him grin against your ear. He reaches forward and wraps his gloved fingers around your wrist, twisting it upwards so he can examine the damage. "Hmm, I think you'll live."
You try to snatch your hand away but he just tightens his hold, preventing you from doing so. He gently squeezes your hip in his other hand in way of offering some comfort. "Don't bother with him, what does he know?"
"Didn't you just say the other day that you thought I should be reassigned?" you mutter and you can't hide the fact that John's words really got to you.
He doesn't reply for a moment, just reaches forward and turns on the tap. He holds your hand under the water and you wince again as the stinging intensifies.
"Yes, but not because I thought you weren't capable of the job," he murmurs, breath hot on your neck. "But because you don't fucking listen."
He finishes rinsing out your hand, switches off the water and lets it go, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear.
"But one day," and his voice is impossibly soft as he speaks - so soft that you almost have to strain to hear him. "One day, I'm going to put you on your knees and make you."
And suddenly the pain in your palm dissipates into nothing, the ache moving from your palm and down to between your legs.
"Why- why would you want to?" you choke out, your hands clutching at the edge of the counter in a vain attempt at grounding yourself.
"Sweetheart," he whispers to you. "I haven't been able to get the image of you writhing on your fingers out of my head. I had to make myself cum three times that night just to calm down enough to go to sleep."
And you can't help the soft sigh that leaves your lips at those words, the idea of him fucking his hand to the thought of you is driving you a little wild whilst you're caged in his arms like this.
"At least one of us got to," you tell him and you're not sure why you're confessing this to him, but you so badly want to see his reaction to those words.
It's almost instant, he's pinning your hips to the counter with his own, pressing your back flush against his chest. His fingers card into your hair and he pulls your head up, so that it's resting on his shoulder. You stifle the whine that wants to rise out of your throat.
"All you have to do is ask me, love," he tells you. "I'll give you whatever you want."
He's off of you in a split-second, already on his way out the door. He stops in his tracks as if he's rethought something and turns back to you.
"Thanks for coming to my rescue back there. But I've made peace with the fact that people still call me the Winter Soldier."
He grins then, all teeth and mischief and you already know he's going to tease you. "I must say that I definitely appreciate being called Sergeant though."
He winks at you as he leaves.
-
When Peter invites you to go to a club with him and a few friends from his university, you don't say no. In fact, it's an excuse for you to wear the short, black skirt that Nat had bought for you a while ago. It feels nice to do your makeup and dress up a little and after last night, you could really let off some steam.
You don't time your exit well though; just as you open your room door to leave, you run into Bucky in the corridor. His eyes go wide when he sees you and he stops in his tracks.
"What the fuck are you wearing?" he asks you harshly.
"What?" you say and look down, inspecting your outfit. "It's cute. Don't act your real age, Barnes."
"It's short," he comments, eyes raking over the skin of your legs. "Every asshole where you're going is going to stare at you."
You shrug, "maybe I'm okay with that."
You move to walk past him, but he grabs your bicep and pins you to the wall. His hand comes to rest on the wall right beside your head; he's caging you in between his arms again and it's making your head swim with want.
"Maybe, I'm not."
Holy Shit. He is jealous.
"What are you going to do about it?" you goad him, lips quirking up into a smile.
"You're such a fucking brat." But his eyes flick to your lips and you know you've won.
"If you want something," you smirk, repeating his own words back to him. "Just ask for it."
That's enough to do him in; he crashes his mouth to yours and you crumple into his arms. Your fingers twist through his hair, his arms wrapping around your waist tightly and expelling the space between your bodies.
You pull away with a struggle, only to say -
"Didn't ask for anything."
"I'm not asking," he says in irritation. "I'm telling you."
"Telling me what?" You just can't help from teasing him.
He cups your jaw with his hand, tilting your face into his. "That I want you. Now."
His hands move to the back of your thighs and he abruptly lifts you up, supporting your weight in his arms. Your legs curl around his hips, sighing against his mouth whilst you ignore the fact that your skirt has really ridden up.
He pulls away and his voice is firm as he instructs, "tell them you're not coming. Something came up."
You scoff at him. Did he really think he was going to throw your whole evening away for him? "And tell them what? Pete's waiting for me."
"Tell them you're busy or sick or whatever, I don't fucking care."
"Buck, I'm not-"
"You can either go and inevitably get bored like you always do," he starts, bringing his mouth close to yours whilst his eyes pierce into you. "Or I can make you cum on my tongue."
And just like that, you're melting in his arms and just nodding along. You want that so bad. You've been frustrated for days and you just know this will quell the ache between your legs.
"Yes," you utter, "okay, yes."
"There's a good girl," he whispers to you and carries you towards his room, kicking the door open as his mouth reattaches itself to yours.
He tosses you on the bed, pulling your legs so that they dangle off the edge. He leaves a trail of kisses down your neck and you're sighing into his touch and wanting his hands all over you. It's when he kneels between your legs that you can't help but moan at the sight of it. You can't believe that bringing this hulking man to his knees before you would turn you on so much but your cunt is throbbing.
You hastily remove his gloves, throw them across the room and bite your lip when his bare hand skims over your thigh.
"Can't believe you're wearing this," he murmurs kissing down your neck, "and that you thought I was going to just let you walk away in it."
"It's a cute skirt," you defend, breathless as he hikes it up to your hip.
"Mmm, my new favourite one of yours," he hums. He dips his head to press a kiss to the soft skin of the inside of your thighs and your hands are balling up the blankets. You silently thank the heavens that you decided to wear your black silk panties tonight.
He strokes a finger along you through your underwear and you sigh as he sucks bruises into the flesh of your thighs. "Oh sweetheart, so wet for me already and I've barely touched you."
And your cheeks heat at the fact that he knows that you're soaking through your underwear, that you can't hide how much you want him.
So, since he already knows - you decide to just tell him.
"Buck," you mumble, breath staggering as he speeds up the way his finger is moving along you. "Need you, Buck. Please."
He smirks at you in triumph, but he thankfully doesn't tease you anymore. Instead, he slips his fingers under your underwear and pulls it down, bending your knees so that he can slide it off your legs and toss it away. He wastes no time and thumbs your clit, making you gasp out loud.
"I thought you were going to put me on my knees," you tease him.
"Oh, I still will," he promises and he shuts you up in an instant when he buries his face between your legs. You moan as he sucks at your clit, lifting your leg over his shoulder so that you're spread out wider for him. You try to squirm away from him; it's so good but too much but he doesn't let you move even an inch. His left hand holds you down by your stomach as he practically devours you like you're a feast.
And you're keening when you feel his finger tease at your entrance, his tongue licking at your clit still. He pulls away and sits back on his haunches as he looks up at you, chin gleaming from your wetness. He circles his finger around, testing to see how needy your reaction would be.
"Taste so fucking good, doll," he praises, "I should've eaten this sweet cunt months ago."
His filthy words have you moaning, even more so when he sinks his finger into you. You were right; he's so much bigger and it's so much better. Just one of his fingers feels so good, so full and you can't even fathom how you'll stretch over his cock.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he whispers but it's more like he's whispering it to himself. Before you can respond, he's curling his finger into you and his tongue is lapping at you again.
You're suddenly so grateful that the two of you are the only ones on this floor because you just know you're loud. You can't help it; the feel of his tongue licking its way into you is just pure sin. You gasp as he removes his tongue and replaces it with two of his fingers instead, hitting spots in you that you can't reach yourself. It has stars blooming in your vision and your fingers are pulling at his hair, can't stop yourself from bucking your hips into his face.
You actually feel him grin against your clit, smirking as he undoes you in the most delicious way possible. You can feel yourself reaching the peak, can feel the tension building in your core. If he just keeps hitting at just that right angle-
“Uh uh,” he chides, “not yet, doll.”
He removes his mouth and his fingers from your cunt and you practically whine. "I know I said I'd make you cum on my tongue, but God baby, don't you wanna come around my cock instead?"
But you can’t stop yourself; even though he pulls away, you’re so turned on and so sensitive that you can feel your body rocketing toward a soft, shivery orgasm. You bite your lip and tense, trying not to sigh or do anything that might give you away.
But you know from the way his expression darkens and the way that he licks his lips that he already knows. Knows that your cunt is involuntarily fluttering around nothing right now, knows even though you’re trying to conceal it that your breath is coming out harder and faster. His eyes linger on your cunt before he flicks his gaze up to you eyes.
“Ah doll,” he whispers to you, gentle fingers stroking over your knee, up your stomach and between your clothed breasts until they softly settle around your throat. “And here I was, thinking you were going to be a — my — good girl.”
He applies only a little bit of pressure to your throat before he withdraws his touch completely. You want to whine at that, want to pull him closer to you but he situates himself at the top of the bed, back leaning against the headboard.
“You know I’m going to have to punish you now, right honey?” and his voice is smooth as velvet as he speaks to you — like he’s not saying the filthiest things. “Come here.”
You crawl over to him on the bed, stopping as he spreads his thick thighs and gestures for you to lie down over them. You swallow nervously, knowing exactly what type of punishment this is going to be.
“You’re going to count for me,” he purrs to you, “when we get to ten we can stop — depending on how well I think you’ve learnt your lesson.”
From the position of it all, he’ll support you with his left arm and use his right to deliver the blows. You swallow again, trying to work up the courage to say what you want.
He’s impatient with your hesitation. “Now, doll. Or I’ll make it twenty and ensure that you can’t sit down for the next week.”
“Left hand,” you whisper out, your cheeks stinging from the embarrassment. “Want your left hand.”
His eyebrows raise at you in surprise and the metal fingers of his left hand clench in surprise. He’s gentler with his tone now as he says, “it’ll hurt more.”
You don’t say anything — can’t because you feel so self-conscious about this. Can’t tell him that you want it to hurt, that you want it to leave bruises that’ll remind you of this in the morning, that you want the cool metal to soothe your stinging flesh.
You just stare at him and he chuckles after a while. “Come here then.”
You situate yourself over his lap, sighing contently as he strokes a hand up the back of your thighs, hikes your skirt up and exposes your ass to the air. You don't even have time to feel self-conscious as he lazily strokes a finger through your dripping folds. He works you up just to the edge, makes you writhe in his lap before he stops and withdraws his touch completely.
When he brings his hand down against you, you can’t help but cry out, face burying into the sheets. Bucky immediately tenses under you, thinking he’s hurt you. He’s about to remove you from his lap and kiss his way up your entire body as he asks for your forgiveness, chiding you that he knew his left hand would be too much, that you couldn't handle it — but you just lift your face and whimper out:
”One.”