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It’s one of the hottest summer’s on record in the city of Bucharest. The sun is unforgiving, and even your small sundress feels like one layer too much.
You swipe at your damp brow as the tourists drift by your small stall of fruits, each picked from the trees of your mother’s back garden. Plums that blushed dark violet and plump fuzzy peaches that tempted even the pickiest of children.
The radio was playing its usual forecast of spotless skies and unending heat as you began to fan yourself with a folded up newspaper. A couple appeared at the edge of your stall, giggling as they spoke to one another in American accents. The woman patted the man’s arm as he said something teasing about the peach she was fondling and he looked at her with so much warmth that your heart swelled with longing.
“How much are these?” The woman asked, her smile full of new love as her wedding ring glimmered in the sunlight. Ah, newlyweds, you thought.
“How many were you looking at?” You responded, watching as their faces lit up at the familiar language.
A small shiver ran up your spine then, creeping up along the back of your neck and into your hairline. It felt like someone was watching you. You cupped a hand over the back of your neck as you looked past the couple, scanning the crowd. They settled briefly on a man dressed in clothes too dark for the weather — too covered.
He was watching you.
“Excuse me?” You checked back into the conversation you were having with the tourists as they followed your gaze curiously. You blushed slightly and finished up the transaction, watching as they finally retreated into the warm cobblestone streets. By the time you looked back to the man, he was gone.
Your eyes searched for him in the crowd.
“Cât costă?” How much?
You almost jump out of your skin at the voice, deep and gravelly like it was only just growing accustomed to being used. Your hand fell to your chest, covering your thumping heart as you laughed nervously. It was only a moment after the scare that you realized it was the same man that had been watching you moments ago.
His hair was dark and long, hidden behind a beat up baseball cap. Up close, you could see the gloves that covered both of his hands as he looked down at the pair of plums he had picked out. He raised his eyes to look at you — stormy blue and pretty as hell — and you couldn’t help but blush. Had he known you had caught him staring?
“S-sorry,” you stammered out in English before quickly correcting yourself in Romanian.
“It’s okay,” He said softly, switching to English with ease. His eyes only raising to look at you as he set the plums down on the small countertop, “Just the two.”
You don’t know why, but his presence makes you oddly nervous. Something in the set of his shoulders and the way he keeps his head low. A meek laugh leaves your lips as you bag up the plums. “American?”
He doesn’t respond at first and you begin to wonder if you shouldn’t have even asked.
“Something like that.”
Okay, maybe you really shouldn’t have asked.
“My aunt’s from Brooklyn. Well, not exactly from,” you blurt out before you could catch the words in your throat. You notice his ears seem to perk up at the words and you wonder if maybe he’s familiar with the place that was totally foreign to you, “Never been though.”
You offered the bag back but he didn’t make a move to take it. You looked up to meet his gaze and felt your breath catch briefly in your throat. He was staring dead at you now, his gaze conflicted and searching your face’s features. Your cheeks bloomed red as your outstretched hand hesitated. You felt like he had you under a microscope, shining sun rays down as you squirmed in the blooming heat. You swallowed and his eyes caught the movement of your throat.
You jumped again when he dropped a handful of change onto the counter and took the bag. You barely caught his ‘thank you’ as he disappeared back into the busy streets.
Sweat slipped down the back of your neck and you shivered again.
—
Night comes slow and it brings a welcomed reprieve from the heat of the day.
Warm yellow streetlights dot the pathways as you pack up the crates of unsold fruit. You hadn’t meant to be leaving this late, and although you usually felt no fear walking the city streets late at night, something about today’s encounter with the strange man made the dark corners of the city seem a little more sinister.
You wipe your sweaty palms on the skirt of your sundress before grabbing one of the peach crates, lifting it to the rolling trolley with the rest. A sharp crack echoed through the half-empty street, followed by the soft thuds of the fruits hitting the paved walkway.
You cursed in Romanian as you dropped down to save what few hadn’t gone rolling away, tossing aside the broken crate with a frustrated sigh. Just your luck. You reached for one as it began bobbled down the street and stopped at the toe of a man’s boot.
You drew your hand back slowly as your eyes followed the boot upwards. For a moment, you worried it might be that strange man again. But your gaze settled on something worse.
“Hey,” the man smirked; familiar and shit-eating and your mood went from sour to fully rotten, “Thought I’d find you out here. Still doing the fruit stall beat? How’s that working out for you?”
You slowly rose from your lowered position, dusting the grit from your knees, “Better than being your wife did.”
His smirk fell slightly as he fixed you with a small glare. He kicked aside the soft peach, letting it roll down into a storm drain as its flesh burst open at its mistreatment. You couldn’t help but find the irony in it.
You planted yourself to the ground as he stepped forward, closing the space between the two of you. You refused to step back even if every internal failsafe of your body was begging you not to stand up for yourself. He might have been able to frighten the young, naïve nineteen year old runaway, but not the grown woman that stood before him.
His glare slowly softened as his eyes roamed over your face, pausing a moment on your lips before drifting back up to your eyes. Your heart thumped hollowly in your chest.
“I miss you,” he said lowly, his hand reaching out to push a strand of your hair behind your ear. His hand lingered at the curve of your neck and the familiar tenderness of the moment finally forced you to step away from him.
“Don’t—”
You barely managed to finish your sentence as his hand suddenly dug into your hair, grasping hard at the roots. You yelp at the force of him as your hand reaches back to grasp at his wrist. He sees the tears finally breaking through your hardened facade and knows he has not left your system — not yet. There were still chinks in your armour; finger-shaped grooves for him to pry wide open.
“I know you miss me too, doll,” he purred low, sliding his free arm around your waist. You felt his palm slipping down over the curve of your backside as the hem of your skirt threatened to hitch too high. Your stomach curdled as you stared up at him, terror living in your eyes, “Say you miss me too. Say it.”
A shadow shifts behind him and your eyes move past his face.
It’s the man again.
“Help me!”
The request barely leaves your lips before your the man finds himself getting hauled off his feet and thrown backwards into a short ledge dividing the street and a walking bridge. The force of his removal sends you scattering to the town’s cobbled road. You swear he ripped out some of your hair, judging by the way your skull throbs, but it’s the burning pain that shoots up your skinned knee and the palm of your hand that gets most of your attention.
“Get the hell off of me, man!”
Your head shoots up in time to catch the dark haired man gather the front of your ex’s shirt and lift him from the ground. Your eyes fix on his left hand. Gloveless and covered in glimmering steel.
The stranger lets out a vicious growl as he slams the man back down into the ground. Your ex coughs raggedly as it knocks the wind from him.
“Stay away from her,” the man warns, raising his metal fist as your former lover’s eyes round with fear.
You had never seen him scared before. In all the years he had spent putting fear in your heart, you had never once seen the same emotion flicker over his face.
A smile pulled at the corner of your lips.
You may be a hopeless romantic, but karma was your second favorite wonder of the world.
The stranger drove his fist into the ledge and it crumbled like nothing beside your lover’s head. The man gasped in terrified realization that his head could have easily been the one thing between that fist and the stone.
He’s on his feet and running the moment the stranger lets him go.
You stare quietly as the strange man straightens his stance and looks at you from over his shoulder. Your heart hammers in your chest, watching as he slowly picks up a fallen fruit from the floor before walking over to you. He offers you his right hand, but your eyes stay on the left hand’s silver fingers as they wrap around your peach.
Slowly, you take his flesh hand. It’s warm and rough and for some odd reason you wish to hold onto it a little longer.
“Were you waiting for me or something?” You asked, your eyes finally focusing on his face. A soft layer of stubble and plush pink lips that made him look even more handsome this close up.
His jaw clenched as he looked away. He didn’t want to lie, but the choice of telling the truth was a non-option.
“I saw him lurking. Got suspicious,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder in such a way that you wondered if he had been looking over his shoulder for more than just entitled exes and pretty dames in need of saving. “Who is he?”
You sighed softly as you looked down at your bleeding palm, hoping briefly that you hadn’t gotten any blood on him when he helped you up. “Ex,” you mumbled, stepping away to get back to picking up the fallen peaches, “Ex-husband.”
The man falls quiet as he begins helping you pick up the fruits.
—
You didn’t expect him to walk you home.
Hell, you had been wary to even let him see where you lived.
The walk had been a long one and he had offered to take the trolley of fruit crates that often gave your arms quite a work out while trying to navigate the pebbled streets. You didn’t mind, granted that your knee ebbed with enough pain to put a small limp in your step.
He didn’t speak much, and when he did it was to offer small commentary. His voice grew in confidence along the way and you noticed the small expressions that occasionally flitted across his face when you tempted him with a light joke.
He told you his name was Bucky and it made you smile. You repeated it and he liked the way it sounded on your mixed accented tongue. He wanted to hear you say it more — to hear it fall from your lips in every context imaginable.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and blushed when he caught you looking at his hand. You didn’t ask, but he told you anyway.
“Car accident.”
Something told you that he was lying but you didn’t press any further. You looked down at the untarnished peach you had torn into and slipped another wedge into your mouth.
“Sorry,” you offered, inwardly cringing at the thought that you had forced him to relive a painful memory. You knew what that was like, to be triggered, and you hated the thought of having done that to him, “Don’t feel obliged to humor me—”
“It’s okay,” Bucky interjected, his tone almost deadpan, “You should see the other guy.”
It took a moment to register that he had just told a joke.
You laughed, quickly covering your mouth to hide the half chewed peach that you almost choked on. Bucky couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his lips as he turned his head to watch you giggle.
“I’m sorry—” you paused to swallow before returning to a smaller fit of laughter, “That’s a terrible joke, Bucky. Teribil!”
The light in your eyes was bright and warm and when you raised your thumb to your mouth to lick the juice of the peach from it Bucky couldn’t help but consider this entire thing completly kismet.
Maybe it was naïve of you, but when you finally got to the alley gate that lead up from a bakery and into your apartment, you agreed to let him help you take the crates back up.
You’d be lying if you said that you weren’t intrigued with the way he hauled them up two at a time; barely breaking a sweat even in the lingering warmth of the night. You, on the other hand, were fanning yourself lightly with a discarded magazine as you began opening up most of the windows of the apartment to let some fresh air come in.
Bucky set down the final crate, pausing in your doorway as he looked around the small home. It wasn’t much, but it felt… homey. His eyes moved over the space before landing on your figure as you leaned over a couch, attempting to jostle open a stubborn window. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat as he watched the teasing sway of your sundress as it brushed against the back of your thigh, tempting him with the thoughts of what lay just inches beneath.
He thought of the way that man — ex-husband — grabbed your ass like he fucking owned it.
Bucky flexed his fist at his side briefly, regaining his composure as he approached. He noticed that you were holding onto the half-eaten peach between your teeth and he had to fix his gaze on the window to avoid staring at the plump cushion of your lips molding around the perimeter of the fruit. “Need a hand?”
You open your mouth and let the fruit drop into your waiting palm, wincing slightly as you looked down at the fresh blood that began to pool again on the other hand you had just been using to pry at the window.
“The blasted thing’s stuck again,” you mumbled as you shift to the side and allow him to shove against the frame. Your eyes momentarily fix on his metal arm again. You could hear its soft whirring, all the way from his fingers to the cusp of his shoulder, when you stood this close. It must take up the entire span of his arm.
The window popped open with a creaky whine of protest.
“Thank you,” you smiled slightly, quickly averting your gaze in hopes to not be caught staring again, “You’re pretty good with your hands.”
You cringe immediately at the freudian slip, your brows furrowing with timid embarrassment as the man raises a brow at you. His lips are arched in a small half smile and you realize he’s standing awfully close.
“They’re better at other things too,” he says and you swear his voice has lowered an octave or two.
Bucky knows all the things his arm is good at. Murder was at the top of that list. But with you, he tries to think of the softer things that he could manage — soft, like the peaches and plums that he could test without crushing completely.
He reaches for your hand and you fight the instinct to draw back. It’s your turn to swallow at the dryness in your throat as your cheeks grow splotchy and red and warm, “Wh-what?”
The man turns your hand over to expose the raw cuts that criss cross over the natural lines of your palm, “I can wrap these for you,” he glances up at you and sees the embarrassment grow there, “They’re not deep, but a wound doesn’t need to be deep for an infection to get in. Is there a first aid kit?”
He could tell by the look on your face that you had been thinking of something else. Bucky smiled inwardly — it was okay. He had been thinking of the same thing too.
—
You begin to think that maybe you should have just risked the infection when the man presses an alcohol soaked paper towel directly over your grated knee.
Kneeling on the ground before you, Bucky feels your leg stiffen in his hands as you fight down the small whimpers of pain, your hands wrenching tight in the couch’s cushions. He tries to ignore the way your skirt bunches up, or the way your thighs tremble in his grasp as he lifts your knee higher.
He was used to pain — but there’s something about the way you took it that works into his brain; insidious and delightful all at the same time. You took it like you deserved it. Like it was familiar.
Your head drops as you curse quietly, too polite to be too vulgar in front of guests. Bucky presses the alcohol pad in a little harder and feels your toes curl against the flat of his thigh as you gasp at the splendidness of the pain.
“I should have warned you it would hurt,” he offered softly.
You grit your teeth slightly as a forced laugh trembles on your lips, “I’m used to it.”
The words are loaded with meaning and something tells Bucky that you’re not talking about the alcohol’s sting.
You’re so distracted by the ache that you hardly register the cool touch of his metal hand as it cups the soft flesh beneath your outstretched thigh. His fingers squeeze gently as he raises his gaze to your face.
You’re looking right at him.
Your brows are tense with pain and something else. Something quietly primal and aching. There are tears there, Bucky can see them glistening, but he doesn’t think you’re upset.
You don’t stop him.
Bucky slips his hand further up your thigh and he wonders if he’s imagining the small movement of your knees parting further for him. Your glassy eyes stare down at him and your teeth are holding your lower lip captive, your mouth and cheeks blushed warm with the soft heat of city.
He squishes the pad again, letting the alcohol well under his fingers as he keeps your gaze. Your toes curl harder on the material of his jeans and the moan that echoes in your chest hits him straight in the groin.
Bucky sinks his metal arm between your fevered, trembling thighs, and you bloom for him. It must have been an entire lifetime since Bucky had entertained the warmth of a woman — but as he drops the paper towel and feels the soft dampness pooling against the crotch of your panties, it comes back to him with the familiarity of riding a bike and all the hunger of a thousand starving beasts.
Your head falls back against the couch as he cups your covered pussy in his metal hand. It’s cold and hard and doesn’t offer the soft warmth of skin, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t gentle. The heel of his palm presses down, grinding against your clit through the material of your panties, and you swear you feel him tighten his grip around the crook of your knee as your legs threaten to clamp shut with pleasure.
His fingers press against the resistant material of your panties, searching out the hardened nub of your clit, and you’re moaning for him, stammering his name into the warm breeze billowing through your curtains.
Your thighs are soft and he thinks of the peach you held between your lips. He presses his mouth against your thigh and bites.
Your body jolts and your pussy clenches hard around nothing and you think you might just die with his mouth on your thigh if you don’t get your panties off now.
Bucky looks up at you as your hands begin to hitch up the material of your sundress — the creamy off-white one with buttons down the front — the one that he thought you looked so pretty in while flitting around your fruit stall to fuss over customers. His eyes only lowered as you raised your bottom to shove down your panties.
Peach pink. He chuckles to himself as he hooks his fingers through the rolled elastic and drags them over your legs. He didn’t think you saw him when he slipped them into his back pocket.
He doesn’t waste a second as his hand disappears between your legs again, cold metal fingers dragging through your slick folds and trailing your wetness over your clit. He presses and rubs and holds your leg firmly open as you preen prettily in his grasp.
He slips his hand lower, impaling you on his fingers.
For a moment, he swears he feels the tightness of you and the warm velvet drag of your walls around the cool metal. He knows it’s just a trick of his brain — an inability to fully process the prosthetic as anything other than his own arm — but god, he swears he feels it even if the view is half obscured by your dress’ hem.
“B-bucky…” you whine needfully, squirming your hips against his fingers. He’s fucking them into you slow, curling them against every soft spot of you. His fingers are thick and you feel the stretch deep inside your cunt.
His cock’s pressing painfully against the front of his jeans and the sound of his name on your tongue while you fuck yourself on his fingers makes him wonder just how much self-control HYDRA had graciously left in him. “Bucky… harder.”
It’s all the permission he needs.
You squeak as he yanks your leg over his shoulder and slots his mouth against your cunt. Your hands fly to his shoulders as his tongue rolls against your throbbing clit. His mouth is hot and humid and his fingers are cold and foreign and you cry out at the pleasure of both.
You press your heel against the back of his shoulder as he curls his tongue against that bundle of nerves and you swear the entire room tilts on its axis. Your palm stings behind its bandages as you drag your hands through this stranger’s hair and urge him forward.
His free hand moves down your thigh, finding the knee that’s hooked over his right shoulder. He squeezes hard over your raw cuts and you come so hard you see fucking stars.
The pain of it and the pleasure of him choke in your throat as your scream catches on your exhale.
Bucky draws your over sensitive clit into his mouth and you tug his hair hard, earning a soft growl from him as he digs his fingers against your wounded knee again. You can feel the warm trickle of blood before it dries on your skin.
He’s looking up at you from the apex of your shaking thighs and you can’t help the small mischievous smirk that crosses your lips.
You like this, Bucky realizes.
You like the pain.
And you take it even better when it comes from him.
Bucky offers one last thrust of his fingers, catching that delicious spot that makes your determined expression falter back to shy pleasure, before drawing away. His stubble glistens with your cum.
You reach for his face, ignoring the slight tremble of your hand, and drag your thumb over his pink lips. Bucky stares at you, enthralled as you raise that thumb and slip it past your lips, tasting yourself with the same enjoyment as you had tasted the peach.
His eyes darken as he watches you pop your thumb from your mouth, a thin trail of saliva following the digit.
The next moment he’s dragging you down from the couch and into his lap and he can’t seem to get his belt undone fast enough as you press your lips against him hard. Your mouth is peaches and plums and every delicious thing he had been denied of for decades.
You moan pretty and filthy things when he rips down the sleeve of your dress and catches the breast that spills out in his firm grip. He pinches your nipple hard and you pull his hair harder.
He’s leaving bruises and his stubble scratches rough welts over the delicate softness of your skin but this is how you like it.
You begin to shove his sweater from his body but he grabs your wrist hard enough to give you pause.
“It’s not pretty under there,” he warns and it takes a moment for the words to register in your head that he’s talking about his prosthetic. There’s a wary note in his voice, and it doesn’t necessarily strike you as self-consciousness. It’s vulnerable and when he searches your eyes with his own, you think he’s looking for any signs of rejection on your face.
You try to slow your breathing as you reach up to cup his jaw, liking the soft scratch of his facial hair when you rub your thumb over his skin.
“Neither here,” you say softly, brushing your thumb over his mouth before kissing him again.
For a moment, Bucky doesn’t understand what you mean until he feels you grasp his flesh hand and drag it down between your thighs. You moan against his mouth and he thinks you want him to touch you again, but you direct his fingertips over a puckered circular scar on the inner meat of your thigh. It’s a familiar scar.
He has several of them on the inner portion of his regular arm from the guards putting cigarettes out on his flesh to gauge his reaction. To see if the Winter Soldier was really as unfeeling as the legends say.
He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed it earlier. He looks up at you as you draw your lips away from his. Your eyes are still closed as you press your forehead against his. You move his hand over the curve of your stomach and he feels another cigarette burn, he reckons a cigar caused this one judging by the circumference.
These aren’t remnants of rough play in the bedroom. These scars are wicked, cruel in their intent to damage the woman that sat in his lap.
His heart burns and his jaw clenches, “Who did this to you?”
You finally open your eyes and find those stormy eyes staring at you, so full of all the familiar things — anger, rage, and on and on. Your eyes are softer.
“Who did it to you?” You question, your words soft but pointed.
Bucky pursed his lips and knew your answer in his own response.
His lips found yours again, his kiss rough and urgent and you moaned for him again as your hips pressed against the rough material of his jeans. Bucky looped his metal arm around your waist and flipped you down onto the threadbare rug below.
He pulled back to peel off his sweater and your eyes immediately fell to the full length of his arm. You licked your lips slowly as it flexed smoothly, your eyes following the arching bicep of it until the thick band of furious scarring melded between flesh and metal.
“Touch me,” you begged softly, reaching for that metal arm and bringing it down to the rest of your tattered dress.
Bucky tore it open, the force of him jostling your body forward until he had you fully exposed and vulnerable beneath him.
There were more scars, many faded down to the thin ghostly remnants of past wounds.
He didn’t stop to stare as he tugged down his jeans just enough for the thick length of his cock to spring free, hard enough to curve upwards against his stomach. Your eyes widened slightly at the sight of him.
If there was anything more impressive than the metal arm, it was most certainly that.
Bucky smirked slightly at your response, hitching your thighs wide open against his sides. His cock brushes against the soft skin of your stomach and he groans at the feeling, lowering his gaze between you to note the way his pre-cum smears over your belly. It’s a filthy thing but he can’t help but ache at the thought of his seed staining your skin, of you taking it on your body and letting him mark you that way.
Bucky is not slow when he takes himself in his metal hand and guides himself into your cunt. You’re hot and tight and you whimper at the unforgiving stretch that burns through you as he forces himself through the clench of your walls. He doesn’t take his eyes off the obscene sight; not until he’s nestled so deep that you sob out his name into the hazy warmth of the night.
Your pussy tightens hard around him and Bucky almost falters at the sensation, an errant grunt echoing in his chest.
Your thighs shake around him as he begins to move despite the small protest of your walls. You can’t fathom the words you’re babbling as he draws back and sinks into you with a decisive thrust, your back sliding rough against the rug and you know the familiar sear of rug burn as it rubs hot against your exposed skin.
His fingers dig into your hips as he guides you against him. His metal fingers bite into your hipbone and you know the bruises from it will be splendid come tomorrow.
Bucky watches the way your head falls back against the floor as the muscles of your throat contract and shift under the exposed length of your neck. He can’t tear his eyes away as you sink your hand down to where he’s fucking your blushed pink cunt and drag your trembling fingers across your clit.
The noise he makes above you is deep and hungry as he catches your wrist in his inhuman grip and pins your arms down beside your head. You don’t know if he means to hold you so hard but you wince as the small bones of your wrist shift together under his fingers.
Your cunt clenches down on his cock and you swear to the stars that you feel him in your belly with how hard he’s fucking into your body.
“Harder,” you grunt out, feeling the small rush of wetness that pools between your thighs at his forceful restraint, “Pl-please, Bucky!”
His mouth finds your shoulder and he bites you hard as he drags his body over your smaller frame, caging you in with every rut of his hips. Every thrust jerks your moans into choppy little noises as he releases your wrists to wrap the fingers of his metal hand around the delicate cusp of your neck.
He squeezes and your legs close around his hips. He can feel the way your pussy tightens greedily around his length as he holds your head down against the hardwood. He hears the unbecoming squeaks that eek out of your constricted throat as he drives himself into the warmth of your body as though he wishes to forever cement himself there.
He doesn’t speak when he fucks you, and when your body suddenly comes to life with a flurry of squeals and squirms, his only response is to kiss your open mouth and swallow the noises you make for him. His hair falls against his face and tickles your cheeks as you whimper breathlessly against his lips.
You’re coming and he can feel it.
Your walls grasp at him as he draws back and hits you deep, his hips pinning yours to the ground as he suddenly grinds himself against your fluttering walls. You can feel him nudging against the base of your cervix and it hurts but, god, your eyes roll back and you choke on your scream as you come hard on his cock.
His hips stutter against yours and his fingers bite into the sides of your neck as he spills his seed deep inside your fluttering heat. His hand finally releases from your neck and he hears the way your airy gasps devolve into soft whimpers.
He cups your face between both hands and crushes his lips against yours hungrily. His tongue drags across yours and you taste like citrus and he tastes like you.
Your thoughts float back slowly as you realize Bucky hasn’t stopped grinding his hips into you. Your brows furrow as you feel him inside you — still hard as hell and twitching with his orgasm.
Bucky’s almost as amazed as you are.
He can’t remember things being like this before HYDRA — before the experiments.
Your chest heaves with your breaths as he slowly begins to thrust into you again, his head dropping down against your shoulder as he savors the way your cunt nurses around his girth.
“J-Jesus,” you mewl, your thighs already tight and aching from being pressed open by his hips. Your body is sweaty and the skin of your stomach is beginning to stick to him with every heavy breath.
“Can you go again?” Bucky’s voice startles you slightly. It’s gruff and breathless and his hips are already moving against you before you can fully register the implications of his question.
You begin to wonder how depraved you really were when you shakily nod, your voice high and trembling with nervous excitement, “Y-yeah.”
“Good.”
You squeak with surprise as he draws himself from between your legs and flips you over with enough ease that the only thing you can do is catch yourself on your hands and knees when he lets you go. You blush at the sudden awareness of his cum, slippery and thick as it smears against your thighs. You don’t think on it long as his hands grasp at your hips and he enters you again before you can fully register the new position.
He fills you differently at this new angle and you whine low and needy as your head drops forward with exhaustion. He pulls your head back up when he wraps your hair in the cool metal of his fist and tugs hard. You moan and your pussy pulses as your head arches back to quell the tension.
Bucky pauses at the sight of a small tattoo that sits on your left shoulder blade.
A name.
He thinks of that man in the bazaar. His hands in your hair, just like Bucky’s was now. His hands holding you like you meant something to him.
Bucky grit his teeth at the thought of him taking you the way he was taking you now and he began to thrust into you with purpose. He heard the surprised noises that exclaimed from your throat as his hips smacked obscenely against your ass, his cock battering your already spent pussy.
He wanted to be the only one you think of. The only one your body remembers.
Bucky’s hand grasps the crook of your arm as he pulls you back to meet his thrusts, forcing you to carry your weight on your knees. It hurts, and the cuts on your skinned knees scream in protest, but he’s fucking you even deeper than before and you know you’re already dangerously close to coming again.
Somewhere on the coffee table your phone begins to ring. You can’t see the screen from your current position, but Bucky can. There’s an image to the name and he recognizes it with ease. He knows it because it’s the face he almost crushed under his fist mere hours earlier.
You feel the man behind you arch over you for a moment and you figure he’s declined the call for you.
You can’t think much of it — not with the unholy way his cock is pistoning into your body.
“Oh, god, Bucky!” You squeeze your eyes shut and swear you feel the sting of tears as he pulls your hair harder and squeezes your arm tighter, “Don’t stop! Bucky! I-, I— ah!”
You scream when you come again, the noise wrecked and high and you know you would have collapsed had Bucky not gripped you so tightly.
Bucky pulls you back by your arm, drawing your back flat against his chest. His arms wrap around you, his metal hand cupping your soft breast while the other sinks between your thighs to feel where your bodies meet. Your head falls back limply against his shoulder as your body trembles uselessly against his.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he grunts softly into your ear as his fingers drag through the slick mess between your thighs, mixing his cum and yours before circling the pad of his finger over your clit.
The words spill out of your mouth before you have the sense to question it.
“Y-yes,” you gasp as he presses down on the tender bundle of nerve endings, “Yours, god, yes!”
Bucky watches as your ex-husband disconnects the phone call.
This time his thrusts don’t falter when he fills you again.
—
The next morning is just as hot as the one before and you wake up sweaty and alone. The breeze billows against the curtains and you moan softly at the glare of the sun as it slants across your face.
The glare is only a small annoyance, but it’s the wide open front door that makes you jolt awake.
Your first and worst thought is your ex-husband.
You’re on your feet immediately, grabbing the torn sundress that no longer had any buttons and throwing it on quickly. You held it shut with one hand and grabbed your phone from the coffee table, ready to call the cops as you stepped out into the alley stairwell.
A soft grunt draws your attention to the man setting down two crates of plums on your trolley.
Bucky.
He lifts his head and squints up at you, raising a hand to shield his face from the sun overhead. He smiles shyly at you and offers a slight wave.
Your cheeks redden as you clutch your torn dress a little tighter at the memories he brings back. If it weren’t for the bruises that circled your arms, you would have worried it had all just been a very, very vivid dream. The man began to ascend the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Bucky’s eyes drop to your neck briefly and he tried to ignore the small twitch of his cock at the sight of the fresh crimson bruises that speckle your neck in the shape of his hand.
“Morning,” he greeted you, his voice returning to that familiar deep cadence, “How are you feeling?”
You rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand as he stepped infront of you, his hands gently settling on your hip. You blushed a little at the intimacy of the contact. It was more than you expected from a one night stand.
“Good, now that I know no one broke into my house while I was asleep,” you offer a small teasing smile as you squint up at him.
Bucky chuckled softly, “Were you counting on me sneaking out in the middle of the night?”
“Middle of the morning, more like it,” you retorted with a small disbelieving laugh as you rest your hip back against the iron railing, “How long was I asleep for? Two hours? Three?”
Bucky blushed slightly at the insinuation of his prowess and you smiled at the small tenderness that broke through the solemn man’s hard exterior.
The stillness of the moment was cut short when your phone began to ring, loud and aggravating this early in the day. His face fell as you drew back to look at the screen.
Bucky felt a small relief when the image on screen wasn’t that of your prior lover, but his brow furrowed at the image of a vaguely familiar brunette woman with loose pin curls holding her hair neatly at her neck. She must have been in her late fifties in the photo, but he knew her with the glow of youth.
He knew her in a red dress under bar lights. He knew her smiling the way you smiled at him, but the smile wasn’t for him. It was for Steve.
“That’s my aunt,” you say softly, patting Bucky’s chest as he stepped back to let you disappear inside. He stayed on the stairwell, his gaze distant as he heard you answer the phone.
“Hey, Auntie Peggy, what’s up?”