Pretence - 3
(Moments) | (Part 1) | (Part 2)
summary: “For Nat’s sake, Y/N, will you pretend to be my girlfriend?”
warnings: brief description of nsfw content
“Let’s play a game!”
You’re drunk enough that you can’t remember who’d suggested the drinking game in the first place. Maybe it was Sam. It was probably Sam.
There’s a round of ’shit’s and ’fuck you’s as Natasha spills another carefully articulated statement of ‘Never have I ever.’ You take a shot too, even though you’re not listening at this point.
Your eyes are trained on Bucky Barnes, sitting across from you with nine empty shot glasses, more than anyone else and contrasting Steve’s nine full. He’s laughing, face flushed from intoxication and heat and lust for the gorgeous woman throwing a wink at Sam as he downs his sixth or seventh glass himself. She’s avoiding his gaze, even daring to look at you, but not sparing him a glance as she laughs with the rest of the team.
You don’t know what to think of him. He’s like a drug– you know he’s bad for you. You know that the long term effects of being around him are harmful, that he hurts you more than he makes you feel good, but oh god, you can’t get enough. And with the way he’s been acting for the past few weeks, with the are you okay’s and the arms around your waist, you can’t tell what he wants.
It’s Sam’s turn to play. His drunk eyes search the room, squinted and devious, lips pursed in drunk concentration. He sees the one remaining shot glass in front of Bucky, and he breaks out into a grin. “Never have I ever…”
He pauses, eyes catching yours. “Never have I ever kissed Y/N!”
A chorus of laughs break out. Clint is giggling, Steve’s grinning from ear to ear, and Sam keeps saying, “Drink up, old man.”
But Bucky’s not laughing. His eyebrows furrow together, flesh hand gripping the shot glass tighter than necessary, and god, he won’t even look at you, longing after Nat who is skillfully laughing along with the others. He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, it’s like there’s someone else in his place. Bucky’s gone, and the man in front of you is laughing again and joking again and living again, calling Sam out for targeting specifically him because, 'man, what the hell, that’s not fair.’ Except– when he downs his shot, everyone’s too drunk to notice how his eyes stay closed a second too long. You’re drunk enough to notice just that.
“Guess you lost, Tin Can,” Tony says, breaking out into a fit of laughter.
“Sam cheated,” is all Bucky says in reply, grinning as he stands up. He stretches, yawns in a way that’s so fake you’re surprised that no one calls him out, and then claims that he’s tired and going to bed.
Then he saunters off, and you’re left staring at the spot where he was sitting and your eyes are stinging because he can’t even bare to look at you and a simple statement makes him not even want to be around you and how is he your soulmate when him and Nat are made for each other and you’re just an obstacle in between and and and–
“Your turn, Y/N.” Someone pulls on your arm, but you shrug them away.
You don’t care about this stupid game and your six empty glasses anymore, and– the irony! – you’re pulling a Bucky and lying through your teeth when you say that you’re tired. And then you’re leaving the group of laughing people and storming towards your room, where you’re going to do what you should have done months ago. You’re going to end this stupid relationship and just tell him and Nat to get together and live their happily ever after and then you’re going to leave them the fuck alone.
You’re going to go somewhere far away where Bucky won’t matter and Nat won’t matter and Sam and Steve and Tony won’t matter and nobody’s going to matter, because you deserve at least some fucking peace.
So when you open the door and barge through to the middle of your room, you’re ready for a yelling match. You’re ready to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone and that you’ve had enough and that he can move on with his fucking life because you’re going far away. You’re ready to be composed and collected and to fight your fight.
You’re not ready to find Bucky pushing you against the wall, bringing his mouth so close to your ear that his breathing sends shivers down your back.
“I’m sorry,” he says, with the same genuineness that’s been tangling the strings of your thoughts into knots you can’t figure out how to undo. "I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.“
You don’t know what to do. It’s like all the anger just moments ago you were ready to streamline towards him was a balloon that’s deflated, and you can’t really make sense of everything that’s happening around you. "What are you–?”
He puts a finger on your lips, and your words fade into the silence of the room. “I have to do this.”
You don’t even get a chance to process his words, your mind hazy with all the alcohol you’ve consumed that night. When his lips touch yours, there’s a part of you telling you that you’re drunk, that you’re going to regret this in the morning, but it’s such a small, small part, that it’s muffled by the rest of you that’s only ever wanted this.
His mouth travels from your lips to the edge of your jaw, leaving sloppy, open mouthed kisses as footprints. It feels as if you’ve been dropped in a pool of water and your feet can’t reach the ground. When his mouth reaches your neck, you can barely stand upright.
“Help me forget her,” he croaks into the edge of your collar bone. You moan in response, the feel of his lips against your skin mixing with the whiff of whiskey sending you into euphoria. Your fingers travel down to the hem of his pants, palming him through the fabric of his boxers. “Y/N,” he gasps. “Please.”
It’s then that you start kissing him back, taking the reigns and guiding his hands up your shirt. And god, this is wrong, this is so wrong, but this is all you’ve ever wanted, and maybe, right now, it’s all you need.
You can’t remember your own name when his fingers slip into your folds, and after that all you hear is your name as he eases himself out of you, falling on to the bed with an exhausted sigh.
And as you lay there, bodies glistening with sweat, pulled flush against each other in the heat of the moment, you stare at the beautiful man who’s nuzzled against you, eyes closed, chest rising and falling softly.
For the first time in months, you let yourself cry.