And Bucky Makes Three: Mother's Day
Find the full anthology here. In the meantime, Happy Mother's Day to all the mamas out there!
“I hate to crash,” Monica repeated for something like the tenth time that day, nervously adjusting her hair as she leaned over the banister of the boat.
“There’s nothing to crash,” Sam assured her. “We do this every year.”
“Oh, so I’m not special?” Monica gaped on faux-shock, crossing her arms over her chest.
Sam snorted. “You’re very special. Only special ladies get invited to the Wilson Mother’s Day cookout.”
“Good,” Monica smiled.
“And only the most special ladies get to come on the boat,” Sam added, reaching for her hand.
“Is that right?” Monica cozied up to him, pushing her sunglasses up over her forehead.
Sam leaned in to kiss her, pulling her under his arm. “I’m glad you’re here,” he muttered.
Beneath them, the boat bobbed slowly on the calm waters beneath. It was a perfect day for a cookout, and the community was out in full force to enjoy the sun before summer humidity set in. Sam had stolen away for a moment of peace and quiet, content to stand on the deck with Monica at his side.
“Should we go sit with your sister?” Monica leaned heavily against Sam’s side.
“She’s good,” Sam nodded in Sarah’s direction. The kids were off playing with their friends, leaving Sarah to some much needed peace. She was seated at the docks, her feet beneath the water, reclining with her face tilted towards the sun. Her solitude was soon to be interrupted.
“What’s going on with that?” Monica asked, watching with sharp eyes as Bucky approached, striding towards Sarah on long steps. They smiled at once another immediately.
Sam shook his head as Sarah scooted over, making space for Bucky to sit right beside her. He tugged his shoes off, plunging them into the water, kicking gently at Sarah. “Nothing,” Sam answered Monica. “At least nothing yet.”
“They’re cute,” Monica observed, smiling at the pair. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is,” Sam agreed, still watching.
“It wouldn’t bother you?” Monica asked.
Considering the fact that Bucky and Sarah were clearly playing footsie beneath the dock, Sam didn’t suppose his opinion mattered all that much. “No,” he answered honestly. “They both could do a lot worse.”
“A ringing endorsement,” Monica snorted, jostling Sam playfully.
“She’s my sister,” Sam shrugged. “She deserves the whole world.”
“Awwwwww….” Monica grinned. “Maybe Bucky can give it to her.”
Sam was about to answer when the scene in front of them took a dramatic turn. He and Monica watched as a playful slapping fight between Sarah and Bucky ended with the two of them facing one another, far too close for platonic intimacy.
“Oh…” Sam held the syllable out, gripping Monica tighter. “Oh shit…”
“Should we be watching--” Monica’s question dissolved into a squeal when Bucky closed the distance between himself and Sarah, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.
“Ha!” Sam found himself chuckling when the two leaned away, clearly flustered. “On Mother’s Day too. Damn Buck.”
“We probably should give them some privacy,” Monica speculated.
“No way,” Sam grinned, watching as Sarah became increasingly more flustered. Bucky had gone bright red, clearly nervous. “Let’s go mess with them.”
“Sam,” Monica warned.
“The food is over there too,” Sam pointed out.
“Fine,” Monica conceded. “But be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Sam grinned.
“Sam…” Monica squeezed his hand as he tugged them both towards the docks.
“Hey!” Sam announced, calling to the pair too brightly. “What are you doing? I thought we were going to eat.”
Bucky and Sarah looked as guilty as though Sam had caught them in the middle of committing a crime. Sam almost felt bad.
“The food should be ready,” Sarah said, her voice oddly high.
Bucky, for his part, seemed incapable of speech. He managed to stand up, placing himself just behind Sarah.
“Well then, super mom,” Sam reached for Sarah, hugging her tightly. “Let’s go eat. You coming, Buck?”
“Yeah,” Bucky coughed, managing an approximation of a normal smile. “Let’s eat.”
He and Sarah took off a few steps ahead of Sam and Monica, exchanging pointed eye contact. Sarah turned her face away to hide her smile. Behind them, Monica elbowed Sam in the ribs.
“Be nice,” she repeated, whispering lowly.
Sam only chuckled.
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summary—a year ago, you, natasha, tony, bruce and wanda became witnesses to a possible hydra assassination. before the man died in front of you, he had urged you all to continue his incomplete search for evidence that would incriminate the suspects who were all above suspicion. during the past year, your searches have had to overcome obstacles such as the charming and all too handsome hitman of one of the suspects; bucky barnes. what happens when three of you are finally held hostage, and months’ worth of tension between you and him is finally snapped? [modern au, meaning none of the characters are billionaires or have powers!]
pairing—modern!hitman!bucky barnes x f!reader
warnings—smut, unresolved sexual tension, hitman bucky, mentions of bruises and violence, cuffs (rope), gun play, stay-quiet-so-they-dont-hear trope, hostage situation, mentions of bombs and past attempted murders. let me know if i missed anything!
author's note—this is heavily inspired by the plot of an old greek television series that i grew up with, so if you're greek, i think you already know which one i'm talking about !! if not, no worries, you don't have to watch the series to understand any of this. enjoy and reblog if you liked it!
masterlist / my inbox / ao3 / gif credit
“As long as you’re down here, you’ll behave. If you want this to work out for you, because it’s of no importance to me to shoot a bullet straight through your heads right now and get this over with, understood?”
He looms over the three of you threateningly, his aura all the more alluring to you. The lethal handgun is grasped on his palm, pointed at the wall behind your heads. A warning, a demonstration of the power he holds over you.
Yet, considering your circumstances, you—nor the rest of your friends—can find yourselves to feel an ounce of fear. Only excitement and sweet, addictive adrenaline rushes through your veins with every thump of your heart. You lock eyes with Natasha, whose poor nose and upper lip are tinted purple from the force of the hit she endured earlier due to said gun, which—hilariously enough—makes her nose look like an eggplant.
It pulls a snort from your throat, your eyes drifting away from your friend’s poor looking nose to the hitman you’ve grown accustomed to by now. The five of you—Natasha, Tony, Bruce, Wanda and you—are used to the game of cat and mouse that was ignited over a year ago, when you were still all strangers and coincidentally became witnesses to a murder possibly committed by Hydra—the steel-eyed hitman now a sight you’ve grown quite familiar with over the months.
He never seems to wear anything other than black, the dark suit complimenting him in every way imaginable. His slicked back hair shakes with every angered move of his head as his eyes come to lock with yours the second he had uttered the empty threat.
Batting your eyelashes, you look up at him sheepishly, lacing your voice with rich sweetness, “Even me?”
You are feigning innocence, and every soul in the room can tell. Tony is snickering beside you, and Natasha is nodding her head as if seconding your words, trying to contain her snorts. Yet, everything else is tuned out as you focus on his hands—particularly the one holding the gun, as you notice his fingers twitching and jaw tightening, his frustration with you more than visible.
His eyes haven't left yours, and the air in the room is growing thicker, your past interactions getting to his head. Always teasing him, even during the most dire of situations, and he despises the fact that you're growing on him.
You're his enemy, a member of the ragtag group that has plagued his thoughts for the past year, always sticking their noses in places they’re not supposed to, messing with his and his boss’s life trying to dig up that and other older cases. Civilians, for Christ’s sake—a couple of civilians are messing up his otherwise perfectly smooth job. Over time, it had become personal. And now, you're making him act on impulse yet again.
He distinctively remembers that dreadful night in the abandoned warehouse a few months ago, his partner behind him setting up the delicate bomb that would blow his five recurring headaches to bits—and you, bound and tied and utterly helpless in front of him, his gun tilting your chin upward. You had spit on him, and your taunting words plagued his thoughts in the most confusing of ways until he discovered you were all still somehow alive;
What are going to do, big guy? Kill me?
And now, here you are again, as the cruel game of fate has you, bound and tied and helpless beneath him once more in a basement, the same irritating taunting nature crawling easily underneath his skin. Only now, his partner is on the line—how in Hell the remaining members of your group had managed to catch and incapacitate him is lost on Bucky, but still—he can't act the way he so desperately wants. Blowing the brains off of the three of you is no longer an option. Not yet, at least.
(Your sulking and despair are almost solidifying, Bucky fucking Barnes pacing in front you three confidently, phone brought up to his ear. You watch as he communicates the demands of Bruce and Wanda’s surrender with the three of you held hostage, and you can almost pinpoint the exact second his expression plummets.
A tiny hopeful smile creeps up your lips at the sight of your captor’s sudden apprehension, and you observe him as he unsurely extends his arm, bringing the phone in front of him and putting it on speaker.
“Guys—can they hear me?—can you hear me?” Comes Wanda’s voice, high-pitched and humorous. Neither of you three have opened your mouths to respond as quickly before.
“Can you hear me?” Bruce speaks after some shuffling on the other end of the line, and the unanimous response is the same, if not louder.
“Great, now listen to someone else!”
You’re all stunned and confused for a few moments, even Bucky, before an almost familiar voice rings out from the phone’s speakers.
“Bucky?” It sounds nervous, almost hesitant.
All color is drained from the hitman’s face, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open, staring at the phone screen as if it’ll grow legs.
Tony is the first to speak up, “Who’s Steve?”
“The tall guy—his partner!” Is Wanda’s almost ecstatic response, and you can almost picture her wide smile, even though you’re lost on why your friends and your captor’s partner are together, and why your friends sound like they have the upper hand.
Natasha breaks her silence, worried, “Did he capture you?”
Wanda and Bruce’s laughing fit has never sounded better to your ears, “We captured him!”
And at that moment, with Barnes’ face looking as pale as a corpse and his plans of disposing your five bodies in a ditch ruined, you turn to look at Natasha and Tony, who simultaneously join you in one of the most belly-aching, cheek straining and happiest laughs you’ve ever had in your life; still strapped down by a rope, now with your mentalities fully shifted.)
All three pairs of eyes are on him, because apparently, while lost in his train of thought, he had moved to tower over you; ever so intimidating. The hold he has on the gun is so tight the knuckles of his flesh hand holding it are turning ivory, his hand guiding the barrel of the weapon so that it is hovering right beneath your jaw. Tilting your head upwards harshly, a sense of Deja Vu overtakes you both, as he has your eyes locked on him and the baited breaths entering your lungs accelerating in pace; your chest heaving.
“Best to let me worry about your fate.” His tone is harsh, loud, as his eyes drift to the others, frustrated but not surprised that the glint in their eyes has yet to disappear. He looks down at you again; gun underneath your jaw, your lips pulled in a loop-sided smirk; it's infuriating.
Right then and there, you suddenly regret the teasing, just for a split second before he has moved to the back of the chair you're strapped in, his hands working expertly to loosen the bonds trying you to the chair. Your face has suddenly lost its natural color, and you can feel cold sweat gathering at your temples. Your friends are objecting loudly in the background, telling him that hurting you will be reciprocated with double the force from Bruce and Wanda to his partner; an empty threat if you know one—you love them, but between the five of you, they’ve always been on the softer side—yet you hope it gets through to him.
Still, he doesn't stop his ministrations. He hauls you roughly to your feet by your shoulders the second the rope that held you against the uncomfortable plastic chair is unfastened; his iron-like grip on your skin surely bound to leave marks.
As he manhandles you out of the claustrophobic basement—much to your dismay and your friends’ loud protests—he turns you to face him after he successfully locks the door; separating you from the ones you love—for the time being, you hope.
Your eyes have lost their playful glint, apprehension coating every pore of your face—and he can tell. He seems satisfied, you notice, that for once your mouth is finally shut. It was fun when you knew he wouldn't attempt hurting you, but now you can't be sure.
Abruptly, his hands have found your shoulders and he's pushing you against the wall of the stairwell, all protest dying on your lips. His eyes are full of fiery anger as he leans in, his breath fanning your face, your irises widening comically.
“What happened?” His voice is laced with layers upon layers of fake concern, the roles completely reversed. “Cat got your tongue, sugar?”
It’s fake, it’s taunting and condescending, and you hate that you have mixed feelings about it.
You want to reply, say something to make him shut up, make him tie you back in the basement where you can gain strength from your friends, but all words have died at your throat—you can only stare at him.
He leans in more, his cheek brushing yours as every breath enters your lungs as if you've run a marathon. His eyes are lidded, staring up and down your face, his lips pulled into a taunting smirk. “’Bout damn time.”
You haven’t even be able to process his words before his lips are on yours, kissing you with fervor—charged with months’ worth of tension.
What is happening?
You hate to reciprocate it, mainly because he’s tried to murder you more than once, but reciprocate it you do.
It’s all teeth and pent up anger, pearly whites taking your bottom lip between them and tugging; the action causing you to let out a loud sigh in his mouth—you’re not entirely sure whether you want Tony and Natasha to think he’s hurting you rather than what’s actually occuring. The former, most probably.
His large body is caging you in, engulfing you whole as his kisses trail from your mouth to your jaw and neck, trailing his teeth over your flushed skin after every lick; he’s teasing—and you love it.
Your hands are still tied by the rope that is irritating the skin of your wrists, further annoying you from the awkward position he’s put you in. You squirm, trying to get his attention, and after a few moments of wiggling against him you succeed.
He breaks the harsh kiss abruptly, his breath fanning your face once more as he stares at you intensely, and with a nod of his head he encourages you to talk. Taking a deep breath, you whisper against his lips, “Don’t you think we can lose the rope?”
He chuckles loudly, as if you’ve just said a hilarious joke; you frown. “Awe, sweet girl, that's half the fun.” His voice is rough on the edges, more of a growl than a whisper, and it causes your body to tremble against his.
“What was that? Do you like it? I bet you do, sugar—been dreaming ’bout this for ages.”
His knee almost shyly separates your legs and slides between them, coming in contact with where you're most sensitive. It pulls an embarassing whimper from your lips when he pushes upward against your clit, the action accompanied by the feeling of your jeans against the nerves akin to sin. His kisses don’t stop, his hands still pinning your upper body against the empty wall of the staircase, the contrast of his heated body with the cold wall making your head swirl.
His next move makes you brain short-circuit; he pulls away, still stimulating your clothed clit with his knee, his rubbing having your eyes lidded. You can only watch as he takes out his gun from its holster stored on the inside of his suit, the sight of the weapon making your eyes snap open, your breath hitching.
He instantly senses your sudden fear, and so he quickly raises his eyebrows to point at the weapon as he holds it at a distance by his side, making quick work on removing the bullets that fall on the ground one by one accompanied with loud clanking, and pressing the safety; an overkill, but he wants you to feel safe—as foreign the sentiment may be.
As soon as he feels your shoulders relax, his lips are on yours again and his knee has resumed its ministrations. It pulls a breathy sigh from your lips, his mouth swallowing any sound that comes from you. Slowly, he removes his knee from between your legs, chuckling at the effect he has on you when you softly whine; like a child denied its lollipop. His metal fingers quickly open the bottons of your pants, dragging them down to rest underneath your knees for easier access.
The gun, still grasped in his palm, moves towards your clothed cunt, resting right on the wet spot of your poor underwear. As soon as you feel the cold barrel separating your lips with your panties still on—the friction of the cloth only adding to it—your mouth opens in a wide O, your brows furrowing as you lock eyes with Bucky, your expression akin to begging; similar to all those over the top pornstars you've made fun of.
He laughs deeply, the laugh morphing into a low growl as he connects your lips again in a frenzy of tongues; the barrel of the gun now rubbing small and soft circles on your clit, and you want to scream. Because this is wrong, it's dirty, and your friends might actually cut you off if they knew—well, not cut you off completely, you all love each other too much, but you can imagine the disappointed and angry looks already.
He already has you bucking against his hand—well, gun—when he suddenly stops and pulls away completely. Your expression is fully confused, but that confusion melts when you see him kneeling before you.
A sight for sore eyes. Bucky, the lethal hitman that's been chasing you all for a year, a rough and dishonourable man, on his knees for you. The sight alone makes you keen.
The gun now travels upwards to rest against your heaving collarbones, the barrel close to the juncture of your neck. The stripe he licks over your clothed mound has you gasping, and you swiftly close your mouth afterwards in fear of being heard.
Bucky is resting his smirking lips against your clothed clit now, his cheek on the inside of your thighs, his five o'clock shadow scratching your skin in the best of ways. He chuckles at your responses, and nods towards the locked basement door a few feet to your left with a smile like the situation is amusing him; probably is, you think.
“Gotta be quiet now doll, wouldn't want your friends knowing the enemy is ’bout to eat your pussy, would we?”
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