Multiple Buckgasms for your pleasure

What he hadn't expected was you. All doe eyes, big smiles, abundant enthusiasm. You looked like you belonged on social media, beaming for the camera and promoting makeup or activewear, or at the very least, teaching little kids about finger paints. You were young and gorgeous and eager to please. That first day, you'd been practically vibrating with excitement, your arm sticking straight out as you'd gone in for a handshake, not so much as flinching when Bucky had put his metal hand in yours. You'd profusely thanked him for agreeing to take you on, something he didn't know how to accept, so he'd just gruffly nodded and gone over what he expected from you, and what your file already said about areas of improvement.

The first few weeks with you made Bucky feel older than ever. He already had at least a decade on you, but every time he met up with you, even when you got knocked flat on your back, you'd be jumping up and ready to go again. He hated to admit it, but the pair of you became a well-oiled machine once he got used to the best approach with you. You seemed to want to get things right on the first try, embarrassed when you failed. But oh, did you ever glow when you got praise. Bucky would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the way your eyes would get bright, your smile radiant, when he said you were doing a good job.

The only thing that gave him pause was that you preferred a hands-on approach. You liked to be walked through moves, insisting on a thorough demonstration, constantly asking to be adjusted, to know if your hips or shoulders were set the right way, if you were accounting for height and balance.

That was somewhat of an issue. Bucky had to help you somehow, and that was one of the ways. But every time he had to adjust your stance, you were wriggling back towards him, resolute in your need for reassurance. There had already been a number of close calls where Bucky's pants had suddenly felt so incredibly tight after you'd basically rubbed up on him, that he had to hope and pray you didn't notice.

He didn't want to take advantage of you. Well, he did, actually. He thought about it all the time. But you were so green, so trusting. Yes, you would probably look like innocence wrapped in silk if he ever got you bent over a table. You'd probably arch your back if he called you a good girl. But he couldn't do that—he was your mentor! That would be bad for morale, right?

He wasn't sure how to handle it, how to handle you in a way that didn't sully either of your reputations. In fact, he was trying very hard not to.

Right now, your back was flush against his chest, both of you facing the mirror in one of the gym's private combat rooms. You were holding a knife, little more than a penknife, really, your shoulders squared, feet apart, practicing a disarming maneuver he'd taught you last week. It was a move that required precision. Subtlety. Everything aligned. What it didn't require, technically, was one of his hands on your waist, or his other hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding the blade forward as he murmured corrections in your ear.

"You're still letting your weight drift too far back," he said, his voice a rumble, "You're leaning."

"I thought I was centered."

"You're not." His thumb pressed lightly into your side, teasing the small strip of skin that was exposed. It was meant to adjust you just slightly. "Right here. Feel that?"

You shifted, obedient as always. It made your ass brush up right against him, the tight compression of your spandex shorts meeting the very obvious bulge in his pants that he'd been desperately willing you not to notice for the past few minutes. This was the tough part about training you—it wasn't the first time this had happened.

You did notice, because how could you not?

Only this time, instead of focusing on what he'd just said, you paused. And then you pressed back just a little more. It was just a fraction, but it was enough.

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped back. The move was fast, one, two, three strides away, dropping your wrist like you'd burned him. He turned toward the wall of weapons as if he'd meant to all along, muttering something about switching grips. You stayed where you were, knife in hand, but your eyes caught his for split second in the mirror. Your expression was curious, your face slightly flushed. You had a tiny smile ghosting across your lips.

That fucking smile. As much as you were the most beautiful creature he'd seen in years, it was your smile that always had him considering crossing a line.

He knew what you were doing, but the question was, did you? Maybe you didn't mean to. Maybe it was just teasing, your subconscious working him over, but he knew that look. Knew what it implied. And he knew how goddamn easily you could ruin him if he let this get out of hand.

He broke the staring contest with you, picking out another knife. "Maybe you should try this one instead."

He should have gotten an award.

For another two weeks, Bucky was damn near monastic. He kept his distance, barking corrections with the sharpness of a military commander. He refused to linger when you brushed past him smelling like shampoo and skin and sunshine. He said "good job" in a clipped tone that sounded more like a reprimand than praise. He was doing everything he could.

But you noticed, of course. The change in Bucky was as obvious to you as snow would be in July. You pouted at first, thinking he was just having a bad day, a bad week. But then you got quieter, more careful. More formal, worried you'd overstepped, that your flirtation had gone too far. You started calling him "sir" during drills like you were punishing him for pulling away, using his own frostiness against him.

This was bound to backfire.

One morning, when you were kneeling on the mat in a sparring warm-up, lacing one of your sneakers, you looked up at him from beneath your lashes and said, "Ready when you are, sir."

Bucky felt his restraint crack like ice on a lake. He crossed the mat in two steps, and you blinked at him, expecting instructions, you fingers still caught on your laces. Instead, he crouched down in front of you.

"You don't have a clue what you're doing to me, do you?" he asked, voice low, almost a growl.

Your mouth parted. He heard the uncertain hitch in your breath, and caught your chin in his hand, tilting your face up. "I, um—"

"D'you know how many nights I've had to jerk off thinking about that smile of yours?" his voice was quiet, each word a vicious bite. "The way you squeal when you get a move just right? How many times you've backed that sweet little ass into me like you didn't even notice?"

"I—I noticed," you said meekly.

He froze, the admission unexpected. He'd figured that he was about to completely burn the bridge, send this stupid mentorship crashing to the ground.

You flushed, then said it again, a little more firmly. "I noticed. I did it on purpose."

There was a beat of silence, no sound except for the quiet whirr of the air conditioner. Then his lips were on you.

He wasn't soft. He wasn't tentative. You were sunshine in human form, bright and jovial, but you also burned like it. You could handle a little heat. Bucky kissed you like he was still a soldier on the field, pulling the pin on a grenade—hard, fast, full of danger. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist and hauling you into his lap as he sat back on the mat, legs splayed. You made a noise—small, shocked, eager—and his metal fingers caught your hip, grinding you down against him.

"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth, hips jerking upward, knocking against yours. "You're gonna be my end."

You rolled your hips against the hard ridge in his pants, the friction almost unbearable through the thin layers of fabric. "Let me be your beginning, instead," you whispered.

That earned you a low groan, the noise ragged. "You talk like that, and I'll take you on this mat right now."

"Please," you said, already breathless, the word slipping out like a balloon whose string you'd let go of too fast.

He cursed under his breath, then he pushed you by the shoulders in one movement, one effortless flex of metal and muscle. You were on your back beneath him, legs spread as his knee slotted between yours. He leaned over you, eyes dark, more black than blue, his jaw tight. "You have no clue what you're askin' for."

"Yes, I do."

His hand slipped under your shirt, his calloused fingers skating over your stomach, your ribs. He cupped one of your breasts over your bra, the lightest touch, but you were already gasping, arching into his hand like if you didn't you'd dissolve. A simple tug of the fabric was all it took to have you spilling into his palm, and his thumb rolled over your nipple slowly and deliberately, and your thighs squeezed around his.

"You're not as innocent as I thought you were, huh?" he murmured like it was a revelation. "You want this."

"I want you."

Those three words were enough to throw all remaining caution to the wind.

Bucky surged forward, pressing his cock against your cunt, his lips finding your throat, your jaw, your earlobe, biting just enough to have you whimpering. "Tell me how you want it," he uttered with a growl. "You want me to take it slow? Or you want it rough, sweet thing?"

"Rough," you begged, eyes wide. "Please, Bucky. Don't make me wait anymore. Please."

He dragged your leggings down in one swift motion, stifling a groan when he saw the soaked spot on your panties. "Christ, kid. You're dripping."

You were quiet, but you spread your legs wider. You couldn't have been clearer if you'd grabbed him by the hair and put his face between your legs yourself. He knelt between them, leaned down, and ran his tongue slow up the inside of your thigh, revelling in the way you squirmed. Then he pressed a kiss to your panties, hot breath ghosting over your cunt. "Gonna make you beg for it, little girl," he said, fingers already curling into the fabric to pull it aside. "Gonna make you say please. Want you to scream it."

"Please," the words seemed to leave you automatically as you trembled, and Bucky watched you bite your lip as he slid one finger inside you, slow and careful to start out, before following with a second one.

Your gasp was precious, almost dramatic. If this was the way you reacted to just his fingers, he could only imagine what a mess you'd be when he gave you more. "Fuck—Bucky, oh my God—"

He grinned, his face buried between your thighs, the scratch of his stubble a sting and a balm all at once. "There it is," he said, licking into you with reckless abandon. "That's what I like to hear."

You were already bucking against his mouth, hands tangling in his air, your cries high and sweet as his fingers curled just right, your taste more saccharine than a strawberry dipped in sugar. What a good session this was turning out to be.

You mewled like a kitten. You were close already—he could feel it. You were writhing on the mat like it could help you relieve the pressure coiling in your gut, until Bucky put a hand on your stomach and pressed you down, keeping you still. "Good girl. You're gonna listen to me when I tell you what to do, aren't you?"

You nodded, a desperate sound escaping your lips. "Yes! Yes. Bucky, I'm—I'm gonna—"

And like a magician whipping a tablecloth from under a full course meal, Bucky sat back with flourish, hands and mouth leaving you. The whine that left your lungs speared him like a sword. Your hips lifted off the mat, chasing his mouth without dignity, legs trembling as your breath hitched into a half-sob of protest. Your cunt clenched around nothing, slick and swollen and fluttering with denied release, and Bucky couldn't stop staring. He throbbed painfully in his pants. He just wanted to see how desperate you really were. It turned out, very.

Your lips were bitten and swollen, your fingers digging into the mat like you didn't know what else to hold on to. Like you were drowning in the space he'd cruelly left. He palmed himself through his pants with a grunt, his hips twitching once, the sight of you already so wrecked and needy more potent than any wet dream he'd had in the last few weeks.

"You're so fuckin' pretty when you beg," he muttered, voice thick with hunger, jaw clenching as he wrestled his zipper down. You'd gotten him so hard that he worried any accidental touch might have him blowing his load before he could even do anything. "So fuckin' good for me when you listen. But I'm not gonna let you come just 'cause you're cute. That's not how this is gonna work."

You whimpered, arching up again, your lips in the most precious pout. "Bucky, please! I was right there, I swear—"

"I know," his grin was sharp, wolfish. "That's why I stopped, sweetheart."

You blinked at him, dazed, your mouth half open, like you couldn’t quite believe he'd do something so cruel.

It wasn't cruelty, though. Not really. He'd make your suffering worthwhile. It wasn't cruelty when his metal hand skimmed back up your thigh, knuckles trailing a path across your folds, making you jolt. It wasn't cruelty when his thumb pressed against your clit, not moving, just resting there, reminding you who owned every inch of your pleasure.

"You wanna come? Then you do it my way."

You nodded quickly. You looked like a bobble head. He was pretty sure you'd agree to anything in this moment. "Yes, yes. Anything."

His other hand came up to your throat, possessive, steady, anchoring. Not firm enough to hurt, but secure enough to keep you from moving. You moaned softly at the weight, the heat of his palm.

"Good girl," he murmured, metal thumb beginning a slow, lazy circle, just enough pressure to make you twitch. "Keep those legs open for me. Hands above your head. Let me see you fall apart. Be a good little trainee, hmm?"

You obeyed instantly. Your legs spread, your arms stretched up along the mat. Your eyes locked on his, wide and wet and burning with need. He rewarded you with the return of two fingers inside you, the smoothness of the metal a shock to your system. His thumb never stopped, and his gaze never left yours. Every time you whimpered, his cock throbbed harder, leaking precum. His belt was undone, fly open, cock jutting out flushed and angry, but he didn't touch himself yet. He was too focused on watching you unravel.

Your voice broke on another whine. "Bucky, I—God—I can't—"

"Yeah, you can." he cooed, scissoring his fingers. "You're gonna come when I say, and not a second before."

You held on, or at least you tried to. God, you tried. You were trying so hard to be good, just like he wanted. You always gave your all in training, but this was something else entirely. Your body was on fire, muscles locking tight, your cunt clenching around his fingers as your climax danced just out of reach, but you kept holding on, refusing to let go.

Until he leaned close to your face, lips brushing your ear.

"Now."

Watching you shatter was gorgeous, a sight to behold. It hit you like a wave, like a fucking flood. You sobbed incoherently, back arching off the mat as your cunt pulsed around his fingers, slick gushing over his hand. "Ah—Bucky—fuck!" You cried his name like it hurt, like it healed, like he was building you up and breaking you apart all at once.

Your legs shook uncontrollably as he kept his thumb moving through the aftershocks, drawing every last drop of pleasure out of you until you went boneless on the mat, panting and sweat-streaked. "Look at you," he breathed, pulling his fingers free and watching them glisten in the light. "Made such a mess. You're even wetter than before."

He marvelled for another second, before he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, groaning low in his throat as he did. "So fuckin' sweet," he said, voice molten.

You reached for him without thinking, but Bucky was already shifting above you, hands on either side of your head, his cock bobbing between you as he settled over your body, pressing you down into the mat. The heat of him made you squirm again, but he stilled you with a growl, a sound that reverberated from his chest to yours.

"Think you can take me, sweetheart?" he asked, rubbing the head of his cock against your folds, catching on your oversensitive clit just to hear you gasp. "Or should we call it right now?"

"Please! Please, I'll be good." You said, your mouth in a pout, your eyes wide, glassy, begging. You blinked at him prettily, your skin damp and flushed. "I'll be good, sir, I promise. Want you to be proud of me." You bit your lip when you said it.

The words hit like a shot with no chaser. It made him feel like a wild animal. That tone, that fucking pout, those big glassy eyes pleading for his approval like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. And calling him sir? In this context?

"Fuckin' hell." he muttered, cock twitching as it slid through your folds again, slick soaking the length of him. "You did that on purpose."

You shook your head, though the look on your face gave you away. "I just—I want to be good—want you to—" your stuttering was further amplified when he tweaked one of your nipples.

"You are." He grabbed your thigh and hiked it over his hip, lining himself up. His tip caught on your entrance and paused, like a final warning. "You're so fuckin' good, sweetheart. You're always good."

Then he was pushing in, and you were molding to him like you'd been born to, accepting the stretch, the thickness, the devastating slowness.

You gasped, the sound high and breathless, your hands flying to grip his shoulders as your body learned how to accommodate him, inch after inch forcing you open, searing heat and insane pressure blooming inside you. Your nails dug into his skin, scraped against metal through the fabric of his shirt. He bottomed out with a rough exhale through gritted teeth.

"God fucking damn it," Bucky hissed, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel like heaven. So fuckin' tight—squeezin' me like you need me to stay."

"I do—fuck—I do, Bucky, please—"

That earned you a hard thrust, sudden and punishing, punching a squeak from your lungs. "That’s sir to you," he muttered into your ear, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head again with one hand. "You wanna show me how good you are, you remember that."

You nodded frantically, already drunk on the stretch, on the scalding heat, on the way he filled you so deep you felt him in your belly.

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry—so sorry—"

His metal hand slid beneath your back, dragging you up just enough that your chest met his, your breasts grazing his shirt as he began to move with purpose, making you feel every part of him withdrawing before slamming back in, again and again, until your breaths turned into a series of choked gasps and broken syllables, your hips rocking up to meet each thrust.

The squelch of your soaked cunt taking him echoed in the room, shameless and wet and downright salacious. "S-so full, sir, I—"

"I know, sunshine," he grunted, hips snapping harder, driving into you with a rhythm that was so demanding, you thought you'd see stars before you even came again. "That's what you needed, huh? Needed to be filled, fucked like this, made into a mess?"

You nodded, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open.

"Mhm—yes—need it—needed you—"

His hand tightened around your wrists, sure to mark you for days afterward. "You got me," he snarled, knocking the breath out of you. "You're mine right now. Gonna fuck you like I own you."

He buried himself to the hilt and ground in deep, making tears fall from your eyes, spilling down your cheeks and making you look just as doll like as he'd always thought you were. "You gonna take my cum like a good girl too?" he panted, sweat dripping from his brow onto your collarbone. "Let me fill that tight little pussy up?"

Your thighs clenched around his waist, your body quivering around his cock. "Please—want it—want all of it—sir, I'm—"

"Fuck, you're close again," he groaned, watching your face twist, desperate and delirious. "You gonna come all over my cock, sweet girl? Show me how proud you can make me?"

"Yes—yes—please, let me—let me come, I'll be good, I swear—"

He thrust once more, the movement brutal as he hit a spot in you that had your toes curling, "Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good you are."

And there you went, tumbling over the edge like you were diving off a cliff. Your eyes rolled back, mouth open in a soundless cry, your cunt spasming around him so tight it made him curse, made him lose any control he had left. He let go of your wrists and grabbed at your face, kissed you as you trembled, feeling your pleasure crash through you like a tsunami. He kept fucking you through it, his thrusts sloppy and desperate, chasing his own end until—

"Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you up—gonna come inside this sweet little pussy—take it—take it, kid—there you go—" His voice was hoarse as he came, spilling deep, hips twitching as he emptied every last drop into your fluttering cunt.

It felt like it went on forever, your bodies pressed tightly together, until you were left slick with sweat, your hair a messy halo around your head, Bucky's shirt sticking to his chest like a second skin. You blinked up at him, dazed. Blissed out. "So proud of you," he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You beamed, and it lit up the room more than any of the overhead lights could.

"Did I do a good job?" Your chest was heaving, brushing against his with every breath.

How could you say it like that, look like that, all sweet and unsuspecting, when he was still buried inside of you? When you'd both heard the obscenity of him drilling into you, soaking the mat with your slick, your nails clawing through fabric to bite into his skin?

Oh, Bucky was in a lot of trouble.

He stared down at you, heart still thudding like a war drum behind his ribs, sweat collecting along his hairline, a single drop hitting the bridge of your nose as you stared up at him, wide-eyed, flushed, glistening with the glow of orgasm.

Did I do a good job?

Like it was a warm-up. Like you wanted to make sure you had gotten a move right. Like it was a routine debrief.

Like you hadn't just begged to be fucked full like a needy little doll, voice a high warble, calling him sir while you clung to him like he'd slip through your fingers, sobbed through your climax. Your walls were still fluttering weakly around him, spasming slowly, making him twitch in response. You were still so tight.

And you had the fucking nerve to look at him like that, innocent, curious, pure and virtuous. You'd said it so damned softly. So earnestly. Like you wanted to pass the test, hoped you'd get a good score. Like you didn't know what you'd just done.

Like you didn’t know what you'd done to him.

Like you didn’t realize you’d just made him come harder than he had in decades.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Bucky muttered, more to himself than to you.

"Was it—was that not—?" Your tone was uncertain and small, as if you were now expecting to be scolded for being a poor lay.

"Don't," he cut you off sharply, his voice taking on a steel edge. "Don't you fucking start acting all unsure now."

"I just—"

"Don't give me that look. That cute little 'Did I do okay?' look like you're not still milking my cock like you want seconds."

Your cheeks burned, breath hitching, but you didn't deny it. This could be very, very dangerous for Bucky. He had the stamina, that was for sure. The serum had made sure of that. But you were young, in your prime. You had the potential to match him. And the thought was a little scary.

His hands slammed down beside your head, caging you in. "You wanna hear the truth?" he rasped, breath hot against your ear.

Your lips parted, your eyes flooding with expectancy, a quiet go ahead.

"You showed up as my trainee all eager and bright-eyed and fucking… bendy. You have that damned smile, all innocent and sweet. I was supposed to mentor you, not—not end up fucking you into the mat like I've got no goddamn self-control."

His hips rolled, just one smooth movement, dragging a strangled gasp out of you as your pussy clung to him again, still sensitive, still greedy, like you were asking him to stay.

"Now I can't stop thinkin' about how the hell I'm supposed to go back to pretending you're just a trainee when I've had you gasping under me. When I've felt you come, felt how soft and tight and warm you are."

You shivered at the admission. "Bucky—"

"Sir." His voice cracked like a whip. "You don't get to start slippin' now, sweetheart."

"Sir," you breathed, immediately, shame and thrill fluttering in your gut. "Yes, sir."

He dipped his head, nipping at your jaw and listening to your sharp inhale.

"You're asking if you did a good job?"

You nodded, silly little thing that you were, waiting to see if you were going to be given a gold star. His hand gripped your hip again, rolling you slightly, adjusting the angle and moved, pulling halfway out and pushing back in.

Your mouth fell open.

"You're still taking me," he murmured, staring down at the spot where your bodies met, where his cock disappeared inside you. "Still twitchin’ around me Still beggin' for more."

He fucked into you again, hips grinding into your overstimulated core. "You did more than a good job."

You moaned, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he kept rolling into you. "You passed with fucking honours."

And as he started to pick up the pace again, unable to stop himself, it dawned on him.

This wasn't going to be a one-time mistake. This was the beginning of a very bad habit.

This was fucked.

Beyond fucked.

Every time someone asked about your progress, uttering, "How's the kid doing?" Bucky was transported right back to that first time on the mat, your breathy little, "Did I do a good job?"

How did he tell people that above all else, you were an utter champ at taking his cock? Instead, he'd give a strained smile and say, "Oh, she's coming along," neither confirming nor denying how you were doing as his trainee. What the fuck else could he say? "Oh, yeah, she's a star pupil. Great work ethic. Excellent stamina. Even better on her knees." That couldn't go in your review.

Because it didn't stop after the first time. He'd fucked you in the supply closet at the end of the hall in the same week. You'd gotten on your hands and knees for him last night, insisting that you were good at following directions. He had a picture of you on his phone, your lips stretched wide around the thick base of his cock, spit drooling from the corners of your mouth, mascara slightly smudged, eyes bright and staring right into the camera lens.

That look. Like you were proud of it. Like you wanted him to remember it. Like you wanted to haunt him.

And God, did you ever.

It was as if the first time had opened some kind of floodgate. Now Bucky couldn't so much as turn a corner without you pressing into him, murmuring something like, "Sir, I've been so good," or "Don't you want to check my form?"

After he'd fucked your mouth until tears had streaked down your cheeks, he'd had you on all fours on the floor, both of you keyed up and feral as a pair of cats. He'd barely gotten the words "good girl" out before he was buried to the hilt, fucking you slow until you sobbed into the floor and told him how much you loved being used.

He hadn't responded to the confession, but fuck if he didn't love using you. The way you gave yourself up so easily. Earnestly. Like every act of submission was a gift wrapped in velvet. And that was what made it dangerous.

And yet you were still keeping up with lessons, still giving it your all in training. He could barely figure out how to keep up. It was so hard to focus on making sure you knew what you were doing as an agent, when now he knew how it felt to come inside you. You wanted so badly to impress him and please him that you'd let him spit in your mouth, for Christ's sake. And now he was supposed to be taking you out on a low-level mission to test your skills. Your agent skills, that was, not your bedroom ones, even though that sounded like more fun. Maybe if you did well, you'd get a reward.

Now here you were, bright-eyed and sharp in your field gear, zipping up your tactical vest like this was just another training day. The mission wasn't complicated—simple recon and contact, low-threat, no expected hostiles—but he still had to walk that line, play the role of cool-headed mentor.

Even though he'd fucked you so hard that morning in the locker room that your voice was hoarse and you’d whispered, raw and rasping, "wanna make you come again, sir," while biting at his shoulder.

"Checklist ready?" he asked now, his voice rougher than it usually was, watching you double-check your gear at the airstrip.

"Yes, sir," you chirped, flashing that devastating smile, completely unaware—or worse, too aware—of what it did to him.

He shifted his weight, suppressing a groan as his cock stirred. Again. It didn't take much, not when it came to you. "Comms, tracker, gun—everything's in place," you said, moving past him on your way to the jet ramp. "You look tense, sir. You okay?" Your voice dropped just slightly, your head tilting in curiosity. A sly little grin played at your lips.

That fucking smile.

He gave you a long, unreadable look.

"You focus on the mission," he said gruffly, his hand grazing your lower back in a way that might look accidental to anyone watching, but the pressure was enough to make you shiver. "You do well, maybe you'll get something for your efforts later."

You glanced back at him over your shoulder, eyes wide with glee. "Yes, sir!"

And just like that, Bucky knew he wasn't going to survive the day.

You were a damn good agent in the making. It couldn't be denied. But you were even better at being his favourite problem.

Of course, you'd done remarkably well. Passed with flying colours. Every time Bucky asked you a question, expecting you to know what the protocol was, what to do next, you had the answer ready on the tip of your tongue. You were right every time, even though you still looked at him like you wanted to be reassured, to be told you'd done the correct thing. He withheld. That would come later.

He was terse, blunt, to the point with you. He let you lead, unless it was necessary for him to take point. The problem with you leading was he was half focused on the job, and half focused on your ass in your field gear, and the bounce of your ponytail as you walked.

He was so, so relieved when the mission wrapped and you boarded the jet to be brought back to HQ. He slumped down in the jump seat, head tilted back, looking at the steel of the ceiling, and you fell into your seat beside him, delighted to have gotten through your first test.

You were beaming. Practically vibrating with the kind of quiet glee that only came from being good and knowing you were good, and knowing that he knew it, too. Bucky didn't look at you right away, even though your presence was near impossible to ignore. He couldn't.

Not with the memory of the last tense hour of the op still clinging to his skin, sweat cooling under his tactical gear, adrenaline bleeding into something sharper as he remembered the way you'd handled yourself out there—cool, calm, precise—and how you'd kept sneaking glances back at him. Each time you had, it had been obvious, out of place with the environment you were in, but each look told him you wanted to be praised, petted, cooed at, fucked.

You'd done everything right. It couldn't have gone more smoothly. And yet, you still wanted his approval like it was the only thing that would keep you steady, keep you focused.

He ran a hand down his face, his jaw ticking, metal fingers scraping against stubble. Your legs were bouncing next to his, the heels of your boots thumping a light rhythm, your body jittery with energy.

"That was so… wow!" you said. "I mean, there were a couple of moments where I wasn't sure what my next move should be, but then I just thought about what you'd do and—boom! Done."

He snorted, turning his head just enough to look at you.

You were glowing. Sunlight in a bottle. Fucking irresistible. Your hair was windswept, flyaways loose around your face. Your cheeks still held colour from the bite of cold air. He hadn't said a word of praise yet, hadn't let a hint of approval bleed into his voice the entire mission. He hadn't trusted himself to say something kind and leave it at that.

But now, here you were. Looking up at him with those wide, expectant eyes, biting your lip like you didn't know how much he wanted to smooth it out with his thumb. The only person who should be sinking their teeth into the plush of your mouth should be him.

He let the silence stretch, his gaze sweeping over your face, down the rise and fall of your chest. You were still breathing a little more quickly than usual, though now he wondered if it was due to his proximity to you, rather than being winded from the mission. He imagined the sweat on your skin, the heat of your body under your clothes. The marks he knew he'd left behind on your thighs last time. He rolled his shoulders back, willing himself to stay aloof, to not let on how much he wanted you.

"You did well," he said finally.

Your smile widened, as open as a blooming flower. "Yeah?"

He nodded, just once, letting his eyes fall shut as he tipped his head back again against the wall of the jet. "Yeah."

There was a lengthy pause, before he heard: "So…"

He heard you shift in your seat, then the teasing lilt of your voice. "Does that mean I get my reward?"

His eyes snapped open.

You were watching him through your lashes, one leg tucked under the other, sitting there like you hadn't just asked to be fucked senseless as your mission bonus. "I was very good. You said so."

He turned his head slowly toward you.

"Do you want it that badly?" he asked, voice a rasp, pitched low enough that you almost couldn't catch it over the rumble of the jet. "That desperate to be filled up?"

You flushed, but didn't back down. "I'm not desperate," you said defensively, even though your thighs were now pressed tightly together. Even though your hands were fidgeting in your lap. Even though he was sure he could smell the faint trace of your wetness blooming under your tight pants. "I'm eager. There's a difference."

"You're a fuckin' hazard."

"I'm your hazard. You signed up to mentor me," you quipped, and the simplicity of the statement had his hand on your thigh a moment later, squeezing in warning.

"Keep talking," he muttered, "and I'll drag you to the back of this jet and bend you over the first thing I find."

At the threat, your eyes lit up, brighter than a moonbeam. "Is that a promise, sir?"

"It's a guarantee."

Then his hand was sliding higher. It wasn't overtly obvious, to anyone that might be looking—you weren't technically alone, after all. There was a pilot up front, a couple of support agents hovering by the cockpit. His fingers trailed a slow path up to the waistband of your combat pants, grazing the tiniest bit of skin at your hip, a spot that your tactical vest and shirt didn't quite manage to cover.

"I should make you wait," he said, feeling you shiver. "You kept it together out there. You were professional, focused, a model trainee. But I knew what you were thinking every time you looked at me. Every time you asked if you were making the right call."

You sucked in a breath as his thumb brushed against your skin, a slow swipe of metal. "You wanted me to tell you right there, huh? That you were impressing me? That I was proud? You would've dropped to your knees in that warehouse if it meant earning your gold star."

The words made your legs part just a fraction, like you were daring him to make good on his promise right on the jump seat. He leaned a little closer. "You gonna take it like a good girl again?" His lips brushed your ear. "Gonna stay nice and quiet? You can't be loud. You get us caught, it's over."

You nodded, your eyes half-lidded. "Yes, sir. I can be quiet. I promise."

He pulled his hand back, and the absence of him made you whimper. "Wait five minutes. Then follow."

You opened your mouth—to protest, to agree, he wasn't sure. He didn't care. He was already rising from his seat, stalking towards the rear of the jet with slow, measured steps. It was as easy as putting cheese in a trap, cute little mouse that you were. You did as he'd instructed, doing your best to remain poised, to not tremble with want.

Then, when the five minutes were up, you followed.

Five minutes was both no time at all and the longest Bucky felt he had ever had to wait for something. What a foolish thing to offer, to fuck you stupid on the jet. But the way you'd lit up, like putting a candle in a window… Worth it. It would be more worth it when he saw you struggle to be silent. He'd have no choice but to keep you quiet. Because God, you were loud when he screwed you. And now you'd have to stay silent or face the consequences. He felt like he was going to die if he didn't find his way inside you.

And then you were rounding the corner of the stack of crates near the back of the jet, stepping into his line of sight and out of view of anyone else who might have walked past. "Breaking a lot of rules, kid." Bucky warned, though that wasn't about to stop him.

There was no hesitation from you, no second-guessing. You were in front of him with that same smile playing on your lips, the one that drove him crazy. Your eyes were dark with mischief, flicking up to meet his as if you hadn't just strutted straight into the lion's den asking to be devoured, baring your neck for him to take the first bite.

Bucky didn't move immediately. He needed the extra second to take you in, to watch how you shifted on your feet like you were already imagining how he'd feel when he sank into you. The flush on your face gave you away despite your attempt as a composed expression. You swallowed, and then smiled more brightly, sweet as honey. "That was five minutes. I counted the seconds in my head."

You stepped a little closer as you spoke, your tongue poking out as you dampened your lips.

"It was barely five minutes. You were probably walking over here by the four and a half mark."

"I'm obedient. You said five, and I counted five."

He laughed, though it was a humourless sound, and he moved forward to push you back against the crates. His hands found your hips with an iron grip, thumbs digging into your bones, breath hot against your cheek. "You know, I'm beginning to think you're a bit of a brat."

"Only with you."

You looked up at him, lashes fluttering, mouth parted. Your breath hitched as he leaned in, nose brushing yours, his thigh sliding between your legs. You were already rocking into him, not subtle in the least. The heat of your body pulsed right through the fabric of your clothes, radiating off you like a fever.

He tapped at the button of your pants. "Take 'em off." He said, a commander and his apprentice, the words sharp as a scalpel.

You moved fast, popping the button and unzipping, shimmying the fabric down over your thighs. Your panties followed, though they stuck to you for a moment with how damp they were, and you kicked everything aside, your boots thudding in a far off corner like you couldn't bear the delay.

Bucky was back between your legs before you could feel the chill of the air so many thousands of feet off the ground. His metal hand caught under one of your knees and hiked your leg over his hip. Your back hit the crates with a soft sound, and you gasped in surprise, like you didn't know exactly where this was headed.

Bucky leaned close to you, invading your space completely, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "Gotta stay quiet, sunshine," he whispered, dragging his cock out of his pants, thick and leaking against your skin. "Think you can do that for me just this once?"

"I—I'll try—" you were half listening, tilting your hips towards his.

"You won't try. You'll do it, or I'll stop. And I'll leave you dripping all over the floor of this jet while I call HQ and get your debrief started."

You let out a tiny whine, taking the efforts to be quiet to heart, and nodded.

Just like that, your fate had been sealed.

He angled your body just right, and then he was pushing in, unhurried and ruinous, the head of his cock stretching you open like it was the first time, until he was all the way in, hips flush with yours, his breath a harsh inhale.

Fuck, you were tight. Slick. Swollen from the anticipation, clenching around him like your cunt had been starving for it.

Your eyes rolled back, your jaw dropping open with a cry you didn't let escape. He stared at you, blue eyes meeting yours with a silent question: Can you make good on your word? You bit your fist, nodding, desperate for him to move.

He didn't. Rather, he stayed still. He held you there, buried to the hilt, your cunt fluttering around him as you let you feel it—feel him—until your fingers clawed into his jacket and your body started to quiver.

"Remember," he murmured, rocking his hips once, just enough to grant you temporary mercy. "Quiet, sweetheart."

A strangled sound escaped through your teeth, but it was hushed enough to satisfy him. "Good girl," he breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Take it. You can take it."

Then he finally fucked you. He took his time at first, each move measured. Each grind of his hips was almost lazily done as he let you feel every ridge and vein of his cock until you started to writhe against the crates. He didn't speed up, instead watching your face. He took pleasure in watching you fight to keep your moans subdued, to keep yourself from rattling the crates with each thrust.

One particular movement had your mouth opening wide enough that he knew there would be noise attached, and he shoved two fingers between your lips, silencing the cry before it could escape. You latched on without hesitation, sucking on the digits like they were a balm, something to soothe you. Your eyes closed in the same breath. The way you opened to him with complete trust was what made him change course.

He picked up the pace. Now it was brutal. Savage. Ruthless. Thrust after thrust, slamming into you with enough force to jolt your body an inch or two up the crates. He squeezed your thigh with his metal hand, hooking you into place, keeping you sinking down on him over and over. Your cunt was spasming already, slick dripping onto his pants.

"Yeah," he growled, the sound echoing through your ears. "You love this, don't you? Love sneakin' off to get stuffed full. Hungry little thing. You'll let me fuck you anywhere, huh? As long as I say you're a good girl?"

You clenched. You were right on the edge; he could sense it. "You close?" he asked, biting down on your earlobe. He could draw blood and you'd probably thank him. "Gonna come right here?"

Your eyes were wild, frantic as you nodded, your mouth still working his fingers.

"You gonna stay quiet?"

You hesitated. He saw the flicker in your expression, one that said you didn't trust yourself.

Bucky stilled, coming to a complete stop. A low, pitiful sound left you, not quite a whine, not quite a purr, and you started grinding down on him shamelessly. He pulled his fingers from your mouth, glistening with spit, and grabbed at your jaw, his grip vice like.

"Come. You've earned it, little girl." he said, the softness of his voice at odds with the way he was holding you. "But make one fuckin' sound and I'll pull out."

All it took were two merciless slams of his cock and you were seeing God, your mouth opening wide in a silent cry as you came, your whole body jerking against his, your thighs twitching uncontrollably, cunt squeezing him so firmly he knew he was about to follow you straight to nirvana. You made a high, broken whimper, but it melted into the loud sounds of the jet and the jostling of the crates.

"Good fuckin' girl." He gave a couple more thrusts and then he was groaning into your neck, burying himself as deeply as he could, cock throbbing as he spilled inside you. You took every last bit like it was an elixir that cured all wounds.

The slow come down had him looking at your face, the sweat that had beaded on your temples, the fucked out look you were sporting. He gripped your chin until you met his eyes. Then you smiled, small and tentative, but there all the same.

Bucky had just taken you on a trip to space and back, and yet he still felt like you'd gotten the better of him.

Each test you passed, each time you did something particularly well, which was often, had Bucky fucking you regularly. You were his problem to solve, and he had no issue with showing his work. His favourite time was when he'd taken you in front of the mirror in the gym, made you watch yourself bounce up and down in his lap, his hand loose on your throat, his voice in your ear. That would be burned in his mind for years to come, whether you stuck around or not.

Because that was what he was starting to think of, now. He'd been mentoring you for six months. You didn't see each other outside of that. When you successfully graduated from rookie to fully fledged agent, he would have no excuse to see you, save for chance encounters or missions that required extra help. You probably wouldn't be put on anything high-profile for years, even if you were a star pupil.

He chose to live in the now instead. He had another six months before that happened.

You had just perfected a trademark Bucky move, which was flinging a knife at full speed, watching it turn end over end until it buried itself into the center mass of a training dummy. It was something you'd been struggling with for days now, but you'd finally gotten it right.

You squealed with excitement, jumping up and down, clapping your hands. Bucky stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, and made an amused sound. He didn't even have the chance to praise you before you were turning in his direction and running full speed. You locked your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, sending him a couple of steps backward. Your eyes glittered with satisfaction. "I did it!"

Bucky stumbled back a step, a grunt punching out of him as your weight hit his chest full force. His hands reflexively came up to catch you—one on your ass, the other at the middle of your back, fingers splayed. Your legs locked tight around his waist like you knew he'd catch you. Like you knew he always would.

And fuck, maybe that was true.

Your eyes were dazzling, the way they were lit up. You were joy personified, your cheek pressed against his temple, breath hitting his ear as you gasped the words, "Did you see? I finally got it!" like you were stunned by your own triumph.

He allowed a laugh to escape, though it sounded foreign, rough as sandpaper. "Yeah," he murmured, keeping his face turned away just enough that you wouldn't see what flickered through his expression. "You fuckin' did."

Your enthusiasm had always been a little much, a little too bright, the kind of high-octane delight that never quite matched the cutthroat world you were being trained for—but you'd never let your shine be dulled, not once. Not even after hard days. You just tucked it away until the moment you could burst like this. Like a lit fuse reaching the charge.

And Bucky was fighting the urge to make you happy like that outside of training.

You wriggled playfully, still grinning, your arms wrapped tight around his neck, and he could feel the warmth of you through your activewear. He could feel the way your thighs flexed where they gripped his waist, the rhythm of your heart fluttering like a bird against his chest. The time for this to be classed as a moment of overexcitement had come and gone. You weren't letting go. You hadn't even thought about it.

"Are you proud of me?" you asked cheekily, as if you didn't know.

His hand stayed firm on your ass, nothing suggestive about the way he was holding you, for once. You bit your lip, tilted your head, and tried to peer into his eyes, to see what he might be thinking, even though he usually stayed a closed book with you, outside of your now-regular activities.

He didn't look away in time.

Something in your smile softened. "I'm always proud of you," he said.

And it hurt.

Because now, even though he'd done his best not to, he was picturing the end. The graduation.

You walking into that big conference room where your name would be read off with the rest of the rookies, the ones doing their regular training without the hands-on help. The evaluations, the handlers lined up by the podium. The full agent package, higher clearance, a shiny new badge. You'd be smiling, probably looking smart in a blazer. You'd be official, untouchable.

No more private training sessions. No more supply closets. No more mirrors. No more you pressed into his lap, whispering, "Sir, am I still your good girl?" No waiting for you outside the locker room, leaned against the wall and acting annoyed when you took a little too long.

He'd lose all of it.

And you'd move on.

Maybe you'd find someone else. Some other agent you didn't have to keep a secret with. Someone closer to your age. Someone who wouldn't risk losing their job if they bent you over a desk.

But for now, he still had you.

So he didn't think about the end anymore. He didn't think about what it would feel like to lose you. He didn't imagine the first day that he wouldn't have to meet you down here.

He walked you backward in three long strides, moving until your back hit the padded wall. You squeaked in surprise but didn't let go, your arms still locked behind his neck, thighs tight around his waist.

"God, you're trouble," he muttered, eyes dark. He didn't want you to see the storm that was swirling in his head, did his best to mask it with desire.

"You like trouble."

"Are you sure about that, sunshine?"

"You told me that once. Said I was a problem. Your problem. You like that. I'm your problem." You smiled, and though it was probably meant to be coy, it was just sweet as sugar instead.

"Don't say that unless you fuckin' mean it," he snapped, grabbing your ass with both hands, grinding you down over the bulge in his pants. "Because if you're mine, that means I get to fuck you stupid every time you do something right. Every time you perfect a move, every time you do something without me having to tell you."

You grinned, and it was somehow smug and innocent all at once. "Sounds like we're finally implementing a reward system. I've only been asking for two months."

The growl that escaped him sounded like it belonged to a wolf and not a man, and he bit at your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, grinding harder until you gasped.

"You want a reward now?" he asked, already tugging at your leggings. "Right here, in the gym? Think it's your favourite place. You want me to fuck you against the wall, huh? Wanna make me late filing your training report?"

Your voice was as soft as the fur on a kitten. "If I ask you really nicely, will you come inside me again?"

His belt clinked, and it sounded like the ricochet of a bullet. "You earned it, little girl. You don't have to ask."

He shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, cock hard and slick from sheer anticipation. Your panties were pushed to the side, your pussy already dripping—you were as eager and ready as always. And he was already there, already perfectly lined up, as if your body had been made for this.

Maybe it had.

He drove into you with a sharp thrust, burying himself to the base in one smooth motion. You choked on a cry, raw with want, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he started fucking you right there, in the gym, like you were the only thing he'd ever needed to get through another goddamn day.

"Look at you," he snarled, watching the way your eyes fluttered, how your mouth dropped open. Like fucking clockwork. "Can't get enough, can you? Gonna miss this when you're gone?"

"I'm not—I'm not going anywhere—" you gasped.

He laughed bitterly, his cock slamming into you again, forcing you back hard against the wall. You were lucky—the padding would absorb most of the impact. Any other surface and your shoulders and spine would have bruises for days. "Yeah, you are. Gonna graduate, gonna wear that badge, gonna go be a real agent—"

"I'll still be yours," you panted, wrapping your legs tighter around him. "Still wanna be good for you. Always."

"Fuck," he muttered. "Fuck, say that again."

"Yours," you moaned. "Yours, sir—yours—fuck me, please—want your cum again—want it inside—want it all—"

He lost it.

His pace became wicked in its intensity. Pistoning into you over and over, his breath ragged, your cries muffled in his neck. His hand was back on your throat, light but firm, holding you still as your orgasm tore through you, muscles locking, cunt squeezing him so tight he saw stars.

And he came with a guttural sound, his hips stuttering, cock twitching as he spilled inside you, heat blooming between your thighs. You pulsed around him, milking him like your life depended on it, and clung to him like you were scared to let go. Your orgasms eclipsed like the sun kissing the moon.

All Bucky could hear, aside from your uneven breathing, was your heartbeat. Fast as a rabbit's, yes, but steady.

When he finally pulled back to look at you, you were still smiling.

You had no idea that he was already mourning the day he'd have to let you go.

It was three more months of the same shit. Bucky training you, you continuing to blow through all of his expectations, shifting the goal posts every time. Dalliances in the showers, the locker room, any quiet place that might be overlooked.

Every quarter, the two of you would be pulled into a meeting to discuss your progress. Since you were the first test, the first rookie to be trained by an Avenger, your achievements were of great interest. This was quarter three. Quarter four would be your last. A full year, approaching its end. Bucky had kept his silent panic hidden from you, from anyone that might dare to look.

It was a slap in the face to Bucky, when at the end of your meeting, Steve, Maria, and a few faceless senior agents he didn't care to know, came to the conclusion that the test program could end early. You were clearly doing so well, you could graduate now. Just you, ahead of everyone else learning in groups with other agents.

You didn't need Bucky's help anymore, they said. They could move forward with streamlining the mentorship framework. Could pair Bucky with a handful of rookie agents as early as next month. Because it wasn't supposed to be one-on-one all the time. It would be small teams of three to five. After all, you and Bucky had just been the guinea pigs. No one had a clue that it was like kismet, putting you two together.

And all he could do was nod rigidly, with you sitting beside him at the table, and utter through gritted teeth, "That's great news."

He thought he had three more months with you.

He was meant to have three more months with you.

Instead, it was over now, and you were to be ripped from him like a warm blanket on a cold morning.

Bucky sat there, his spine stiff, jaw clenching so hard it felt like his teeth might crack. He could hear Steve's voice droning on in its usual Captain America cadence—cheerful, encouraging, inspirational, leadership and wisdom polished to a shine.

"You did a hell of a job, Buck. Really. This whole thing went even better than we expected."

Maria nodded in agreement. "The data supports it. Skill acquisition, efficiency under pressure, emotional stability, tactical instinct—you name it. She's excelled in every category."

The faceless suits chimed in with a chorus of nods and bureaucratic approval, their words blurring into white noise. No one thought to wonder if you were special, a shooting star, an avenging angel. No one asked if maybe you and Bucky had created something that couldn't be replicated.

We can move forward.

This changes our approach to mentorship permanently.

We want more agents to benefit the way she did.

Small teams next quarter. Starting with you.

And you…

You were right there next to him, still sitting pretty in that chair like you weren't about to be taken from him. You looked surprised, sure, blinking as though the news had caught you off guard. But you weren't devastated. Not like he was. You didn't look like you'd just taken a dagger to the chest. Instead, your hands were folded neatly in your lap, posture professional. Smiling. Pleasant. Poised.

Maybe you were just being careful. Maybe you didn't want to give anything away.

Or maybe you were ready to go.

He couldn't fucking tell. Usually he could read you as easily as the morning paper, but right now, you were blank. And that scared him more than anything.

Because despite himself, despite knowing the end was right around the corner, Bucky had counted on three more months. Three more months of you pressed against his chest in the quiet dark of a secluded hallway, whispering "sir" against his jaw like you were saying a prayer. Three more months of your mouth around his cock after a good mission, your tongue tracing him like you were still doing anything you could to earn his praise. Three more months of walking into the gym and seeing you stretch with your back arched just enough to make him forget what day it was. Three more months of pretending that this was something he could eventually let go of when the time came.

Those three months were supposed to be his time to wean himself off of you, to slow it down, to touch you less, to want you less.

But the time had come now.

It was too fast.

It was too soon.

But he couldn't argue that you weren't ready to move ahead without discrediting you and contradicting all of his reports. You had already slipped through his fingers. It had been decided before you'd even walked into the room together. You were done with him.

He didn't look at you. He couldn't. If he did, he was afraid something would show. Something vulnerable. Something weak. Something real.

Everyone else in the room moved on quickly. They were already talking about the next phase, names of candidates, stats, locations, adjustments to curriculum. None of it mattered. None of it fucking mattered.

Because this wasn't about expanding the program anymore, not to Bucky.

This was about losing you. He couldn't even bring himself to get mad for being so delusional, for developing feelings for you. The shock of the end coming still gripped at his throat, still whispered in his ear, licked at his skin.

When the meeting ended, the suits stood and shook hands, congratulating you on your success. You took it graciously. There were a few comments about how proud they were. How you were setting the bar for what new agents could be. Your expression was polite, professional. You said all the right things.

Bucky didn't say a damn word.

He walked out like his body was on autopilot. Straight-backed. Calm. Controlled.

It was a good thing that no one could see that inside, he was a fucking disaster.

He didn't go far, only a little ways down the hall to a quiet corner, an unused corridor with horrid yellow lighting and a dead plant, a spot that no one ever checked. And there, alone, with his fists braced against the wall and his head hung low, he let it hit him like a freight train.

This was the end.

How could he be so stupid? How could he let this happen? The first trainee he'd been given, and he was ready to throw it all away for you. He remembered when he'd met you. Your hand sticking out to shake his, no flinch at the metal arm or the knowledge of his past. You always smiled at him like you saw more than the Winter Soldier. You saw Bucky, just Bucky. And somehow, without even trying, he had become your Bucky.

And now here he was. He'd have to pretend that none of it had happened. That those moments where you were all hot and heavy and totally lost in each other didn't mean anything, that the trust you'd built in those training rooms and on the field wasn't real. That the hand he'd kept on your lower back when you were tired was just mentorship and not him offering silent comfort, reassuring you that you'd earned a break, that you'd been giving your all. That the way he whispered praise into your hair after you came around him, legs shaking, wasn't him trying to say I need you. Please don't go.

He stayed there in the hallway, head bowed, biting his tongue until he tasted blood, breathing through his nose like it could push the grief down into his boots where it wouldn't choke him, but it stayed in his chest like lead.

Some day soon, he'd have to meet a new team of rookies, with their smiles wide and uncertain, or worse—cocky—, asking dumb questions, wanting too much, believing they could ever compete with you.

And you'd be walking into your future. A clean slate, an official title. You'd be the shining star of this whole goddamn program. People would want you on their team. You'd move up fast. He could taste your success as a tangible thing, your victory as sweet as you.

Maybe you'd cross paths again. Maybe you'd nod politely in briefings, smile across conference tables, share one or two missions, say the occasional "Hey, you trained me, remember?" like it was just a footnote in your past.

But every time Bucky walked past that training room, he'd think of you.

He'd have nothing but memory to remind him of the way your thighs gripped his waist, or the way your breath caught when he said good girl, or how your eyes glittered with happiness every time he told you you'd done well.

It was over, and Bucky already felt like a dead man.

You had asked not to have a full ceremony. It was just you, after all. You didn't want to be given that much attention. And Bucky would have been the one handing you your badge, a symbol of him passing the torch to you, releasing you like a bird from a cage.

Instead, you collected your badge and other necessary documents quietly, from Maria's office. You were given seniors to report to, quarters for when you needed to stay at HQ long-term. And Bucky had seemingly vanished like mist in the wind.

You had cried, after the meeting. He didn't know that. He'd disappeared so quickly, you thought maybe he was high-tailing it out of there because he was glad to be done with you. You'd been fighting the tears the entire meeting. All you were hearing was praise on your accomplishments, things you'd been dying to hear. But they meant nothing to you when it wasn't Bucky telling you how proud he was.

You wanted to find him, to beg him on your hands and knees to keep you. But maybe this whole thing, this whole arrangement had been something to make your nine months together more bearable, for him. A young thing to pass the time with. All you knew was that your chest hurt like there was shrapnel stuck there, skin poorly healing around it.

The badge felt heavy in your hand.

Too heavy for something so small, the emblem gleaming under the overhead lights of Maria's office. It was supposed to mean everything to you. You'd trained for this, bled for this, gave your all for this. Being accepted by SHIELD in the first place had been the most arduous task you'd ever faced—countless background checks, agents prying every piece of your life, your history, your family apart to make sure you were a good fit. Your first three months as a rookie had been gruelling. You'd been sore every day, clawing your way to the top.

And then, you'd been hand picked for the mentorship pilot program.

And suddenly, the weight in your hand was little more than a paperweight. You'd done what you'd set out to, but at what cost?

The cost of losing a man that you'd grown to love?

The badge was a gravestone. Here lies your time with James Barnes, now get out there and kick ass.

You stared at it long after Maria had ushered you from the room, her congratulations warm but perfunctory. The file folder was thick with your assignment protocols, clearance codes, travel credentials. Everything you'd worked for. Everything you were supposed to be jumping for joy over.

But what did it matter, when he wasn't here?

Bucky Barnes, your mentor, your anchor, your ruin, your everything-in-secret—gone, like the last nine months had never happened.

That meeting had been your last glimpse of those blue eyes, that smile that seemed out of place, slightly crooked and hesitant. That voice that curled around you like smoke. There had been no texts or calls, no offer to go out for a congratulatory dinner. You hadn't passed him in the halls. No brush of metal fingers at your back. He'd been surgically removed from your life, or maybe it had been you being removed, like you were some mistake being cut out of his history.

Had you just been a chapter that he'd finished reading, closed the book and put it on the shelf?

You hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

You weren't supposed to feel this way. You knew the rules. You’d told yourself you understood what it was. That it was physical. That it was training and lust and the hot pressure of adrenaline funnelled into each other's mouths and hands and bodies after long days. That it was temporary.

You'd told yourself that.

But your hands were shaking as you slipped your badge into your jacket pocket. You weren't ready to be cut loose. Not from him.

And God, the look on his face—when they'd said you could graduate early—tight and unreadable, the way his jaw ticked when he said "That's great news," like every word tasted like ash. You'd thought—hoped—he felt it too. That this meant more than he was letting on. But that had been all, nothing to indicate that what you wished was mutual really was, no covert glance that might say We'll talk about this, don't worry.

Your first week as an agent had you haunting the halls you'd once frequented. The way down to the gym, avoiding the elevator that stubbornly broke down once a week. The shooting range. The cafeteria. Your subconscious kept travelling the same paths you'd walked every day for months, like maybe you'd hear his voice from around a corner.

You'd only gone into that private training room once. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, and you thought you looked small and forlorn, not the bright, confident agent you were now supposed to be.

You remembered when he'd made you watch yourself. Flushed and panting in his lap, his hand loose around your throat, his voice in your ear telling you, "Look how pretty you are when you take it. My perfect girl."

The memory faded, replaced by the image of you now, sitting on the floor in front of it. Your knees were tucked to your chest, the room cold and too quiet. There was no Bucky behind you. No reflection of a man with hungry eyes and an adoring touch. Just you, alone.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and breathed in, slow and shallow, though you meant to fill your lungs. You wished you had the courage to go find him. To stand in front of him, emotions laid bare, and ask him what it had meant. If you had meant anything. If he'd ever thought—just once—that maybe he wanted to keep you.

But what if he said no?

What if he looked at you and saw a complication he was glad to be rid of?

What if these last nine months had only ever been a train he'd been on, waiting for his stop?

You blinked away a hot tear.

He was James Barnes, the Winter Soldier. You were just a girl with stars in her eyes and a clean record.

You'd been his trainee, but you had never been his.

Such a shame, to have thought differently.

Bucky regretted signing up for this mentorship program more than anything.

It was the start of a new month. He'd met his four new rookies. They were… fine. He wasn't giving himself a chance to know them—he didn't want to. The only rookie he cared about knowing was you. But you weren't a rookie anymore.

He hadn't let himself check in on what you'd been doing in the last four weeks. You weren't doing him, so who cared? He had to get over it, he told himself. You were just an agent, a girl he'd trained. That was all.

He was standing in the training room, dismissing his new protégées with a nod and a gesture to the door, watching them all file out. If it had been the end of a session with you, you would have probably been running a lap around the room before launching yourself onto his back, kissing his cheek or his neck or wherever you could reach in your excitement at a job well done.

The new trainees had each tried to get to know Bucky a handful of times, but he'd remained closed off and aloof, short and to the point with his instructions, unwilling to dole out more than a, "good," or "it'll do" when someone did as he asked with success. The last rookie trailed out the door, and right as they crossed the threshold, Bucky heard a soft, "Oh, excuse me."

It made his spine straighten like an arrow, the cadence familiar, the tone warm. And there you were in jeans and a blazer, badge hooked on a lanyard over your neck, peering into the doorway. "Bucky." You said, surprise painting your tone.

He felt the same surprise crash over his head like ice water. Clearly, you hadn't come down here for him. But you were here now. You both stood there, him tense in the center of the room, you unsure in the doorway.

A month, since he'd seen you. Your hair was the tiniest bit longer, curling at the ends. You were wearing a new shade of lip gloss—he could tell, it was a little more red than pink. You held yourself like an agent now, too, not slinking back or folding in on yourself, even though you'd been caught off-guard.

Your lips parted like you wanted to say something, and God, how he wanted you to. Anything. Just so he could hear your voice again. But you didn't, your mouth closing again, fingers running along the edge of your badge.

But you did take a step forward into the room and let the door close behind you, instantly muffling the sounds of the hallway and beyond.

Bucky's breath caught in his throat, and he resisted the urge to cough. It was only you and him in the cavernous quiet of the training room. Same walls. Same mats. Same mirror.

But now, there were different rules.

His fists curled at his sides. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't planned for this. He hadn't even let himself think about this, what it would be like to see you again. To hear his name spill from your lips. Lips he used to kiss, who used to trail down his body as softly as a butterfly's landing.

Your eyes met his, hesitant but steady. You hadn't broken the eye contact. You never had, not once—not even when you were brand new, shy and eager to prove yourself. You'd always looked at him like he mattered, like it was important to show him you trusted him. Only now, you looked like you didn't know if you still had the right.

He didn't move, even though he wanted to cross the space and pull you into his arms, melt your body into his, absorb you and never let you go again. His feet were locked into place like someone had poured concrete into his boots.

Your fingers on the badge caught his eye. That tiny movement, your thumb brushing the edge, made something in his chest twist like a blade. He'd wanted to be the one to give you that. In a perfect world, after a year of training you, he'd be the one to fasten it on you himself, tell you how proud he was, how much you meant to him, how goddamn hard it would be to let go. Maybe afterward, he would have taken you out, a final, bittersweet goodbye. Would have taken you back to your place, worshipped you, held you, been gentle with you.

But that hadn't happened. The plan had changed without him knowing, and so he'd vanished instead.

He'd left you in that meeting with nothing but a room of strangers and a cold silence that gave away none of his true feelings.

You were the one who stepped forward.

Not him.

Somehow, it was always you.

You on that first day, and you now.

Just a couple steps, but he could see the faint sheen in your eyes. You were close enough that he could smell the soft, warm scent of you that still haunted him every time he thought of you. You were close enough that it hurt to not be touching you.

"Hi," you whispered.

You'd rendered him speechless.

You smiled, small and strained, nothing like the toothy grins he'd been treated to almost every day. "Didn't mean to interrupt. I didn't know you were using this room. I just, um… Maria said one of my newer contacts usually trained down here around this time, so I thought that I'd check."

He nodded, the movement jerky and mechanical. His tongue felt like sand in his mouth.

"I guess not," you added, glancing away and down, your fingers still curled tight around the badge like it was the only thing keeping you upright. "Sorry. I'll get out of your hair."

You turned to go.

No.

He didn't say it out loud, but he felt it, like a wave pushing against the barriers of his body, his heart threatening to give out if he didn't act. His body moved faster than his mind did, and he was stepping toward you before you could make it to the door.

"Wait." It came out rough, hoarse. He didn't even recognize his own voice. "Please."

You stopped, half-turning, and blinked at him. You were giving him the chance to convince you not to walk out the door.

He swallowed. "I didn't know if I'd see you again."

You gave him a look that cracked something in his chest. It was an expression he'd never seen on you before—raw and sad and, oh, God, he was the cause. "You didn't really try."

He winced, unable to deny it. "I didn't—I didn't want to make it worse," he said, his voice low. "Didn't want to see you walk past me and not spare me a second glance. Didn't want to know it meant nothing."

"It didn't," your voice was sharp. "It didn't mean nothing. I waited for you," you took a step closer. "After the meeting. I thought you'd find me. I thought you'd say something. Anything. But you were gone, Bucky. Like it never happened. Like you and me never happened."

"I couldn't—"

"You could have," you interrupted, voice breaking. "You chose not to."

He looked at you, really looked—eyes running over your face, the tightness in your mouth, the tension in your jaw. The way you stood like you were bracing for impact.

"I thought you were glad to be done with me," you whispered.

A cut from a blade couldn't have hurt so badly.

"God," he exhaled, stepping forward until there was only a breath between you. “That's what you thought?"

The silence was a roar in his ears. You nodded, a small, certain thing. Bucky shook his head. "I was never done with you. I'm still not done with you. I'll never be done with you, baby."

Your eyes searched his for a long moment, and Bucky stayed still, feeling like he'd just placed a loaded gun in your hands. And then something broke. Your face crumpled for just a second, and then you were in motion, moving until you had walked straight into his chest, your fists curling in the front of his shirt, your head buried in the crook of his neck.

His arms wrapped around you like instinct. Like need. Like relief.

You were warm. Real. Trembling. And you were still his.

His hand slid up to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair as he pressed a kiss there.

"I didn't think you wanted me anymore," you whispered.

"I've only wanted you," he murmured back, and he sounded completely undone. "God damn it, I've been walking around like a ghost without you. I couldn't—I didn't know how to come back. Didn't know how to beg you to stay."

You pulled back enough to look at him, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I'm here."

He nodded, forehead pressing to yours. "Don't ever leave."

You kissed him. It was desperate. Full of every quiet ache the last month had carved into your ribs. And he kissed you back like it was all he knew how to do anymore.

It was like a punishment and a gift all at once. It was like every single one of Bucky's nerves woke up at the same time, pattern recognition kicking in with every pass of your lips, every swipe of your tongue. He hadn't forgotten what you tasted like, but God, the memory paled in comparison to the real thing. Your hair, soft between his fingers. Your body, warm and dainty against his, as familiar as breathing. "I missed you," you murmured, your voice half broken, half relieved. "I missed you so much, Bucky."

It nearly tore him in two, to know how much you'd needed him in the last month. You didn't need his guidance anymore, maybe, but you needed him. You'd always needed him. You had him, now. You'd be hard-pressed to lose him again.

Bucky's grip on you tightened, like if he didn’t anchor you to him right now, you might float off, disappear again into the system, into the corridors and missions and team briefings where you didn't belong to him anymore.

But you did. Fuck, you did.

He held your face between his hands, his breath stuttering against your mouth.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words barely audible, spoken against your lips. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know what to do with myself. You were gone and I—" he broke off, jaw locking. "I didn't want to watch you move on. Didn't want to see what you looked like when you weren't mine."

"I was always yours," you breathed. "Even when you didn't come find me. Even when I thought you hated me. I was still yours."

"Don't say that," he rasped, looking into your eyes, begging you to believe him, to see his heart placed on your altar. "Don't you ever think I hated you. Christ, sunshine. I loved every second with you. I loved you. I love you. I was afraid of asking for more."

You stared up at him, stunned silence stretching between you.

And then, softly, so softly: "Bucky…"

His name on your tongue, again. Finally.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone like you were something fragile, precious, to be handled with the utmost care. "I thought you were supposed to fly free," he murmured. "That I was just the guy who helped you get your wings. You weren't supposed to stay."

You laughed, and it was a small, sad, breathless sound. "I didn't want to go," you said. "I didn't want to be free. I wanted you."

His hand dropped from your face, fingers sweeping across your ribs, tracing you like he had to re-learn you, and this time, he wouldn't be in danger of forgetting, because he was keeping you. He wasn't going to lose you again.

"Then stay," he said, voice thick. "Not as my trainee. Not as some memory I jerk off to in the shower. Stay with me. Stay mine."

You kissed him again, colliding with him like you were two trains on the same track. You were pouring all of your aching, your longing, your everything, into him. So eager you were, so eager that Bucky's back hit the mirror with a quiet thud, and you pressed into him, your fingers dragging through his hair, the line of your body like a burn against his. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs digging into denim, dragging you closer.

It was messy. It was real.

He hadn't kissed you like this in weeks, hadn't touched you, and now that you were here, now that you were on him like he was something you'd fought tooth and nail to find again, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop.

Not now.

Not ever.

He moved you gently, until it was you who was pressed to the mirror, his thigh sliding between yours, mouth dragging down your neck, breathing you in. Your smell, your taste, your skin.

"You're mine," he growled softly. "You're not some agent. Not some file on a desk. Not someone I used to know. This is it. You and me."

You nodded frantically, hands fisted in his shirt. "Yours. Always been yours, Bucky. From the first day."

His mouth was back on yours before you could say anything else, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was trying to reclaim every second he'd lost, every goddamn second he hadn't had you wrapped up in his arms.

Why had he never brought you home with him, treated you like a queen, spoiled you rotten? He had a lot to make up for, and now he'd spend his life making sure you felt cherished by him every day.

His hips ground into yours. The tension in his body was oceans deep, every muscle wound tight with restraint that was fracturing with each second. His cock was already hard, pressing hot and heavy against your hip.

"Need you," he breathed into your mouth. "Need you right here. Fuck—I missed your body. Missed this mouth, this voice, this fucking genius brain of yours. Missed you. Missed everything."

Your hands were already pulling at his belt. "You have me," you whispered. "Right now. Right here. Take me. Please, Bucky."

He felt like he'd been a man half-dead that had just come back to life. Bucky shoved your jeans down hard enough that the button popped, clattering across the floor. You gasped, clutching his shoulders until he dropped to his knees in front of you. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, your back pressed to the cold mirror.

His tongue was on you a second later, hot and ravenous, licking into you like he was trying to remind himself how you tasted. You cried out, and all Bucky could think was, there she is. You'd always been so loud, and now he could hear you again, actually hear you, instead of trying to remember the exact cadence of your moans. Your hips jerked, hands scrambling for purchase in his hair as he groaned into your pussy, tongue curling until you were in tears.

"You're still the best thing I've ever tasted," he muttered, dragging his mouth up to kiss your hip. "Still fall apart for me like no one else."

"I'm—I'm gonna—Bucky—!"

"Come for me, baby. Come on my tongue. Let me taste what I almost lost."

And just like that, still attuned to following his instructions, you did. You were writhing, shaking apart like your cells were being pulled tight as your orgasm coursed through you. He stayed there, lapping you up, his eyes closed like he was sipping from a sacred chalice.

And then he was back on his feet, jeans unzipped, cock free and flushed and leaking against your thigh.

He didn't ask, because he knew he didn't need to. He lifted you, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs, and slid into you in one deep, perfect stroke. It was like he'd never left you. You still opened to him like you always had, warm and wet and welcoming.

"Fuck," he gasped against your neck. "Still so fuckin' tight. Think your body remembered me."

"Always remembered you," you were close to sobbing. "Could never forget."

Your back thumped against the mirror with each thrust. He couldn't be gentle. He needed to take what he'd been missing, and you were all too willing to let him. His mouth never left your skin, kisses burning against your cheeks, your jaw, your throat, teeth nipping at your ear, like he was claiming you. Finally, completely.

He wasn't just fucking you this time, a cute little trainee under his tutelage.

This was a return. A declaration. A homecoming.

And when you both came, with your name on his tongue and your nails in his back, it felt like resurrection, too.

He held you afterward. Just held you, because he could now. He had nowhere to be, nothing to hide. Your heartbeat thudded against his chest. His fingers were in your hair again, brushing it back and out of your face. That gorgeous, perfect face. That gorgeous, perfect smile, the one that had been the first nail in his coffin.

"Hi," you whispered, and your happiness was intoxicating.

"Hi," he repeated, his voice steady, soft. "Not letting you go again. Never letting you go again. My golden girl."

"That better be a promise."

"It's a vow."

And he could tell by the bliss in your eyes, that you believed him.

bonus note: would you believe that the original draft of this was conceived within the same 48 hours as lighthouse? seems i only have two moods—horny and sad! 🤩

a/n: my second exam has been cancelled a few days ago because the professor is sick, so I got angry and stayed up all night on saturday to finish this wip that has been locked in my docs since this summer! it's really just porn without plot and I think it's definitely the filthiest thing I've ever written. don't like don't read. hope you'll enjoy 🍓

Bucky Barnes has chosen this life.

That is the part people never seem to understand.

The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns; a place where people wave too much and chat way too long. Bucky doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates. That is as far as it goes.

He is in his late forties, and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, strong, built by labor rather than vanity: thick arms, powerful shoulders, hands rough with grease and scars. There is a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort rather than neglect.

And this only makes him more noticeable.

Women are aware of him, of course. He is an attractive, single man. The combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl works in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. The lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper end up in the first trashcan he sees— invitations and phone numbers he never glance at twice.

Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by myself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is something other people project onto him; he simply calls it peace. He has built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers, and he intends to guard it fiercely.

The neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned not to bother him, and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.

And Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.

He calls the cops when the rich couple two doors down throw backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He watches the patrol car’s lights flash briefly against his living room wall, jaw set, arms crossed, and goes back to his book the second the noise dies down. He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to get off his property without even opening the screen door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.” Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street. He has never decorated out of spite after that. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.

His neighbors also learn not to park in front of his driveway, and not to ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They do not to expect pleasantries or smiles anymore. Bucky exists like a closed door— solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.

And it works. Until now.

The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud, too long. He watches from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before he starts complaining about the noise.

Then you step into view.

You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone— a friend, maybe— reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head, stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it belongs there.

Bucky's frowns deepens.

You’re younger than most people who can afford a house on this street, and pretty in a way that feels unfair— soft, bright, effortless. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… Happy, comfortable. Like you fit already.

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your presence.

Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple— fresh off their last noise complaint— wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman shows up with lemonade to cool off, the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling "correctly".

He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.

Your gaze lifts and finds him standing stiff in front of his door, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly, voice hopeful.

Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes back inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself it’s nothing.

You’re just another neighbor, another disruption… Another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.

Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence on this street.

The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him.

“Oh, hi!”

Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder. You’re standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t ignore you completely the first time you tried speaking to him.

He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… Noise.

“I’m your new neighbor.” You say anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name, but he just nods once, eyes already dropping back to the envelopes in his hand.

You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment… Anything.

However, you are brutally plunged in an awkward silence.

“Okay.” You drawl softly, then recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”

You wait another second, yet his gaze doesn’t acknowledge you. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes on his back, curious rather than offended. That somehow makes it worse.

The next few times, he tells himself it’s bad timing.

He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching in your hair. You pause when you see him, smile like it’s reflexive.

“Morning.”

He grunts, adjusts his jacket, and walks past you without breaking stride. 

Another time, he’s unloading groceries from his truck when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.

“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement makes your skirt ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching as you balance on the balls of your feet. Bucky looks away too late, heart giving an uncomfortable thud in his chest. Heat creeps up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and he swallows hard, jaw tightening as he forces the fleeting image of your soft skin out of his mind.

Bucky hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one, hands it to you without a word.

“Thank you.” You say breathless, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.

Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else.

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.

On trash day, it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, glancing his way.

“Hey.” You greet him softly one morning, like you’re testing the word.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk much.” You add, not accusatory. 

He stiffens, jaw tightening, and drags his bin to the curb harder than necessary.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake enough to tolerate existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours, struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.

He stops without meaning to.

You look up when you hear him, relief lighting your face. “Oh! Hi— sorry, I think this thing hates me.”

You laugh quietly, embarrassed, trying to close it. He watches for a second too long, the way your brow furrows in concentration, and you bite your lip when the bag rips more.

With a sigh, he steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.

Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciate that.”

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

“Have a nice day!” You call after him.

He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.

By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is said with affection and pride, with that tone people use when they are fond of someone.

Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about how you helped her carry groceries inside. The rich couple brags— loudly— about how you offered to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you baked delicious cookies, and Mrs. Johnson praised you after you volunteered to help clean up at end of the last neighborhood meeting.

And Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard. And he grits his teeth every damn time.

“She’s exactly what this street needed.”

Bucky clenches his jaw.

He doesn’t understand it. How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these people just take, take and take? You are always so open, so willing to be involved, and God– your smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn… Real.

And worst of all, you still treat him the same. Still polite, still warm. You greet him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.

It irritates him in a way he can’t quite name.

Bucky is used to being despised, he knows how to live with it, justify it. But this quiet, persistent kindness… It doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.

And he doesn’t like not knowing what to do with you.

On a late summer afternoon, when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, irritation simmering low and constant.

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already annoyed.

“Hi.” 

He freezes.

You’re standing at the edge of his driveway, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.

Bucky straightens slowly and wipes his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

“I just—” you hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is open, genuine, brows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.

“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just… I wanted to know if there was a reason, since... You know, we are neighbors, and I’d like to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t do anything.” He simply mutters.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like pressure on his chest.

“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I try to respect that, I really do. I just thought… Maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”

“It was.” He replies roughly, too quickly.

You blink, taken aback, and a hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away.

“Oh,” You nod once. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” You then add quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

That word makes his stomach twist. Bucky watches you walk away, the space you leave behind feeling heavier than the conversation itself.

That night, he lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling longer than usual.

Your words replay in his head whether he wants them to or not. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.

Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his life intact. But for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to.

It’s later than he usually stays up, the house dark except for the low lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy from the day. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze there is.

That’s when a light flicks on across the street.

He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.

At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. And then he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop. Same height, same alignment. A clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.

Straight into your world.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the pale light of the screen illuminating your features. The lamp beside you casts a warm, golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in. You’re wearing pajama shorts that ride up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses, because he can clearly see your nipples poke through the fabric.

Something unfamiliar stirs in Bucky’s belly, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth. 

He shouldn’t be watching.

The thought lands fully formed, sharp and immediate.

Bucky turns away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

When he risks another glance, just to make sure the curtain angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. The sound doesn’t reach him, but he knows it anyway. He’s heard it before, that soft melody that always sounds genuine. 

Something tightens in his chest.

He forces himself to step back, to pull his own curtain closed with more force than necessary. The room plunges into shadow, suddenly too small, too warm.

He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead, and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.

The next night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.

He looks anyway.

Your window is lit, you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open again. You’re absorbed, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.

He leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

It’s almost… Fascinating, being able to see the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.

You look beautiful.

The thought comes uninvited, unwelcome.

He swallows, jaw flexing, eyes narrowing like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. He tells himself that he just happens to be here, that’s all. Still, he doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.

After that, it becomes a problem.

Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. He wonders if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the straps of your tank top slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast on.

When he does catch you, you’re often on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. You also check your phone with a small smile, often.

Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?

Bucky comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small routines without meaning to: you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; you stretch your arms over your head when you stand, slow and unselfconscious, like you’re completely alone in the world.

When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze unfocused. You also have a habit of circling your bed before lying down, straightening the sheets even when they don’t need it. Sometimes you sit on the edge for a moment, shoulders slumping as if the day finally catches up to you. When you laugh, you tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.

You like background noise. A TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You wander barefoot most nights, nudging things back into place with your toes, absently rubbing your foot against your calf when you stop. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself instinctively, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.

It’s summer, and you dress for it, much to his poor heart.

Inside your apartment, you wear clothes that cling dangerously to your luscious body: short shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show your beautiful curves when you move. Sometimes you kick your sandals off the moment you get inside and pad around barefoot, toes curling against the floor. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.

You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, you scroll on your phone, or lie on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air as you watch something on your computer. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand, something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.

Bucky hates how much he notices. These details carve themselves into his mind against his will, and they feel personal, earned, even though they aren’t. You aren’t performing, you’re just living. And it makes observing you so much worse.

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him: you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

Bucky perks up like a dog at his owner's arrival when he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately appearing as a pair of headlights follows. You’re not alone.

Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. His breath catches once he reaches his bedroom after spending ten minutes behind the curtains in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you and your possible companion from his kitchen. Because there's a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re nearly naked on your sheets, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs are bare and parted, hands curled in the man’s hair and a head working furiously under your eager guide.

Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in pure pleasure. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him.

His lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open. The sounds from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes eagerly devour the sight. 

An itch burns deep in his chest, something raw and consuming trying to claw its way out.

Your moans and giggles resonate in his mind even after your room has gone dark and the only thing that can be heard outside are the crickets.

The worst part is Bucky doesn’t stop there. He finds himself watching, captive to your parade of lovers, growing jealous of the returning faces.

He tries to tell himself there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing: you leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you let the curtains stay apart. And the build-up eventually makes him cave, palming his cock on a night when you’re climbing on top of your lover of the day, breasts on full display and bouncing with a delicious rhythm. Bucky’s hardly hidden now, resting back in his desk chair with his sweats pushed down just enough to tuck his briefs underneath his balls, drawn tight as he fists his cock.

His hand is rough and calloused, the complete opposite of what he imagines yours might be if you’d ever stoop as low as touching him like this. The thought of something this filthy happening only makes his hips jerk harder into his palm, sweat pouring down his temples and every muscle contracting with the urge to release. Your moans faintly slip through your open window, finding him in the darkness like a beacon.

Bucky pretends you know he’s there, that you want him to hear, to see. He imagines your eyes on his cock as he grinds his palm over the head, his thumb slips over the slit, and suddenly he’s spilling over his hand with a pathetic grunt, breath shaky.

What a miserable, old man. Is this really his routine now?

It’s unavoidable: as soon as he gets home after work, the first thing he checks for is the light in your window.

As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, the fact that you keep going on dates with random men is unbearable.

He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and seething jealousy pour in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You've been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged any words since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.

They don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, twisting sideways in the chair until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the little things on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.

They don’t know that when you get home from work, you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling for a while. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those ten quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.

Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness.

Two months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently— shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there, of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.

The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He hates how these men get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.

The first time he talks to you it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.

Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending not to watch you wrestle with the machine. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and bare. Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.

“Come on.” You mutter, huffing.

Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and annoyed— at the mower, at himself, at the way he’s been staring too long.

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.

You startle, turning fast. “Oh!”

You hadn’t seen him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how abrupt he sounded.

You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked. 

“Ah.” You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”

He crouches beside the machine, hands moving automatically. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a pause. 

“You don’t have to—” You start.

“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clears his throat. “If you want.”

You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to read something in his face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”

Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.

“It’s fine.” He mutters, not looking at you.

Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely, weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of you, of the way the sun highlights the curve of your shoulder, the way you chew lightly at your bottom lip absently.

When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”

You pull once, and the engine starts immediately.

Your face lights up. “Thank you so much!”

He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close. Or maybe not close enough.

There’s an awkward beat.

“Um,” You say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”

His stomach drops.

“I mean,” You rush on. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”

“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.

You blink. “James.”

He nods, ears burning. “Most people call me Bucky. My friends.”

Your smile softens in a way that feels… Less polite. More personal.

“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”

There’s another pause.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds, voice low, almost shy. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Once he feels heat creep up his neck, he looks away first.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

Your car won’t start one morning, hood popped open, you pacing your driveway while a guy from the night before stands there looking useless. Bucky watches from his window, jaw tightening. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. You don’t have to—”

“Already here.” He mutters.

He fixes it fast, and the guy thanks him, claps him on the shoulder like they’re buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down until he leaves soon after, awkwardly kissing your cheek.

You linger.

“I really appreciated it.” You muse. “You keep saving me.”

He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”

Sometimes it’s a loose stair on your porch. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy box you can’t lift on your own. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t watching from his window five minutes earlier.

He never talks much. Just grunts, nods, mumbles an occasional instruction.

But there are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that linger a second too long. When your eyes meet, he looks away, cheeks faintly pink, shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, you don’t push conversation.  And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it.

Bucky has come to memorize a few names, the one that stands out the most is Noah, a confident little shit.

The guy’s been around for days. He recognizes the car the moment it pulls up, parking a little too close to your driveway, staying a little later each time. Bucky has memorized the way he laughs too obnoxiously, the way he leans in like he already belongs at your side.

He’s also one of those that goes away once dawn hits. That’s what finally snaps something in Bucky.

It’s well past midnight when your front door closes behind you And Noah. Your lights go on, then the bedroom light. Bucky sits in the dark of his living room, unmoving, jaw tight, hands clasped together so hard his knuckles ache.

He doesn’t sleep.

He reads with his eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he watches an old re-run of a dumb game show. But most of all, he waits.

Dawn comes slow and gray, bleeding into the street like a held breath finally released. Birds start chirping, and the world gradually wakes up, unaware.

Your front door opens, and predictably, Noah steps out, stretching, running a hand through his hair as if he’s had the best sleep of his life. Asshole.

Bucky is already outside, leaning against his porch railing with an air of insolence, observing like a predator eagerly waiting to bite on his prey’s jugular.

The man notices him halfway down the steps and slows. “Uh… Morning.” He greets, forcing a half-smile that looks more like a grimace.

Bucky doesn’t return it.

“You’ve been here a lot.” He grunts.

The man hesitates. “Yeah, well—”

“You staying?” Bucky asks directly.

There’s nothing casual about it, nothing friendly.

“No,” Noah replies quickly. “Just heading out.”

Bucky pushes off the railing and walks closer, stopping just short of the sidewalk. Close enough that the man has to tilt his head back to look at him.

“You got plans with her later?” Bucky asks, scowling.

The man frowns. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”

Bucky’s eyes harden, gritting his teeth. “It is.”

There’s a pause, too long to not be uncomfortable.

The younger man swallows, awkwardly chuckling. “Look man, she’s great,” he says, like that might help. “I just— I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”

Bucky takes a small step forward, enough to make Noah flinch. “Then don’t come back.”

The man bristles. “You threatening me, old man?”

Bucky leans in slightly, voice dropping. “No. I’m warning you. This old man sees you around here again and he’ll fold you like a lawn chair, got it?”

The silence that follows is thick, charged. Noah looks past Bucky, down the empty street, then back at him.

“Wasn’t worth it anyway.” He sneers.

Bucky has to dig his nails into the skin of his arms to stop himself from beating this brat to a pulp.

Your date leaves in a hurry, car pulling away faster than necessary as the wheels screech on the asphalt.

He stays rooted on the sidewalk until the street settles again. His heart is pounding as if it’s trying to get out of his chest, but his hands have never been this steady.

The next ones are quicker. Less conversation, just a mere look, a question asked with an eerie calm. His presence alone does most of the work. Men who once returned now run away like criminals escaping a sentence.

Bucky watches them go with a sense of grim satisfaction curling in his chest. Because they never waited for you to wake up, and his girl deserves someone who stays. And each time one of them leaves and never comes back, it feels like he’s fixing something broken.

Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist, and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features; even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen again.

He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha, a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of a crowded bar wrapping around them. He listened more than talked, like always; nodded at the right moments; let the conversation wash over him.

Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.

Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm down on Bucky’s thigh, eyebrow lifting in silent question.

He stilled it for exactly ten seconds. Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, sharp-eyed, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”

He grunted. “No.”

It’s a lie, and they all knew it.

The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it— no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.

Because if he stayed out too long, he might have lost his favorite part of the night.

Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark. “You sure you’re okay, man?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk. The drive home was fast, his hands tight on the wheel the whole way.

It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear— that sharp, ugly thing in his chest— hasn’t gone away. It’s just been waiting.

The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.

Empty, except for your car.

Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.

Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car— had the nerve to force you drive him home the morning after, like some kind of favor. The memory made Bucky’s jaw tighten, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know what they’ve got.

He parked, cut the engine, and didn't linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.

Your light is on, and there you are.

No one else is with you. Just you, alone, safe, winding down.

Bucky exhales, the sound leaving him slow and heavy, like he’s been holding it in all evening. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his chest eases just a little. He can tell that you are about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he briefly turns away to look for the sweatpants and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas, but when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air sharply leaving his lungs in an instant.

Your phone lies forgotten on the mattress by your side, while your covers have been thrown back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your sheer tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, shorts nowhere in sight. From where Bucky is standing, he has a clear view of the way your panties stick to your pussy, a wet spot already in the center. Your head is thrown back, lips parted as Bucky strains his ears to catch one of your sweet sounds.

He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself. You pinch and tug your nipples, letting it harden through the fabric and alternating it with your palms squeezing the flesh of your breasts. 

His pants grow tighter, breath stuttering as your eyelashes flutter and your brows furrow, chasing the pleasure stirring warm in your belly. Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides.

What prompted this? Were you reading something dirty and got too worked up? Were you watching something on your phone and needed the same release you seem to crave after every date?

Were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?

He watches your chest heave as both of your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing the fabric somewhere on the floor. He wonders what would you do if he were there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work, leaving you whimpering as he plays and sucks on your nipples until you beg him to stop. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket at home, still smelling your slick on the delicate fabric. Bucky would bring them to the garage so he could lock himself in the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock, or better, suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him all day during his shift, keeping his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo.

You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead you slide the straps off your shoulders and tug them down until your beautiful breasts are freed. You’re completely bare for Bucky to admire: nipples turgid, thighs spread, and hands feeling yourself up, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening core.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, harshly exhaling as he palms his painful erection. He groans at the brief relief, noticing the fabric already damp, precum leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling at the thought of having you on your knees, peering up at him with that same innocent glint you have in your eyes whenever you greet him.

Bucky watches enraptured as your fingers finally reach your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your slick around, making sure to avoid your throbbing clit.

He’s never seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and licked and worshipped the way it deserves. Bucky could give you that: nurse on your clit, tongue at your entrance, encouraging you to grind against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and lose yourself over and over again in your own pleasure, squirting all over his face. He would be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever, wherever and however you want.

Your fingers shine as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Bucky can’t help it anymore as he undoes his belt and unbuttons his jeans to wrap a warm hand around his hard cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He bites his bottom lip until it hurts to muffle a loud groan when he starts to lazily stroke his length.

He has to squeeze the base when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit. When they plunge inside, Bucky swears he can almost hear your gasp. He leans his forehead on the braced forearm against the wall, shoulders bowed. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable; he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his jeans, letting the fabric vulgarly hang around his thighs. He jerks his length as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin as his hands grope your hips.

At some point you pull your finger out, and Bucky has to tighten the grip around the base of his cock, toes curling into the floor and teeth gritting against each other as his dark eyes follow the length of your body. You sit up, only to reach for your nightstand.

His eyes trail on the curve of your ass, until a strangled grunt almost makes him choke when he finally has a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.

His breath hitches, lips parting when you lie back, because in your hand there is a black rabbit vibrator. Bucky is dizzy. It's so pathetic that at his age he's been reduced to a lonely man spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks herself with a dangerously thick dildo. 

He watches you drag the head of the toy between your folds, wetting the silicone with your slick. You must be so damn needy, because you immediately press the shaft in. Your muscles contract, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch as you push it all the way in. You toss your head back, your hand smacking against your mouth to probably muffle a deliciously loud moan before slipping down to harshly grab your breast, running your fingers along your hard nipple.

Would you squirm just as much as you are doing right now if Bucky were to fuck you, hips fidgeting from how restless and cock-drunk you are? Would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it?

Bucky’s hand matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically move the toy in and out, precum sticking to his fingers and he uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you are edging yourself repeatedly, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up, on the brink of the release that only a real cock like his could give you.

Your slick wets the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, the sheets... And Bucky licks his lips, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he firmly holds you down by your hips in a mating press, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making. They would burn every time water hits them, reminding him of the tightness of your pussy.

Suddenly, you fumble with the handler, pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back and your back perfectly arches up as you go back to fuck yourself with the lucky toy deeper so the unforgiving vibrations tease your clit. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, at the thought of how good you must feel right now with the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.

Bucky curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your body squirm, mouth forming a perfect circle and brows furrowing. He can tell you are close by the way your back arches, and your hips jerk up to meet the ruthless vibrations. He strokes his hard cock and squeezes on the tip at the same time you grind the toy into yourself, desperately circling your hips. 

When you finally come, it’s entirely different from the previous times with your dates. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so gorgeous. Your features scrunch up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening in a silent scream as your entire body desperately shakes in pure bliss. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins stroking his rock-hard cock frantically. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his heavy breathing fill the otherwise silent room; that's when he lets his eyes squeeze shut.

Your pussy would clench around his cock so nicely, and your tits would bounce with each deep thrust as your hazy eyes would look at him pleadingly, so dizzy from his fat cock you'd let the whole neighborhood hear how good Bucky fucks you. He imagines you begging for him to come inside you with that sweet, polite voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy pussy for days.

The pressure finally snaps and Bucky comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking, while hot spurts of cum coat his hand; it's so intense some spurts even end up soiling the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when this is possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had; the full-body shiver when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has him almost fall on his knees.

When he finally opens his eyes as he’s still trying to catch his breath, his sight is a little foggy, yet he can spot the weak smile on your face. Your arm is thrown over your eyes as if relishing in the fuzzy after glow.

Every part of him vehemently yearning for you has been sated for now, but Bucky knows this will never be enough.

You wake up slowly, tangled in sheets that still smell faintly of a citrusy perfume that does not belong to you, and the unmistakable scent of sex. The sun has been up for a while, light spilling warm and bright through the window. For a moment, you just lie there, staring out of the window, replaying the night before in lazy fragments— laughter, too much wine, more laughter, the weight of a body on yours that’s still here. 

Ben.

A small smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it, small and giddy and a little disbelieving. You turn your head just enough to see him asleep beside you, hair mussed, mouth slack in a way that’s oddly endearing. 

Carefully, you slip out from under his arm, moving slowly to not wanting to wake him. The floor is cool under your feet as you head to the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind you. You take a quick shower, humming under your breath and thinking about making pancakes. When you’re done, you dry off and pull on one of your sundresses, the kind that makes you feel pretty without trying. You smooth it down, glance at yourself in the mirror and put on a little bit of gloss.

You picture him sitting up in bed when you come back. Maybe smiling, teasing you about taking too long. But when you open the bathroom door, the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled where he was, no sign of him anywhere else. No footsteps, no muffled voice, no note. As if he had never been here in the first place.

With a sigh, you pad toward the kitchen barefoot, sunlight warming the floor beneath your feet.

A week of no dates isn’t long, not really. And yet it feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.

You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even showed as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.

You don’t understand it.

You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. And if you’re honest, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing– an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.

Still… It stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, and attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. It left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all.

You’d started to wonder if the problem was you.

And then there’s Ben.

Ben is different. Not perfect, but easy. Familiar in a way that surprised you. He’s your friend’s cousin, in town for a short holiday, and she’d spent an entire week talking your ear off about how handsome he was, how sweet, how she just knew the two of you would get along. She wasn’t wrong, you’d clicked almost instantly. Conversation flowed without effort, and for once, it hadn’t felt like you were trying to be interesting enough to be chosen. That’s why it hurts a little more this time. That’s why today the quiet feels heavier than usual.

Something in your peripheral vision makes you stop. You turn fully toward the window that gives on your front lawn, and freeze.

Right there in your driveway stands Bucky Barnes, rigid, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

And in front of him— half in, half out of a car— is Ben, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, movements jerky and nervous. He keeps glancing over Bucky’s shoulder like he’s expecting witnesses, fumbling with his keys, nodding too fast at whatever is being said to him.

Your neighbor’s mouth is a hard line, his brows drawn down, eyes dark and locked on the man like he’s pinning him in place with nothing but sheer presence.

You can’t hear the words, but you don’t need it to understand what’s happening.

Ben bursts out in a short, loud laugh, too fake, then slides fully into the driver’s seat like he’s in a hurry. The engine roars to life, and tires peel out of your driveway faster than necessary.

Gone.

You stand there, heart pounding, anger flooding your chest so fast it makes you dizzy.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You don’t even put on shoes. You grab the front door, yank it open, and step outside barefoot, the morning breeze slightly cool against your skin.

“James.”

He actually flinches. Bucky turns slowly, like he’s already calculating how bad this is going to be. His jaw tightens when he sees your face— bare, furious, eyes blazing.

“What was that?” You demand.

He exhales through his nose, slightly bowing his head in greeting. “Morning.”

“Don’t,” you snap, stalking closer. “Do not do that. What the hell was that?”

He looks away, and that alone makes your blood boil.

“You just scared him off,” you say incredulously. “Didn’t you?”

“I talked to him.”

“If looks could kill he would be in a fucking casket by now.” You retort.

Bucky simply shrugs. “He got the point.”

“What point?” You lash out, taking a deep breath after.

His head snaps back to you, eyes flashing. “Listen, I was just making you a favor.”

You laugh, sharp and loud. “A favor!? Oh please! From where I’m standing, you’re a man who ignored me for months, barely acknowledged I existed, and now you suddenly think you get to interrogate the people I bring home?”

“I wasn’t interrogating.”

“It sure as hell looked like it.”

He steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.

“Do you do this with everyone? Is it some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor? Or are you obsessed with me?”

His jaw tightens, but you press on, words spilling like a waterfall now that you’ve started. “Do you have any idea how confusing you are? One minute you won’t even answer when I say hello, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, fixing my car, carrying groceries like it’s your job—”

“I was helping.”

“—and now this?” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Charged.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Barefoot on the concrete, eyes still rimmed with drowsiness, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.

“I want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”

You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They take what you give them and then run,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction. “You’re not.”

You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt protectiveness, yet you refuse to back down. “That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time to guys who don’t even have the decency to stay– who don’t see what they’re getting… It drives me fucking insane.”

Your chest tightens, still your brows furrow. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”

Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“I didn’t ask for... Whatever you are doing.” You mumble.

“I know.”

“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to talk to me!”

Bucky steps closer without meaning to. Too close. You can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, sharp and bright, but there’s something hot and far too dangerous curling underneath it.

His eyes drop to your mouth, then swallows.

“Every time you bring someone home,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

“And yet,” he admits, exhaling harshly. “I lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” You swallow, steading yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end. “You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”

His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint not to touch you.

“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to go away, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea— your anger, his lewd actions, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.

But his body doesn’t listen.

All he can think about is how your warmth reaches him effortlessly even through the thin fabric of your dress; the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous.

And now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.

His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last inch between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides to the point his knuckles turn white, like that would be enough to hold himself back. His pulse makes his ears ring, drowning out reason, pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything— or change it beyond repair.

God, he wants you so bad.

Not gently. He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.

He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth.

He reaches for you like it’s instinct, like gravity finally wins. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, thumb brushing your cheek. His forehead dips to yours, breath uneven.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire. You can feel him everywhere without him completely touch you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creep up your neck, and the way his blue eyes keep flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make has your heart wildly pounding in your ribcage. You realize, dimly, that Bucky's been fighting this longer than you have— that every step he’s taken toward you these last days has cost him something.

And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.

Because you need this.

You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.

Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere, and see what happens when he finally lets go.

You stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for. Something akin to hunger quickly flashes in his eyes, before he finally makes you his.

The kiss is exactly what you expected: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t, crashing into yours with teeth and tongue, hands moving fast, sure, one still gripping your jaw and the other fisting in the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.

You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed immediately as he deepens it, tilting your head back, looming over you until you’re forced to take a step back or be crushed by him; still, his arm tightens around your torso with a low growl.

Your hands come up without thinking, clutching at his shirt, fingers digging in the fabric. You kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frantic pull of your clothes.

Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, chest heaving and thumb brushing your cheeks like he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Fuck.” He mutters, wrecked. Then he kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling before it disappears, with bruising urgency, hands wandering everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first.

A rough sound tears out of his chest between kisses. He pulls back again enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. “You have any idea how hard it was watching that?”

You blink, breathless.

He laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurts him. His grip tightens, grounding himself. “You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I couldn’t.”

Those words make you still.

You press a hand to his chest, gently but firmly. “Bucky. What do you mean?”

For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours, that pink blush appearing high on his cheeks.

“I watched you.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to at first. It just… Happened. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and honest. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... When you weren’t.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.

He stills. “You— what?”

“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”

Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly but not forceful; it’s got a bruising sort of gentleness that makes you wobble slightly, his arms squeezing your waist until you're pressed firmly against his chest. His body is a wall, hot and solid, and you quickly melt into it.

“All this time I’ve been beating myself up for it.” He pants against your lips, making you gasp as his mouth trails down your neck. “An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving his cock into your sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind. 

“But you are just as filthy as me, sweetheart. So fond of keeping your curtains wide open at night for me to see everything.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest as his other hand grips your jaw firmly, not enough to hurt, to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”

You’re hooked, unable to challenge him, your fury reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him as his wandering hands end up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little. 

“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S–Someone is going to see.” You protest weakly.

He briefly glances around, before leading you behind your parked car in front of your house. “Better stay quiet then.” And he is pressing his hand against your core, his fingers sliding into the front of your panties to allow his middle digit to play with your slick. His large frames crowds you against the vehicle, his other hand palming your ass. 

You feel so exposed yet so alive, your core throbbing as your fingers clutch at his shirt, and your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure. 

“Yeah? Feels good, doesn't it?”

You tilt your hips into his hand, a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low chuckle, teasing you with expert precision. 

“How were they, hm sweetheart?” He mumbles against the skin of your neck, surprisingly put together as he quietly lower your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. Then, his palm comes down on your ass, heavy and sharp, making you whimper. “Answer me.”

“Not–not like you.” You admit, head falling back with a gasp as his thumb works over your swollen nub, rubbing it to a steady rhythm. “Oh fuck.”

“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That's why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those boys weren't satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol' neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”

Your breath hitches as you feel your climax frantically building, raw and electric.

“Don't be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking.

“Hm I've indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing against your palm. Your eyes go wide; you aren't sure how long he’s been dealing with it, but the hardness of it has you swallowing, slightly intimidated by the large size.

Your fingers twitch where they’re trapped between your bodies, squeezing at his shaft as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear, and his fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips.

“Quiet or that asshole Murray will come out.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”

You can’t find the words even if you want to scream that no, you only crave Bucky's attention, though the possibility to be caught with him fingering you against your car only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction on your clit.

“C'mon, baby.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep squeezing his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I'll let you touch it.”

Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I— Fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his shoulder.

“This what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs against the top of your head, cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling. He barely hides his smug smile, leisurely looking around for any nosy pair of eyes, while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn't just make you come in the middle of your driveway.

You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky's breath hitches at the sight of your glistening temples and hazy eyes. “Need more.”

His tongue traces your lower lip and a whimper escapes you, before he makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts it in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. Bucky then pulls back just enough to let you both breathe.

“Lift your dress.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bent over the windowsill in his bedroom.

“You’re making a mess.” He mutters, voice low and rough. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs, testing your resistance as you welcome the gentle press of his fingers inside with a whine of protest. He promised he would let you touch it. “Don't whine. I have to make sure she's ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?” 

You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip as the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can't believe you're really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It'd be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what's going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes' house– the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being– and your lips keep parting in shameless moans.

“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you moaning for a grumpy, old man's dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs out as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... Who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Bucky for everyone to hear.” His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the cool air as he takes a tentative lick. “I knew you'd taste fucking delicious.”

“Careful, old man.” You shoot back, breathless but so eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can't go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... Anything can— fuck!”

Two of his fingers penetrate your hole at once, leaving you gasping and trembling. “Ah, look at you going quiet.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”

You nod whimpering, giving over to his dominance. It's incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.

He’s relentless, holding you right there as your hips literally hump his face, writhing against his mouth.

“Tight little pussy.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches intently as your slick wets your inner thigh. Quickly standing up, he fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip dark and swollen; he finds some relief by stroking it, while his other hand smooths down your back. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.

“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.

“Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut at the praise, the fat head of his cock gliding through your swollen folds, up and down, then teasing your entrance. “But you’re gonna let me do it, right baby?”

Your nod is just as eager, quite pathetic you'd add later. You rock back just a fraction, clit brushing the underside of him, and sparks shoot through your body.

His smile is borderline wolfish. “That’s right.” He leans over you, enough to whisper in your ear. “'M gonna ruin you, pretty girl and you're gonna thank me for it. Understood?”

Once the tip breeches your hole, your back goes rigid. “Bucky I—I don’t think it'll fit.” You admit with wide eyes. He simply chortles, cooing as he hears your shaky exhale.

“Don't worry, sweetheart.” His hands soothe you, trailing up and down your sides, eyes locked on your pussy as he pushes through your folds, coating his girth with your slick. “You can— shit— you can take it.”

He eases into you slowly, each inch leaving you panting and clenching until he’s fully inside, until you’re stuffed and squirming under him. His breath hitches, forcing himself to still for a moment, letting you adjust to the burning stretch.

“Look at you.” He grunts, a layer of arrogance in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your sides as he rocks forward. “See? Took it just fine. You were made for me, sweetheart.” Your walls clench around him like it's terrified he might disappear if you don't hold tight enough, and he gradually builds a steady rhythm, using his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill. 

The sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to block your scream is a sharp reminder of the unusual silent morning. You feel impossibly full and stretched. Each thrust makes your spine arch; Bucky fills you just perfectly, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur.

“It'd be enough for our neighbors to take a look outside of their window, or open their door, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut you are.”

You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly and not too fast.

“They could be watching right now.” He taunts in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your chest, before lowering the front of your dress as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family.

Your pussy clenches at his teasing, gaining a mocking laugh from him. “Yeah? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”

You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded hands tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from the one you're used to. Bucky's hands are weathered and callused from his job, he's always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while slamming your pussy toward oblivion; it’s intense and raw, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.

“She’s begging for it.” His voice is a low rasp, chest heaving as much as yours, even if he keeps up his cocky facade.

Your entire body locks in, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You're pretty sure the squelching sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonate loud and clear across his front lawn.

“Yes yes yes! Right there fuck, right there!”

He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.

“Gonna come Bucky, oh God, please need it so bad— fill me— shit!”

“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you clench. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I'll make you leak for days—”

“Yes yes yes, please!” You blabber loudly, forgetting completely about the fact that you're basically getting fucked raw on a windowsill in the middle of a random Sunday morning. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips grinding back and your pussy milking him.

“Fuck fuck– that's it, that's it, good girl. Gonna fill you up so good.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.

“Fuck, such a pretty slut.” Bucky grits through clenched teeth, your whimpers alone sending him over the edge. “I’m coming, baby. Fucking–” One thrust. “Take it.” He groans, loud and broken, finally spilling thick and hot inside you, his cock pulsing deep until you're left full and shaking like a leaf.

You are grateful for his possessive and bruising hold on your hips since your legs are so weak you'd be barely able to keep yourself up. Meanwhile, Bucky is trying to catch his breath against your neck after his powerful orgasm, careful to not put all his weigh on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.

Maybe you were right. Maybe he really did get a cramp.

When he finally slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, making him chuckle with mirth as he helps you in an upright position, gently to not hurt you. Who knows how long you've been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge anything else. A sharp sting prickles your lower back, but you couldn't be more satisfied.

“Good girl, you took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own soreness. His lips press a soft kiss on your forehead, then on your lips, before he sighs content, eyes closed and lips brushing your temple. “Finally mine.”

The months of stolen glances and quiet, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it's just you, him, and no barriers between.

Still... Sometimes you meet him at your window, though this time you sit right in front of it, legs spread and eyes fixed on him. And Bucky takes it all in as he fists his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy; occasionally, it's some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.

You moan a little louder than necessary now, just for him. Your eyes lasciviously trace the broadness of his shoulders until they reach his strong arm, flexing as he pumps himself. His free hand always grips the frame so hard he once cracked it to hold himself back from running to you, to keep up this little game you proposed as you started dating.

The anticipation builds slowly and achingly each time. You drag it out for him, rubbing your clit with teasing circles while you call his name so sweetly he has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to calm himself down.

And when you finally come, his pace quickens, the fire in your belly igniting back wild and untamed at the sight of his own climax.

And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants still unbuttoned... Well, it's not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.

Nasty!Bucky who lets his tongue wander when he’s going down on you, slipping inside your ass and feeling your pussy clench around his metal fingers that are still stuffing your cunt full. “quit squirmin’, doll,” he pulls his fingers out, coated in your slick, just to meanly slap your pussy, again, twice before spreading your thighs further.

His tongue licking around your puckered hole, “gonna let me fuck you? want me to fill you up the way no man ever has?” his voice deep and rough, eyes flaring with something possessive, getting off on corrupting you.

Nasty!Bucky who fucks you hard just to see you squirt all over him. his thrusts are nothing short of cruel, swollen tip pushing against your abused g-spot over and over again. you feel the pressure building, your thighs threatening to close from the intense feeling but Bucky won’t have it.

His strong palms are shoving your legs apart and driving his hips even harder into the same spot. you try to warn him, voice wavering with each rough crash of his pelvis against your ass, but he only presses his hand down on your lower stomach, amplifying the sensation until you finally spray.

His chest is glistening from your gushing pussy and you feel a wave of embarrassment knowing you’re the direct cause for the sheen on his abs. Before you can think too much about it, Bucky’s pulling out and diving face first into your cunt. “Hey hey, it’s okay sweet girl, you just needed a good fucking huh?”

He licks at your folds, thumb rubbing harsh circles into your clit as your juices continue to flood his face despite you trying your hardest to make it stop. he runs his face back and forth across your silky skin and groans hoarsely, basking in your taste as he shoves his tongue inside your pussy.

“James!! s’ too much—fuck!” you cry out, muscles giving out as you try to push his head away. he pulls his head back only to spit on your pussy, giving her two more rushed licks before sitting up on his knees once more, stroking his cock and fucking you right back in the same rhythm, a dirty combination of slick and squirt decorating the lower half of his face, coating his lips and that damn smirk you love so much.

Nasty!Bucky who fucks you in missionary just to watch you cry. the way he rams his cock into you is nothing short of mean, his eyes half lidded in lust and his fingers intertwined with your own as he holds them above your head. you’re rendered helpless, forced to take every rough thrust of his hips even when it’s too much. your cunt begins clenching around him too tight, the slight pain that the stretch of his fat cock gives you growing more intense with each relentless thrust.

You can’t even help the big tears welling up in your lash line or your bottom lip quivering as you begin to pout at him. “B-Buck, it’s too deep. fuck, you’re too deep!” you begin to whine out, head turning back and forth against the plush pillow, body being run for all its worth and feeling the twitches throughout your frame in an unfamiliar pattern—you’re at your limit. and he’s still not through.

“just gotta make sure i get all of it, you know this, doll,” his nose is dragging along the column of your throat, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he ensures every inch of his cock is snug inside your overstimulated pussy. your eyes shut and the tears begin to fall, your heels digging into the dip of his spine to pull him even deeper, body conflicting itself and somehow still begging for more.

“there she is, that’s—fuck sakes—that’s my good girl,” he praises once he feels you pulling him in even closer, head pulling back to look you in the eyes before flattening his tongue against your jaw, licking all the way up your cheek and savoring the salty taste of your tears.

“taste so sweet. you’re cryin’ for it. My baby’s poor little pussy can’t get enough even with all your whinin’,” his words are punctuated with a soft chuckle before he begins lapping at the opposite side of your face. his wet tongue moves slowly across your skin, the humiliation causing soft sobs to fall from your swollen lips but his hips never stop moving. his leaky tip rams against your cervix with each thrust while he presses a wet kiss to the corner of your eye. “so pretty when you cry, we both know how much you want this, how much you need it.”

Nasty!Bucky who can't help himself from eating his own cum out of your pussy. he'd long since lost count of how many times he felt your cunt flutter around him, coming over and over from his insatiable desire to fuck you for all he's worth. he didn't give you time to recover after an orgasm, and if you're honest, you can't be sure you can tell the difference between one ending and the next one washing over your overstimulated body.

Bucky had inhumane stamina, the super serum obviously had its perks, and the bedroom happened to be one of the places it showcases the best. He can go for hours, never getting tired of your broken moans ringing through his ears or that frothy ring of your cum that coats the base of his cock. but when he does finally come, it doesn't mean he's anywhere close to being done with you. He could never get tired of you.

Nasty!Bucky who fills you with so much of his cum that it can't possibly all fit inside of your pussy. it spills out even with him still driving his hips forward to push it deeper, making a mess of your thighs, and his heavy balls as it overflows. The soft silk sheets beneath you now soaking with a mix of your cum. Bucky simply doesn't care and groans out in a raspy tone as he feels his orgasm last longer than normal, his cock somehow still filling you with more of his hot, sticky load.

When he eventually pulls out, he's immediately dropping to his stomach and pushing the backs of your thighs towards your chest. you've never looked so messy before, he's sure of it, as he licks up the thick stream of white pouring out of your sloppy folds. his eyes shut as he revels in the taste of your combined cum, bumping your clit with his nose while his tongue laps at your quivering entrance as he cleans up the mess he made of you. 

You know his name. He’s hiding something dark, deep, and he’s got a shiny metal arm instead of a left human arm. All the rest of him is… normal. He’s quiet, quieter than should be comfortable, but you’re okay with it. And his presence in your home comes like a balm. Becomes a routine. He comes over once a week, you make him his favorite soup. He always looks tired.

Then, tonight, something shifted. You made a comment about his arms. His big fucking arms, because, God, he’s muscular and big, so much bigger than you. And you’ve wondered what it would be like to lose yourself in those arms, to have them wrapped around you as he fucked you into oblivion, until you forgot yourself.

You’re both in the living room, and Bucky is the first to reach forward, towards you. He’s careful in his motion, but firm, his body moving with a certain precision. Flesh hand, warm, wraps around your smaller right wrist and tugs you closer, until your bodies are practically touching. Every inch of him on every inch of you - almost.

His icy blue eyes trail over your features like he’s studying you, learning, memorizing. They are directly locked into your own eyes for a moment, holding your gaze, and you think you detect something behind that look, like he’s about to say something, but decides against it. Then his eyes are on your cheeks, taking in the pinkish tone on your skin, and then lower, on your lips. Plump, a little trembling, as if they are begging to be kissed. To be devoured by his own. You don’t need to ask it out loud. Bucky’s memories are scattered across the continents, but the look on your face - the want - that one he recognizes.

His body towers over yours and he starts to lean down, and you still catch the moment he starts to close his eyes. And then, a hairsbreadth later, his lips are pressing to yours. The kiss isn’t tender, isn’t sweet. You didn’t expect sweetness from him, anyway.

Bucky is hungry and he kisses you exactly like a man starving. When was the last time his lips were on someone else’s willingly? When was the last time he felt like his body really was his own? He’s not sure he remembers, but this, right here, your small, fragile body on his - it feels good.

Your lips move together, hard and hungry, and he tastes like alcohol and fruit and the mixture is strange on your tongue but not unpleasant. He licks over your lips, inviting himself into your mouth before his tongue slides past your lips and tastes all of you. His flesh hand is still holding on to your wrist, but when he kisses you like that you moan and instantly, his hand moves to grip your hip tight. Bucky holds you hard against his body, and already you feel the outline of his hard cock through his jeans. Your hips roll forward, teasing, seeking friction, and he makes a noise into your mouth which you swallow like it’s your own.

Bucky breaks the kiss for a moment to search for air, and he takes in the sight of your flustered face. He seems proud of the work he’s done, metal arm reaching up and craddling your cheek as his thumb rubs over the reddened skin.

“You’re beautiful.”, he says, and his voice is rough with desire. You open your mouth to say something, but Bucky catches your lips in another lustful kiss that leaves you breathless before you can get a word out. Then he’s pulling away again. “No, love. No speaking unless I ask you to.” His head lowers and you think he’s about to kiss you again but instead his head dips between your neck and your shoulder and he licks a strip across your neck. Then, his teeth are digging into the skin before he sucks it into his mouth and that elicits another moan from you. His hand on your hip tightens and he groans in disapproval. “No noises either, love. You don’t make a sound. Do you understand?” You’re a quick learner, because his question doesn’t receive a spoken answer. Instead, you simply nod, your body already slightly trembling under his hold. “Good. Such a good girl for me.”

His words bleed into your ears like acid, burning their way through every inch of your skin, crawling, a brand being placed upon you. Such a good girl for me. It echoes inside of you, and you can imagine that, many moons from now, those words will still be glued to you like they are a part of your core.

Bucky is still kissing your neck, and his teeth graze the skin ever so slightly a couple of times. He’s testing you, testing your restraint. And you provide nothing. Not a single sound, only your eyes rolling into the back of your head, back arching slightly into him. He’s hot and warm and built like a wall - firm, big, his muscles so big they completely crowd your every sense. There is so much of him. Standing tall and strong, the red henley strained against his arms as his muscles flex as he grips you tight. And your mind is spiraling, because you had to be blind to not notice how big he was, but now, this close, you feel so small in comparison, so breakable. And you are sure he could break you if he wanted to. You’re not entirely sure he isn’t doing that, right now, just in an entirely different way.

You almost mewl in disappointment when Bucky momentarily pulls away from you, but you don’t, and he takes notice. You’re being such a good girl, and he’s never been quite this turned on, even though you’ve barely done anything at all. Both his hands move to the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head before discarding it somewhere in the living room. Then he’s walking forward, and you walk backwards, and somehow, you end up with your back against the couch. Bucky is grinning at you. Not a full grin, no, but a delicious half-smile, confident he’s tearing you apart bit by bit. His eyes are skimming over your torso, landing on your black lacy bra and he can’t help but immediately move his flesh hand to massage one of your breasts, grabbing, the size of it perfect in his big palm. His thumb brushes the soft material of the bra to the side, just enough to free your hardened nipple and he plays with it between his fingers. 

You still don’t make a sound. God, it’s the hardest thing you’ve done all your life - not making a sound when he’s teasing you like this. But you’re a good girl. You can be good for him.

“Love-”, Bucky breathes and he kisses over the expanse of your chest. “Tell me how you’re feeling.” His voice isn’t demanding like the rest of his body is right now, but it’s rough enough to make it clear he needs an answer.

“So good.” 

*

A while later, you’re both naked, Bucky stroking your bare back with his fingers as you suck in a breath.

You are slightly bent over your couch, legs spread, and your arousal is slowly dripping down the inside of your thigh. Bucky catches some of it in his fingers and uses it to stroke his cock as he looks at you. 

What a sight to behold. You, spread out for him. Wanting, needing, not making a damn sound, like he asked you to. The imagery makes his cock twitch in his hand and he has to take a deep breath, slow his thoughts, otherwise he’d be gone before this even started. 

Bucky runs his metal hand over your hip, around the base of your back, so close to your ass, and his touch is reverent, like he physically needs to touch every inch of skin to make this perfect. Then, the tip of his cock is pressing against your folds, and the intrusion is most welcomed. Your hips roll back into him, and Bucky rests both hands on your hips to stop your movement.

“Don’t be greedy.”, he breathes, but in the next second he’s slowly sinking himself inside of you. His cock stretches you out and you grip the edges of the couch hard, so hard maybe you’ll leave nail marks afterwards, because it’s the only way you can stop yourself from making a sound. Sweat coats your body, and his, and his metal arm circles your waist, gently pressing against your stomach to keep you pressed tight to him as he sinks deeper, and deeper, until he’s fully seated inside of you.

Bucky groans and it’s the hottest sound you’ve ever heard in your life. He doesn’t remember any other feeling quite like the feeling of being buried so deep inside of you. Your pussy feels divine, wet and warm, gripping him like a vice. It feels like it’s singing to him, a goddamn siren song, and he will never be able to leave again. 

“Oh, fuck, love- so tight.”, Bucky says, half a whimper, and he gives one tentative thrust. And you feel it then - his body shaking against yours. “Tell me this feels good. Tell me you want this.” Bucky’s pleading, a small contrast to the way he’s handling you, and you let out a soft gasp you had been holding on.

“Please, Bucky, I want you. I want you so bad.”, you respond, and the arousal in your voice is confirmation enough that you’re not lying. “Please, your cock feels so fucking good-”

And then your sentence is interrupted, because Bucky slides his flesh arm around your neck, hard bicep wrapped around you as he pulls you flush to his chest. He uses his knee to lift one of your legs from behind, resting it against the back of the couch, and then he starts fucking into you, thrusts slow, hard, deep, his bicep pressed so hard around your neck that you feel almost light headed. The grip of his arm is not enough to take your breath away, but it is enough to hold you in place, to stop you from moving, from doing anything at all. Anything but moan for him. You’re not sure he wants you to right now, but you can’t really hold it back when his cock is buried so deep, hitting every sweet spot, his balls slapping against your ass in a slow, sensual rhythm that sends you flying.

“Bad girl.”, he moans into your ear, but he doesn’t make a move to stop, and instead, fucks you through it, a little harder, a little deeper. “Making noise when I told you to be quiet.”, he continues speaking, voice hoarse, but his hips don’t snap out of their rhythm, and so you still moan. One of your hands comes up from the back of the couch and you drag your nails over his large arm, the one wrapped around your neck, and his hips stutter for half a second. “Naughty. And I fucking love it.”

He angles his hips better, lifts your leg a little higher with his knee and then he’s changing the pace, his cock driving in and out of you a little faster. The noises coming out of you are pure filth, obscene, and you’re glad he isn’t asking you to be quiet now, because you don’t think you could. Bucky’s lips drop to your neck, and he kisses the soft skin as his metal fingers slide down your stomach and start rubbing circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. He feels you trembling in his arms and he tightens the arm around your neck, keeping you more in place.

“I’ve got you, love.”, he moans against your neck, and his metal hand doesn’t stop, his hips don’t stop and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your moans. “You’re so amazing. Could stay inside this tight pussy for hours.” Your body shudders against him, teeth digging into your bottom lip as his filthy praise makes his way into you. God, you want, need, more of this, more of him. 

But he has you pressed flush against his chest, against his body, and you’re his to take. He doesn’t let you move anything other than your arms, everything else in his total control. And you love it, you’d beg for it if he made you.

His metal fingers fasten the movements on your clit, and the cold metal feels perfect against the heat of your folds, so perfect. Your stomach feels tight, muscles coiled with the pressure of the orgasm that is building right in the back of your gut, spreading over your every limb, expanding and threatening to make a mess out of you. Bucky feels it, feels your walls clutching around his cock and it only spurs him on. His hips snap faster, fucking you with renewed vigor and his lips trail from your neck to your ear, whispering all the filthy things you seem to love.

“Gonna cum so hard inside this pretty pussy.”, he says and you whimper. He responds to that by thrusting particularly hard inside of you. “So good for me. My favorite girl. You gonna cum for me, love? Gonna cum all over my cock? Let me feel you.” 

Your arms are clawing at the bicep still tightly wrapped around your neck, not because you want him to move it but because you need to hold on to something as you come apart, in all senses of the word. “Bucky, I’m so close- please don’t stop.”

He wasn’t planning to. 

And shortly after, he tips you over the edge. You see white, your mouth opening to let out a strangled gasp as your orgasm washes over you and your whole body trembles against Bucky. He whispers soft praise into your ear as you cum, hold you through every spasm and moan, flush against his chest, and his hips don’t falter. He fucks you fast and hard and hot until you’re going limp in his body, and then he thrusts a couple more times, his rhythm broken, before he curses your name under his breath and spills himself inside of you, his seed filling your pussy to the brim. 

For another minute he just fucks lazily into you, like he’s just making sure no second of his or your orgasm go to waste. His arm around your neck loosens up and it seems like he’s about to move it completely out of the way, but you hold on to it. You feel his gaze on you, almost confused.

“Don’t move.” You ask, a little pleading. Your eyes are closed as you try to get your breathing back to normal. “Stay. For a while.”

He does.

Outside the window, the city blurred past in streaks of gold and red, headlights and neon signs smearing against the night, but you didn’t really see it. Your gaze stayed fixed on nothing at all, eyes wide but unfocused, as though if you didn’t look at anything too closely, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Your hands were tucked beneath the jacket, fingers clenched tight into fists against your ribs, like you were trying to hold yourself together from the inside out.

Bucky kept glancing over at you — quick, almost nervous flicks of his eyes, as though he wasn’t sure if looking too long would break you more. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale beneath the skin, jaw set hard like he was biting back every word he wanted to say but couldn’t find the shape for.

He hated this — the silence, the distance, the weight of everything he couldn’t fix with a punch or a glare. He’d seen you scared at that party. He’d seen the shadows in your eyes. But this? This quiet, hollow version of you sitting beside him, too still, too silent — this was worse.

He cleared his throat once, softly, like he might try to speak, but the words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth, and all that came out was a breath.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. If you did, you were afraid you’d break. That the dam you’d been holding up by sheer will alone would crack, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it — the tears, the shaking, the flood of everything you weren’t ready to feel.

So you kept your gaze on the road ahead, on the blur of night, on nothing at all.

And Bucky drove — steady, careful, like the car itself was something fragile, like the world might shatter if he wasn’t gentle enough.

When the compound finally came into view — all steel and glass and soft-lit windows glowing in the dark — he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The gates opened silently as they approached, and the quiet of the car felt even heavier now, like it had followed you both inside.

He pulled up to the front entrance, shifted the car into park, but didn’t move to get out right away. Instead, he sat there for a beat longer, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel before he forced them still.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice low, careful, as though he didn’t want to startle you. “We’re here. You’re safe now, okay?”

You nodded — just once, small, almost mechanical — and your voice came out thin, cracked around the edges. “Okay.”

The compound was quiet when you stepped inside — the kind of quiet that felt different from your apartment. Not tense. Not waiting for the next storm. Just… peaceful. The soft hum of distant machinery, the low flicker of lights along the floor. Bucky stayed close, but not too close. Like he didn’t want to crowd you. Like he didn’t want to risk being one more thing you had to brace yourself against.

“C’mon,” he said gently, motioning toward the elevator. “I’ll show you to your room.”

The ride up was silent. You stared at the floor numbers as they ticked by, hands clenched around the sleeves of the sweatshirt someone had given you — his, maybe, though you didn’t remember when he’d draped it over your shoulders. It smelled faintly of him. Clean. Warm. Safe.

---

The next few days passed in a blur.

At first, you barely left your room. The space was bigger than you were used to, but it didn’t feel like yours — not yet. The bed was soft, the blankets thick, and the view outside the window was endless sky and trees instead of city streets. It should’ve been calming. Sometimes it was. Other times, it felt too big, too open, like you didn’t know where to put yourself.

The nightmares didn’t stop.

Most nights, you jolted awake, breath ragged, heart pounding so loud you were sure it echoed down the halls. But no one came. No one yelled. No one grabbed your arm and dragged you back into the fight. And slowly — slowly — that started to mean something.

Bucky didn’t push. He’d check in, soft knocks on your door in the morning, sometimes with coffee, sometimes just to ask how you were sleeping — though the answer was written all over your face. You’d meet his eyes sometimes, offer a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. But that was okay. He never expected more than you could give.

And somewhere between those quiet mornings and long afternoons wandering the edges of the compound, you started to feel your shoulders drop. Just a little. You started sitting with him in the common room when he was there — on the other side of the couch at first, but close enough to feel the calm he carried. You started joining him on walks around the grounds, even if you didn’t say much. He didn’t seem to mind the silence.

Sometimes, at night, you’d find yourself standing by the window, watching the stars. And you’d think about how he’d stood between you and Josh. About how his voice had been steady, sure, when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

You weren’t ready to talk about it. Not yet. But being near him — that felt like a beginning.

And Bucky?

Bucky noticed every small step. Every time your voice came a little stronger, every time your laugh — quiet, fleeting — slipped out like it surprised you. He noticed the way your eyes started to hold his a little longer before darting away. The way your hands stopped trembling quite so much when you reached for the coffee cup he offered.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

He was just there.

And for now, that was enough.

---

It was late. The compound had gone quiet for the night, the kind of quiet that felt heavier somehow, like the walls themselves were exhaling. You couldn’t sleep — not really. Restless, you’d found your way to the kitchen, and now you sat at the small table near the window, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold.

You heard him before you saw him — the soft tread of his boots, the familiar rhythm of his steps. And then he was there, standing in the doorway, watching you for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should intrude.

“You okay?” His voice was low, careful.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just nodded a little, eyes on the dark outside. “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.”

He hesitated, then crossed the room, settling into the chair across from you. He didn’t say anything else — didn’t try to fill the silence. Just sat, close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

For a long time, that was all there was. The quiet hum of the fridge. The faint creak of the walls as they settled in the night.

And then, without really planning to, you spoke.

“I didn’t think it’d ever end up like this.”

Your voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper. But Bucky heard you. His gaze lifted, steady and patient, giving you space to keep going if you wanted.

“It wasn’t always bad,” you said, fingers tracing the rim of your mug, as if the words might slip away if you didn’t hold onto something. “He… he wasn’t like that when we met. I mean — he was sweet. Charming. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room.”

You laughed, but it was small, sad. “God, I fell so hard for him. I thought I’d found it. You know? That forever thing.”

Bucky didn’t interrupt. He didn’t tell you what you should’ve done, or how you should’ve seen it. He just listened.

“The first argument — it was stupid. About something small. I can’t even remember what. But I remember how it felt. Like it came out of nowhere. Like I’d said the wrong thing and didn’t even know why it was wrong. And I told myself it was just stress. Just a bad day.”

You paused, throat tight, the memories thick and sharp at the edges.

“And then it happened again. And again. Louder. Meaner. Like… like he was testing how far he could push. And I kept thinking, if I could just do better — if I could just make him happy again — it’d go back to how it was.”

Bucky’s hands were on the table now, folded together. His knuckles were pale, but his face was calm, listening.

“The first time he hit me… I knew it was bad. I knew. But — I didn’t want to give up. I kept thinking, maybe it was just once. Maybe it was just a mistake. I didn’t want to be the person who failed. Who walked away.”

Your voice cracked then, and you blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall.

And Bucky — god, Bucky — he didn’t say a word. He just reached across the table, slow enough that you could see it coming, could pull away if you needed to. His hand covered yours, warm and solid and steady. No pressure. No demand. Just there.

“You didn’t fail,” he said, voice rough around the edges, like it hurt him to even hear you say it. “You didn’t fail, doll. You survived. That’s what you did.”

You let out a shaky breath, one you hadn’t even realized you were holding. His hand over yours felt like an anchor — not heavy, not trapping. Just steady. Safe.

“I kept thinking I could fix it,” you said, voice small. “That if I loved him enough, he’d stop. That maybe it was my fault. I must’ve done something to make him that way.”

Bucky shook his head, slow and sure. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of your hand — a quiet reassurance, like he was trying to wipe the thought away.

“No,” he said, and his voice was so certain, so solid, it made your chest ache. “That’s not on you. None of it. I don’t care what he said, what he made you think — that’s on him. You didn’t deserve a second of it.”

Your eyes burned, tears blurring the room, but you didn’t look away. Somehow, you couldn’t.

And Bucky, who usually seemed so careful to keep his distance, leaned in just a little. Just enough so you could see the softness in his eyes beneath the storm.

“I saw you at those parties,” he said quietly. “The first time, I couldn’t stop looking. You lit up the whole damn room, you know that? And not because of how you looked — though, god, you were beautiful — but because of the way you smiled. Like you wanted everyone to feel at ease. Like you were trying to hold it all together.”

You swallowed hard. “You noticed that?”

He gave a breath of a laugh — but it wasn’t amused. It was sad, gentle. “Yeah. I noticed. I couldn’t stop. And then… then I saw him. The way he looked at you. Like he owned you. Like you were his to control. And I hated it. I hated seeing him dim your light. Every time you smiled, it didn’t reach your eyes. And I kept thinking, why isn’t anyone doing anything? Why aren’t I doing anything?”

His hand tightened just a little on yours — not enough to scare, just enough to ground.

“And when I saw him with you that last time—” His jaw clenched, voice dropping low. “I wanted to kill him. I swear, I’ve never felt that kind of rage. Not since… not since before.”

You could see it now — the guilt, the weight of it. He’d been carrying it just like you had.

“You did something,” you said, and your voice broke on the words. “You saved me.”

Bucky’s gaze softened even more, like he didn’t know what to do with the way you were looking at him. Like he didn’t think he deserved it.

“I’m just glad I was there in time,” he said. “I should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve—”

“Don’t,” you cut in gently, shaking your head. “Please. Don’t do that to yourself.”

For a beat, neither of you spoke. The night stretched out around you, quiet and heavy, but not in the way it had before. This was a different kind of quiet. The kind that felt shared.

Bucky exhaled slowly. “You don’t have to talk about any of it if you don’t want to. But if you ever do — I’ll be here. Every time.”

The room had gone still, but Bucky didn’t move.

He didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to risk breaking the fragile peace that had settled between you — like the two of you had stumbled onto something sacred in the middle of all the wreckage. You were still holding his hand, fingers small and trembling in his, but you hadn’t let go. And that felt like the most important thing in the world right now.

He kept his breathing even, slow, like maybe if he stayed calm enough, it would help you stay calm too.

His eyes drifted over you — the way your shoulders were still curled inward, like you were trying to make yourself small. The faint bruise at your jaw, already fading but still too loud in his mind. The tear tracks drying on your cheeks.

God. His heart hurt.

He’d seen pain before. Hell, he’d caused more than his share. But this — watching you try to piece yourself back together, watching you fight so hard to stay upright when everything inside you must’ve felt like it was breaking apart — it gutted him.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even known the full truth. Not until now. All those parties, all those times he’d watched you from across the room, too afraid to step in, too afraid to make it worse — he’d known something wasn’t right. But he hadn’t known this.

If he had… no. He couldn’t think like that. It would eat him alive.

You shifted a little, wiping at your eyes with your free hand, and he loosened his grip just enough to let you move — but didn’t let go.

Didn’t want to let go.

Bucky cleared his throat quietly. His voice felt rough when he finally spoke, like it had rusted from disuse.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he said, and the words weren’t meant to be out loud. But they were true. And maybe you needed to hear them.

You glanced at him, eyes red and tired but clearer now, and for a second — just a second — he thought he saw that spark again. That quiet kind of bravery that had caught him off guard the first time he’d met you.

“I don’t feel strong,” you said, and your voice was soft. Honest.

Bucky gave a small, sad smile. “That’s usually when you are.”

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, shaky but real. And that — that sound — it felt like the first crack of sunlight after too many days of storm.

So he stayed there with you, in the quiet. He didn’t rush you, didn’t try to fill the space with empty words. He just sat, your hand in his, listening to the soft hum of the compound at night, and let the weight of the moment settle.

---

The days that followed were slow and gentle, like the world around you had finally remembered how to be kind. The compound became a strange kind of sanctuary — wide, quiet halls, sunlit rooms, and people who smiled at you without asking for anything in return. And Bucky… Bucky was there. Always.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t push.

But somehow, he was never far.

Some mornings, you’d find him in the kitchen before anyone else was awake, making too much coffee and pretending not to wait for you. His hair would still be messy, the sleeves of his t-shirt shoved up to his elbows, metal fingers curled around a steaming mug. He’d glance up when you came in — and every time, without fail, that quiet, crooked smile would tug at the corner of his mouth like he couldn’t quite stop it.

And you’d smile back. At first small, uncertain. But it got easier. Brighter.

You were healing. Slowly, messily, but surely.

There were still nights when the shadows crept in, when your mind played cruel tricks and your heart raced for reasons it shouldn’t have to. But the weight on your chest wasn’t as heavy as it had been. Not with Bucky there — with his steady presence, his easy patience, the way he could make you laugh without even trying.

Like that afternoon on the balcony.

The sun was setting, casting everything in gold, and you were sitting side by side on a bench, sharing a bowl of strawberries Bucky had swiped from the kitchen like it was some grand heist.

“I think you’re officially the world’s worst thief,” you teased, popping one into your mouth. “Pretty sure Tony saw you do it.”

Bucky smirked, leaning back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Please. I’m an excellent thief. You just distract me.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you tried to hide your smile behind the rim of your glass. “Oh? I’m a distraction now?”

“The best kind,” he said, and the look in his eyes made your heart stumble a little. There was something soft there. Something that made you want to lean closer.

And for a moment, you both just sat in the glow of it — the unspoken, the almost — and it felt good. Safe. Like maybe the future didn’t seem so impossible after all.

He bumped your knee lightly with his. “You’re getting better at this, you know.”

You raised a brow. “At what?”

He gestured between you. “Smiling. Laughing. Living.”

You smiled at him then — really smiled — and for the first time in too long, it felt natural.

Bucky didn’t rush anything. He let the slow burn of trust build between you. A friendship, steady and real. A shelter.

And somewhere inside you, that small spark of yourself — the one you thought was gone — began to glow again.

---

The days blurred together in the best way. Easy, quiet hours filled with little pieces of normal that neither of you had realized you were craving. Bucky never said it out loud — not really — but you could feel it in the way he looked at you, in the way he lingered, in the way he seemed to need these moments just as much as you did.

Like that afternoon in the garage.

You’d wandered down there on a whim, curious about the clatter and low hum of music that floated up through the compound. And there he was — crouched beside his bike, grease on his fingers, hair tied back loosely, a smudge across his cheek. He looked up when he heard you, and the way his face lit up was so unguarded that it made your chest ache.

“Hey,” he said, like it was the best part of his day.

“Hey yourself,” you teased, stepping closer. “What’s the damage?”

He grinned. “Nothing I can’t handle. But since you’re here…” He stood, wiping his hands on a rag, and handed it to you without thinking.

Your fingers brushed — just for a second — and it was like time paused. His hand was warm, steady. Yours trembled, just a little.

Neither of you pulled away right away.

And when you finally did, it was with that same lingering softness that seemed to fill the space between you more and more lately.

“You ever work on one of these?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the bike.

You shook your head. “No. But I’m a fast learner.”

That earned you a look — one that said he believed you. One that said he wanted to teach you.

And he did. For hours, you worked side by side — his hands guiding yours, showing you how to fit a part just right, how to listen for the engine’s rhythm like it was a language. Every so often his arm would brush yours, or his fingers would graze your wrist as he reached for a tool. Small touches. Not-so-accidental. And every one of them set your heart racing in a way you weren’t ready to admit.

There were other moments, too.

Like the time he found you curled up on one of the couches in the common room, reading a book in the late afternoon sun. He sat down at the other end — at first — but somehow, over the course of lazy conversation, you ended up closer. His knee brushed yours, and neither of you moved. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingertips so close to your shoulder that you could feel the warmth of him, even without contact.

Or the night you both stayed up too late watching old movies. He’d handed you a blanket, and when you pulled it over you both, his metal hand rested beside yours on the couch — close enough that your pinkies touched. And you didn’t pull away. Neither did he. Not even when the credits rolled and the room fell into soft silence, filled only by the sound of his steady breathing.

Bucky was falling for you — hard. You saw it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. In the way he listened to you, really listened, like every word mattered. And you… you were starting to let yourself hope. To want.

The scars were still there. The nightmares still came. But in these moments, wrapped in stolen glances and soft laughter and not-so-accidental touches, it felt like you were both finding your way back to the light.

---

AN: Once again, thank you so much for reading! I wanted to finish it all in this part, but I feel like this story deserves another. I'll be working on it soon, you'll hear from me