VALENTINE

The smell of cigarette smoke curls around writhing bodies, and you move carefully across the crowd, eyes adjusting and trying to spot the next source of fuel for your system. In the middle of a bass drop, with people sweating through alcohol and drugs, is when you finally spot him, tall, brooding, dark hair slightly ruffled, all dressed in black, moving like a man on a mission.

Actually, not like. He is on a mission. Centuries of immortality have made certain impossible to forget, and Bucky Barnes carries one of those, so you recognize him immediately, just as fast as you recognize the way he moves through the club, tactical awareness written in every step. It’s not entirely surprising to find someone like him here. Vampires have long stepped into public view, and their preferred hunting grounds became hot spots for all sorts of law enforcers or armed forces, always looking for something taking a wrong turn.

Drawn to the quiet strength that radiates from him, you approach through the throng, silk dress clinging to every curve in the humid heat. Your fingers brush his flesh wrist when you stop next to him and he all but jumps, body locking in, before you lean over and your voice weaves supernatural compulsion.

“Come,” you whisper, pulling him by the jacket and dragging him to a shadowed alcove away from prying eyes. There is barely any resistance, at first; your cool lips graze the strong column of his neck, fangs teasing the rapid pulse while the influence of your single word urges him to bare his vein to you and surrender. You inhale once, eyes closing as you ready yourself to sink your teeth into the source of sustenance, but the moment breaks when his metal hand pushes against your chest and pulls you just enough away that you are forced to meet his eyes.

Brows furrowing in confusion, you tilt your head as your eyes darken slightly. “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you,” you say, voice silvery, trying once more to bend his mind just enough to make him pliant. He doesn’t move.

“That doesn’t work on me,” he murmurs. While resisting compulsion isn’t entirely unheard of, it’s rare enough to stagger you in the spot. However, what surprises you most is how he isn’t trying to run from you. How he isn’t trying to hurt you. His metal fingers move from your chest and instead drop to your waist, tugging you closer until you can see the vein of his neck throbbing under the skin once more. “But if you want to bite me, you can just ask.”

Hunger sharpens inside you at the resistance, only making the soldier more intoxicating. You lean over, lips brushing his jaw as your bodies press flush in the narrow dark corner. “Do you want me to say please?” You reply, words slipping out laced with amusement. “You might be in bad luck. Begging doesn’t suit me.” Fingers soon tangled in his dark hair, you guide his head to the side and let your fangs finally sink deep into his warm skin. Rich blood floods your mouth in a rush, carrying a sweet tang, the exact taste you had expected the moment you smelled him for the first time. You drink until you feel dizzy with pleasure, your hunger sated for the time being.

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Just remember you are a nobody who had a privilege of meeting him, privilege of being in the same room as him. Even then you couldn't contain yourself and had to make uncomfortable comments about a married man. This is a parasocial relationship. They are getting out of control and it's sad how you literally make yourself believe that he will say, think, or feel those things about strangers. You don't and none of us do.

I understand being a fan and having a crush but using his name to defend your horrible actions makes him look bad as well. You do not need to bring him into this bs when he stands for good things but you don't. He would definitely hate you, he speaks up about Palestine while you are a huge Zi0. He doesn't like the things you support. Let him be his own person and speak for himself, instead of using him as a bait.

I love the names you give me btw, appreciate every single one cuz I get more evidence of your doings. People may wonder how it started, well she came onto my page several times bossing me around. I told her off, she didn't stop, so I made a video and I immediately took it down cuz I felt bad. I gave benefit of doubt but she started bullying and harassing me, calling me names. Then I made another video, she got more mad, did more harassment. I made a second video, I asked if I mogged her, obviously I would ask cuz I am better and she bullied me several times. Then she continued making fun of my appearance, giving me horrible names. She is the one who started this and I'll be the one to end it.

Roommate!Bucky who apologises. "Shoot--sorry, angel...didn't mean to." He absolutely did mean to. Who tells you, oh so concerned, to go take a shower. That you'll feel better once you're all nice and clean.

Roommate!Bucky who, once the water starts running, palms his bulge through his sweatpants. Who walks in your room—hand still on his cock, the image of the wet, transparent fabric clinging to your breasts still in his mind.

Roommate!Bucky who looks for your worn panties in the pile of clothes near your bed. The grey one with the black bows on it. The one he knew you were wearing because he saw them peeking out when you leaned down.

Roommate!Bucky who immediately brings them up to his face, breathing in your scent. Who licks a long stripe up the fabric, tasting whatever he could of your essence while getting rid of his sweatpants and boxers to free his throbbing cock.

Roommate!Bucky who falls down on your bed, panties held tight to his face as he starts stroking his cock; who's head falls back as he chokes on a moan, your soft pillows muffling any sounds that threatened to escape.

Roommate!Bucky who imagines his cock in between your breasts, how he'd play with your nipples— twist and pull at them as he'd thrust up and down.

Roommate!Bucky who knew, right when the water turned off that he had 10 minutes, give or take, before you came back. 10 minutes of you lathering up your soft body in those sweet lotions and oils, your hands caressing and massaging them in. Who wishes it was his hands instead.

Roommate!Bucky who stops stroking his cock, turns and looks at the little wooden nightstand. The nights he spent hearing your panting and whimpering over the consistent little buzz meant only one thing.

Roommate!Bucky who held the purple vibrator in his hands—comically small in his huge hands. Who grins, as if he's found a treasure, biting his lip as he brings it up to his mouth for a taste.

Roommate!Bucky who sucks on the blunt silicone end, tiny, gentle kitten licks. It touched your precious little clit, brought you orgasms—was soaked in your juices as you writhed and thrashed around on the bedsheets like a pathetic slut, and god...he just wanted a taste of it.

Roommate!Bucky who turns the toy on. A bzzzz bzzzz! filling the room. Who encloses it completely in his fist, feeling the vibrations travel through his body.

Roommate!Bucky who smirks at the thought of you getting off with something as small as this. Did you know just how fucking massive he is? Would you even be able to take all of him?

Roommate!Bucky who drags the buzzing vibrator across his chest, lingering on one nipple. Interesting...

Roommate!Bucky who keeps going, down and down and down till he reaches where his cock stands proud and leaking and blushing a shade so red it looked like it hurt. And it did. It hurt so fucking bad for him to not be inside of you.

Roommate!Bucky who presses the toy to his cockhead, his hips immediately jerking off the bed at the sudden, intense sensation.

"Fucking shi—"

Roommate!Bucky who does it gently this time, just a whisper of a touch, getting used to the strange feeling of the vibrations.

Roommate!Bucky who feels brave now. Slow, controlled circles teasing at his slit, each dribble of precum that leaks out making each pass easier than the last.

Roommate!Bucky who drags your vibrator up and down his cock, the waves travelling deep and reaching something he didn't even knew existed. He'd never felt anything like it before.

Roommate!Bucky who believes this is technically a pussy job. It rubbed at your pussy, and it's rubbing at his cock. A pussy job at it's finest.

Roommate!Bucky who cums so fucking hard at the thought of your pussy touching his cock. At the way the vibrations never seemed to stop hitting just right. At the way you were now almost done with your after shower-ly routines and about to enter the room in a minute and a half.

Roommate!Bucky who leaves the cum soaked vibrator underneath your pillow. A little extra lube never hurt anyone, right?

hehe

Roommate!Bucky who stares at the way your tits bounce as you jump up suddenly. Remembering what you had planned for the evening. Who looks at your ass sway in those tiny fucking shorts as you rush to your room.

Roommate!Bucky who smiles all big and wide as you bring out a plastic box with a hundred different kinds of beads and charms and strings. The way your face lights up during times like this, it's almost enough to keep the dirty thoughts away.

Roommate!Bucky whose heart threatens to burst out of his chest with how hard it's beating when you take his hand and place it in your lap. so very near to your clothed cunt. so close all he'd do was curl his fingers and he'd be met with your wet, drippy heat, all ready to welcome him in.

Roommate!Bucky who enjoys the feeling of your smaller hands trying to measure the size of his wrist. He is so much bigger than you, could do so many things to you, and you'd just take them, right?

Roommate!Bucky who goes to bed that night with smooth blue and green beads clad on his wrist. Who still feels your soft touch on his, as you put the bracelet on him, telling him just how pretty he looked with it on. How it matches his eyes just right.

Roommate!Bucky who takes the bracelet off, the beads rolling on his skin, before putting it back on--the smooth glass sliding with ease.

Roommate!Bucky who sheds away his boxers, kicking them off to somewhere towards the end of his bed.

Roommate!Bucky who takes off the bracelet yet again, only to place it on top of his hard cock, coating the beads in the precum that leaked out.

Roommate!Bucky who rolls the bracelet up and down, the sensation of the glass pressing in against his throbbing cock making his eyes roll back into his head.

Roommate!Bucky who laughs at how this bracelet was especially made for him, how you made it with so much love, just to make him cum tonight.

Roommate!Bucky who looks at the way the string threatens to snap when he reaches the base, the bracelet too small to fully take him all in.

Roommate!Bucky who cums harder than he's ever before and paints the blue and green in thick, hot spurts of white. Looking at the sticky mess for a long time, before deciding to let it stay like that, not wiping away the remnants of his deed.

Roommate!Bucky who smiles and hugs you the next morning, showering you with praises about your pretty blue dress, sliding the bracelet on your wrist.

"Just fits so good, angel."

yes i know this isn't a fic and it doesn't make sense. This was written in 15 minutes and with no intention to actually make sense. I'm still tagging everyone cus... it's bucky hehe🤭🤭

There were a few things you could respect Steve Rogers for.

He always seemed to know what was best for the team, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he always tried to find a way to resolve conflict with the least amount of bloodshed possible. He was a respectable man—respectable enough for people like you to follow him into hell.

But there were also plenty of things you disliked about him.

Namely, once he had a plan, he stuck to it whether the people around him agreed or not. Unfortunately for you, his current plan involved you babysitting the world’s most wanted Hydra assassin.

And that was the Winter Soldier.

“What!” you barked in disbelief, throwing your hands in the air. “No! I am not watching him. I’m coming with you—”

Steve was already gearing up—wearing the suit he stole from the Smithsonian and strapping on his shield last.

“No,” he replied, sharp and firm. “Trust me, it’s better if you stay put. If I show up with Buck by my side, it’s not gonna look good.”

Steve motioned towards Bucky, who just stood there looking about as useful and clueless as a bag of bricks.

The kicked puppy look on his face almost made you feel bad for him. Almost. Because if it weren’t for him, and your own stubborn loyalty to Steve, nobody would be in this mess in the first place.

“Look, you’re going to talk to Stark, right? Nat’s with him. Let me come. I can talk to her while you work things out with Stark, and maybe we can figure out a better solution—”

“We shouldn’t even consider talking to Nat. She’s in deep with Tony and the Accords. And besides, I don’t trust—” Steve cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes flickered between you and Bucky. “Never mind.”

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Don’t trust what?”

The tension in the parking garage turned uncomfortable really fast.

No one dared speak or move—it felt like a bunch of kids walking in on Mom and Dad arguing and refusing to pick sides. Even though you already knew what he was going to say, you kept your eyes fixed on Steve with a silent threat for him to continue.

Steve sighed and stepped forward, mentally cursing himself for letting the words slip.

“You Widows—they’re known to be deceptive,” Steve explained as calmly and gently as he could, though it didn’t help.

“I just… can’t risk you talking to Natasha. It’s too dangerous.”

Offended wasn’t even the right word for it.

Everyone in this line of work—including you, especially you — knew about the Black Widows and their reputation. You were a group of young girls broken down and rebuilt into perfect chameleons. Widows were trained to whisper sweet nothings into a victim’s ear, only to hold a blade to their throat, slit it without remorse, and go about the rest of their day as if nothing had happened.

Steve wasn’t wrong, but the hypocrisy of his logic made you feel sour.

He didn’t trust your background, yet in the very same breath, he was willing to leave you entirely alone with Bucky—his best friend, and the only piece of his past he had left. If you were truly so deceptive, so inherently untrustworthy, what was stopping you from turning Bucky over to Stark the second Steve cleared this garage?

You wanted to cry. You had been loyal to Steve, standing by his side while the rest of the team split up and tore at each other’s throats—and this was how he repaid you? By humiliating you in front of everyone?

But you’d die before you let a single tear fall in front of Steve, or anyone else for that matter.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tightened your jaw until your teeth hurt and forced your gaze away.

“Fine.”

You were going to protect his precious best friend—not out of submission, but to shove his own prejudice right back down his throat. You would prove to him, definitively, that you could be trusted.

“I’ll watch over him,” you added, trying to keep cool. “I’ll keep my comms open, too—just in case you want to pop in and check if he’s still alive.”

Steve returned your sarcasm with a relieved exhale. “Thank you—”

“Don’t mention it,” you cut him off, waving a hand dismissively as you walked past Bucky—who was standing there looking like a child of divorce. You headed for your motorcycle.

“Are you coming, Barnes?”

Before joining you at the bike, Bucky walked over to Steve with a fond look in his eyes. They shared the same brotherly hug they'd been exchanging since they reunited. Steve mumbled something into his shoulder—probably reassurance that everything was going to be okay—before finally sending him off to you.

You rolled your eyes, slipping your helmet on to block them out.

As everyone else cleared out of the garage, Bucky walked over to your bike. You handed him a helmet, and he started strapping it on.

“Should I drive?” He asked.

You blinked at him, your face going blank despite him not being able to see it.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been hiding in Bucharest for a while,” Bucky explained. “I know some discreet spots where they won’t find us.”

Even though neither of you could see the other’s expression, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky was testing your competence—and on top of everything that had led to this moment, especially that little conversation with Steve, your patience was wearing dangerously thin.

“Barnes, I assure you that whatever spot you’re thinking of, a SWAT team is already sweeping it.” You revved the engine. “Get on.”

Bucky muffled a deep sigh inside his helmet. Based on his stiff posture, you thought he might argue, but he finally conceded, swinging his long leg over the back of the seat.

As you gripped the handlebars, you waited for him to hold on, but nothing happened.

Glancing at your side mirrors, you saw him awkwardly plant his hands at the edge of his seat, leaning back as far away from you as the space would allow.

“I’m gonna need you to hold on,” you ordered without looking back.

Bucky hesitated, not moving an inch.

Annoyed, you killed the revving engine for a second and glared at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to fall off?”

Bucky still didn’t budge. He kept his posture uncomfortably stiff, his eyes boring down at the empty space between his hips and the arch of your back.

“I’ll be fine right here.”

You couldn’t believe the gall of this guy. You had been tasked with something that was supposed to be so simple—tedious, sure, but easy enough—yet he was making your job twice as difficult. You glared at him through your visor, your voice strict even through the muffle of your headgear.

“Steve entrusted me to look after you. If he finds out on the evening news that his most wanted best friend fell off the back of my motorcycle and got captured by the government, then he’s never going to talk to me again. And everyone who is risking their lives for you did it all for nothing because you chose to be stubborn. Now, I am not going to repeat myself. Hold. On. To. Me.”

You couldn’t make out his expression, but slowly and reluctantly, he leaned forward and wrapped his thick arms around your waist.

“Tighter,” you commanded.

From the short time Bucky had known you, he already knew there was no point in arguing.

He let out a sigh into his helmet and wrapped his arms around you just a little tighter than before—but still kept his hold loose and, well… as respectful as he could manage.

“Bucky, I need you to hold me tighter,” you urged again.

It had already been a good five minutes since everyone left—and here you were, stuck with the man who, if caught, could risk your life and your position, all because he refused to hold onto you properly.

To you, this was nothing but a nuisance.

But for Bucky…

Bucky was holding onto every thread and reminder left from the forties of what it meant to be a respectful man. Especially since it had been so long since he’d not only been this close to a woman, but held one.

“Tighter!” you shrieked, patience finally snapping.

“Fuck, you know what? Fine!” he snapped back, adjusting his hips so that his chest was pressed up right against your back, wrapping his strong arms around you tightly enough to make you gasp.

“Is that tight enough for you?”

“Perfect,” you croaked sarcastically.

Without giving him another second to respond, you kicked the bike into gear and finally steered it out of the garage.

You were determined to keep your pride intact. His broad chest was pressed up against your back, trapping your body heat until your leather jacket felt burning hot against your skin. His metal arm was a hard band across your midsection, while his flesh arm gripped you still.

You were so small compared to him. He could easily take over—yet here he was, being your obedient puppy.

“Where are you taking me?” Bucky shouted over the rush of wind as the two of you whipped through the busy streets of Bucharest.

“To an amusement park,” you shouted back. “Don’t you want to ride a roller coaster?”

Bucky let out a tired sigh.

You managed to find sanctuary at an abandoned, overgrown rooftop greenhouse. Located on the very outskirts of Bucharest, it was far enough from the city center to avoid suspicion, but still close enough to keep your comms within range of Steve.

You paced the rooftop, feeling restless as your mind overworked with what Steve and the rest of the team could be doing right now.

Were they already fighting? Would Stark actually listen to reason and put all of this to rest?

Letting out a defeated sigh, you kicked a stray pebble, watching it skid across the concrete of the rooftop.

“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself. “Stuck on babysitting duty when I should be out there.”

Lifting your head, your eyes locked onto Bucky. He was standing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distant streets below.

“Hey!” you barked, pointing a finger at him like a mother scolding a child. “Step away from the edge! You’re going to fall.”

“I’m just keeping a lookout,” Bucky mumbled, his back still facing you as he refused to step away from the edge.

“You’re just making my job harder than it already is,” you argued, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

You pointed aggressively to the dusty wooden crate tucked against the brick wall.

“Just go sit over there or something.”

Bucky’s brow twitched the same time his patience snapped. He turned around to finally face you, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.

“Would you stop talking to me like I’m a child?” he snapped, stepping away from the edge—not because you had ordered him to, but to match your hostile stance as he stalked toward you. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the shitty job of watching over me, but I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”

His defensive outburst made you raise a brow.

“Oh, really? You can handle yourself just fine?” you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Is that why the entire global government is hunting you down right now? Is that why Steve had to throw away his entire reputation just to keep you out of a cage? Because you’ve got it all handled?”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.

The mention of Steve’s sacrifice definitely hit a nerve, you could see the guilt in his eyes.

A part of you wished you hadn’t said it at all, and you were just about ready swallow your pride and apologize, until…

“You’re from the Red Room,” he said, stepping closer. An involuntary shudder went down your spine. “You’ve done terrible things in the past—just as I have. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone like Steve bend over backwards for lowlifes like us.”

You didn’t realize just how close he was standing until his hot breath hit your face, only shortening your temper.

“We don’t ask for the help, yet they do it for us anyway,” Bucky’s voice graveled into a whisper. “Don’t talk down to me like you don’t know what it’s like. When in fact, you’re worse—”

You were already seeing red before he could even finish his sentence.

You quickly unsheathed a pocket knife from your belt and lunged at him, aiming straight for his throat just as a threat to silence him.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me!”

But Bucky was faster.

He brought his metal forearm up just in time to block the blade, making an ugly scraping sound. He twisted his wrist to disarm you, but your grip on the knife was tight. While one arm was held captive by his, you used your other to try and deliver a punch—which he also dodged.

You resorted to your legs, bucking them up to deliver hard kicks to his stomach. He grunted after each hit your leg managed to put out, but his hands moved quickly to grab the collar of your jacket and hurl you backwards to the nearest wall.

You cried out, face scrunching into a wince as your back slammed into hard brick.

The impact made you drop your knife. Bucky pressed his heavy body right against yours, aggressively tucking his legs between your thighs so you couldn’t use the space to swing your knees at him again.

“I can’t believe this is who Steve decided to trust me with,” he hissed in your face.

“Get off of me!” you yelled, squirming beneath his body.

“You drew your knife at me,” Bucky roared back. “Maybe Steve was right. All you Widows have a tendency to break your vows whenever things go even remotely south for you—”

You weren’t going to sit there and take his insults. Gritting your teeth with a brace, you pulled your head back and slammed your forehead directly into his face.

Bucky groaned out in pain, his grip on you loosening as he stumbled back with a hand to his face. Seizing the small window of opportunity, you shoved his chest away and dove towards the floor, reaching for the dropped pocket knife.

Before your fingers could even brush the hilt, his large hands grabbed you from behind and slammed you right back into the brick wall again.

You let out a breathless gasp as your face was forcefully squished up against the brick.

Bucky’s flesh hand came to the back of your head, pushing your skull firmly against the wall to keep your vision pinned away from him. At the same time, his metal hand gathered both your wrists behind your back, locking your two arms prone.

“Let go of me!”

You started to violently squirm and writhe, trying to buck your back against him—to tire him out, but Bucky moved his entire lower body to seal the space. His hips pressed tightly up against your bottom, his chest to your back, pinning you completely helpless as you were left trapped between him and the wall.

“No. I don’t care if you’re Steve’s friend, or if Steve respects you,” Bucky hissed, his breath right at your ear. “If I find my life in danger—after finally being free from Hydra, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way. Even you.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving against your back.

He was angry.

He hated how much a woman like you could get under his skin with just a few sarcastic words and petty jabs.

One moment he was flustered just holding onto your waist during the bike ride, and now, he had you pinned up against the wall, your life completely in his hands.

You grit your teeth. “Dammit, Barnes—”

“—do you hear me? Hello? Anyone copy?”

You and Bucky froze. His eyes went wide as he leaned his head down toward the earpiece tucked just behind your earlobe where Steve’s voice was emitting. You glared at Bucky through the corner of your eye.

“Steve’s calling for me. I can’t answer it unless you let me go.”

“Status check. Code Blue-Alpha. Repeat, Code Blue-Alpha. Do you copy?”

Bucky was hesitant.

He didn’t want to let you go—afraid that you might actually threaten his life again the second he backed off.

Instead of releasing you, his metal hand kept the tight grip on both your wrists, while his flesh hand finally let your head free. Shifting his body closer, his finger reached around to press the button on your earpiece, activating the channel and allowing you to speak.

“Steve,” you breathed, catching your breath. “I’m here.”

“There you are!” Steve let out a relieved, staticky sigh through the comms. “How are things over there? Are you two alright?”

You and Bucky side eyed each other.

The situation was ridiculous—the two of you were still tangled in each other’s limbs, bodies pressed tight against one another, chests heaving in sync as the adrenaline from the fight slowly began to die down.

“We’re fine,” you lied. “Your boyfriend’s still alive.”

Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh right against your ear. He didn’t say it out loud, but you could already hear his thoughts. This fucking woman.

Steve wasn’t laughing, however. His voice was serious.

“Listen to me carefully. We just got word that there are traps set up around the highest points of Bucharest. They’re wired to release an airborne toxin—specifically meant to target the biology of a super soldier.”

You watched Bucky’s eyes. His brows furrowed, concentrating on Steve’s voice as his grip on your wrists loosened slightly.

“They’re trying to smoke him out,” you reasoned. “What about the regular civilians? Will it affect them?”

“No. Just us. I’m already wearing a rebreather mask on my end,” Steve continued with a rasp. It sounded like he was running from something. “But Bucky doesn’t have one. You need to keep him inside and be extremely careful.”

There was a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach.

Steve was thinking about Bucky, and Bucky was thinking about himself, but neither of them knew your full medical history—how could they?

During your time in the Red Room, they had pumped your veins full of a biochemical serum. It wasn’t the exact super soldier formula that created Captain America, but it was a heavily modified variation meant to enhance your physical abilities, speed up your healing, and maximize your strength.

It was what made you into a Widow. And right now, you had no idea if that same chemical footprint was enough to trigger the airborne toxin.

“Steve,” you swallowed hard, your voice shaking with worry. “How is Natasha doing? Is she with you?”

If Natasha was fine, then maybe you would be, too.

Behind you, Bucky must have sensed the sudden spike of panic in your posture. He took a step back and finally released his tight grip on your wrists—relinquishing his hold over your body.

He inhaled a deep breath to steady himself, but stopped midway, choking as if something had gotten stuck in his lungs. His chest hitched. He sniffed the air again, letting out a harsh, hacking cough in return.

“Fuck—” Bucky choked out, his hand flying to his throat.

You spun around, catching the way Bucky stumbled blindly against a wooden crate. Your heart started to race in a panic.

“Steve?” you called into the earpiece, your eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of the trap he had just mentioned over comms. “Steve, do you copy?”

There was no answer.

The static on the other end had cut out completely. Steve had already ended the line to focus on his own escape—either that, or his comms had been jammed. You tapped the button behind your earlobe again desperately, but there was nothing.

“Steve! Respond!”

Bucky called your name from where he held himself against the crate—a sound that was broken, small, and almost whiny.

“Bucky!” you cried out, abandoning the comm line completely and focusing entirely on the man you were tasked to protect. “Are you okay?”

“Hot,” he winced, letting out a deep groan. “It feels... hot.”

You knelt by his side, the palm of your hand flying to his forehead to check his temperature. Your eyes widened at how warm he had suddenly become. He wasn’t nearly this hot when he had you pressed up against the wall just mere seconds ago.

“Fuck. Did the toxins get to you already? But how! We’re on the outskirts—”

Bucky lazily raised a finger just past your head. You whipped your head around, squinting past the sunlight that pierced the clouds.

There, you saw a hazy, almost pollen like fog beginning to drift from across the rooftop building far from you.

“Shit,” you cursed, wrapping your arm around his waist and positioning his heavy arm over your shoulders to help him up.

“Come on, we’ve gotta hide you somewhere. You’re too weak to run if you get caught.”

You tried lifting him up, but he was too heavy to carry just on your own. You groaned beneath him, using every bit of your strength to try and keep him steady.

While you struggled, Bucky’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused—he could barely keep them open.

“Stay with me, Bucky,” you murmured against him with a grunt, dragging your feet to get him inside the greenhouse.

It was a glass enclosure, but the walls were muddied with dirt and the plants were overgrown enough to provide decent cover. It wasn’t as indoors as you’d like, but it was the closest place you could take him with your current strength.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered down to you, letting out a heavy sigh.

“I think… I need to sit.”

Suddenly, he felt like he was suffocating in his own clothes. The breeze in Bucharest was cool, but his body felt like it was burning up from the inside. What was even worse was your touch—having your body pressed up against his made him react in ways he never thought he would.

Or at least, not anytime soon.

You stumbled over an overgrown branch, losing your balance and your grip on Bucky.

“Shit—I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

Bucky lay on the ground, adjusting his body so that he was flat on his back. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, the organ trying to tear its way out. His vision and mind went hazy, and his flesh hand was clammy.

The tension was even worse whenever he looked at you. His pupils would dilate the second his eyes landed on your body, his breath getting stuck in his throat.

You knelt down, trying to get your hands under his arms to haul him back up, but Bucky flinched away with a sharp hiss.

“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”

You furrowed your brows. You had no idea what kind of side effects the airborne toxins had been released—Steve hadn’t specified. But right now, you couldn’t afford to stand around and ponder it. You groaned, trying to lift him up one more time, but your body suddenly felt even weaker than before.

Your knees buckled as a strange aroma began to drift into your nose. It was a musky, almost tangy smell filling the deep pockets of your lungs.

“W-what the hell…?”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavily from where he lay on the floor, his dark, half lidded eyes meeting yours. “Do you feel it, too?”

Meeting Bucky’s eyes in this state was the worst thing you could have possibly done.

Suddenly, the greenhouse felt smaller—a glass enclosure closing in on the two of you. Your body felt molten, and you wanted nothing more than to strip your clothes off.

Grunting, you began to pull down the zipper of your jacket, and Bucky inhaled sharply.

“Hey—what… what are you doing?”

“It’s hot,” you breathed, your head spinning. “Need to take my jacket off.”

The heat inside your own skin was hurting, but for Bucky, it was absolute torture.

The super soldier serum in his veins processed the toxin at an accelerated rate, making his flesh feel like it was working overtime. His blood was rushing—hot and heavy—pooling lower until he was completely and unapologetically hard under his pants.

He wanted to rip his own clothes off. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice the tent poking between his legs—or maybe a dark part of him did, and he wanted you to offer to take care of it.

Fuck. What was he thinking?

But it wasn’t like you were thinking straight, either. Abandoning your jacket, you were left in just a tank top that clung tightly to your chest, offering Bucky a full view of your tits. You knelt right back down beside him, your hands clumsily reaching for his shoulders to lift him up again.

This was going bad for Bucky.

Too close.

Too close. Too close. Too close.

Bucky caught your scent—a natural floral and feminine smell mixed with an underlying musk of sweat that made his head spin with an overwhelmingly dangerous amount of desire.

“Stop,” Bucky choked out, his voice dropping deep and dangerous.

His right hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your bare wrist, while his metal hand gripped your hip to keep you from leaning any closer.

“Don’t... don’t do this. Get away from me right now.”

“Bucky,” you panted. “I need you to get up for me.”

“I can’t,” he groaned, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I mean it. Move away… or I swear to God, I won’t be able to control myself—”

Your gaze drifted down his body, your eyes widening at the prominent bulge waiting for you between his large, strong legs.

It throbbed and twitched beneath his pants, growing harder and more unbearable by the second.

This position was too compromising—too vulnerable, and far too dangerous for you both.

Bucky had no strength to get up on his own, and you could feel your own body betraying you by the second. You would have to relieve this for him now, or it would be doom for you both.

“Goddammit,” you cursed, bracing yourself mentally.

You moved to cradle Bucky between your thighs, mounting his lap while he was pinned weak to the floor.

His eyelids flew open, and he used all the strength left in his body to lift his head and stare up at you, bewildered and off guard.

“What the hell are you doing—!”

“We need to take care of this,” you muttered, grinding your hips tight and firm against his, making him let out a groan.

“We need to fix your problem before they find us. They set up that trap not too far from this building. There’s a chance they’re already scouting it out. It’s only a matter of time—”

Bucky’s eyes were filled with hungry lust as he stared at the point where your hips were rubbing against his. He was so hard it fucking hurt. He didn’t dare touch you—because if his hands made contact with your waist, with that warm, smooth skin just beneath your tank top that was begging to be licked, he would probably embarrass himself and cum in his pants right then and there.

“Shit—wait. Hold on. I—fuck.”

You reached for his zipper, tugging it down, and the sudden movement made his hips buck up against yours.

“Now’s not the time to talk, Barnes,” you panted, the toxin blurring your thoughts. “We need to take care of this now, or we’ll be in deep trouble. And Steve’ll have my head—”

“Fuck, shit. Wait—! I’ve never…”

You were losing your patience. You stopped your hands, glaring down at him. “Never what, Barnes?”

His face burned an embarrassing shade of red. He refused to look at you, his eyes suddenly far more interested in the overgrown plants next to him than your face.

“I’ve never had… sex,” he admitted quietly, swallowing hard.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky was a virgin?

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

You felt incredibly foolish straddling him with your hands still hovering over his open zipper.

You felt shameful—you felt like a harlot, throwing yourself onto him and thinking you could resolve this entire crisis just by getting him off with a few strokes. You felt dirty, humiliated, and deeply guilty.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly scrambling off his lap.

Your legs felt like jelly—a testament to the toxin fully taking hold of your own system.

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know. I mean, that doesn’t excuse it, but—”

“No,” Bucky rasped, his hand catching your wrist before you could back away entirely.

His grip on you was so tight and dominant, it felt like a pickaxe slowly chipping away at your remaining resolve.

“Don’t go,” he broke out, his voice a desperate, tortured rasp. “Please. Keep going. It hurts. I need you to relieve it.”

If he had said that to reassure you, you felt anything but. In fact, you felt even guiltier because of how broken and desperate he sounded.

“Bucky, I can’t.”

His brows knitted together tightly, his face twisting unpleasantly—he was upset.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because—”

“Because what!” he barked back, rolling onto his side to give you his full attention. You tried really hard not to look at the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “You threw yourself onto me. You promised Steve you’d take care of me—so you’re going to come back here and finish it.”

“Bucky, I’m not going to be your first!” you yelled out, and that finally stunned him into silence.

Your chest was heaving with a frustration you didn’t even know how to name.

With confusion and a flash of embarrassment taking over his gaze, his fingers finally loosened, releasing your wrist reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” you said, much softer this time. “I’m sorry. Just… if you need a minute to take care of it yourself, I’ll be over there—” you pointed to the far end of the greenhouse “—I’ll keep watch.”

“And what about you?” he asked, his dark eyes trailing down your body in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. “Don’t you need to take care of yourself, too? You feel it, don’t you? That… primal need.”

You pressed your lips tight and tore your gaze away, not trusting yourself to look at his pained, desperate expression. You couldn’t look at the way his body was open and inviting you back in, or the way his voice went so coarse when he said the word need.

“I’ll be fine.”

You were not fine. And Bucky certainly wasn’t, either.

You tried to keep your concentration focused outside the greenhouse, forcing your hazy eyes to stare through the glass panes to keep watch. But your gaze kept betraying you, drifting right back to the corner to watch Bucky where he sat propped up against a wooden crate, his legs spread wide.

His chest was still rising and falling heavily, his long hair damp with sweat and falling over his darkened eyes.

You had told him to take care of his business, but he hadn’t made a single move since you stepped away from him. Your own urges were becoming impossible to control, too. You found yourself squeezing your thighs tightly together, trying to find any form of friction, any relief from the ache that had been building up ever since the toxin first wafted into your lungs.

It didn’t help that you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, watching you from behind, tracing your silhouette.

It felt telepathic—as if his silent gaze was speaking directly to your body, knowing you wanted exactly what he was desperately craving too.

No. You couldn’t go to him.

If you walked up to him right now, neither of you would have any control left, and you would both submit to the drug completely.

He was a virgin. You couldn’t take something so precious from him. He had already been through a lifetime of torture and lost autonomy. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you took his first time over a stupid, weaponized toxin.

Sex was meant to be reserved for someone special—and you were far from it.

“Bucky,” you finally called out, still refusing to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay back there?”

“…No,” he muttered with a thick rasp. “Come here.”

You sucked in a breath.

Every instinct in your brain was telling you stay exactly where you were, but your body was entirely out of your control now.

Your feet dragged you across the dirty floor until you were standing over him again.

You dropped to your knees in front of him with a sigh. Trying to frame it as purely medical check, you lifted a hand and pressed your palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature once more.

He was still burning up, but the fever felt even worse.

Every hot breath he exhaled hit your exposed collarbones, and the way he was sitting—legs spread wide with you kneeling directly between them—made you feel like a mouse being lured into a trap.

Realizing just how dangerous this proximity was, you swallowed hard and began to pull your hand away. But Bucky didn’t let you. His fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist to hold you back. He let his heavy eyelids flutter shut and slowly leaned his head into your touch, rubbing his stubbled cheek right against your warm, open palm.

“Stay,” Bucky pleaded as he his metal hand came to hold your hip. “Stay here. I need you.”

A breathless groan rumbled warmly into your palm. You froze, your eyes locked onto him as you watched the lethal super soldier—the very man who had pinned you up against the wall just minutes ago—unravel helplessly right in front of you.

As he held you there, you felt an unbearable heat trickle between your legs.

Your cunt pulsed, and you squeezed your thighs tightly together to soothe the desperate ache spreading through your lower body.

The friction was a temporary fix, but the tight grind of your thighs only made you ache for more.

Bucky nuzzled his face deeper into your palm, inhaling your scent like a dying man catching a breath of fresh air.

Then, his parted lips pressed a soft, wet kiss against the center of your hand. And another one. Then another, right against the inner skin of your wrist.

“Bucky… what are you—”

“Please,” Bucky whispered against your skin, looking up at you through his dark, thick lashes.

His eyes were dilated, the blue completely washed out by a lust that made you burn from the inside out.

“I need you.”

“You… You don’t know what you’re saying,” you muttered, shaking your head in a desperate attempt to find your reason.

Bucky held your hand tighter, refusing to give you any chance to escape.

“Please, don’t go. Fuck—I need you so bad, it hurts,” he choked out. “This ache won’t go away until you help me take care of it.”

His eyes never left yours. Under normal circumstances, every confession leaving his lips should have left him feeling deeply ashamed or embarrassed. But right now, he didn’t care. His body was on fire, and your touch was only stroking each and every flame.

“I know I’m a virgin, but I don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either,” Bucky rasped.

His large hand covered yours, forcing your palm down his chest—slick and damp with sweat—until he guided your hand directly over the heavy erection waiting for you beneath his pants.

“I can make you feel so good. I can fix this for both of us. Please.” He begged.

You let out a shudder as his large hand swallowed yours, guiding your palm to slide up and down against the length of his cock. Even through the denim, you could feel him throb and harden rapidly beneath your touch, his breathing turning incredibly shallow and fast.

“It hurts so bad,” he groaned, his eyes unhinged by the toxin. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too?”

You looked down, biting your lip hard at the sight of Bucky’s thick bulge pressing directly against your fingers. He twitched beneath your touch.

There was nothing you wanted more than to finish the job you had started earlier—to finish unzipping his pants, sink right down onto him, and show him exactly what it felt like to be inside a woman for the very first time.

But you couldn’t.

Not like this.

“Bucky, I can’t—” you whispered so softly, it sounded like a whine. “I can’t be your first.”

Bucky trembled a sigh, his head falling back against the wooden crate. But he didn’t let go of your wrist. He began to subtly shift his weight, rocking his hips up in a tilt that forced his thick length to slide right against your captive palm.

“Why not?” he murmured, deep and gravelly. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’d do a good job?”

His question was so innocent, though the very thing he was doing wasn’t. He kept grinding his clothed cock into your hand—seeking pleasure from just your palm—and you felt yourself going insane.

“No, it’s not that,” you tried to pull your hand back, but he held you tight, using your trapped hand for his own pleasure. “Sex is supposed to be something that you save. And your virginity is something you give away to someone special. Not… not a casual teammate—not someone like me—”

Bucky interrupted you with a groan, his hips bucking up higher against your palm. All of your words went in one ear and out the other. The only thing he could process right now was how good your hand felt—and how much better it would feel if he sunk into something tight, wet, and warm.

Like your mouth… or your…

“I don’t care about any of that,” he choked out.

His hips rolled into your palm with a needy jerk.

“I need this. I need you. I’d be more than happy to give it to you. Fuck—I’ll give it to you so good. You’re the one I want. I need you—”

Bucky’s mouth dropped into an o shape, a sharp hiss of breath filling his lungs as his hips bucked uncontrollably. His eyes never left yours as he suddenly started spilling in his pants. A warm, thick liquid began to seep through his jeans, leaving your fingers sticky with his seed and musk.

You couldn’t believe it.

Bucky had just finished right in his pants.

“Bucky…”

His face was unreadable.

His head was tilted back against the crate, his eyes boring into yours through heavy lids and long lashes. He was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath while letting his cum shamelessly pool in the tight space of his pants.

You figured he’d pull your hand away any second now—that finally releasing all that pent up frustration would make him feel well enough to move to a safer location.

You tried not to point it out to save him from the embarrassment. And most importantly, you tried not to give in to the intense sensation of his warm spunk right beneath your fingertips.

“You should be feeling better now, right? We should keep moving—”

With his grip on your wrist tightening, he hauled you forward until you collapsed back to the ground. Two strong arms wrapped completely around your body, caging you flush against his chest.

Your knees—already so weak—forced you to straddle his lap. Your hands flew to his broad shoulders for balance as you found yourself perched directly over his ruined pants.

“Hey—what are you—!”

Bucky nuzzled his face straight into the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breaths turning into open mouthed kisses against your skin.

“More,” he begged, the deep vibration of his voice tickling you. “S’not enough. I need more.”

Your breath hitched when his hands started to roam over your body. His fingers tickled beneath the hem of your tank top, the metal fingers cooling your skin and making you gasp out loud from the sudden cold.

No.

I won’t let this happen.

I refuse to be Bucky’s first.

But despite your emotional turmoil, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not with the way his hands were roaming around your body, claiming every inch of you as his through touch alone. Not with the way he was looking at you, his mouth parted with desperation.

And especially not when he had just let himself spill in his jeans from nothing but your touch and closeness.

“I know you feel it too,” Bucky rasped against your neck. “I know you’re wet down there, begging to be touched. Begging to be filled. I can fix you, baby. Just let me take care of you, please.”

He pulled back slightly, looking up at you with wide puppy blue eyes that made your heart ache and your pussy clench.

“Can I kiss you?”

You searched his gaze, breathless. “You want to kiss me?”

His metal hand left your waist, slowly crawling up your spine until his fingers tangled firmly in the hair at the back of your head, keeping your eyes pinned to his. His pupils were completely blown out, his gaze demanding an answer right now.

You should have said no. You should have pushed his chest, reminded him of the drug, and scrambled away to safety.

He was a virgin, sure. But with the way he was looking at you while holding you tight—you felt like you were going to be ravaged.

But your resolve was already a fragile thing. And with the way he was looking at you, you knew you were in too deep. Your body was hurting—aching for him in the exact same ways he was aching for you. The only way you two could fix it was each other.

You pressed your lips hard against his, and Bucky let out a rough, needy sound into your mouth.

His grip tightened in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

The fever burned through your veins, and the way his tongue danced with yours only made the fire burn hotter. He was tasting you, broken whimpers tearing from his lips with every slick slide of his tongue. Saliva mixed together, leaving you both completely breathless, your lips and limbs tangled.

You rolled your hips back, grinding yourself deeper against Bucky’s pelvis.

His cock twitched inside his jeans, poking hard against you. You didn’t know how—but he felt even bigger and harder than he had before.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he panted against your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t—I need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”

His hands scrambled down to your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of your pants. He popped it open with a rough tug—threatening to break the button itself—as his knuckles brushed against your hot skin.

Bucky groaned at the sight.

The lace of your panties was poking through the opening, damp with sweat and your scent. He inhaled deeply, and you wondered just how much his heightened senses were actually taking you in.

When he let out a satisfied sigh, you knew he could smell everything.

“Look at you,” he praised, his eyes tracing the curves of your body. “You’re so beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you.”

You chuckled—a sound that came out raspy and sultry without your intention, making Bucky’s cock twitch beneath you.

“Quite a bold statement for someone who’s never had sex before,” you teased, your hands trailing slowly down his chest.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He accepted your challenge, gripping the waistband of your unzipped pants and yanking them down your thighs.

The moment your bare skin was exposed to the cool air, Bucky wasted no time traveling his eyes down the expanse of your legs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from drooling like a madman, his gaze raked over the inner and outer curves of your thighs. His mouth went dry at the sight of the little wet spot that had collected near your clit.

His large hands slid up your thighs and behind you, squeezing your ass firmly in his rough palms.

“So fucking beautiful,” he growled, his thumb swiping over your clit, smearing your own juice all over the lace.

“Fuck—you’ve been dripping all this time. You need this just as bad as I do, and you’ve been holding back?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not too late. We don’t have to—oh!”

You cried out once his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties. His fingers dipped between your folds, collecting your arousal with embarrassing wet noises as he tried to rub at your clit.

“No, Bucky… it’s right here—” You grabbed his forearm, guiding him to the right spot, and arched your back with a sharp cry when he started rubbing deep circles against the sensitive bud.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

This was the pleasure you were looking for—but it wasn’t nearly enough.

There was an empty ache deep inside you that was begging to be filled. But you weren’t going to demand that of him just yet, in case he changed his mind.

A lazy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he watched you come undone from his fingers.

“Yeah?” he huffed out a breath. “That feel good, baby?”

“Yes—don’t stop, please,” you cried helplessly.

His other hand lifted your tank top up and over your head, quickly unhooking your bra to fully reveal your tits. With a low grunt, he leaned forward, capturing one of your perky nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth.

You moaned loudly, your hand flying to the back of his head and giving his hair a hard, desperate tug. He liked that a lot, moaning against your skin in pleasure.

Bucky’s tongue swirled around your nipple, licking and sucking until you were arching off his lap at his mercy.

He was making a beautiful mess of you, switching between both buds and letting his mouth worship your body. His rough stubble tickled your chest while his fingers continued their clumsy work down below, sliding through your slick folds and rubbing messy circles right against your clit.

The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers moving against your soaking flesh filled the greenhouse—the filth of it only making you wetter and causing the toxin to course even harder.

He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your chest, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin, and finally looked up at you.

His lips and chin were slick and shining from giving your breasts such sloppy, adoring kisses.

“I need to be inside you,” he pleaded. “Please… I need to put it in. I need to stuff you so full of me, baby. Please, let me fuck you.”

Your eyes searched Bucky’s.

He looked like an even bigger mess than before. He looked and sounded utterly helpless, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face tight with an expression that made it look like he was physically hurting.

Even though he had just come in his pants moments ago, he needed so much more.

You knew that once you gave in to him completely, there would be no holding back for either of you. He would have to live with the fact that you would be his first.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky slowly slipped his hand out of your panties, bringing his fingers up to his lips and licking the juices clean. “You’re scared, but I’m not. I know what I want, and what I want right now is you.”

Bucky gripped your waist, raising you off his lap and pinning you flat against the ground.

He slipped his large body directly between your legs, his strong thighs forcing yours wide open as he covered your frame with his.

Your hair was messy across the dirt floor, framing your face as you laid beneath him breathless. The toxin was taking over control of your body—every single nerve demanding to be touched by the man between your legs.

You felt like you were in heat, consumed by a fever that only Bucky could cure.

His eyes fell over your body, tracing your tits and stomach, his gaze locking onto the way your panties—already a soaked mess—looked like they were begging to be torn away by his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands making quick work of your underwear.

With a harsh tug and a sharp tearing sound, the fabric gave away.

“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do to you.”

Your panties didn’t even make it past your knees before tearing clean off your thighs. You winced slightly.

It was dizzying to think about how you had found the strength to fight Bucky earlier, only to now be reduced to a breathless, aching mess over a piece of torn fabric.

Bucky leaned back on his heels, unbuckling his belt and shoving open his unzipped, stained denim jeans.

The moment he pulled his cock free, it sprang forward then back—the tip slapping against his abdomen.

He was thick, his cock fully engorged and begging to be wrapped in something tight and warm. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, trailing down his shaft and mixing with the creamy white essence from his earlier release.

His eyes were glued to your soaking center, legs spread wide and inviting. His jaw slacked as he lazily pumped himself at the shaft, prepping his cock for your warm embrace.

He claimed he was a virgin, but the way he was looking at you with such a hungry look in his eyes made you think otherwise.

“Bucky,” you breathed, heart racing. “Are you sure you want to do this? With… me?”

Bucky leaned over your body, using his metal elbow to prop himself up while he slapped the tip of his cock against your entrance.

You weren’t sure where he learned that from, but the dirty act left you clenching around nothing.

“The more you ask, the harder it is for me to stay in control,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m just gonna have to stuff you full of my cock just to prove how much I want you.”

You craned your neck, watching Bucky rub his tip up and down your folds—smearing his pre-cum while coating his shaft in your own slick juice.

When he positioned himself right at your opening and poked gently, testing your stretch, your folds immediately parted for him. You were so wet and pliable from the toxin that you were sure he would slip right in without a fight, despite how big he was.

“Just… just enough to get rid of the side effects, okay?” you muttered, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.

Bucky either didn’t hear you, or maybe he did and he just chose to ignore it.

With a clench of his jaw, he slowly pushed his hips forward, his eyes glued to the spot where your cunt wrapped around the head of his cock.

The sensation was delicious. Your body was burning hot, tight, and dangerously wet. He had only sunk the tip in, but it was already the greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back as a deep groan tore in his chest.

“Ohhh…”

Despite the toxin making your body more accommodating, you were still tighter than either of you expected.

You were being stretched completely and fully as Bucky kept going, relentlessly sinking his cock all the way inside until his dark, hairy base pressed flush against your folds. He was so big, and a part of you was grateful that he had already come once before this—because right now, his entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable need.

“So goddamn tight,” he cursed, his face twisting that looked almost like pain. “I never… fuck, I never expected pussy to feel this good… Christ.”

He stilled inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. But in reality, he was the one who needed time to adjust to your tightness.

You paced your breathing. Being stretched full by him made you want to scream at him to hurry up and move, to fuck you right into the dirt floor of the greenhouse—but you couldn’t make that kind of demand of a virgin.

Since it was his first time, despite the unfortunate circumstances, you were going to guide him gently.

“Hold me here,” you murmured, taking his hands and guiding them back to your thighs. “Feel me. It’s soft, isn’t it?”

Bucky breathed hard, nodding as he held you.

“When you’re ready, just move your hips nice and slow. Take your time.”

His face fell into a tight scowl, as if displeased with that order.

Every single one of his base instincts was screaming at him to fuck you hard and fast—to claim every surface of your pussy with his cock.

“F—fine,” he reluctantly agreed, his voice strained. He gripped your thighs tightly, spreading you open as he began rocking his hips back and forth.

His eyes were glossy with desire, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your body.

A thick, creamy white ring was forming around the base of his shaft, staining the unruly dark curls that sat at his pelvis.

Every time he pulled out, he made sure to sink back in even deeper, rolling his hips forward until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.

Your eyes rolled back, your hands clutching his broad shoulders as he buried himself inside you.

“Fuck… just like that,” you moaned. “Keep going.”

“Does… does that feel good?” He swallowed hard, fingers digging deeper into your thigh.

You nodded fast. “So good—I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Your breathless plea made him scowl , a frustrated snarl leaving his lips.

“This is torture.” He groaned.

You furrowed your brows, looking at his angry expression in concern. Torture? That wasn’t what sex was supposed to feel like. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.

“Bucky,” you said, pressing your hand against his sweating chest. “If this is hurting you, we need to stop right now. Pull out of me—”

You gasped as his metal hand circled tight around your wrist, prying it away from his chest and pinning it over your head. He slammed you back to the floor, his large body shadowing yours as his face hovered.

His dark eyes bored deeply into yours—and you felt like if you so much as looked away, he might take it as a threat.

“No, I can’t—I can’t do slow,” he growled. “The drug in my veins, it’s like it's yelling at me to take what I want. And what I want is to fuck you until you cry.”

Your breath left your lungs as Bucky slammed his hips forward, burying himself inside you.

He pulled out halfway before fucking right back in, a broken gasp leaving your lips as you arched your back against the floor from the pleasure. You hadn’t expected him to fuck you this hard—being a virgin and all—but you couldn’t complain.

You had been craving to be taken like this since the moment the drug first entered your system.

“Oh my god—!” You cried out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

“Ah—fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky cried out.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath scalding against your skin as he relentlessly pumped his hips in and out of you, using your vulnerable body like his own personal sex toy.

“It feels too good, fuck, baby. Everything feels too good—I can’t stop,” he moaned.

Your moans blended together into a dirty symphony.

The toxin was amplifying every single touch, his thick shaft stretching you out completely—turning your usually strong and poised body into mush with every thrust.

Your wet walls clenched down on him every time he threatened to pull out, as if sucking him right back in. Bucky was entirely lost, his mind short circuiting from the pleasure.

Every time he buried himself deep, your swollen pussy tightened around him like your body was trying to milk him dry. You whimpered with every single thrust he gave you, your teary eyes meeting his in a lustful haze as you wrapped your legs tight around his hips for support.

“Fuck—my god, don’t do that—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re squeezing me so tight. God—if this is what sex feels like, I never want to stop.”

He tilted his head down, his sweaty strands of hair tickling your hot face as he stared back down at the exact point where his hips got lost with yours.

Every stroke of his cock inside your tight body came with a hot wave of pleasure, amplified by the toxin coursing through your blood.

The sensation was addicting.

Bucky had never felt a pleasure like this before. He’d jerked off a few times in his apartment just to quickly relieve some stress, but that was always by himself.

He was a curious boy back in the forties, but he had never been close to getting any action like this.

To him, this was like a dream come true.

But he needed to go deeper. These regular, sloppy thrusts weren’t enough. He needed to feel more.

With a snarl, he leaned back to grip the backs of your thighs and shoved your knees up towards your chest, folding you into a tight mating press.

Before you could adjust to the new position, he pressed his hips against yours to lock you in place and sank down even deeper than he had before.

Your eyes flew wide, nearly bulging from their sockets as a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. His cock was stretching you at an impossible angle, burying himself so deep you could’ve sworn you saw stars.

Because you were already so sensitive from the toxin, having him bottom out so hard against your cervix made your core shudder uncontrollably, causing your legs to shake. Your head fell back against the floor, your toes curling in the air as your vision went hazy.

“Oh my god!” you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “It’s too much—I can’t… you’re gonna make me cum!”

You felt your walls start to hyperventilate around his length. You knew he felt it, too, because he immediately doubled his pace.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Fuck—I’m so sorry. It just feels too good—fuck, I—”

His voice broke into a pained moan the moment your pussy tightened. You came hard around him without warning, your neck arching as a loud moan strained your vocal cords.

Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face twisting in a grimace from how your climax was squeezing him.

The feeling was exquisite, and fuck, he wasn’t going to last another second when he was buried this deep inside of you.

He knew your body was sensitive and overworked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His balls had never felt this full, this heavy. He was close, so fucking close, and the more your pussy fluttered around his shaft, the more desperate he became to chase that same release.

“Shit. M’gonna cum,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he hilted himself deep inside.

His cock twitched—he had never came inside a girl before, but he was determined to do so now.

He was going to make sure he filled you, to stuff your tight hole to the brim with his backed up super soldier seed.

“Gonna cum inside,” he warned, his metal hand sliding beneath your lower back and lifting your hips up to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t control myself.”

You couldn’t muster a single coherent word. Only muffles and teary whimpers escaped you, but it didn’t matter what you said while Bucky was in this state. He had no intention of stopping.

His blue eyes were crazed, rolled back so far in his sockets you could see the white. He grit his teeth, meeting your hips with sloppy and wet thrusts. A litany of curses mumbled in broken strings under his breath, until finally…

“Oh my god—I’m cumming. Take it, baby. Take every single drop of me. Don’t let it go to waste. Please, I need this. I need this so fucking bad—”

With a firm grip on your thigh, he pinned you down and pushed his hips against yours.

His tip kissed your cervix, pulsing twice before his body gave way to your tightness. You were being filled by the thick, heavy pumping of his seed. You could feel his cock twitching relentlessly against your walls, determined to flood every inch of your pussy.

He buried his face in your neck, his chest heaving violently as he stuffed you so completely full that your lower belly felt heavy.

“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded brokenly.

Bucky trembled from head to toe, and despite his mumbled apologies, he kept your hips pinned securely so that not a single drop of his release could escape. He was spent, breathing in shaky and ragged gasps against your skin. He didn’t want to pull out yet, still savoring the feeling of your pulsing walls squeezing the very last drops from.

The two of you lay on the floor, tangled and sweaty in each other’s limbs. Once you finally caught your breath, your hands gently caressed his broad back, a comforting gesture that caught even you off guard.

“How… how are you feeling?” you finally mumbled.

Your body tensed as you braced yourself for an answer.

Now that the side effects of the toxin seemed to be wearing off, dread started trickling in.

You were terrified that everything you had just done with Bucky would be something he’d immediately regret. A part of you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care—that he had despised you before this, and he would simply go back to hating you again.

But after being his first, there was an undeniable connection in the way you felt beneath him.

If he was already starting to feel regret... well, you weren’t sure how you would handle it. Guilt? Probably. The longer he stayed silent, the more the worry gnawed at you.

He eventually huffed a breath, but he didn’t pull away.

“If you’re wondering if I’m going to regret this,” Bucky began, his voice so raspy and tired that it sent a shiver down your spine. “The answer is no.”

You sucked in a breath, expecting a but to follow.

Bucky attempted to lift himself up slightly so he wasn’t crushing you, but he was still so sensitive that the movement made him wince sharply. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out yet, so he collapsed right back against you with a soft huff.

“I wish I could just stay like this,” he muttered, wrapping both arms around you while resting his head against your sweaty chest.

He looked so small and vulnerable in that moment, and it made your heart ache for him.

“Just holding you,” he whispered, hugging you tighter as his voice grew quieter. “Instead of constantly running, fearing for my life, or being taken away. I just want to stay like this. Holding a pretty girl.”

The tension was starting to become too much for you to handle. Your face burned, unsure of how to process the sudden compliment. Trying to break the tension, you huffed a soft laugh and continued to rub your hand up and down his broad back. He seemed to like your touch very much.

“I’m sorry you lost your virginity this way.” you tried to joke.

Bucky chuckled against your chest. “The man I was in the forties probably would’ve done a much better job.”

“Well, this wasn’t bad at all—I’ll tell you that much.”

The two of you lay there, chuckling softly in each other’s arms, until the loud, sudden static of your earpiece made you both jolt.

“Do you copy? Report in.”

You both froze, your hearts beating rapidly for an entirely different reason now.

Bucky cleared his throat as he reluctantly tried lifting himself up. The friction of his slick and semi-hard cock sliding out of you made you let out an involuntary whimper.

“Status update,” Steve pressed, his tone anxious. “Are you two safe, or are you compromised?”

Compromised, sure. But definitely not in the way Steve meant.

Suppressing a giggle, you tapped your earpiece with a bright smile, catching Bucky's eye.

“Glad to hear your comms didn’t break, Steve.”

A relieved sigh came from the other end. “Give me a status report. How are you two? How’s Bucky?”

You watched as Bucky began to pull his clothes back on, his face an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to compose himself. You chuckled softly.

“We’re fine.”

halfway through proofreading this i lowk realized this was slop. i thought i had a good idea and then lost the plot. if you actually liked this please consider leaving a like and hit that subscribe button *epic outro music*

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

You were completely mesmerized by the video playing on the screen. The image of a large and strong muscular figure rutted his hips up into the silicone, slick with his precum and lube—the poor toy looking like it was on the verge of tearing apart in his large hands. 

After stumbling across the account Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917, you were immediately hooked. 

He never showed his face, but you didn’t need to know what he looked like to be entranced. His grunts and moans were engraved in your mind like a song you knew by heart. You were enthralled by the sight of his broad, sweat-slicked back, every movement etched into your memory. The sheer length and size of him held you captive, hypnotized. You had memorized the rhythm of his patterns right before he came, you knew it like the back of your hand. 

His moans would rise slightly higher in pitch. His breathing would get heavier. He’d curse and grunt out, “fuck, fuck.” or “shit, fuck.” 

And then it happens. 

With one final thrust, he filled his toys to the brim with his cum, always thick and a creamy pearlescent white. 

You had one hand tucked in your panties, rubbing at your clit as you came just in time with him. You tossed your head back against the pillow, panting and sweating from the aftermath of your self-lovemaking. 

You withdrew your hand, catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded. Moving lazily, you wiped your fingers clean before reaching for your phone. Just as always, you began typing out a comment—first in line the moment his new video drops. 

Pleasure_Ring: Great video as always! It made me feel really really good! I can’t wait to see the next!! 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Thanks, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That one was for you.

A minute passed by and another notification popped up on the bottom right of your screen, but this time, it was a direct message.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I just read your comment. You’re always so supportive. I wish you were here. I’d be fucking you instead of this flimsy toy. 

Your face flushed after reading his message. He was always so quick to respond, and although he was pretty responsive to other commenters too, you couldn’t help but feel like his replies to you were always a bit more personal than the rest. 

Pleasure_Ring: I really wish I was there too! But I admit, I’m a little scared just thinking about it haha. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Scared? How come? 

Pleasure_Ring: I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex before. 

Most people would find it pathetic to be flirting through a porn site. Even more would say it’s worse to be tangled in a para-social attachment to one of the biggest stars online.

And sure, maybe they're right. You were hooked on the mysterious man with the ridiculous username. But this was your ritual, your private indulgence, the part of yourself you never let anyone else see. Besides, you knew it would never be more than flirtatious comments flashing across a screen. 

Men like him always had plenty of women waiting in their inbox.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: A virgin, huh? That’s cute. What’s a sweet little thing like you doing watching videos like mine?

Pleasure_Ring: Because yours are the only ones that actually satisfy me. Any woman would be lucky to spend even one night with you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart… I don’t think you could handle a night with me.

Your heart thumps faster in your chest at his response. As much as you wished you could stay up and keep chatting, reality always kicked in. You had responsibilities, so conversations with him were usually cut off after midnight. 

Pleasure_Ring: I don’t think I could either… but I’d still like to try for you.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s getting late, and I’ve got a shift in a few hours. Have a great night, Bucky. And thank you for another wonderful video. <3

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: So soon, doll? I was just starting to enjoy our little chat.

You stared at the screen, tempted to type something back to keep the conversation going. Glancing at the clock, you let out a reluctant sigh. 

You logged off before you could second-guess yourself, because you knew that if you responded, you’d be up for hours. 

And when Bucky refreshed the page, impatiently waiting for a response, your username was already gray and your status was offline. 

Bucky laid back in his chair, finishing the last line of the description before hitting upload. He has never been great with captions—or usernames, for that matter… but lately, his descriptions weren’t just filler text to satisfy his fans. They were subtle messages, written only for you.

Need my pleasure ring to come help me out instead. Getting tired of using my hands and toys. Enjoy.

Once everything looked right, he clicked post. Same ritual, same time. Every three days.

The moment his upload went live, he sat up straight in his chair. The glow of the monitor lit his dark room, his eyes glued to the screen. Eleven minutes—that’s how long the video ran. By his calculations, you should already be online and commenting in twelve. 

Two minutes in, he refreshed. Another two more minutes, he refreshed again. Over and over, because he knew. He knew you’d be the first one there in his comment section without fail. 

You always were.

At this point, it’s been well past eleven minutes with zero notifications. In Bucky’s eyes, this was more than enough time for you to receive the notification, watch the video, and send a comment or a message like you usually do. 

So why the hell weren’t you doing it? 

He dedicated this video to you, goddammit. Actually—he dedicated all of his videos to you. But this one especially was planned, recorded, performed with you in mind. And yet, your account still showed offline.

He pumped himself for the first half of the video—his face nuzzled into the softness of his pillow. His groans and grunts were muffled as he fisted himself, his leaking tip grazing against the smooth fabric of his bed sheet, leaving a wet stain every time he grounded and bucked his hips. 

Then about halfway through, he reached for the clear silicone toy. He positioned the camera against the headboard, sitting up straight as he started fucking himself with the toy—the clear silicone squelching and spreading wider as he rutted into it like an animal. 

“Fuck, yes baby,” he groaned in the video. “S’fucking good, taking all this cock in your tight little virgin pussy.” He said. 

And God was that line especially meant for you. 

It was a damn good video—he was so fucking proud of himself. Which only made it harder for Bucky to understand why your account still showed offline.

With an annoyed sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm, and refreshed one more time for good measure. When nothing changed, he clicked on your profile and began to lurk.

For all the attention you gave him, your account was practically a ghost. No videos. No profile picture. No caption. No name. You were only following one account—his. And you had one follower, too… also him.

Bucky never followed anyone else. 

He scrolled down a bit, and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen. 

Your account was linked to your social media profiles—your Instagram and TikTok.

In order to create an account, you had to attach a phone number or email address. During sign-up, there was also the option to link your social media—tied to that same phone number or email—a small popup buried among the usual flood of terms, agreements, and permission requests that appeared in sequence.

So either you let it slip past you, your finger tapping carelessly just to get it out of the way.

Or… you wanted him to find you.

The cursor hovered over the link. Bucky sucked in a breath, clicking on your Instagram. When the screen finally loaded, his eyes immediately widened and his heart skipped a beat. Your profile was public. Your name was right at the top, and there you were in your profile picture—smiling, front and center.

Aside from his secret porn account, Bucky didn’t do social media. He couldn’t be bothered figuring out how it works, but he knew enough to recognize that Instagram was all about pictures and videos. And that was exactly what he needed.

Finally, he could see you.

His number one fan. His pleasure ring. 

He scrolled down, coming across a mix of photos. Selfies, your eyes bright and innocent with a sheepish smile. Food. Didn’t care. Landmarks. Didn't care. Pictures of family and friends—he only looked for you. 

There were beach shots, carefree and playful, your body posted in a skimpy bikini glowing in the sunlight. 

His breath caught in his throat. His pants grew tighter. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust the growing pressure between his legs. He leaned closer as he looked through every picture, careful not to accidentally leave a like in his wake. 

“Damn, baby,” he muttered, staring at your pictures, unable to tear his eyes away. 

He scrolled down, saving every single image that displayed your face and your body—each one feeling like a treasure.

All the pictures of you were seemingly innocent. Even in your bikini shots, you weren’t trying to show off. You didn’t jut your hips out or pose provocatively. Your pictures weren’t screaming for attention. 

It was cute. 

But it just made him want more. Need more. He would’ve loved to see you bend over just a little bit. Maybe even press your arms together to accentuate your cleavage.

God. He would’ve loved to see that. 

His dick throbbed in his pants as he scrolled further down your Instagram. More selfies of you just meant more photos in his special folder. With one hand rubbing himself steadily and the other on the mouse, he hovered over your TikTok link next. 

Once your page loaded, he felt his heart drop in his stomach. 

There were only two videos, both of them being with your friends. It was some stupid trend you were doing—Bucky never understood the whole appeal of trends—but you were dancing to them, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest as he watched, captivated. 

Your dancing was… pretty bad to say the least. Actually, it was awful. 

But Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away because he got a full view of your body. Every movement of your body, even the clumsy dance steps, had him entranced. The rhythm was completely off, but it didn’t matter. It was the way you moved, the curve of your body in each frame. 

His cock was completely hard, poking and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. He was palming himself for so long, his warm hand rubbing up and down against his throbbing clothed shaft—he didn’t even realize the precum leaking through his pants until his fingers grazed against it. 

“Shit,” he grunted. 

There was something about watching you—his once mysterious, loyal viewer and commenter—right here, in his monitor. Dancing. Your body on display, completely unaware, yet captivating in every move.

He grabbed the hem of his sweatpants and brought it down to his thighs, freeing his cock from the suffocating fabric. His hand encircled around his shaft, his grip tightening just slightly as he began pumping himself. He dragged his thumb over the wetness of his tip, smearing it over the head. 

Bucky let out a low groan, his breathing growing heavy as he fucked his hand to the sight of you. With the other hand, he kept switching through your photos, moving faster as his cock throbbed helplessly in his grip. 

He grunted and groaned, staring at his monitor with half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself. He stopped at another picture of you, a top down selfie with a low cut blouse. Your eyes—wide and innocent, batting up at the camera, the curve of your breast straining against the shirt. 

A low moan rumbled from his chest at the sight. His hands moved faster and eagerly against his cock, precum leaking down from the tip to his shaft as he pumped and worked his throbbing dick. 

“Fuck, baby. I want to cum all over that pretty face,” he breathed. “Gonna paint your face and tits with my seed—shit.” 

Everything was overwhelming his senses right now. Your pure and clueless eyes, the way your lips—soft and plump—curved up into a smile. 

Everything about you screamed ‘innocent.’ 

And the best part of it all, was that you were a fucking virgin. A helpless, clueless, little virgin. Perfectly ripe for the picking.

His cock throbbed hot and heavy in his hand, each pulse bringing him closer. He could hardly believe it—your social media, left wide open, public and linked straight to your account. Like an invitation. 

Like you wanted him to see.

His fist worked faster, the slick sounds of his own hand echoing in the dark room. He was right there, teetering at the edge, when another one of your videos caught his eye. A casual clip, nothing special—just you laughing with your friends, the camera panning across a storefront in the background.

His heart lurched in his chest. He knew that place.

He blinked hard, his other hand flying to the mouse as he replayed the clip, pausing on the sign. His pulse roared in his ears. That store was only a few streets away. Which meant…

You were here. In his town.

“Fuck—” 

The word ripped out of him as his body jerked. His cock erupted in his fist, hot streams spilling over his knuckles and thigh as he shook, riding the wave of release harder than he had in years. Harder than he had in any of his videos. The excitement, the discovery, the sudden nearness of you—it all came crashing into him, tearing his orgasm from the very pit of his stomach.

He slumped back against his chair, chest heaving, eyes still glued to the frozen frame of your smiling face. 

You weren’t just his number one fan anymore. Fuck, you were real. You were so close, and now, he knew exactly where to find you. 

He was still catching his breath when he switched tabs, his cock softening in his hand as he scrolled deeper through your pictures. Every shot held him captive. Was this how you felt when you watched his videos—entranced, unable to look away?

A few minutes had gone by when he heard a ping! sound from his other tab. He switched over, and there you were. Your account, blank as ever, no profile picture, no name, but now a message glowing at the bottom of the screen.

Pleasure_Ring: Loved your new video! It was amazing as always. I can’t believe your toy isn’t broken yet!

He felt his heart stutter in his chest. A needy grin curled at the corner of his lips. You were late to his video, but that’s okay. He had your videos and pictures to keep him at bay for now. His fingers darted across the keyboard, replying almost too quickly. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Glad you liked it, doll. Took you longer than usual to show up tonight.

His fingers hovered over the keys, debating if he wanted to send this next message or not.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Had me wondering if you forgot about me. 

You took longer than usual to respond, and even though he was coming down from his post-release haze, his heart was still pounding anxiously in his chest.

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I know! I’m sorry. I got distracted cooking dinner. 

Pleasure_Ring: But I could never forget about you, Bucky. 

His grip on the mouse tightened, and he felt his cock twitching again. God, he loved when you said—typed—his name. But the longer he stared at your words, the more restless he felt. He needed more. 

He needed you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Dinner, huh? You had me worried there for a second. You’re usually the first one here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you forgetting me.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You know… I don’t even know your name. What should I call you, sweetheart?

He already knew it, of course. 

He could say it out loud, taste it on his tongue right now if he wanted. But he wanted you to give it to him. To hand it over willingly. 

He saw you typing, then stopping. Typing again, then stopping. The little dots taunted him, making his jaw clench. He hated this. He hated playing the waiting game—especially now that he knew you were just a few minutes away, living in the same town as him.

Pleasure_Ring: Do I really need to tell you my name? I kinda like being your little secret. <3

Pleasure_Ring: Besides… I think you like calling me doll, don’t you?

Bucky’s brow twitched in mild frustration, his cock throbbing in his lap again as his eyes traced your text over and over. You were a teasing little minx—taunting him, torturing him. He knew you were obsessed with him just as much as he was with you, so why the hell were you playing so damn hard to get?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. Don’t be like that. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You touch yourself to my videos every night, and yet you can’t even share your name? Don’t make me beg for it. 

He dragged in a sharp breath as he waited for your reply, his hand lazily stroking his half-hard cock while he leaned back in his chair, tension swimming through every vein.

Pleasure_Ring: You’re so silly, Bucky. 

Pleasure_Ring: Why ruin the mystery? I kind of like it this way… just you and me, no names needed. <3 

His cock was rock-hard again, straining for a second round. He wrapped his fist around it as he split his screen in two—one tab open to a photo of you smiling sweetly, the other to your chat box on the site. His strokes were slow, shudders slipping past his lips as he teased the sensitive flesh. Every pulse in his palm matched the flick of his gaze between your face and your words.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You won’t give me your name, but I bet you’d spread your legs wide and let me fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.

He was playing a dangerous game with that message. It was too direct, maybe even a little mean. He might even risk scaring you away. 

But with your picture staring back at him, soft and innocent, how the hell was he supposed to hold back? 

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I would do anything you’d want me to if you were here. 

His heart stopped. His cock throbbed violently as the words sank in, repeating it in his mind like a prayer. A sweet little virgin like you, so naive, so unknowing, willing to let a man like him do anything to you?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have said that. 

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He stroked himself faster, pressure coiling hot at the base as he pumped his length with desperate need. Groans tore from his chest, hips jerking up into his fist as pleasure overtook him.

In his mind, it wasn’t just his hand—it was you. You on his bed, camera capturing every angle as you wrapped those innocent lips around his cock. You moaning, trembling, surrendering that precious virginity to a filthy porn star like him.

Pleasure_Ring: Maybe. But I really would do anything you’d ask me to.

And fuck, you lived in the same town as him. You actually lived in the same town as him. 

It would be so easy to find you. To claim you. To stuff your tight, untouched little holes full of him until you were stretched and dripping, used just like one of his toys.

The thought alone was enough to make him come a second time. With his head tilted back, a low growl-like moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered wildly as his release tore through him in sharp waves of pleasure, hot seed spilling over his fist until his hand was a sticky, soiled mess.

He slumped back in his chair, breath ragged as he wiped himself clean with hurried, clumsy hands. His fingertips grazed the keyboard, already halfway through typing his next message. 

He couldn’t let the moment die, he didn’t want to lose you just yet. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

But then your text bubble popped up first.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s late, so I’ll be going to sleep now. I’m sorry our conversation got cut short. But thank you again for your video! I’m already looking forward to the next one! <3 Nighty night, Bucky!

And just like that, your status flickered gray. Offline. Gone.

His hand froze over the keys.

What? 

That’s it? 

You showed up online extremely late, give him a few teasing words that leave him aching, and just… log off? 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. You can’t leave like that. Aren’t you having fun? 

He knew you were offline, yet he sent the message anyway—clinging to the hope that maybe your status would flicker green and you’d answer him right away, being his number one fan and all. 

A minute passed. Then another. And another.

He sat there, staring at the empty chat box, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. When it finally sank in that you weren’t coming back, he closed the porn tab with a long and disappointing sigh. Dozens of comments waited for him on his latest video, begging for his attention—but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered.

All he wanted was you. 

Your picture still glowed on his other monitor, your smile taunting him. He pulled his pants back on, leaning forward as his mind spun. You were so close—he could feel it. And with your account still open, still public, still inviting, he knew he wouldn’t stop.

He would find you.

And once he did, you would be his.

It had been three days since you last commented on his videos. Three days without your little messages, without your sweet words that fueled him through the long and lonely nights. 

Bucky was restless. 

He kept checking your account, refreshing the page, waiting for that familiar username that was dedicated to him to pop up in his notifications list again. But instead, you were busy elsewhere. 

Your Instagram was suddenly so active. Story after story, pictures of food, photos of crowded streets, little story clips of you laughing with friends. They were all innocent things, but to him, they were breadcrumbs. 

He looked closely at the background in your stories, taking screenshots and zooming in on shop signs and store logos. Most of these were ones he recognized. He compared timestamps, piecing together your routine slowly.

Each update you shared felt like you were inviting him in, pulling him closer without even realizing. 

And no—he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. Sure, he scrolled through all your socials, jerked off to your pictures, learned your full name, the area you lived in, who you spent time with. 

But that wasn’t stalking.

That was devotion. 

He was your number one fan. Just like you were his.

Your cart wobbled against the tiled floor as you turned into the produce aisle. Today was your weekly grocery restock. The store was busy, noisy, and packed with people trying to weave in and out of each other’s way. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and snapped a quick picture of the cotton candy grapes piled high in their cartons. 

They were your favorite, and this was the only grocery store near your area that carried them. 

Try these! They taste just like cotton candy! 

You added the caption and posted it to your story, sliding your phone back into your bag before moving on. A few minutes later, as you rounded the corner towards checkout, someone brushed past your shoulder.

You glanced up, and a man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low, achingly familiar. “Didn’t see you there.” 

You smiled politely, brushing it off. “No worries.” 

You went back to your cart, but for some reason, your gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. There was something… familiar about the way he carried himself, about the way his words came out and how he looked.

You shook the thought off and pushed the cart forward, but you didn’t get very far when he stepped behind you, resting a gentle yet heavy hand on your shoulder. 

You glanced over and paused. The same man was staring at you, his eyes locked on yours with a look like that feels unsettling. You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. 

“Uh… can I help you?”

His jaw tightened, his grip on your shoulder pressing just a little harder.

“...Pleasure ring?” 

Those words rang back in your ears like a loud bell. Your eyes went wide and you felt like your heart dropped in your stomach. Your gaze darted quickly around the aisle, checking to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. 

“I—I’m sorry? What did you just say?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” 

The longer you stare at this man, the realization hits you all at once. The thickness of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders. The sheer size of him, impossible to mistake. You’ve seen this frame before—night after night, on a glowing screen.

You leaned in slightly, whisper-yelling, “You’re Lord of The Rings nineteen-seventeen? You’re Bucky?” 

The ridiculous username felt even more absurd now that it left your lips.

He didn’t even look around or even seemed to care about his alter ego being mentioned outloud. All he cared about right now was having you, right in front of him. 

“...You haven’t been watching my videos,” Bucky said instead. His thumb brushed once across your shoulder, subtle but possessive. “Are you okay?”

The words should have sounded caring, but instead they struck you like an accusation. Your pulse quickened, panic rising up your throat. 

He was watching you that closely? 

He noticed? 

How did he even find you here? 

“I—uh—yeah, I’ve just been… busy,” you muttered. 

You knew you should step back and pull away from his touch. This man was stalking you. Yet, your body betrayed you. The deep rasp of his voice sent a warm sensation trickling down your spine, curling in the pit of your stomach. 

Creeped out or not, your body remembered him. It remembered his moans, his growls, the way he spoke dirty to the camera like he was speaking only to you. 

“I’ve missed you in my comments,” he continued, his hand moving from your shoulder to the ends of your hair, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ve missed our cute little chats… haven’t you?” 

You sucked in a breath. 

The loud chatter of customers and grocery carts dimmed into the background noise. You should pull away, God you should pull away—but your body swayed just slightly towards him instead. 

“Y-yeah,” your voice was soft and shaky. “I… I do too.” 

The moment the words left your mouth, your stomach curled with dread. Yet, your body didn’t match your fear. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You hated the way a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside you when he stepped closer. 

Bucky’s mouth curled into a faint smirk, like he knows your own body is betraying you. He gave your strand of hair a gentle, teasing tug before letting it fall. 

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes tracing every curve on your face, studying you, taking you in. 

You pressed your lips together, you stared back at him, captivated. He never showed his face in his videos—only his body, hands, and voice. You had always wondered what the man behind the camera looked like, and now here he was, inches away. He was unbelievably handsome. His gaze was intense. His voice was magnetic. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried.

“Are you nervous?” 

You blinked at him. “What?” 

A small chuckle escaped his lips, his hand lifted up to your cheek, cupping it softly and making your skin tingle. 

“You teased me in your texts,” he reminded you, his voice deep. “Told me you’d let me do anything to you if I was with you.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly, almost soothing. 

“How true does that still ring?” 

Your eyes darted nervously around the aisle. A few people passed by with carts, sparing you both brief, casual glances. To them, it probably looked like nothing more than a man grocery shopping with his girlfriend, caressing her cheek tenderly.

But you knew better.

“I…” your lip trembled nervously. “I-It’s still true…” 

His mouth curved into a slow, smug smile, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you—how easily your knees wanted to give beneath you. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “My number one fan.”

You felt your stomach tighten. Every inch of your skin felt hot under his gaze. This was dangerous—you knew it. You were untouched, inexperienced, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice reached your ears, only made the ache between your legs grow heavier.

“How ‘bout we go back to your place,” he leaned in slightly, voice getting lower and dangerous, “and you do your grocery shopping later?” 

Your heart felt like it could burst out of your chest. You glanced down at your cart, the cotton candy grapes you’d been so excited to buy, and then back up at him. The way he held you, the way his eyes burned into yours, the very offer you’ve been secretly dreaming of despite your nerves…

It made the idea of staying here feel like hell. 

“Okay,” you breathed out. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go back to my place.” 

A small, approved hum escaped his lips. He pulled his hand away from your cheek and trailed his hand down to your bare arm, down to your hands—interlocking his fingers with yours. 

“Lead the way, princess.” 

This was wrong. So dangerously, undeniably wrong. But you had spent countless nights dreaming about this man, the pornstar with the ridiculous username, and now he was right here, holding your hand.

He led you out of the store with a smile on his face, already looking proud to have you by his side even though you guys just met. 

“I can’t wait to see your place, princess,” he murmured smoothly, stopping just outside the sliding doors. His gaze dropped down to you, quiet and expectant, waiting for you to take the lead.

“There are so many things I want to do to you.”

By the time you reached your front door, your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest. 

Your hands trembled so badly you could barely fit the key into the lock. Bucky stood behind you, his presence comforting yet demanding as he waited for you to open the door. 

The door finally opened, and you felt an insane wave of embarrassment as soon as he stepped inside. Your apartment wasn’t exactly ready for company. You had shoes littered near the door, laundry draped over the arm of the couch, your desk drowning in clutter.

He looked around and let out a low and amused hum. 

This was a terrible idea, inviting a stranger into your home. You’ve never done this before. But he’s not technically that much of a stranger if you two have been talking online for months now… right? 

“Show me your bedroom, sweetheart,” he said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for disobedience.

When he sensed your hesitation, his chin tilted subtly toward the hallway, like he already knew exactly where your bedroom was. That smug smile never left his lips.

“Go on.” 

You swallowed hard and turned toward the hallway, each step feeling heavy and anxious. You were nervous, extremely nervous. But the excitement of having a man in your home, this man you’d been secretly attracted to for months, sent a shiver of arousal down your spine.

You led him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind you. Pausing at your door, you glanced back over your shoulder. His smile widened, eyes glinting.

“You gettin’ shy, doll?” 

Your cheeks burned, and with a shaky exhale you pushed the door open.

Embarrassment hit instantly. The bed was undone, white sheets tangled in a mess, with clothes scattered lazily across the mattress. He stood in the doorway, his silence madly deafening while you stood there nervously with your hands clasped behind your back, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he stepped forward, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

“I like your room, princess,” he said smoothly. He stepped up to the edge of your bed, his fingers dragging lightly across the wrinkles in your blanket.

“Is there where you watch my videos?” he asked. “Do you touch yourself right here, in this bed?” 

“I—I… do sometimes,” you confessed. You pointed your finger toward the desktop in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I watch… on my laptop.” 

His head turned to follow your finger, a smile tugging at his lips. He strode toward the desk, fingers grazing over the surface.

“Yeah? This is where you chat with me?” his fingertips trailed slowly across the top, pausing over the chair. “You sit here, spread those pretty legs on this chair, and put your fingers in that tiny little pussy of yours?”

You fiddled with your fingers, too flustered to meet his gaze. “Y-yes…”

He came back to you, steps steady and eyes locked on your face. When he reached you, he took one of your hands, gently prying it from the other, holding it in his much larger one. His palm stroked against yours, tender in contrast to his words. Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressing  a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes half-lidded and dark.

“How did you find me?” you asked softly. 

He exhaled, rubbing soft circles against your skin. “You stopped commenting on my videos. You stopped chatting with me. And I know it was only a few days…” his voice went softer, “…but doll, I missed you.”

Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, your face hot and warm. The ache between your thighs pulsed with every word he spoke.

“I missed you so damn much. Couldn’t stop thinking about you…” he continued, pressing another kiss to your hand, then brushing your knuckles along the slight stubble of his jaw. “I couldn’t help it. I started looking through your account.”

You sucked in a breath, looking up at him as he continued.

“Your account was blank. No name. No picture. Nothing.” His voice dropped lower. “But your social media was linked, all public and left wide open.” His smile deepened, almost smug as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours. 

“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you?”

His voice was so raspy and so hungry, it made your whole body shiver. You couldn’t trust your voice, especially not when you were so afraid it would crack and betray how timid, how inexperienced you really were. 

“I-I… didn’t know—”

“Oh, but you did,” he cut you off, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other cupping your cheek. “You wanted me to find you. I bet you hoped I’d click, hoped I’d follow the trail…” 

He spoke so confidently and so sure of himself—but the truth was something else entirely. You didn’t realize that your social media was tied to your account and you didn’t bother to check. You had only made that account to interact with Bucky’s videos only. 

You should have been afraid. The way he tracked you down, the way he admitted to stalking your socials—it should have terrified you.

But it didn’t.

It only made your body burn with excitement, your core clenching with a hunger that only he can satisfy. 

“You teasing little slut,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. “But you’re not a slut, are you? You’re a virgin—isn’t that right?” 

You nodded. “I-I am…” 

“And you’d still do anything for me? Anything at all?”

You paused for a moment. You knew exactly what he meant. He hadn’t followed you home for small talk. 

Your body screamed yes, aching for him, but your mind shook with hesitation. You've seen his videos. You knew how rough he could be. How brutal his thrusts looked, how the silicone toys bent and threatened to snap beneath his strength. The way his grip tightened until his muscles flexed and strained—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating. 

Could you really take him? You weren’t sure. 

But God, you wanted to try.

So you nodded.

An approved and low growl escaped his lips. He leaned closer, pausing right before your lips. 

“There are so many fucking things I want to do to you, princess,” he rasped. “First, I’m going to kiss you—then I’ll teach you how to really please a man. And after that…” his mouth curved into a wicked smile, “I’ll show you how a man properly pleases his woman. You understand?”

“O-okay.” 

His lips pressed against yours. 

It started off soft, patient, exploratory—until his hunger took over. The kiss deepened, his mouth grew reckless, his tongue desperate. His hands roamed greedily, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. He broke away only to tug at your clothes, then immediately slammed his lips back against yours like he couldn’t resist you. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned into your mouth. “You taste exactly like I imagined—maybe even better. Shit.” 

Bucky was getting harder by the second, but truthfully, he’d been aching since the moment he laid eyes on you in the store. But now, with you trembling in his arms, he finally had you. 

He caught your hand in his, guiding it down until your palm pressed against the thick bulge straining against his jeans, you shuddered at the contact. Your fingers started moving without you thinking, rubbing against him in small, and timid strokes.

He let out a low chuckle. “Look at you, baby. You want it so bad, don’t you?” 

Your breath hitched, and you could only nod, meek and shy. 

He moved your hand along his clothed length, forcing you to feel every ridge of him. His lip caught between his teeth as he let out a hiss of pleasure. He was so hard for you—so desperate—that he started to feel himself leaking just from the friction of your trembling palm.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, ripping your hand away from his crotch. 

You blinked up at him, startled and confused.

He reached in the back of his jean pocket, pulling out a small camcorder. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were dark. 

“Baby,” he rasped, voice needy. “I want to record this. I want to see you undress for me… capture every second of it.” His fingers trembled as he flipped the device open, eyes half-lidded, fixated on you like a starving man.

“Bucky…”

“What do you say, baby?” he pressed, taking a slow step forward.

You bit your bottom lip, nerves tying your stomach in knots. You weren’t ready for this—not at all. But the thought of being behind Bucky’s lens, of being admired and captured the same way you had admired him through his videos, made your skin warm with anticipation. 

He grabbed your hand gently. “I won’t upload it,” he promised. “This one’s just for me—to keep, to look back on. Think you can give me that, doll?”

His words were soft yet strained with a lust and desire that he was desperately trying to hold back. The ache between your legs pulsed harder with every word, and deep down, you already knew you couldn’t say no.

“…Okay,” you whispered. “I want to be put on display for you, Bucky. I want to be yours.”

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.”

He nodded toward the bed. “Stay there, at the edge. Watch me.”

You stood frozen, captivated, as he began to strip down. Shirt, jeans, everything—gone in moments, until his bare and large body stretched against your sheets and rested against the headboard. With one hand, he steadied the camcorder, and with the other, he reached for himself slowly.

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered, the red recording light blinking as the camera pointed straight at you. “I want every second of this. Give me a show, baby.”

Heat climbed your chest and neck as you began lifting your shirt, pulling it over your head. You glanced at him—and your knees nearly buckled. He was already stroking himself, precum glistening at the flushed tip, his chest heaving with each desperate pump.

“Good girl.” 

You pushed your pants down, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your bra and panties. Your hands fidgeted nervously at your sides—not knowing what to do with them next.

“D-do you… want me to keep going?”

A dark chuckle slipped from his lips, almost mocking. “Oh, baby. You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” his hand pumped slow and hard, his cock twitching under his touch. “Yes. Keep going. Take it all off, nice and slow for me…”

Your fingers trembled as they hooked around the strap of your bra, sliding it off your shoulders before unclasping it. The straps fell loose, and you let it slip from your hands. The cool air rushed against your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. 

“Panties, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “Get rid of ‘em.”

Slowly, you eased them down your legs, stepping out of them until you stood completely bare before him. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, trying to hide yourself.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a smug grin. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re too pretty to cover up.”

Your arms dropped hesitantly at your sides, and his grin only widened.

“Good girl,” he rasped. He shifted against the headboard, spreading his legs wider, the thick length of his cock pulsing as his fist pumped it. “Now crawl to me, princess.”

“C-crawl..?” 

His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around himself. “That’s right. On your hands and knees. Crawl over here like the sweet little virgin you are.”

Your breath caught, and for a second you thought you wouldn’t be able to move at all. But his hungry stare made your body obey before your mind could catch up. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and lowered yourself onto your hands and knees. 

Slowly, you crawled toward him, the soft sheets brushing against your bare skin, your heart beating fast in your chest. 

Bucky let out a low and approving growl, the camcorder following your every move. 

“That’s it, baby… fuck—” he groaned. “You look so perfect like this. Like you were made to kneel for me.” 

You swallowed hard as you approached him, staring at his cock—thick and hard, flushed at the tip. Your lips parted as you let out a soft gasp—the sheer size of him made your throat go dry. 

“Have you ever had a dick in your mouth, baby?” he asked. 

You can only shake your head no. 

He let go of himself, his free hand sliding into your hair, guiding you closer to his lap. “Open that pretty mouth for me, doll,” he coaxed. “I want to be the first man you taste.” 

How could something that big possibly fit in your mouth? His grip kept you steady, urging you forward. 

“There you go,” he smirked, watching your nervous little breaths. “God, you’re trembling. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll teach you exactly how to do it. All you gotta do is listen to me.”

“Stick out that tongue—yeah, just like that. Such a good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth before pressing down on your lower lip, opening you wider. “Mm, look at you. Never done this before, huh?”

You shook your head, embarrassed, but he only chuckled.

“Of course not. My innocent little fan, saving herself for me,” he guided you closer until the blunt tip of his cock brushed your tongue, smearing precum across it. The taste was strange, salty and thick, and you whimpered softly at the unfamiliar sensation.

His laugh was low and condescending, but not cruel. “That’s it, baby. Don’t pout so cutely like that… only makes it harder for me to hold back.”

He stroked your hair, petting you like you were some pet while his hips gave a subtle roll forward, testing you. 

“Just wrap those lips around me nice and slow. I want to see that sweet virgin mouth stuffed full of cock for the first time.”

Your lips closed timidly around him, sealing over the tip as your tongue flicked against it, tasting more of that salty, musky flavor. Your jaw ached instantly, but the way he groaned, deep and guttural, made you shiver with pride.

“There you go,” he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. “God, look at you. My perfect little virgin, already learning how to please me.”

You tried to sink further, taking more of him in, but the sheer thickness made your throat tighten. You gagged softly, tears threatening to well in your eyes, and pulled back with a desperate little gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your damp cheek. “That was good, baby. So fucking good. Just relax your jaw, take it slow. You’ve got such a tiny mouth—I didn’t expect you to take all of me your first try.”

His hand guided you down again, inch by inch, your lips stretching around him as drool began to slick your chin. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the headboard.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. God, you don’t even know how sweet you look right now, doll. Choking on my cock like you were made for it.”

You felt his cock pulse on your tongue, thick veins throbbing against the roof of your mouth. 

“Fuck—baby—” he growled, his breathing ragged as his cock twitched violently. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum down your throat—”

Suddenly, his hand yanked you back, pulling your mouth off him with a wet pop. You gasped, spit stringing between your lips and his swollen tip, confused and dazed.

“W-what…?”

“Not yet,” he panted, his hand flying to his cock and holding it still, trying to calm himself down. 

His chest heaved, his eyes glazed and hungry as he stared at your flushed, ruined face. “Not wasting my first load on your mouth, princess. I’ve been waiting too long for you.”

“Bucky…” 

He leaned forward, thumb smearing your spit across your swollen lips. “No… I’m gonna be the first man to cum inside this virgin cunt.”

He adjusted the camera in his hands, sitting up straighter. “Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”

His words were so filthy and vulgar—it made your face burn—but still, you obeyed. Lowering yourself onto shaky arms, you crawled forward and eased your chest against the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you raised your ass for him, baring yourself under his gaze.

The arch felt awkward, your back straining from holding the position. But the low, hungry sound that escaped from his chest sent a shiver of pride racing through you. You pushed yourself even higher, desperate to please him.

“Look at you. My shy little virgin, already posing like a whore for me,” the sound of the camcorder’s little beep made your body tense—he was recording this, capturing you in such a vulnerable position.

The mattress dipped as he shuffled closer, his large palm running over the curve of your ass. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets in embarrassment.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand. “You nervous, baby?”

You nodded weakly, voice muffled against the pillow. “Y-Yeah…”

“Mmm, but you’re already being so sweet for me,” he rasped, his thumb gently pressing against your wet, slit folds. “Your pretty little cunt is weeping just for me, sweetheart.” 

You let out a soft gasp, the camcorder beeped again as he adjusted it to get a better view. His grin widened with hunger. 

“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you. Gonna stretch this virgin pussy nice and slow… and make you put on the sweetest show for my camera.”

He teased your pussy, thumb rubbing over your entrance and his finger rubbing against your clit. You were already so wet—embarrassingly so.

“God, baby… you’re dripping,” he groaned, the camcorder beeping softly as he angled it lower. “All this for me?”

You whimpered into the sheets, trembling as he shifted his hand and pressed a finger, testing your tightness before slowly sinking inside. 

You gasped louder, your whole body jolting forward against the mattress even though it was just his finger. “B-Bucky!” 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning close. “Just my finger. Gotta test this tight little pussy before I give you more.”

He moved slowly, letting you adjust to his finger as you writhed against the sheets, your walls already fluttering helplessly around him. He slowly eased another finger inside, drawing out a desperate moan from you. 

“So tight,” he groaned so low, almost like he was talking to himself. “So fucking tight—baby. Can’t wait to put my cock inside you…” 

When he finally slipped his finger free, you sagged against the bed in relief—but then you felt him shifting behind you. The camcorder beeped again, and the feel of his heavy, thick cock pressed against your entrance—hot and throbbing.

You suddenly remembered how his toys would stretch helplessly around his thickness—literally on the verge of tearing. Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure if you could take him fully. 

“B-Bucky…” your stomach started twisting with nerves. “You’re too big… I don’t think I can—” 

“You can, baby,” he interrupted softly, steadying himself with a hand at your hip. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He pushed forward before you could say anything. The thick tip pushed past your virgin walls. You cried out at the burn, your hands gripping the sheets.

“I know, I know,” he soothed, though his voice shook with restraint. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so big, I know—but you’re doing so fucking good for me.” 

The stretch hurt, but it also made a strange heat bloom low in your belly.

He kissed the back of your shoulder, keeping himself still while you trembled beneath him. “Breathe for me, princess. Let me in nice and slow… I promise—it’s gonna feel so good.”

Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you let out a high, broken moan.

“Shhh, that’s it, baby,” Bucky rasped, his voice thick with both lust and control. “My sweet little virgin… finally getting split open by a real cock.”

You shook your head against the mattress, gasping. “B-Bucky—it’s too big, I can’t—I can’t take it—”

He hushed you softly, his hand sliding from your hip to rub comforting circles against your trembling waist. 

“Yes you can, doll. You’re made for this—you’ve been watching my videos every night. Studying me. Practicing with your pretty little fingers and wishing it was me, isn’t that right?” His cock inched deeper, slow but relentless, his breath hitching at the unbearable tightness of you.

“That’s my girl,” he encouraged, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Ruinin’ this sweet little virgin pussy nice and slow…” 

A sharp moan escaped you as he sank another inch inside, your body trembling around him.

“God… you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he groaned, teeth grazing your shoulder as he adjusted the camera with one hand, angling it to capture the stretch of his cock sliding in and out of you. The red light blinked, recording every second of your first time.

“Such a sweet little thing,” he moaned, condescending but tender. “Crying on my cock like you don’t love it—but listen to yourself, baby. You’re moaning like a slut already!”

Another desperate cry left your lips, and he groaned low in his throat. You adjusted your hips slightly, moving your back a bit to try and get comfortable. The slight movement made his hard cock pulse and throb inside you uncontrollably—the sensation unbearable. 

“Oh, fuck—” he cursed, his breath catching. “Fuck. If you keep moving like that, doll… shit, I’m not gonna last.”

You shuffled your hips back, desperate for more, for him, even though the stretch burned.

“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan. “You’re so big… too big… f-feels so good…”

That praise alone made him groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as his cock twitched inside your tight heat. His hand squeezed your waist, trying to stay in control, trying to savor it, but every little shuffle of your hips threatened to undo him completely.

“Fuck, doll,” he grunted. “You keep saying that—calling me big while you wiggle on my cock so cutely… I’m gonna lose it.”

You moaned again, arching your back to push into him, the words tumbling out between gasps. “Want you, Bucky… wanna take you all… please, you’re so big, fill me up, please…”

That was it.

A sharp growl ripped from his chest as he tossed the camcorder aside, the device landing forgotten on the sheets somewhere. Both his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice laced with hunger. “You asked for it.”

With one rough, needy thrust, he drove himself all the way inside, stuffing you full until his hips were flush against your ass. The sudden fullness made you cry out, your walls clamping down on him so tight it pulled another curse from his lips.

“Jesus Christ—this tight little virgin pussy’s gonna kill me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. “You feel that, doll? That’s me—every fucking inch of me—buried inside you.”

Your cry broke into a helpless moan as he bottomed out, the stretch almost unbearable, but your body clung to him desperately. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock made Bucky curse low and vicious.

“Fuck—look at you,” he growled against your ear, pulling back only to slam in again, harder. “Taking me so deep, squeezing the life outta me. My sweet little virgin, getting ruined on my cock.”

“Bucky—ah—s’too much—” you whimpered, though your hips still rocked back to meet him.

His laugh was dark, breathless. “Too much, huh? Then why’s this greedy little pussy dripping all over me? You’re lovin’ it, doll. You’re lovin’ how I’m stretchin’ you out.” 

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, every inch of you unraveling under his relentless pace. He held your hips so hard you knew he’d leave bruises, pounding into you like he wanted to brand himself inside your body.

“Good girl—fuck, you’re my good girl,” his hips moving rougher and sloppier. “Fuck. So much better than the videos, huh?” 

“Oh my god,” you cursed, your face pushed up against the pillow. “I… can’t—gonna… gonna cum—” your walls fluttered and clenched down on him so tightly as you let your release take over you. 

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—” he snarled, hips snapping erratically as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, fuck! Shit… fuck.” His cock pulsed deep inside you, and with a final shuddering thrust he spilled into you, filling you full with hot, warm and thick seed. 

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged moans and his guttural curses, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.

Bucky slumped forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing the side of your damp and sweaty neck. “That’s it… that’s my girl. Took me so good.”

You were still trembling, your body sensitive and aching, when Bucky finally eased himself out of you with a slow, careful pull. You whined softly at the loss, burying your face into the sheets.

“Easy, doll,” he hushed, his voice husky but gentle. His big hands smoothed over your hips, down your thighs, rubbing away the tension he’d left behind. “You did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”

You turned your head slightly, catching his smug little grin as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your damp temple.

“Messy bed, messy girl,” he teased lowly, though his tone held nothing but warmth. He brushed your hair back from your flushed face and tucked it gently behind your ear. “Knew you were my number one fan for a reason.”

Despite your exhaustion, a shy laugh escaped you, your chest fluttering at his words. 

“You’re… so full of yourself,” you mumbled weakly. “H-how did I do…?” 

“You did so fucking good, sweetheart. Shit, I remember when I was a virgin too, baby,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I was a whimpering, sensitive mess. But fuck, I had so much fun ruining you.” 

Your face flushed hot, nuzzling your nose in his chest out of embarrassment. 

He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “Get some rest, princess. We’ll go back for your groceries later.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh again, small and breathless, before your eyes fluttered shut, comforted by his large hands on your waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours.

Days passed, and Bucky kept his promise. The video never showed up online. 

He went back to posting his weekly content, but this time, there was something different. In one of his recent uploads, a faint audio clip played in the background as he stroked himself for the camera.

Your moans.

His grunts.

He never showed the footage on screen, but the audio was enough. Enough for you to recognize yourself, enough to leave you trembling in your chair, your fingers buried between your thighs. The thought of him getting off to your body, your sounds, over and over—it made you fall apart embarrassingly fast.

You slumped back in your chair now, thighs trembling, breath uneven as you dragged your hand away from your thighs. For a moment you just sat there, dazed, staring at the frozen video frame on your laptop.

Then a notification blinked in the corner of the screen. 

You clicked it.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Hey, doll. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Can’t stop watching that little video we made. But I dropped the camera right before I got to stuff your pussy full of my cum.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: How about we try filming another one? 

You guess there are worse reasons a guy could use to break up with you than it ‘being for your own safety' and how ‘he doesn't deserve you’, but you're not sure it's possible to get over Bucky Barnes. 

That doesn't mean you don't try though. You try and you succeed and end up picking up the pieces of your life post-heartbreak and finding a new kind of peace in a guy named Justin. 

He's the exact kind of guy you dreamed of meeting when you decided to take the risk of spending a year auditioning in New York. He's tall, handsome, and the sort of kind that hides a sharp edge. That's what really drew you to him. Real nice boys can't handle you, and any danger Justin presents is laughable after spending nights in bed with the former Winter Soldier. 

You shake your head of the thought and reach out to grab Justin's hand for good measure. He's taking you out for breakfast, something he joked was necessary after getting a good workout in during the night. 

“What's up?” he asks. “You seem bothered. You feel okay?”

“I'm fine,” you assure, biting your lip. 

It's only a partial lie. You have two auditions lined up this week and are out with a man who made your thighs shake more than they jiggle when you walk—but comparisons are easy to draw and Justin deserves better. You don't want to be the kind of person that never gets over your ex, but things are easier said than done. 

“Breakfast will help,” Justin says decisively. “You're probably just tired.”

You shrug. 

He looks down at you with a little smirk tugging at his lips. “I did wear you out last night.”

You shove your shoulder against his arm, grateful for the excuse he's handing you on a silver platter. “You didn't do shit.”

He laughs and you know everything's fine. 

Or it is until you see where he's taking you. Your fault for not paying more attention. 

You and Justin manage to snag one of the last tables in the corner of the worn-down looking diner Bucky had taken you to more than once. He said there was something comforting about how a diner was a diner was a diner, and the hours meant he'd ended up there after not being able to sleep through a night more than once. 

You tell yourself it's just paranoia as you sit down across from Justin, that you can't actually feel Bucky's presence like some oncoming storm, but sure enough, when you look over your shoulder, you find a familiar pair of icy-blue eyes boring into your very soul. 

God dammit. 

You turn back toward Justin, ready to say you're not really feeling the place when Bucky appears like you'd summoned him. 

“Hey,” he says, not paying a single ounce of attention to Justin. Not that you are either. Fuck, he's somehow even hotter than you remembered him and the tight white shirt isn't helping. “It's been a while.”

A familiar rage burns in your chest. How dare he?!

“Holy shit,” Justin cuts in, unaware of the tension. “You're Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky doesn't blink as he turns toward Justin. Her boyfriend, to her shame, wilts under the weight of his stare. “And you are?”

“Uh, Justin?”

Bucky snorts. “Right.”

He turns back to you. “I'll see you around?”

And, because you're an idiot who still isn't over this man, you nod and say, “yeah, you can text me.”

Bucky disappears like he was never there in the first place, and you're left with your heart hammering in your chest and a starstruck Justin for company. 

“I didn't know you knew him,” Justin says, awe coloring the words. 

Bucky would have gritted them out, jealous even if there was no reason to be. 

You sigh. “Not well,” you lie. “He helped me settle in, we’re in the same building.”

Justin blinks. “Small world.”

—

The problem is that Bucky takes ‘yeah, you can text me’ as permission to actually reach out and text. Which, sure, you expected that, but being faced with a series of messages from him is still a lot. You dismiss the notifications and tell yourself you'll forget about them. 

You don't make it two full days. 

Bucky's not a big texter. The man barely remembers to keep his phone charged. You'd been subjected to more than one rant about how people didn't talk to each other anymore and how Sam needed to get off his back. It'd been charmingly old man and in anyone else would have had you looking for the tin hat, but Bucky made it work. He makes most things work. 

He's not a big texter but he listened to you and texted. There are paragraphs waiting for you to be brave enough and read. No missed calls, no voicemails, just text messages. Because you told him he could text.

You really should have blocked and deleted his number, but instead you open the messages app and click his name. 

<I>Hey. I know it's been a while and I know I'm not the best at saying the right thing. I know I'm the one who fucked up, but I can't stop thinking about you. You're the best thing that's happened to me in this century and I threw you away like you were a piece of trash. I don't deserve another moment of your time but I'm going to be selfish and ask for it. Wasn't it you who told me I'm allowed to want nice things, maybe even have them?</i>

<I>The worst part is that it was the right thing to do. You don't deserve to deal with my problems and it's safer for you if I'm not in your life, but I don't know if I'm strong enough to stay away. It's not fair to you. You deserve better.</i>

<I>But maybe there's another way I can keep you in my life, make sure it's worth living.</i>

<I>Is there any way we could be friends?</i>

You frown and bite your lip. The smart thing to do would be to delete the messages. Best case scenario is that Bucky means it as he said it, that there's no hidden meaning underneath the request. If that's true, then it's up to you to hold to it. You can either say no, and he’ll understand because that's what he does, even if he's devastated. Or you can say yes and tempt fate like every other pair of exes who thought staying friends was something you could just do. Say yes and try to pretend like even getting within a few feet of the man didn't make you want to start peeling off whatever layers of clothing were separating you. 

In the best case scenario, he's willing to pretend too. 

In every other version of events, he knows just as well as you do how this is going to end. The feeling was always mutual. He'd never been able to keep his hands off of you, always ready with an excuse about how sliding his hand under your shirt is to hide the distinctive metal. 

You should delete the message. Close the chapter about you and Bucky Barnes. Respect Justin. 

Instead, you type, <i>Yeah, we can be friends</i>.

—

You agree to coffee. It's the sort of thing friends do, right? It's safer in public, no threat of lockable doors or flat surfaces to push him down onto (not that you've ever been one to be picky about that sort of thing). 

You get there first and order, knowing if you didn't he'd show up and insist on paying because he's old-fashioned like that and you fall victim for the charm of it every time. You need to be smart about this. You've rationalized why you agreed. You need more familiar faces here. Justin has a job and a life of his own, he can't always be there when you need someone and you aren't the type of girl to make a man your whole life anyway. You have a career on the line. You need a life of your own. A friend, even one like Bucky, is a part of that. 

And Bucky needs friends too. 

It's a lot easier said than done when you catch sight of him. He's let his beard grow out a bit and the sense memory of how it felt on the inside of your thighs is strong enough you're grateful you're already sitting down so no one can see the way you rub your legs together. More than that, he's wearing that tight shirt again that clings to every muscle and the little bit of weight he's gained that's softened his stomach enough to make you fixate on it and remember the way it felt when you bit down, the way he gasped and looked down at you like he'd just discovered something life-changing. He's also wearing the same leather jacket you'd admitted made you want him to fuck you over his bike. 

He did this on purpose. 

This is not the best case scenario. 

You know you should leave. You should pull your phone out and claim something came up, an emergency or some last minute opportunity you can't pass up because this could be your big break. 

You don't. 

He sits across from you and smiles and tells you how amazing you look. It takes everything in you to keep your eyes focused on the way the skin folds around his eyes and not how his shirt is really being put to the test. 

You chat. It's friendly, surface level. About the weather, about how Sam is still annoying him, how you haven't had luck hit yet. Apparently he's running for Congress. 

He doesn't ask about Justin and you don't bring him up. 

So no, you're not surprised when he licks his lips and places his hand on the table, palm up, in a silent invitation. 

“I know we said friends,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I thought I could do it. I meant it when I said it.”

A pit opens in your stomach. 

“I was wrong,” he continues. “I'm so sorry. I just…I miss you so much. And seeing you here is a reminder of everything I'm missing. Could we…could we try again?”

He looks so hopeful, staring at you from under his lashes, that every part of you is jumping up to say yes, absolutely you can try again. 

“We can't,” you whisper, reaching out and placing your hand in his because you're only so strong. “I…I have a boyfriend. I can't do that to him.”

He tries to pull his hand away but you don't let him. 

“I don't know if I can be just friends with you,” he admits, giving in and clutching your hand tight. “I don't want to do that to you.”

You bite down on your tongue as you think of the right thing to say. “Will you try?” you ask. “For me?”

It's playing dirty, but it works because Bucky nods and you feel just a little bit like you've entered into a game you don't know all the rules of. 

—

Bucky wins the election, because of course he does, and Justin is too excited about being invited by <i>Bucky Barnes</i> to question why you're so nervous. 

Being friends with Bucky has been…fine. He's been busy, obviously, so it's mostly been staying in touch with calls and texts. If his voice gets a bit low or the conversation gets too heated to be friendly at times, well, nothing is actually happening. It's fine. Everything's fine. 

It'd be easier if it was a party, some large get together where you can melt into the crowd, but that was the other night and you'd made up some excuse because you know you're not strong enough to see him fawned over by his staff and volunteers. You're stuck sitting between him and Justin, far too aware of the body heat radiating off of Bucky to pay any attention to the conversation. Justin keeps ordering drinks and the alcohol is really not helping you in your mission of friendship. 

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing away from the table roughly and stumbling a bit as you stand up. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Justin nods, but Bucky's eyes narrow and his smirk is enough to send you running because you know that smirk, and you know what comes after. 

He joins you in the bathroom with the same damn smirk on his face less than a minute later. 

“You shouldn't be here,” you say, like you haven't been wet for the past hour. 

“You could have locked the door,” he points out, flicking the deadbolt. “But you didn't.”

He stalks toward you and before you know it, he's lifted you onto the sink and shoved your skirt above your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs with a groan. You're not wearing underwear, and that fact does not go missed by Bucky. You clutch into your shoulders and tell yourself you can still push him away. You know he'd listen to you, would respect your choices. 

But you both know this is exactly what you wanted. 

His mouth drops open as he traces his fingers over your cunt. “This all for me, sweetheart?” 

You nod and bite your lip hard when he shoves his fingers inside of you in the exact way he knows makes you scream. You don't know what it is about Bucky Barnes that makes him always find that spot that has you seeing stars, but he locates it with a sniper’s precision and presses his fingers hard there and you know it's your fault for working yourself up all night, thinking about this, but it's almost no time at all before your first orgasm crashes over you like a wave. 

“What the fuck,” you breath out. “I hate you.”

He chuckles and pulls his hand back. It's glistening in the shitty bathroom lights, and it does something to you knowing that it's you all over him like that. The way he puts his fingers in his mouth and moans like you taste like the sweetest ambrosia doesn't help. 

“No you don't,” he says, already pulling at this belt. “You're always ready for me, aren't you? Bet that hasn't changed.”

It hasn't, but you're not telling him that. 

You throw your head back against the mirror when he pushes in. You've missed this stretch, the way he somehow manages to cover every inch of you. The way he whispers your name like it's a prayer into his ear, how he sounds like he's drunk on the feel of you from the very first second. His lips are hot against your neck and you sneak your hands under his shirt to drag your nails down his back. The marks won't last, they never do, but that's never stopped you from trying. 

You come out of the bathroom a couple minutes after the leaves, grateful for the excuse of alcohol to explain the waver in your steps. 

Justin doesn't suspect a thing and you chase the burn of guilt away with the shots he keeps buying. 

—

It doesn't stop there. It should. It never should have started in the first place.

“You're heading out?” Justin asks. 

You pull your purse higher up on your shoulder. He's been starting to get suspicious and you can't blame him. You've cooled toward him. You don't mean to, you tell yourself you're just settling out of the honeymoon phase into something more stable, but you know that's a lie. It's not Justin's fault that he'll never compare to Bucky.

“Grabbing coffee with a friend,” you say. “Want me to bring anything back. We're meeting at the place with those danishes you like.”

Justin frowns but doesn't say anything more than, “sure, sounds great.”

Twenty minutes later, you're easing down onto Bucky's dick. 

“Oh fuck, sweetheart,” Bucky breathes out, staring down at where you're taking him in like it's the eigth wonder of the world. “Look at you, taking me so well. It's like you were made for it. Made for me, baby, just like that.”

You're not much better, especially when he presses his thumb against your clit and circles it in a way no man born before the invention of sliced bread should know how to do. 

That's part of the problem. No man has ever made you feel like this. You don't know if any other man can. When there's a safe amount of distance between you and Bucky, you can look at your own actions and feel disgust. You like Justin. You don't want to be the type of person that cheats on your boyfriend, but it's like the moment Bucky even thinks about looking at you all of that gets thrown out the window. 

You drag your hands down his shoulder onto his chest and push him back against the couch cushions. You're at his place and hadn't made it to the bedroom. You'd barely made it to the couch. He'd opened the door and you're not sure it had even closed before he pounced, backing you up against a wall and pressing his thigh between your legs. 

He tightens his grip on your hips and holds you still so he can fuck into you. He's supporting you like this and you're putty between his hands. He'd already made you cum twice and you're well on your way to a third. 

You reach up and grab a fistful of his hair. “Growing this out for me?”

His smile is all teeth and his next thrust is a bit harder. 

You yank on his hair and his thrusts become erratic. You love when he gets like this, when all of his careful control starts to fall away and reveal the instincts driving the man beneath it all. 

Afterward, when your breath has calmed and the sweat has started to dry, he presses his lips against your forehead and holds you close and you do your best to ignore the burn of tears in your eyes. 

You shove your head against his neck and ghost your teeth over the spot that never fails to make him shiver as you trail a hand down his side. His dick is already half-hard against your hip. 

It's wrong and you need to leave and should never come back, but the sound of your name on his lips when he cums is so sweet you don't know if you can ever give it up. 

—

Bucky invites you out again, both you and Justin. It's the same bar as when you celebrated his win and you're not sure if you should expect a repeat of your bathroom rendezvous or not. 

Justin's suspicions haven't ebbed, but his respect for Bucky is too deeply rooted after growing up watching the Howling Commandos cartoons. Sure, Justin might think you're up to something but he'd never imagine Bucky has anything to do with it. You still haven't decided if that's insulting or not. 

“Hey, man!” Justin greets, bringing Bucky in for a quick man hug and looking thrilled at the fact that Bucky lets him. “What've you been up to?”

“Nothing much,” Bucky says with a shrug. “It's been the call before the storm. Part of why I wanted to see you guys tonight, actually.”

You have a bad feeling about that, especially when he hugs you and clings tight enough it feels like a goodbye. 

Bucky keeps his hand on the small of your back as he turns back to Justin and they start talking about something. You should be paying attention, but you have a bad feeling about this and focusing on the Bucky's touch is the only thing preventing you from falling into the depths of a panic attack. 

The calm before the storm can mean so many things. Has Bucky been stewing in guilt too? Has he decided to meet with Justin in public so when he confesses that they've been sneaking around the presence of other people prevents Justin from causing a scene?

Bucky wouldn't do that, not without telling you. 

But your hand still shakes when you accept the drink Justin hands you. 

“Everything okay?” Bucky asks, brows furrowed. Of course he asks before Justin. Maybe he's trying to rub it in. “You seem—”

“I'm fine,” you cut him off, taking a sip of your drink. You turn toward Justin and say, “thanks, baby.”

Justin grins and that's the end of that. 

They end up talking about baseball, and while you do have opinions on things other than the size of the players’ asses, you keep silent. Bucky's hand is soothing small circles over your back as Justin gets more and more heated, hands gesturing wildly. 

Justin hands Bucky another beer and asks, “so, how long are you in New York for? You've got to get down to D.C. at some point, right? Congressman Barnes?”

You freeze and Bucky tenses beside you, pulling his hand away. 

Justin's right. Of course he is. You know that's part of the gig, but somehow you’d neglected to put the pieces together and a waterfall is rushing in your ears as you're faced with the fact that you're not even getting to end this illicit thing on your own terms. Bucky Barnes is breaking your heart for the second time. 

Bucky nods and Justin keeps talking but Bucky is looking at you and there's an apology in his eyes but the waterfall sound hasn't gone away. 

“D.C.?” you ask, voice sounding hollow to your own ears. “When are you going?”

He grimaces and pulls away from you. “Tomorrow, actually.”

“And you're just bringing this up now?” you spit out. 

He flinches and it feels good to see it. To know he can see how hurt you are by this, how cruel it is for him to spring this on you. 

“Guess it didn't come up.”

You narrow your eyes into a glare. “Guess you're a coward.”

Justin's hand settles on your shoulder, startling you. “Hey babe,” he says. “He probably got stressed with everything. Cut him some slack.”

You shake his hand off. 

“No, no,” Bucky assures, shifting in his seat. “She's right, I should have told her. It's what a good friend would have done.”

“Right,” you say. “We're friends.”

—

He texts you the next morning, because of course he does. You claim you can't meet him for coffee because of a hangover despite you both knowing you only had two drinks last night. 

You regret it as soon as you set your phone down, but maybe a clean break is best since you both failed at it last time. 

He keeps texting you and you keep ignoring him, but Bucky Barnes hasn't gotten this far by giving up when things got hard so you're only a little bit surprised to find a printed out copy of a flight itinerary for a trip from New York to D.C. with your name on it in your actual, physical mailbox. 

You go. 

You take a taxi from the airport to the address he texts you and find yourself being led through halls by one of his staffers instead of the hotel or apartment you expected. 

Thank God you used some time to freshen up in the airport bathroom in preparation for seeing Bucky, but that only does so much to help how out of place you feel as your luggage rolls behind you. You do not belong in any sort of government building. 

The office you're let into is intimidating. The sort of wood furnishings you've only seen on screen. The shelves are mostly empty still, and you're sure the books there belonged to whoever used the space last.

You shut the door behind you and finally let your eyes fall on Bucky, who's leaning against the heavy desk with his arms crossed over his chest. His hair’s smoothed back and he's wearing a grey, tailored suit. You've never seen him like this. That's not to say it's a bad look…

You bite the inside of your lip and take a step forward, leaving your luggage by the door.

“Hi,” you say. 

“You came.” 

You nod and take another step forward. He pushes off of the desk and drops his hands to his sides, fingers twitching like he's barely fighting the urge to reach out and touch. 

“Of course I did.”

It's like you gave him permission. His eyes flash and his jaw drops, just a little bit, as he looks up and down like he's starving. His hands soon follow, and you'll never get tired of the contrast behind the cool metal and hot skin. 

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me why you're here. Really.”

You bring your hands up to his chest and trace your fingers along the edge of his lapels. You fiddle with his pin. “Do I have to?”

“Please.”

You look up and meet his gaze. “I missed you.”

His hand comes around to play with the hooks of your bra. “How could you miss me when you have Justin?”

The edge in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. “We're not talking about him.”

“Hm.” He unhooks your bra under your top. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” You pull him close by his tie. “Now kiss me if you're not going to stop being stupid.”

He kisses you like he needs it, likes he's desperate for it. You take it and match him for intensity, pulling your shirt and bra over your head and throwing them into some corner. His hands are your breasts immediately, pinching your nipples and stealing a gasp from your throat. 

“Fuck, you're perfect,” he says into your mouth. “I can't stop thinking of you, been missing you every day. Dreaming of this, wondering what it'd be like to have you here.” 

He's not gentle when he pushes you back onto the floor. You prop yourself up on your elbows and your chest is heaving. His suit is still done up as he pulls your jeans down your legs. 

You can hear the clack of heels on flooring in the hallway. You have to keep quiet, but you don't if you can. 

Bucky shoves his pants down his thighs and is between your legs a second later. His vibration hand comes down hard over your mouth in an attempt to muffle you. It kind of works. If anyone were to stop and listen they'd know what was happening. 

His eyes burn into yours when he pushes in. It's too much and not enough and you nearly squeal when he doesn't give you the time to adjust before pulling his hips back and slamming in again, forcing your back into an arch so hard it hurts. 

“You still love me,” he asks, angling his hips so he's hitting that one spot that might as well belong to him at this point. “Don't you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut instead of answering, pretending he didn't just throw a bomb into the clusterfuck of emotions in your chest. You focus on the drag of him, the stretch of his thick thighs between your own, how heavy he is as lays all of his weight on top of you. It feels too fucking good is what it is. 

“Tell me,” he says, voice getting deep and raspy in the way that's never failed to be your undoing. “Say it.”

His hand is still over your mouth. You couldn't answer if you wanted to, but that's not really the point, is it? You don't want to answer. You're not going to and you both know that but he's torturing you with this anyway. His other hand is holding your wrists above your head, so tight you can almost feel the bones grinding against each other. The pain is sharp, but it goes straight to you clit and how he's making this feel even better you don't know but he is and you feel like you could ascend. 

You whine against his hand. 

“You'll just take whatever I give you, won't you?” he asks, and this is much safer territory. You can't nod with how he's holding your head but you try and he can tell and he starts fucking into you even harder. “That's right. You're my little whore, coming out here because I told you to. You love this. You love me.”

And at this point you can't deny it anymore because the combination of everything is so much it's overwhelming and all you can do is sob your name as you clench down around him and shake as your orgasm works his way through you.

He doesn't stop, of course he doesn't. He seems frantic now, like he's trying to draw this out and remember every second of it because he knows he's crossed the line. It feels so good you don't care. You let him. Encourage him with grabbing hands and low sounds. You've abandoned the thought of being quiet. It doesn't matter. Not when you're in freefall. 

The moment, in all of its twisted perfection, can't last forever and he collapses over you, pressing you against the uncomfortable floor countless shoes have walked across. 

“Fuck you, Bucky Barnes,” you gasp when he finally takes his hand back. 

“Yeah,” he said, rolling off of you. You can feel him dripping out of you already. “Fuck me.”

You force yourself to stand up and find your clothes. Your bra’s hanging off the corner of the desk for some reason. You put it on, taking care not to look at Bucky. 

“I'm going,” you say, walking over to grab your shirt. Your jeans are by his feet, they can wait a bit. “Should I find a flight back or will you at least let me clean up?"

“I paid for your hotel,” he says. “Do whatever you want. I'll have someone bring over a card.”

You hum and reach down for your jeans. He looks like any other man on the floor like this, soft dick hanging out against his thigh. “Fine.”

Your underwear is missing. He definitely pocketed it when you weren't looking. You decide to leave it and let him keep his souvenir. 

after the serum, after the nightmares, after years of clawing his way back to something like a person… that instinct never left. it just changed.

now it curled low and hungry in his gut whenever you were involved.

it started small.

he’d come home from a mission at 3 a.m., exhausted and wired, and find you asleep in their bed wearing nothing but one of his old henleys. the hem had ridden up just enough to bare the soft curve of your ass and the shadowed line between your thighs. one leg kicked out from under the sheet, your pussy peeking out slightly, still a little puffy from the night before. he’d stand in the doorway for long minutes, barely breathing, cock thickening in his sweats as he memorized every inch—the faint red marks his stubble had left on your inner thigh, the way your folds glistened faintly even in sleep, the way your lips parted on a sleepy sigh.

he never woke you. not at first. just watched, hand pressing against the hard line of his dick while he imagined sliding his tongue through that slick heat again.

then one night you weren’t asleep.

you were on your back in the middle of their bed, legs splayed wide, two fingers buried knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt while you whispered his name like a prayer. the bedside lamp cast warm gold over your skin, highlighting the shiny mess coating your fingers and the inside of your thighs. bucky had slipped in silent as death, still dressed in his tac gear, and stopped dead just outside the bedroom door.

you hadn’t noticed him.

he stayed hidden, jaw tight, and watched you fuck yourself—slow at first, fingers curling lazily against that spongy spot inside you, then faster, hips rolling up to meet every thrust. your free hand pinched and rolled your nipple, tugging hard enough to make you gasp. little breathy moans spilled out every time your thumb brushed your swollen clit. your pussy made wet, obscene sounds around your fingers, slick dripping down to soak the sheets beneath your ass.

when you came, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs shaking violently, his name broke on your lips in a high, desperate cry. your cunt clenched visibly around your fingers, a fresh gush of wetness coating your hand.

bucky had to bite his knuckle bloody to keep from groaning out loud, his own cock leaking steadily into his underwear.

he waited until your breathing evened out, until you curled up satisfied and sleepy with your fingers still tucked loosely between your thighs, before he finally stepped inside. he stripped down in seconds, slid into bed behind you, and woke you with his mouth on your neck and his metal fingers sliding through all that warm, sticky mess to replace yours. you’d moaned sleepily and spread your legs wider without even opening your eyes.

after that, the game changed.

he started leaving the bedroom door cracked on purpose when he knew you were in the mood. he’d come home early from the gym or a briefing and hear the faint buzz of your vibrator or the slick, rhythmic sounds of your fingers working your pussy and instead of announcing himself, he’d lean against the wall just out of sight and listen. sometimes he’d pull his cock out and stroke himself slow and tight, matching your rhythm, thumb smearing the precum over the head while you fell apart with his name on your tongue.

he never let himself come. not until later—when he was buried balls-deep inside your still-fluttering cunt, fucking you slow and deep while you were oversensitive and dazed, growling filthy praise in your ear about how pretty you sounded when you thought you were alone, how your pussy clenched so greedily even after you’d already come.

one evening you caught him.

you’d been in the shower, glass door wide open because the steam made everything useless anyway. bucky had been on the couch pretending to read a mission report. the second he heard the water turn on he gave it five minutes, then padded silently down the hall.

you were facing the tiled wall, one hand braced, water cascading over the arch of your back and the round swell of your ass. your other hand was between your legs—two fingers pumping steadily into your soaked hole while your thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit. soft, breathy gasps echoed off the tiles with every thrust. your pussy lips were flushed dark and swollen, slick mixing with the shower water and dripping down your thighs.

bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on every detail.

he didn’t hide this time.

when you turned your head and saw him there—fully dressed, dark eyes burning, the obvious bulge straining against his jeans—you startled, then smirked, slow and wicked.

“enjoying the show, sergeant?”

bucky’s voice came out rough and low. “always do, doll. keep going. don’t stop on my account.”

you didn’t. instead you leaned back against the cool tile, planted one foot on the built-in bench to spread yourself wider, and kept fucking your fingers deeper—eyes locked on his the whole time. he watched every second: the way your tits bounced lightly with each thrust, nipples tight and begging, the flush creeping down your chest and belly, the exact moment your thighs started to tremble and your pussy started making those wet, squelching sounds around your fingers.

when you came, you kept your gaze on his face, moaning his name loud and broken as your cunt pulsed and gushed, a visible spurt of your release mixing with the shower spray.

bucky was on you before the aftershocks even faded—clothes still on, water soaking through his shirt instantly as he dropped to his knees right there on the wet tile. he yanked your fingers out and replaced them with his tongue, licking broad and filthy through your folds, sucking your swollen clit hard while two metal fingers shoved back inside you, curling ruthlessly against your g-spot. he ate you through a second orgasm, then a third, until you were crying, legs buckling, slapping weakly at his shoulders because your clit was too sensitive and your pussy wouldn’t stop fluttering.

later, tangled in damp sheets with your body still twitching, you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertip.

“you like watching me,” you said softly. not a question.

he didn’t deny it. his metal hand slid down to cup your still-throbbing pussy possessively. “yeah. i do.”

“why?”

bucky stayed quiet for a long moment, fingers idly stroking through your slick folds, occasionally dipping just inside to feel you clench.

“spent a long time not feeling anything real. everything was orders, targets, pain. when i’m watching you… i feel it all. every gasp, every twitch of your hips, every time your pretty cunt drips because you’re thinking about me—it’s mine. i get to keep it. even when i’m not touching you, i’m still part of it.”

you kissed him slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“so watch me whenever you want,” you whispered against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip. “but sometimes… i want you to let me watch you too.”

that was how the new rule started.

sometimes he’d come home and find you waiting on the bed wearing nothing but his dog tags, legs spread obscenely wide, three fingers buried in your soaked pussy while you told him exactly what filthy things you’d been thinking about—how you’d imagined his tongue, his cock, his metal hand choking you while he fucked you raw. he’d sit in the chair across the room, fully clothed, legs spread, and just watch—cock straining painfully against his zipper, hands gripping the armrests white-knuckled so he wouldn’t touch himself until you were begging, tears in your eyes, pussy visibly clenching around nothing.

other times he’d make you sit on the edge of the bed, knees wide, while he stood in front of you and stroked his thick cock slowly—fist tight, thumb swiping over the leaking head, veins standing out along the shaft. his eyes never left yours as he worked himself, low groans rumbling in his chest, until you were squirming and dripping onto the sheets just from watching, your own hand sneaking between your thighs until he growled at you to keep them still.

he loved both sides of it. loved the power of seeing you fall apart under his gaze alone. loved the raw vulnerability of letting your eyes devour him while he jerked off thinking about burying himself in your tight, greedy heat.

but his favorite moments were still the stolen ones—when you didn’t know he was there yet, when he could stand in the shadows and watch you chase your pleasure with his name on your lips, cock throbbing, already planning exactly how he was going to wreck you the second he stepped into the light.

because no matter how many times he watched you come, it was never enough.

you were his favorite thing to look at.

and he was never going to stop.

Brooklyn's Taste opened three years ago on a Sunday when it wouldn't stop raining.

Bucky remembers standing outside in the downpour at 4 in the morning, staring at the sign above the door thinking he was going to throw up. Steve had been next to him, soaked through his jacket, grinning like an idiot. "We did it," Steve had said.

Bucky hadn't been able to say anything back.

Now the restaurant has three Michelin stars and a six-month wait list, and Bucky still feels like throwing up most mornings. Different reasons, though. Now, it comes from wanting something so badly it hurts, from knowing he has it and being terrified he will fuck it up.

He's got plans. Big ones. A whole chain of them someday, Brooklyn's Taste locations in every major city, his name synonymous with the best food anyone would ever put in their mouth.

It keeps him up at night. The planning. The obsessing. The constant loop of what if and what next. That and the fact he can't turn his brain off, ever.

5.30 AM and Bucky's already awake, lying in bed watching shadows move across his ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for Alpine purring somewhere near his feet. She's a small white ball of fur he found five years ago outside his previous workplace. Back when Brooklyn's Taste was still a fantasy and he was working himself half to death at some other asshole's kitchen. She'd been a tiny rain-soaked bundle, hissing and scared. He'd scooped her right up and taken her home. Now she's the only thing in his life that doesn't stress him out.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Steve: You up?

Bucky: Yeah

Steve: Coffee in 10

Steve's got a key to the apartment, has had one since Bucky moved in three years ago. The place is right above the restaurant. It stays sleek and minimal, Bucky's never home long enough to decorate. There's a couch, a bed, a kitchen he barely uses. Photos on one wall. Him and Steve through the years, the night they got their first, second and third stars, Alpine in a patch of sunlight.

Everything else is downstairs.

True to his word, Steve lets himself in ten minutes later with coffees and a bag of bagels. He looks annoyingly awake for this hour. "You look like shit," Steve says, setting everything on the counter.

"Thanks."

"When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"

Bucky doesn't dignify that with an answer. Taking his coffee, he drinks it black.

Alpine's already abandoned him for Steve. The traitor. She's perched between his legs and purring loud enough to echo in the quiet apartment.

"You need to hire someone for the sous position," Steve says, pulling out a bagel. "We're drowning."

"I know."

"Interviews are today, right?"

"Yeah." Bucky grimaces. He hates interviews. Hates the whole song and dance of it, sitting across from people who think they want to work in a Michelin kitchen but have no idea what they're signing up for. Half of them quit within a month. "Got three lined up."

"Try not to scare them off this time."

"I don't scare people off."

Steve gives him a look. The one that says 'you absolutely do and you know it.'

They eat in comfortable silence, comes from knowing someone since you were kids.

Steve's been there through everything. The shitty apartment in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, culinary school, the restaurants that fired Bucky for having a mouth on him, the ones that kept him because he was too good to let go. When Bucky said he wanted to open his own place, Steve had been the first one to say 'I'm in.'

Now Steve runs the kitchen when Bucky can't. Head chef. The person Bucky trusts more than anyone.

"You think about seeing anyone?" Steve asks suddenly.

Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee. It's too much talk for this early morning. "What?"

"You know. Dating. Relationships. Human connection, the sorts."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious." Steve's leaning against the counter, doing his concerned best friend routine. "When's the last time you went on a date?"

Bucky thinks about it. There was that girl three years ago, the one who'd lasted maybe a week before she got tired of him canceling plans because of the restaurant. Then a few one-night things that hadn't gone anywhere because Bucky couldn't turn his brain off long enough to pretend he cared about anything other than work.

Now it's been... a while. Long enough that his right hand and some website with questionable production value have become his primary source of release.

"I don't have time for that shit," Bucky mutters.

"You mean you won't make time."

"Same thing."

"It's really —"

"Steve." Bucky sets his coffee down, runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, past his neck now. He should cut it. "The restaurant is the priority. You know that."

"I know you're gonna burn out if you don't let yourself have something outside of this place."

"I have Alpine."

"Your cat doesn't count."

Alpine meows, like she's offended.

They drop it after that, but Bucky can feel Steve watching him as they head downstairs.

The kitchen's dark and cold, stainless steel gleaming when Bucky hits the lights. This is his favorite part of the day. Before anyone else shows up, when it's quiet and full of possibility.

The kitchen starts filling up around seven. Line cooks filter in one by one, tying aprons and prepping their stations. Bucky watches from his spot near the pass, drinking more coffee, mentally preparing for service. Lunch is in a few hours. Then the interviews. Then dinner service.

Then he'll go upstairs and do it all over again tomorrow.

"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?" Bucky asks Steve, the question coming out of nowhere.

Steve glances up from where he's working. "No. Why?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think about it. Like what if I'd done something else."

"You'd be miserable."

"Probably."

"Definitely." A grin works up into Steve's face. "You're not built for anything other than this, Buck. It's like — you know how some people are good at things? You were made for this. Big difference."

Bucky wants to argue, but he can't.

Steve's right.

The kitchen is the only place that's ever made sense to him. The only place he doesn't have to explain himself or apologize for being intense or obsessive. Everyone here gets it. They're all a little fucked up, all chasing the same high of a perfect plate, a perfect service, a perfect night.

Brooklyn's Taste is his baby. His dream. The thing he's wanted since he was a kid watching cooking shows and thinking 'I could do that better.'

And he has.

The three Michelin stars prove it.

The first two interviews are disasters.

One guy shows up in a wrinkled shirt, can't answer basic questions about technique, kept calling Bucky 'boss' like they're on a construction site.

The second one's a girl fresh out of culinary school who talks about her 'passion for the craft' but goes quiet when Bucky asks her to describe how she'd handle a dinner rush.

By the time the second one leaves, Bucky's temple is throbbing.

He's got one more. Some girl from New England Culinary Institute, resume says she's done time at Rolo's and Per Se. Probably another disaster waiting to happen. He's subconsciously drafting the text to Steve: we're fucked, none of them can do it.

There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Bucky calls, not looking up from where he's scribbling notes.

The door opens followed by footsteps, quieter than the last two. Someone settling into the chair across from his desk.

"Give me a second," he mutters.

"Sure."

Something about your voice makes him look up.

Oh.

Oh.

You're pretty. That's the first thing his brain registers, and it is completely unhelpful. The second thing is that you're sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in your lap, looking directly at him without that nervous energy the other two had. There's a defiance about it, like you're daring him to find fault.

Your resume's in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up at you. "You worked at Per Se," he states.

"For a year."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Wanted something smaller, more control over what I was doing. Plus the exec chef there was kind of an asshole."

Bucky almost laughs. Almost. "And you think I'm not?"

"You probably are. But at least you're an asshole about things that matter."

That does make him laugh.

You've read about him. Obviously. There's this way you hold yourself, confident without being cocky. Like you know exactly what you're worth and aren't interested in pretending otherwise. "What are you looking for in this position?"

"Honestly? A place that gives a shit. I'm tired of working in kitchens where it's all about the image and none of the substance. I want to make food that matters."

Bucky's quiet for a moment. That's... exactly what he would've said. Word for word.

"You know what it's like here." It's not a question. "Three stars means three times the pressure. Every plate has to be perfect. Every service. There's no room for error."

"I know."

"Most people quit all the time because they can't handle it."

"I'm not most people."

Bucky should laugh at this, send you out. If anyone else would've said this, he would've laughed. But there's a challenge in the way you say it, he feels something. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Something he hasn't felt in a while when it comes to potential hires. "Why do you want to work here specifically?" Bucky prodes.

"Because I've eaten here twice. Both times I left thinking about the food for weeks. That doesn't happen often… Also because I want to learn from someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Flattery. But you say it like you mean it.

Bucky's eyes drop to your resume again, scanning the details he'd already read three times. Rolo's, Per Se, a semester in Paris. All good signs. He should ask more questions, grill you on technique, on how you'd handle specific situations, on —

"What happened to your arm?"

That startles and amuses him in equal measure. You're looking at his left forearm, where the scar runs from wrist to elbow, impossible to miss. He did not expect that. "Kitchen accident. Culinary school. Vapour burn."

Everyone has looked at him with pity. Not you. You're looking at it with something closer to understanding. Like you've got your own scars hidden somewhere.

"Does it hurt?" you ask.

"Sometimes."

"When you're stressed?"

Bucky's eyes bore into yours. That's when it hurts. How the fuck did you —

"I've got one on my hand," you say, holding up your right hand. There's a broad scar across your palm. "Culinary school too. Partner spilled oil on my hand. Happens when I'm tired."

There's an intimacy in this, trading scars like secrets. Bucky doesn't talk about his arm, doesn't like when people ask. Where people have been looking at him like fragile and broken, you look at him like you get it.

"You start Monday," he hears himself say.

"What?"

"Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late."

A slow smile spreads across your face, Bucky notices it more than he should. "I won't be."

Standing abruptly, you extend your hand across the desk. Bucky takes it, your palm warm against his, the slight ridge of the thickened skin. When you pull away, he can still feel the ghost of your touch. 

"Thank you, Chef." You walk away with footsteps as soft as they were when you entered.

Bucky sits there for a full minute after you're gone, staring at the door.

If there's a worst day to wake up late, it's Thursday. And Bucky wakes up late on a Thursday. Steve's day off, which means the kitchen is running without either of them there, chaos ensuing already.

He checks his phone — 8:47 AM, fuck — and rolls out of bed, ready to practically run down the stairs. Alpine meows as he rushes past without noticing her.

The kitchen would be a disaster. People scrambling, stations a mess, someone probably crying in the walk-in. Bucky is expecting the worst.

Instead, it's... fine?

Everyone's at their station, prepping quietly. There's music playing low in the background. Was that Jazz in his kitchen?

Standing near the pass, organizing tickets that haven't even come in yet, is you. Unfazed expression on your face when you greet him, "Morning, Chef."

"What —"

"Deliveries came in an hour ago. I checked everything, sent back the fish because the eyes were cloudy. Produce is good."

"It's your second day."

"Third, technically. But who's counting." Your mouth tips, just a little, Bucky notices, though he shouldn't. 

"How did you —"

"I got here at six. Figured I'd get a head start."

Six in the morning. On your third day. When you could've slacked off, could've waited for someone to tell you what to do.

Bucky's eyes land on your lips, not knowing what to say. 

"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality. 

"What?"

"Do you want coffee? You look like you need it."

He does. Desperately. "Yeah. Thanks."

You pour him a cup from the pot near the pass, hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for half a second, Bucky loses sight of his thoughts, the touch electric enough to freeze his brain. 

"Sugar?"

"Black's fine."

"Of course it is." You're smiling again. Bucky's starting to realize that your smile is dangerous. Makes him forget what he was thinking about. Again. 

"Chef, can you taste this?" Bucky's elbow-deep in prep when you appear next to him with a spoon in front of his face, with some kind of herb sauce pooled in it. You're holding it at mouth level, like this is completely normal.

Bucky eyes go from you — your face —, to the spoon, and then back to you. "What are you doing?"

You look confused by the question, head tilting slightly, which will drive him insane if you keep doing it.

The distance between you is too close, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, that same scent that's been distracting him all week. The spoon is still hovering in front of his mouth, attached to you looking at him like he's the one being weird here.

"I can —" He gestures vaguely at the spoon.

"Oh." A shy but sheepish smile blooms on your face, he has to press his lips together so he doesn't mirror it right back. "Sorry, at my last place we always just —"

The explanation makes sense. He knows of places that do it like this. But nobody's ever done it here because Bucky's never allowed it. The thought of someone just… feeding him feels too intimate for a professional kitchen.

But there's no attempt on your part to give him the spoon. The expression in your eyes is soft, makes him confused and mad and wants to let you do whatever you want.

"Right. Yeah. Okay." Just as he leans forward, you lift the spoon to meet him, his mouth. The movement is simple, but Bucky's heart is erratic in his chest. Your fingers are right there, practically brushing his chin. He can see the small scar on your palm.

The sauce hits his tongue and he forgets to think for a second. It's good. Really fucking good. Makes him want another taste immediately.

Pulling the spoon back, you watch his face, like if you do it with intent, you might be able to figure out his thoughts. Bucky really hopes you can't because most of them involve how pretty you look when you're nervous.

"Well?"

"It's good… really good. What'd you put in it?"

You rattle out an endless number of herbs and spices, which does not reach Bucky's ears. He can only see that you're smiling now, pleased with yourself. Somehow, that's even worse for his concentration. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."

Bucky's brain helpfully supplies that he'd probably like anything you made, which is a deeply unhelpful — not to mention inappropriate — thought to have about his new sous chef. "It's perfect. Use it for the chicken tonight."

"Really?"

"Really."

You're beaming at him now. Bucky needs you to stop doing that immediately. He's supposed to be professional and not think about how your whole face lights up when you smile.

"Thank you, Chef." You turn to walk away and Bucky's brain finally catches up with what just happened. You fed him. With a spoon. Like it was nothing. And he took it. Like he was your golden retriever. 

"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.

You turn to look at him. 

"Don't —" How does he phrase this without sounding insane? "The spoon thing. You're not putting that back in the sauce, right?"

Amusement coats your face as you try to mask a laugh. "Of course not. That would be a health code violation."

"Right. J-Just checking." Did he just fucking stutter? 

You're definitely laughing at him now, he can see it in your eyes even though you're still trying to hide it. "Don't worry, Chef. I know how kitchens work."

Bucky's left standing there like an idiot trying to remember what he was doing before you appeared with your spoon and your smile and your complete disregard for his sanity.

"You good, Buck?" Steve materializes at his elbow, with the knowing look on his face that Bucky doesn't appreciate.

"Fine."

"You've been staring at the same onion for like thirty seconds."

Bucky looks down. He has, in fact, been staring at an onion for thirty seconds. "I'm thinking."

"About onions?"

"About the menu."

"The menu. That's what you're thinking about." Steve's definitely smirking now.

"Fuck off."

"Just saying, she's good."

"I know she's good. I hired her."

"That's not what I —" Steve stops, that grin getting wider. "Yeah, okay. Sure. The food's good, alright."

Bucky finishes his notes, checks the walk-in one more time, makes sure everything's locked down for the night. The kitchen empties out slowly. He can hear voices from the changing room, people saying goodnight, the back door opening and closing as they filter out into the cold.

He's putting his jacket on when you emerge. The first thing he notices is that you've changed. Obviously. You're in jeans now and an extremely thin sweater, with your hair down instead of tied back. You look different like this. Softer. Without the chef's whites, without anything to hide yourself behind. 

The second thing he notices — and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't — is that it's cold in the kitchen. The sweater you're wearing is thin, and your nipples are hard.

Bucky's eyes drop before he can stop them. The sweater's fitted enough that he can see the outline clearly, and his brain just... stops working. Everything narrows down to that one detail, that one absolutely inappropriate thing he should not be looking at. He coughs, tries to hide that he wasn't looking at your tits, and looks away.

You're slinging your bag over your shoulder, completely oblivious. "Goodnight, Chef. It was a great day."

"Yeah. Goodnight."  

You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose. 

The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and then you're gone.

Bucky stands there in the empty kitchen, staring at nothing. His pants are getting tight. "Fuck."

This is bad. This is really fucking bad. He's got a hard-on for his sous chef, the woman he hired less than a week ago, the one who's been nothing but professional and competent. And the one who's completely unaware that she's driving him insane.

You're at least ten years younger than him. Probably more. Way too young for him to be standing here with his dick hard just because he saw the hard outline of your nipples through your sweater. He's too old for this shit, too old to be crushing on someone like a fucking teenager.

But no.

Bucky adjusts himself. He needs to go upstairs. Maybe take a cold shower to forget this ever happened. He has to get his shit together before he does something monumentally stupid. Locking up, he heads upstairs to his apartment, thankful Steve wasn't there to witness any of that. 

Alpine's waiting for him on the couch, curled up in a little ball. "Don't look at me like that," Bucky mutters.

She doesn't look at him at all.

Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt, heads to the bathroom. The shower has to be ice cold, to kill whatever this is before it becomes a problem.

But he shoves his pants and boxers down in record speed, and his hand's already on his cock.

Fuck it.

He's has been half-hard since the kitchen, and it takes almost nothing to get fully there. When he closes his eyes, he sees you, in that sweater, the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold. He wonders what they'd look like without the sweater, without anything.

His hand moves faster on his dick. He imagines peeling that sweater off you. You'd be in just your jeans, bare from the waist up. Your nipples would be hard peaks, he thinks. Taut and hard, begging to be touched, to be sucked. "Fuck."

In his head, you're in his apartment, on his bed, looking at him with that same defiant confidence you had in the interview, daring him to touch you. He'd start with his hands, palms cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped. And then he'd use his mouth, tongue flicking over each peak, sucking them until you were squirming beneath him.

Would you be loud? Or quiet? Would you arch into his touch or try to stay composed?

His grip tightens. He's leaking slick now, desperate to blow. He imagines you on your knees. That's what breaks him, the thought of you looking up at him with those eyes while you take him in your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, tongue doing things that should be illegal.

Or maybe you'd be on your back, legs spread, letting him taste you. He'd make you come on his tongue first. Wouldn't even touch himself, just focus on you, on making you fall apart.

Then he'd fuck you. Slow at first, just to watch your face. Then harder when you ask for it. And you would ask for it, he's sure of that. You're not the type to stay quiet about what you want.

The image of you underneath him, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath coming in gasps —

Bucky comes with a groan, spilling over his hand and onto the floor. The orgasm hits hard enough that his knees almost buckle, that he has to brace himself against the wall. He just stands there, breathing hard, covered in his own cum.

Then reality crashes back in. He just jerked off thinking about his sous chef. The woman who works for him, who trusts him to be professional. "Fuck."

The water's cold. He stands under the spray and tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This isn't going away. Whatever this is — this desperate want, this intense need — it's not going to disappear just because he got off once. If anything, it's worse now. Now that he knows what it feels like to imagine you, to picture you in his hands.

Bucky has been in a shit mood all day, snapping at people for things that wouldn't normally bother him. The fish is fine but he sends it back. When a line cook asks him a question, he bites their head off. Steve keeps giving him looks from across the kitchen, which says 'what crawled up your ass and died', but Bucky ignores him.

The problem is that he jerked off last night thinking about you. Now every time he looks at you, his brain goes straight back to that moment in the shower, and he hates himself for it.

You're his sous chef. His employee. Off limits in about a hundred different ways. Still doesn't stop his dick from getting interested every time you walk past him though. 

Service goes fine. Better than fine, actually. You're good at your job. Great, even. And that somehow makes it worse. Now he can't even pretend you're incompetent to convince himself to not want you.

Post-service debrief happens in the kitchen like always. Everyone gathers around, tired and wired, waiting for Bucky to tell them what they fucked up and how exactly. He's halfway through talking about the timing on table two when he realizes you're not there. Bucky stops mid-sentence, scanning the group. "Where's my sous?"

Everyone looks around. Blank faces.

"She was here like two minutes ago," Steve offers.

"Well she's not here now. Nobody leaves before the debrief. That's the rule."

"Maybe she went to the bathroom?" one of the line cooks suggests.

"I don't care if she had to take a piss. She waits."

Steve gives him another look. Bucky ignores it and finishes the debrief quickly, distracted now, annoyed that you'd just disappear without saying anything. That's not like you. You've been nothing but professional since you started. "Alright, we're done. Good work tonight." He dismisses everyone and heads for the back door, needing air and also needing to figure out where the hell you went.

The cold hits him immediately when he steps out. And there you are standing with your back to him, still in your whites. Bucky's about to lose his shit.

You missed the debrief to stand outside?

"Are you fucking serious right now?" The words come out harder than he's ever used with you. "You just left?"

When you turn around, Bucky's brain stutters to a halt because Alpine's in your arms.

There's genuine panic on your face. "I'm sorry. She — She almost got into the kitchen and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her walk in there."

Fuck, you weren't ditching the debrief. You were keeping his cat from causing about fifteen health code violations.

"I — Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't — I shouldn't have yelled at you." Bucky can see that Alpine's purring, completely content in your arms.

You're holding her carefully, one hand under her butt and the other supporting her back. "It's okay. I should've told someone, but she was about to go through the door and I just grabbed her."

"No, you did the right thing." Bucky's close enough now that he can see the way the cold has settled on your eyelashes. "I'm sorry I screamed at you."

"You didn't scream."

"I raised my voice."

"Barely." You smile a little, Alpine headbutts your chin. "Besides, I get it. The debrief's important."

"Not more important than —" Bucky gestures at Alpine. "You probably saved me from getting shut down."

A soft laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't let that happen to you, Chef." There's no hesitation in your voice, none at all. It catches him off guard, tight, right in his chest.

"She's really sweet." You're scratching under Alpine's chin. "I didn't know you had a cat."

"Yeah. Five years now."

"What's her name?"

"It's a he," Bucky doesn't know why he says that, only that he can't help himself, a smile slipping past.

"Wait, he?" You look down at Alpine, mortified now. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I saw the white fur and just assumed —"

"I'm kidding." Bucky's full-on grinning, a rarity. "It is a she. Her name's Alpine."

"Oh. You're terrible."

"Sorry."

"Nope. You're not."

Alpine meows, and you adjust your grip on her. She's not a small cat, Bucky's been feeding her too much. He can see the way you're starting to struggle with her weight. "You must be freezing," he says. He just wants you to get you in first, take Alpine off your hands. But his eyes drift lower. Can't help it. Your whites are barely thicker than that sweater from yesterday, but it's still cold enough here that he'd be able to tell if —

Nope. No. Fuck. Not doing this again.

"I'm okay," you say.

"You're in kitchen whites. Those aren't meant for standing outside in the cold."

"I've survived worse."

Bucky wants to ask what that means, wants to know everything about you actually, but Alpine chooses that moment to squirm in your arms. "I can take her… If she's getting heavy."

You pull back like you're offended, your acting mediocre at best. "Excuse me? Heavy? You take that back right now."

"What?"

"She's perfect. She's the perfect amount of chunky." There's a smile on your lips, and Alpine's looking between you both like she's enjoying this.

"I didn't —"

"No, the damage is done. Alpine and I are very offended."

"Are you two ganging up on me?" Bucky laughs. He can't help it. You're standing there in the freezing cold, holding his cat, giving him shit about calling her heavy, and he's laughing for the second time today. Both times because of you.

Alpine's staring at you with this dreamy expression, the same one she gives Bucky when she wants treats. Looks like he's not the only one developing a crush. "She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She doesn't usually take to people this fast."

"Well I'm very likable." You say it with a straight face. Bucky has to bite back another smile.

The back door opens and Steve sticks his head out. "Oh good, you found her." When he sees Alpine, his eyebrows go up. "What's Alpine doing out here?"

"Almost went into the kitchen. She caught her," Bucky explains.

Steve looks between you and Bucky, sort of an understanding crossing his face. "Right. Well, I'm heading out. You two should too. It's late and we've got an early morning."

"Yeah, just — give me a sec."

Steve's smirking as he goes back inside. Bucky knows he's going to hear about this tomorrow. When the door closes, it's just you, Bucky and Alpine in the cold. "He's right though. You should get home. It's late."

"Yeah… here." You seem reluctant, but you step closer to hand Alpine over. The transfer is awkward. Your hands brush his as you manoeuvre the cat between you, and Alpine protests the movement with a loud meow. For a second you're both holding her, your fingers tangled with his in her fur, close enough that Bucky can smell your shampoo again. Then Alpine's in his arms and you're stepping back. "Goodnight, Chef."

Bucky just nods. Anything else feels like it'd come out wrong.

The door swings shut behind you, the sound lingering in the quiet, as you head back inside. He's still standing, Alpine heavy in his arms, her tail flicking lazily against his chest like nothing just happened. Bucky exhales, a soft sigh, shifts his grip on her without really thinking about it. He can still feel the warmth where your hands brushed his a second ago, like it didn't quite leave with you. "I'm so fucked," he mutters, more to the cold air than anything else.

Alpine just purrs, completely unbothered. "Yeah, real helpful," he adds, scratching under her chin anyway.

Rushing back to his apartment, he makes a beeline to the window. But you're already gone. The buzzing of his phone brings him back to the room. 

Steve: You're in trouble

Bucky: Fuck off

Steve: She's pretty Steve: And she saved alpine Steve: And you looked at her like she hung the moon

Bucky: I said fuck off

Steve: Good luck buddy

He's not attracted to you. He's not. You're his sous chef and you're young and you're off-limits and he's not doing this. But…

You're working on your station, breaking down vegetables for the service, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky's at the stove testing a new recipe — you think —, his sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Forearms are on full display, tanned and muscular with veins running up under the skin and disappearing into the fabric bunched at his arms. There's the scar, cutting across his left arm. When he stirs the pan, his forearm flexes, the tendons shifting under skin, distracting you from whatever the hell you were just doing. 

You've seen arms before. You work in a kitchen. Everyone's got their sleeves rolled up and everyone's got arms.

But this is different. This is Bucky's arms, and you're staring like you've never seen a man cook before in your entire life. He reaches for something on the shelf above the stove, the muscle making its existence known again. You almost make a noise.

But Bucky glances over and your eyes meet. 

Did you moan out loud in the kitchen? Fuck.

He caught you. He absolutely caught you staring at his arms like some kind of pervert, eyebrows doing that thing where it quirks up slightly. Turning the heat down, he starts walking towards you. Your heart's trying to break out of your ribcage.

"You good?" he stops right next to your station. Close. Too close.

"Yeah. Yep. Totally fine." The words make their way out faster than it needs to be.

"You sure? You look a little flustered."

"It's hot in here."

He's not even pretending he doesn't know. "Is it? Could've sworn we fixed the ventilation."

"Must be coming down with something."

"Right." Bucky leans against the counter, crossing his arms to the front. That just makes it worse because now the veins are even more pronounced. "You were staring."

"I wasn't —"

"You were definitely staring."

Your mouth opens and closes, brain scrambling for literally anything to say that won't make this worse. "You have veins."

Bucky's eyelashes do a slow dance as he blinks, like he didn't hear you right. "What?"

"Veins. On your arms. They're very — I've never noticed them before. The veins, I mean. I've noticed your arms obviously because you have arms, everyone has arms, but the veins specifically are —" You're spiraling. You know you're spiraling, can't stop though. "It's the lighting in here. Makes them more visible. Or maybe you're dehydrated? You should drink more water. Hydration is important —"

Bucky leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear, making your entire body go rigid. "You're just digging your grave deeper, sweetheart."

Like he didn't just stop your heart, he's gone. Walks back to the stove, leaving you standing there holding a knife and a half-cut carrot, unable to move.

Service is a blur. You go through the motions, with your brain stuck on the way Bucky's voice sounded in your ear. Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.

That's not a chef thing. That's a thing thing.

By the time service ends and the kitchen's cleaned down, you're wound so tight you might snap. You change quickly, needing to get out of here before you do something fucking dumb.

Like jump your boss.

You're heading for the back door when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

When you turn, Bucky's there. Changed out of his whites, wearing jeans and a dark henley that you immediately want to take off. "Hey."

"You rushing off?"

"Just — long day."

"Yeah." He's got his hands in his pockets, there's a nervousness about the gesture, kind of insane because Bucky Barnes doesn't get nervous. "So — uh — Alpine misses you."

If there's a loading screen on your brain, you just wish it doesn't show up on your face. "What?"

"Alpine. She's been sitting by the door all week waiting for you to come back."

"That so?" You can't help but smile.

"Yeah. Won't stop meowing about it." He shifts his weight, you wonder ig he really is nervous. "Thought maybe you could come say hi? If you're not too tired."

This is a terrible idea. You know it's a terrible idea. Going to Bucky's apartment, alone, is possibly the worst decision you could make. But there's no hesitation when you answer, "sure." 

Bucky's face breaks into an expression you've never seen on him. Relief? "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, can't leave Alpine hanging."

"Right. For Alpine."

"For Alpine," you repeat.

There's a beat where you both just stand there.

"C'mon… She's upstairs."

You follow him through the kitchen and up the back stairs you've never been allowed to use before, the ones that lead to his apartment. Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.

Bucky unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The apartment is somehow exactly what you expected. Minimal with large windows overlooking the street, couch, a kitchen that looks barely used, and some photos on the wall. It doesn't help that it smells like him. "It's nice," you say.

"It's —"

Alpine comes tearing around the corner, meowing loudly, making a beeline straight for you.

"Oh my god, hi baby." You crouch down as she headbutts your hand. "Did you miss me? I missed you too."

Bucky's watching you with this expression you can't read, soft and a little awed. "She really did miss you."

"I can tell." Alpine flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs, you comply immediately. "She's perfect. Aren't you perfect? Yes you are."

"I'm starting to think she likes you more than me."

"Well, I am very likable."

"So you've mentioned."

"Bears repeating." You scratch under Alpine's chin as she stretches out longer, completely blissed out. "So, does she have a story?"

"Found her outside a restaurant."

"And she just — came home with you?"

"She didn't have much choice. Was soaking wet and scared." Bucky moves to the kitchen. There's the sound of cabinets opening. "She hissed at me for like three days straight. Eventually she warmed up. Now she's spoiled rotten."

"As she should be. You're living your best life, aren't you sweetie?"

When you glance up, Bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter with two glasses of water, watching you play with his cat, the usual look in his eyes replaced by softness.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." He crosses the room and hands you a glass. "You looked thirsty."

"Thanks." Your fingers brush when you take it, the electric feeling you've been feeling shoots up your arm.

Bucky sits on the floor next to you instead of on the couch, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. "She never does this with anyone else."

"Does what?"

"The belly rub thing. She barely tolerates Steve."

"Maybe she has good taste."

"That she does."

Alpine rolls over to climb into your lap, circling twice before settling. The weight of her is warm and grounding.

"I think you've been claimed," Bucky smiles, it makes him look younger.

"I'm okay with that."

You're sitting on the floor of your boss' apartment with his cat in your lap, with him close enough to touch. An excuse to flee the scene should be on the tip of your tongue. The reality is anything but as you find yourself leaning into Alpine more. 

"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.

"Mhmm."

"Earlier. In the kitchen… What were you looking at?"

"I —" 

"Because you were definitely looking at something."

"I wasn't — okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's — you were cooking and your sleeves were up and I don't know, it was distracting."

"Distracting," he repeats, like he's pleased with your answer.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Sound so smug about it."

"I'm not smug."

"You're absolutely smug right now."

Bucky laughs, and you risk a glance at him. He's closer than you thought. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him, smell him, see those little flecks of grey in his blue eyes.  

"For what it's worth, I think it's cute." His voice is barely a whisper.

"What is?"

"That you were staring. That you got all flustered, started rambling about hydration."

"I wasn't rambling."

"You were definitely rambling."

"I was making valid points about water intake —"

Alpine pads off toward her food bowl, offended she's not getting enough attention, leaving you and Bucky sitting on the floor with nothing between you. The space feels smaller suddenly, or maybe he feels closer. You're hyperaware of every detail, how he's looking at you, how his hand is resting on his knee just inches from yours, how you're alone with him in his space and your brain won't shut up about it.

When Bucky shifts, your eyes drop to his mouth without permission. You look back up to see he's staring at your lips too. "Can I —" He gulps, building courage. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes." It comes out way too fast, borderline desperate, but you can't seem to care.

One second, you're a safe distance apart and the next, his hand is cupping your jaw and he's kissing you.

Oh god, he's kissing you.

His lips are soft, sure. It's everything you've been thinking about for weeks. You kiss him back, probably too eager, definitely too hungry, and he makes this low noise in his throat that goes straight between your legs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, let him tilt your head exactly how he wants it, let him kiss you deeper, let him take whatever he needs. When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.

"Fuck. I've wanted to do that for weeks." He kisses you again, shorter this time. "Since the interview."

"You hired me and immediately wanted to kiss me?"

"Something like that."

"That's very unprofessional, Chef."

"Don't care." He's moving before you can answer, hauling you up and then higher, until your balance goes and you're grabbing onto him just to steady yourself.

"Bucky — I — "

"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall. 

He sets you down on the bed — his bed — and immediately his mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he'll die if he stops. His hands find the hem of your sweater, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. "Lie down."

You obey. You'd probably do anything he asked right now.

Bucky follows you onto the bed, settling between your legs as he starts kissing down your neck, sucking little marks into your skin, dragging his mouth over your collarbones and the soft swell between your breasts. His hands work your jeans open, you lift your hips to help him slide them down.

"These too," his fingers hook into your underwear. A soft whimper slips out of you, making him smirk. He strips them off and tosses them somewhere behind him. He's pressing hot, open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, stubble scraping your skin as he works higher toward your aching pussy.

Your brain finally catches up to what's about to happen. "Oh my god."

"Relax," Bucky murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you." His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, your hips bucking into his face involuntarily.

The first slow, filthy drag of his tongue through your slick folds makes you gasp, back bowing off the bed. He groans like you taste good, like this is doing something for him too, then he's devouring your cunt with single-minded hunger, tongue fucking deep before switching to tight circles on your clit. 

Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the strands. That doesn't faze him in anyway, he just keeps working you with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles that make your thighs shake.

He pulls back just enough to speak. "Fuck, your pussy tastes so goddamn good, sweetheart." His mouth attaches to your clit this time, making you cry out. He's ruthless about it, sucking hard on your swollen clit while his tongue lashes it. When you try to close your legs at the overwhelming sensation, he keeps them spread with his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you.

"I can't — Buck — It's too much —"

"You can take it. C'mon, baby. Let me feel you cum."

Two fingers slide inside your soaked cunt. It's immediate how your breath stutters to come to a halt, the tight coil in your belly snapping without warning, pleasure rolling through you in waves while Bucky works you through it with his mouth and fingers. It goes on forever, ebbing and flowing, until you're boneless.

When you can finally think again, Bucky's kissing his way back up your body, chin wet with your slick, looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.

When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue, impossibly hot. Your hands find his shirt and start pulling at it. "Off. This needs to be off."

Bucky sits back and yanks it over his head in one smooth motion, and you get your first full look at his chest. Broad and muscled with a trail of dark hair leading down to what you most want now. 

He's working his jeans open now, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock is rock hard, flushed, and leaking precum at the tip.

"Oh my god."

"What?" He's smirking.

"That's — you're —" Your brain's stopped working again.

Bucky wraps a hand around himself and gives a slow stroke, and you watch like you're hypnotized. The veins running along his length stand out, prominent and thick. Like he's read your mind, "how about the veins on my cock? Like 'em?"

If you could, you'd hide yourself. "Bucky!"

"What?" He's fully grinning, looking way too pleased with himself. "You seemed interested in veins earlier."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"I really — oh —"

He's positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance by coming close enough, but not quite in. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

"Still hate me?" he asks, this time bumping your clit with the fat tip.  

"Y-yeah."

"I'm so glad you cook better than you lie, you're a terrible liar."

He taps his cock against your clit once more and you nearly come off the bed. It's too much and not enough and you need him inside you right fucking now. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me. Please fuck me."

"Well — Since you asked so nicely."

He pushes in slowly, the stretch perfect. You're so wet that he slides in easy, inch by inch, until he's fully seated and you're both groaning.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. "You feel — fuck."

You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move. 

The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes you see stars. By the third you're moaning openly, not even trying to be quiet. "That's it," Bucky snaps his hips to yours, his cock . "Let me hear you."

Bucky fucks you like it's the only thing on his mind. Deep and perfect, dragging his cock along your most sensitive spots. One hand is braced by your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you'll probably bruise. "You're so tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect." Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck — Do that again."

Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours. 

"Fuck — you feel incredible, sweetheart."

Bucky shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks.

"There — fuck, right there —"

He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm —"

"I know. I can feel it." His thumb finds your clit to run frantic but perfect circles over it. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock."

The combination of his cock, his thumb and his voice is too much. You come apart, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, just keeps going until you're almost sobbing from how good it feels.

"Where?" he grits out.

It takes you a second to understand what he's asking. "Inside. I'm on birth control — inside, please —"

Bucky groans and buries himself deep, pulsing until thick ropes of cum floods you, saying your name over and over again. Without pulling from you, he collapses next to you. "Holy shit."

You turn your head to look at him. He's looking at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked.

He reaches over to pull you close, your body finds his willingly, curl into his side like you belong there.

You wake up to Alpine sitting on your chest, staring directly into your soul. For a second you're disoriented, brain trying to catch up with where you are. Then, it does. The arm draped across your waist belongs to Bucky, who's still dead asleep next to you, face buried in the pillow.

Alpine chooses that minute to meow, loud enough that you're worried she'll wake him.

"Okay, okay," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from Bucky's hold. He makes a small noise of protest in his sleep but doesn't wake. Instead, he reaches for the pillow you were using and pulls it close to his chest.

It's stupidly endearing.

Alpine leads you straight to her food bowl. Like she knows you'll give in. Which you will, because you're weak for both Barnes in this apartment.

The food's in the cabinet above the sink. You've stayed over enough times that you know where everything is.

It's been two weeks since that first night, and you still haven't talked about what this is and what you're doing. You just keep falling into bed together after service, wake up tangled in his sheets and pretend everything's normal while you're at work. It's easier that way. Safer. Putting a name to this thing between you, feels dangerous, like it'll make it real in a way you're not sure you're ready for.

Alpine crunches her food happily while you stand in Bucky's kitchen at six in the morning, barefoot and wearing his shirt from yesterday, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this feels.

"You're up early." Bucky's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, shirtless, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on. His hair's a disaster, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The most breathtaking thing about this is that he has a smile on his face.

"Your cat's very demanding," you say.

"Yeah, she gets that from me." He crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around you from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. The weight of him is familiar now, comforting, making you lean back without a second thought, without hesitation.

This is the part that scares you. How easy it is. How right it feels to stand here in his space while he holds you like this is something you do every day, like you belong here.

"You staying for breakfast?" His voice is still rough with sleep.

"I should go home. Need to change before work."

"You could keep clothes here."

The offer sounds casual, practical. But you know what he's really asking. If you'll stay. If this is more than just convenient.

"Mhmm, don't like seeing me in your clothes?" Deflection comes easy to you.

"I think I love it a little too much." His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of his shirt.

"That so?"

He presses a kiss to your neck, right below your ear. You have to close your eyes against the rush of warmth that floods through you. "Looks good on you."

"Everything looks good on me."

"Can't argue with that."

You turn in his arms, his hands settling on your waist. "I'll think about it." The clothes thing. The staying thing. All of it.

The walk-in freezer is a blessed relief from the heat of the kitchen, even if you're hunting for duck at eight o'clock on a busy night. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you scan the shelves, fingers already going numb. There's a faraway sound of the door opening and clicking shut behind you. 

"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots —" you call over your shoulder, to whoever it may be.

A hand lands firm on your ass. "Found something way better than shallots." Bucky's voice is smug behind you. When you whip around, he's standing there, looking at you like you're what he wants to devour.

"Are you insane?" Heat floods through you despite the cold. "We're working."

His hand slides to your hip, over the kitchen whites. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't tell your boss."

There's a little smirk playing at his mouth, it makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "You're the worst," it comes out breathy.

"Yeah?" His other hand joins the first, sliding down to cup your ass properly, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Doesn't seem like you mind."

You think about pushing him back. There's staff right outside and this is wildly unprofessional even by your standards. It doesn't stick, though. Your hands bunch in his coat, pulling him closer.

Bucky grins, his hand draws back and cracks across your ass. The yelp that escapes you is mortifying. So is the way your pussy clenches at the sharp sting, the way you lean into him instead of away. He does it again, other cheek this time, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making another sound. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Everytime you looked at me during service."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

The audacity of this man. Leaning on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Hard and graceless, you taste the coffee he'd been drinking, he kisses you back, returning the same ferocity.

His hands knead your ass through your work pants, making you aware of how empty you feel, how badly you want his fingers, his cock, anything to fill the ache that's been building between your legs. Your hand drops down to palm him through his pants, already hard, thick and straining against the fabric. The groan he makes against your mouth goes straight to your heat. 

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. His hips rock into your touch, shameless in its pursuit. His own hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through the layers, but it's not nearly enough. You find yourself grinding against his palm like you've lost all self-respect, chasing the friction.

"Jesus, you're soaked already." His fingers press harder, rubbing over where your clit throbs. "Can almost feel it through your pants. You been walking around the kitchen like this all night? Drippin' wet for me?"

Ever since he brushed past you during prep, you've been aching for him. It's pathetic how easily he gets you like this.

"Answer me, sweetheart." He nips at your jaw. Your hand works him faster through his pants while he grinds the heel of his palm against you. "Tell me how wet that pussy is."

"So wet," you gasp out, head falling back against the shelf. "Bucky —"

"Want me to fuck you right here? Bend you over, make you scream where anyone could walk in and hear what a mess you are for me?"

Your fingers slip against his belt, not as steady as you want them to be. "Yes, please —"

Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open. 

"Hey Buck, we need you on the — Oh my god." Steve stands frozen in the doorway. You watch in real time as his brain tries to process what he's seeing.

Bucky's hand is between your legs. Your hand is on Bucky's cock. Both of you look disheveled and panting. For half a second, it says that way.

Steve's face goes bright red. "I'm — fuck —I didn't—" He's backing away, hands up like he's been burned. "I'm leaving. Leaving right now. I didn't see anything. Bye."

The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves, just stillness remaining. Bucky's pressed into you, forehead to your shoulder, shaking for a reason you don't yet know. 

"Oh my god. Steve just — he saw us —" you gasp. 

"Yep."

You owe Steve an apology. Probably several. Maybe a bottle of expensive whiskey. "Your bestfriend is gonna think I'm corrupting you."

"You are corrupting me."

"Shut up."

The difference in testing new recipes at Bucky's apartment is that his kitchen is a bit smaller than the one at the restaurant. Which means you're constantly in each other's space, brushing past each other to grab ingredients, hands colliding, his arm pressing against yours while you work side by side at the counter.

You're supposed to be perfecting a glaze for the spring menu. Something with honey that'll complement the duck without overpowering it. Bucky's doing the actual cooking part while you handle the sauce. 

Everything's going fine until you try to pour honey from the jar into your saucepan. The jar, heavier than you thought, drips the golden stream of honey onto your hand, your skin, more than the saucepan. Like any sane person, you decide to clean yourself. 

Angling your hand over the sink, you're trying to wash the honey off, when Bucky appears next to you. He grabs your wrist to bring it to his mouth, lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking the honey off, tongue swirling around your skin. Heat shoots straight between your legs. 

His eyes are locked on yours the whole time. As he moves to your next finger, you forget how to breathe. He takes his time with each one. Licking. Sucking. Making sure he gets every drop of honey while you stand there trying to remember your own name. When he finally releases your hand, his voice comes out rough. "That tastes so much better than regular honey."

"It's — It's the same honey," you reply dumbly. 

"No. It's not." 

"Bucky —"

"I need more." The hunger, the possessiveness in his voice goes straight to your cunt. "Get on the counter."

There is a brief second where you wonder if reminding him would be better, that you're both working, that you have to get this sauce done before anything else. But your body has other plans, complying itself as he lifts you onto air and places you on the counter. 

The granite's cold against your thighs. Bucky positions himself between your legs, and reaches for the honey jar with one hand, while the other stays rooted to your hip. Like you'd move if he moves. You won't. "What are you doing?" you ask, even though part of you already knows.

"Testing a theory." He dips two fingers into the honey and pulls them out, watching the way it drips. "About whether everything tastes better on you."

Honey coated fingers move across your throat, right over the dip of your collarbone, pulling a gasp out of you. Bucky leans in to lick a long stripe across your skin, following the honey trail with his tongue. "Fuck. I was right."

"Bucky — "

"What?" He has the audacity to look innocent. "This is an experiment." He's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it over the barstool. Your bra follows seconds later. What's left is you half-naked in his kitchen while he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

"This is not an experiment."

"Sure it is." More honey on his fingers, he drizzles it just above your breasts. "Hypothesis: you make everything taste better."

Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue tracing the path of honey across your skin. He's meticulous about it, making sure he gets every drop. The combination of his tongue and the sticky sweetness has you squirming on the counter. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?" He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "Tell me what you want."

"More. I want —" The words die on your tongue when he drizzles honey between your breasts, watching it slide down your skin.

"Want this?" He leans down and licks up the valley.

"Yes —" you whimper.

"You taste so fucking good." He's lost to it now, completely focused on chasing every drop of honey on your skin. "Better than anything I've ever made." That's probably the highest compliment you'll ever receive. 

"That's —" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck —"

The honey sticks to the peak, driping down the curve of your breast. Bucky catches it with his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his lips to suck.

"Bucky —" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please —"

Your back arches, pushing your chest more towards his mouth. He relishes in the invitation, tongue flicking over your nipple while he sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make you grind towards nothing in search of friction. "Oh my god —"

Bucky chases every drop with his tongue, until you're making sounds you've never made before. That doesn't seem to affect him, he casually moves to your other breast and does it all over again. More honey. More of his mouth. More of that devastating tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he says against your skin. "Could do this all day."

"We're supposed to be working —"

"We are working." He bites down gently on your nipple, making you cry out. "I'm working very hard right now."

Your laugh turns into a moan when his hand slides up your thigh. "These are in my way." He's working your shorts open. You lift your hips to help him shove them down along with your underwear. Completely naked on his kitchen counter, with him fully dressed and kneeling between your legs, Bucky speaks, "spread wider."

The way he looks at you, at how wet you already are, makes you clench around nothing. Bucky angles you so that your back is planted on the counter, and drizzles honey on your inner thigh, high enough that with the help of gravity, it drips down toward where you're aching for him.

Leaning in, he starts at your knee, working his way up with a patience that's going to kill you. His tongue is hot against your skin, chasing the trail once again. By the time he gets halfway up your thigh, you're ready to beg. "Bucky —"

"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.

"Oh god —"

"Just me, baby." The smugness in his voice is a thing you'd like to hate, you would try if you weren't already too far gone. 

"Please — Buck — touch me. P-please touch me."

"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.

"You — You know what I mean —"

He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh — you think — but something in you snaps right before. Lifting up your body with purpose and determination, your hand shoots out to grab his collar. "If you don't fuck me right now —"

"But, I'm not done —"

"Barnes." You use your other hand now, pulling him up to your eye level. "Shut up and fuck me."

His mouth pulls into a grin that's all teeth, enjoying this a little too much. "Yes ma'am."

While he's working his belt open, you're pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. His cock finally springs free, a moan escaping you from just seeing it. "This what you want?" Bucky fists himself, giving a slow stroke that makes your mouth water.

"Yes. God, yes —"

"How bad?"

"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds —"

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait more, he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect and exactly what you needed.

Both of you groan at the same time, relief spilling past shamelessly. "Fuck — You feel — Jesus fucking Christ —"

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hitting your cervix, making you scream. He's so deep like this, deep inside you, that your vision blurs.

"That's it," he groans against your neck. "Let me hear you." Bucky is fucking you in earnest, while you hold on to his shoulders and try not to fall apart. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is mixed with your desperate noises and his low groans.

"Been thinking about this all mornin'," Bucky pants. "Watchin' you work, being all professional about the sauce — wanted to — fuck — wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad —"

You love his dirty talk. God knows you love it. But there's this intense need to be filled up, and his talking is currently slowing his dick. "Less talking," you gasp. "More fucking—"

Smirking, he shifts the angle, suddenly hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, makes you sob. "Right there?" he asks, but he knows, could tell from the way you're clenching around him.

"Don't stop — please —"

When his thumb finds your clit, you nearly come off the counter. Between that, his cock and the filthy sounds he's making, you're not going to last. "I'm close, Buck — I'm so close —"

"Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? C'mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

His words and one more thrust sends you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him. Bucky fucks you through it while cursing under his breath. Not long after, he buries himself deep. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up.

There's something dripping down your thighs, you don't know if it's honey, cum or sweat. Probably all mixed together, but you can't bring yourself to care.

When Bucky pulls out, you both wince at the loss. He looks down at the mess you've made, there's honey smeared on your skin, cum dripping out of you onto his counter. He lets out a breathless laugh. "We're disgusting."

"Your fault."

"My fault? You're the one who told me to shut up and fuck you." 

"You're the one who started the whole honey thing."

"You're the one who spilled it."

"Accidentally."

"Sure. Accidentally." He kisses you, slow, sweet. You kiss him back, tasting honey off his tongue. 

You should probably be mortified of the scene Alpine might walk into, but all you can think about is how you want to do this again. "We really need to clean up," you try being the responsible adult despite what you're feeling.

"Probably." But he's kissing your neck again. "In a minute."

"Bucky —"

"Just one more taste."

"Alpine, no — that's not food." You're trying to rescue a hair tie from Alpine's paws while Bucky makes coffee in the kitchen.

It's early enough that the sun's barely up, that grey-blue light filtering through the windows of his apartment.

"She thinks everything's food," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Found her trying to eat a receipt yesterday."

"She's going to make herself sick." Alpine bats at your hand, completely unrepentant. "You're a menace. You know that?"

She meows like she's arguing with you.

Bucky appears with two mugs, handing you one before sitting on the floor next to you. Alpine immediately abandons the hair tie to climb into his lap. "Traitor," you mutter.

The coffee's perfect. He's figured out how you take it. Same way you know he likes his black. "What time do we need to leave?" you ask.

"Hour. Maybe less if we want to prep early."

"We always prep early."

"Force of habit." He's scratching behind Alpine's ears, that absent-minded gesture he does when he's thinking. "You staying tonight too?"

The question should feel loaded but it doesn't. It's Bucky asking if you're staying, like he wants you to, like he's gotten used to you being here.

"If that's okay."

"It's okay. I like when you're here." His voice is soft.

You think about your apartment across town. How you haven't slept there in forever. How your fridge is empty and your bed feels too big and too quiet. How this feels more like home than anywhere you've lived in years.

"I like being here," you admit.

He pulls you closer with his free arm. You lean against his shoulder, coffee warming your hands, and let yourself have this.

"We should go soon," you say eventually. "Delivery comes at seven."

"Five more minutes."

"Bucky —"

"Five minutes. Please. Just want to sit here with you."

Alpine whips her head towards him, a 'did I hear that right?' look plastered on her face.

"And you too," Bucky admits, pulling you both closer.

"I'm just saying, the timing's convenient for her." The words make you freeze with your hand on the door. Jason's voice carries from somewhere near the dish station. It's so casual, the way guys get when they think they're being clever.

"What timing?" That's the new line cook. Miller? You can't remember his name and right now you don't care.

"Come on. Hired on spot? That's fast even for someone good."

"Maybe she is good."

Jason laughs like he doesn't care about what he's saying. "Oh, she's good. Question is what she's good at." The new guy laughs too, your stomach dropping straight through the floor.

"Oldest trick in the book," Jason continues. "Want a job in the best kitchen? Fuck the chef. Worked for her."

"Barnes seems smarter than that."

"Barnes is a guy. And you've seen her."

You probably should walk away. The opposite direction of all of this. You should not stand here and listen to them talk about you like you're not a person, like you're just a body that fucked its way into a position you spent years working toward.

But you can't move, can't breathe.

"Either way, smart play on her part. Get on your knees, get ahead."

They're still laughing when you finally force your legs to work, turning and walking in the opposite direction before they can see you, before they can know you heard every fucking word.

Your hands are shaking when you reach the prep station. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribs and pulled them taut. Pressing your palms flat against the counter, you try to breathe normally.

Three weeks. That's all it took for people to start talking. To start assuming. To start reducing everything you've accomplished to who you're sleeping with.

And the worst part is if anyone finds out about you and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will look at your position and assume you earned it on your back. They'll question Bucky's judgment, his professionalism, and whether he's running his restaurant based on merit or based on who's warming his bed.

You can't let that happen. You can't be the reason Brooklyn's Taste's reputation gets dragged through the mud, can't be the reason people stop trusting Bucky's decisions. Which means this thing between you — whatever it is, whatever it was becoming — has to stop.

Your throat burns but you swallow it down. You force yourself to get through the rest of prep, to plate during service like your world hasn't just shifted sideways. It almost kills you to smile and pretend everything's fine when Bucky catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths 'you okay?'

All you can do is nod. It's a lie. He probably knows it's a lie from the way his eyebrows pull together, but there's service and no time to get into this.

You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.

But when later comes, you're slipping out the back door before Bucky can corner you and ask what's wrong. You can't look him in the eye and pretend you didn't hear someone reduce your entire career to a transaction.

Bucky catches you by the lockers after service the next night. There's a doubt in his tone, like he already knows the answer. "You comin' up?"

"Can't tonight." You're pulling your jacket on, trying very hard not to look at him. "I'm not feeling great."

"What's wrong? Do you need —"

"Just tired. Long week."

It's Wednesday.

Bucky doesn't point that out but you can tell he wants to. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, his hand comes up like he's going to touch you and then falls back to his side.

"Okay… feel better, okay?"

You leave before the guilt can stop you. You'll break down and tell him everything if you don't walk, the confusion in his eyes will kill you. 

Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your clothes are still in his closet. There's a drawer full of your shit in his dresser, your shampoo in his shower and probably a hair tie on his bedside table.

But you can't go back, can't step foot in that apartment again. If you do, you'll crack. You'll tell him what you heard and he'll say it doesn't matter and you'll believe him because you want to believe him so fucking badly it hurts.

But it does matter. It matters that people are already talking, that your relationship could damage his restaurant — his life. It matters that every time someone questions your abilities, they'll be questioning his judgment too.

So you go home to your empty apartment and try not to think about how Alpine's probably waiting by the door for you.

It gets easier after that. Or maybe it gets harder and you just get better at it. You start showing up to work right on time instead of early. You make excuses when he texts — headache, early morning, catching up on sleep. All technically true, all curated to create distance.

Bucky notices, of course. He's not stupid. "What's going on with you?"

You're in the office doing inventory counts, and he's standing in the doorway looking at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll figure out what broke.

"Nothing's going on."

"You haven't stayed over in a week."

"I've been tired."

"You're avoiding me."

"I'm not —"

"You are." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. The small space suddenly feels smaller. "Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it."

You did everything right, you want to say. He made space for you in his life. In his home, his bed, his routine. Now that space is a liability, ammunition for anyone who wants to question whether you earned your position or fucked your way into it.

He looks so worried, so confused. All you want to do is cross the room and kiss him, tell him it's not his fault, scream about Jason and the new guy and the sick feeling that's been living in your stomach for days.

But you can't. Telling him means admitting the relationship is a problem, and admitting it's a problem means either ending it or ignoring it. You can't do either.

"You didn't do anything. I just need space."

You watch Bucky's face change, as he tries to hide the hurt, nod even though you can tell he doesn't understand.

When he leaves, you sit there staring at inventory sheets you can't read anymore because your eyes are burning.

Bucky brings Alpine to you a week later. You hear her distinctive meow that makes your heart clench, before you can even see her. When you turn around, he's holding her like an offering. "She missed you."

Alpine's purring, looking at you with those big blue eyes. You want to take her and bury your face in her soft fur, breathe in that familiar smell and pretend everything's okay. "Bucky —"

His voice is soft, pleading. "Just for a minute… please."

You wipe your hands on your apron and take her before you can think better of it. She immediately curls into your chest, purring loud enough to vibrate your whole ribcage. Your hand runs down her back automatically, that familiar motion you've done a hundred times in Bucky's apartment. "Hey, baby," you murmur. "Hi, sweet girl."

When you look up, Bucky's watching you, eyes glassy. There's so much longing there, so much confusion and hurt, and you can see him trying to understand why you're doing this. Why you're pulling away, why you won't talk to him.

"I miss you… Alpine's not the only one."

"Buck —"

"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just — I hate that you're not there."

The apartment must feel so empty without you, frozen in time waiting for you to come back. Except you're not. You can't, not when being with him means people will assume the worst about both of you. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"That's not an answer."

Alpine headbutts your chin, demanding attention. You focus on her instead of the way Bucky's looking at you.

"Something's wrong," he says.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Everything's wrong!" An octave rise in his tone, desperation bleeding through as frustration. 

Alpine meows softly, like she can sense the tension. You hand her back to Bucky before you do something stupid like cry. "I need to get back to work."

"Wait —"

"Please don't make this harder than it already is." You walk away before he can respond. You cannot see the devastation on his face, you will completely fall apart in the middle of the kitchen.

Behind you, Alpine meows again, sad and confused, and you hear Bucky's quiet, broken, "I know, baby."

Bucky looks like shit. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair's a mess like he didn't bother combing it, and he's wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, a small stain on the collar from the sauce he was testing last night.

He barely looks at you during prep, barely speaks except to call out orders. And when Steve asks him a question, Bucky just stares at him for a solid five seconds before answering like he forgot how words work.

You did this. You're the reason Bucky looks like he hasn't slept in a week. The reason he's moving through his own kitchen like a ghost.

You're in dry storage counting inventory when Steve finds you. "We need to talk."

You don't look up from your clipboard, you can't. You can't lie to one more person. "I'm working."

"So am I. And part of my job is making sure this kitchen runs smoothly, which it's not doing right now."

"Everything's fine."

"Really? Because Bucky's been a mess for three weeks and you look like you're about to cry every time you're in the same room as him. So either tell me what's going on or I'm going to assume the worst."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Bullshit."

"Steve —"

"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable —"

"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's — it's nothing like that."

"Then what?"

"It's personal."

"Personal is affecting professional. So it's my business."

Looking at Steve is hard. Talking about this is hard. So you turn back to the shelves. "Can you just drop it?"

"No."

"Steve —"

"He's my best friend. I've known him since we were kids and I've never seen him like this. He won't eat, he barely sleeps, and yesterday I caught him just standing in his apartment staring at nothing. So no, I'm not going to drop it."

Words refuse to come out, but you force them. "He'll be fine."

"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, you're both miserable and too stubborn to do anything about it."

"You don't understand —"

"So, help me understand. Explain it to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's complicated."

"Try me."

You slam the clipboard down on the shelf. "Because if people find out about us, they'll think I slept my way into this kitchen. Happy?"

Steve looks at you with confusion. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Who the hell would think that?"

"Everyone, Steve. Everyone will think that. Woman gets a competitive job? Must've fucked the boss." A laugh comes out, it's anything but humourous. 

"That's — no one here would —"

"They already are."

Steve goes very still, like he cannot believe his own ears. "What?"

You shouldn't tell him. You should probably keep your mouth shut and let this go. But you're so tired of carrying this alone, so tired of pretending it doesn't hurt.

"I heard Jason and that new line cook talking. About how convenient the timing was. How I must be 'good at my job', if you know…" Your voice cracks, a hiccup in your words, you can't help it. "They laughed about it. About me." Tears well up in your eyes.

"Son of a bitch. When was this?" Steve's knuckles go white, even though he doesn't have anything in his hand. Purely from rage.

He should've been able to make out the timeline, but you know he's stressed. "Three weeks ago."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

"Who was I supposed to tell? Bucky? So he could fire them and prove their point?"

"Their point is bullshit —"

"Is it? Because if people find out about me and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will assume I fucked my way in. And worse, they'll think Bucky's judgment is compromised. That he's not professional, and running this place based on who he's with, instead of who's qualified."

Steve lets out a sigh, you know he's not seeing your point. "So your solution is to break up with him?"

"We weren't together."

"Bullshit."

"Fine. It doesn't matter what we were. It matters what it looks like."

"To who? Jason? Some asshole line cook who's probably jealous he's not good enough to make sous?"

"To everyone. To food critics and investors and other chefs, to everyone who's watching Brooklyn's Taste and waiting for Bucky to fuck up. I can't be the reason his reputation gets ruined."

"His reputation? What about yours? And what about happiness? Both of yours?"

You ignore the latter. "My reputation doesn't matter —"

"The hell it doesn't."

"Steve —"

"You think hiding this is going to make it better? You think people are going to stop talking just because you and Bucky aren't together?"

You don't have an answer for that.

His voice softens slightly. "Look, I get it. People are assholes. But you're not protecting him by shutting him out. You're just making him miserable."

"Better miserable than —"

"Than what? Happy? Than having something good for once in his life?" Steve runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice again. "Do you know what he said to me when you started seeing each other? He said he finally understood what everyone meant about coming home to someone. That for the first time in years, he wasn't coming home to an empty apartment."

Blurry eyes make it hard for you to see him. "Steve —"

"He's in love with you. Even if he hasn't said it yet, it's obvious. And you're killing him."

"I'm trying to protect him."

"From what? From people talking? They're going to talk anyway. People always talk."

"Not if there's nothing to talk about."

"You really think that's going to work? You really think you can just walk away and everything goes back to normal?"

"I don't know. I — I don't know, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing is being honest with him."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I tell him, he'll want to fix it. He'll either fire Jason or reprimand him or do something that'll just make everything worse." You swipe at your eyes fast. "Any way this goes, it makes him look bad. If he fires them, people will say he's protecting his girlfriend. If he ignores it, the rumors get worse. There's no winning here."

"So you're just going to keep avoiding him? Keep pretending nothing's wrong?"

"I don't know what else to do."

Steve's quiet for a long moment. "You could try trusting him."

"I do trust him —"

"No, you trust him to cook, to run his kitchen. But you don't trust him to handle this. He's stronger than you think. And he deserves to know what's going on."

"If I tell him —"

"He'll want to fight for you. Yeah. That's what people do when they care about someone."

You close your eyes and let the tears fall freely now.

Bucky's going through the motions of prep when Steve walks back into the kitchen looking like someone just punched him in the gut.

"What's wrong with you?" The question comes out automatically, that reflexive check-in he's been doing since they were kids.

"We need to talk. Office. C'mon."

"I'm working —"

"Now, Buck."

Steve never uses that tone unless something's seriously wrong. Wordless, Bucky puts down his knife and follows Steve into the office. The door closes behind them with a click that sounds too loud in the small space. "What happened? Someone quit?"

"No. But I just talked to her."

Bucky wants to speak, but words fail him. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth hurt. 

"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues. 

"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word. 

Steve runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how to say whatever he's about to say. "Jason and one of the new guys were talking shit, about her. Said she… slept her way into your kitchen."

The words don't register first. Bucky's brain refuses to process them, like if he doesn't acknowledge what Steve just said then it won't be real. "They said what?"

"She overheard them three weeks ago. That's why she's been pulling away. She thinks if people find out about you two, everyone will assume the same thing."

"That's —" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's — that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever — we weren't even —"

"I know."

"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She —" His hands are trembling with the effort of not putting his fist through the wall. He shoves them in his pockets. "Who the fuck do they think they are?"

"Assholes. But that's not the point —"

"They're talking about her like she's — like she —" The sentence dies in his throat. Saying it out loud will make it real, will make him lose the last thread of control he's got. "I'm firing them. Both of them. Today."

"That's exactly what she said you'd do."

"Good. Then she knows me."

"Buck —"

"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't —" Bucky's palm connects with the desk hard enough to rattle the papers on it. "Fuck. Does she really think I'd let anyone believe that? Does she think I give a shit what people say?"

"She's trying to protect your reputation."

"My reputation? What about hers?" The question comes out louder than he means it to, weeks of frustration packed into a question. "She's been dealing with this alone for three fucking weeks because she was worried about what — me?"

"Yeah."

"That's — Why didn't she tell me?" He starts pacing. Standing still feels impossible right now, all this energy with nowhere to go.

"Because she knew you'd react exactly like this."

"Like what? Like someone who gives a shit?"

"Like someone who's in love with her."

Steve is watching him with this knowing expression that makes Bucky want to punch him, mostly for being right. "Steve —"

"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you —"

"I know. Fuck, I know, okay? I'm in love with her." Bucky finally, finally admits. But saying it out loud doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes his chest ache worse, knowing you're out there thinking you have to protect him from gossip while he's in here realizing he'd burn this whole place down if it meant keeping you safe.

Steve's expression softens. "Yeah. I know."

"And she's been avoiding me because she thinks — what? That I care more about what some asshole line cook thinks than I care about her?"

"No. She thinks she's protecting you."

"From what? From being happy?" Bucky lets out a humourless laugh. "I finally — for the first time in years I actually wanted to come home. Wanted to wake up. And she thinks I'm going to choose this place over her?"

Bucky loves his restaurant. Built it from nothing, bled for it. But it’s never felt like this, like something pulling him forward instead of just giving him somewhere to stand. This is the first time in a long while he's felt more than just getting through the day. 

"She thinks if people find out, it makes you look bad. Like you compromised your standards."

"My standards?" Bucky's voice goes sharp. "She exceeds every fucking standard I have. She's brilliant and she works her ass off and she —" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just — it was just us."

"I know. She knows that too, I think. But she's scared of what everyone else will think."

"I don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks."

"She does. Or at least she cares about how it affects you."

Bucky sinks into his desk chair. "So what do I do?"

"Talk to her."

"I've tried. She won't — every time I try, she shuts down."

"Try harder."

"Steve —"

"You love her, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then fight for her. Make her understand that you don't care what people think. That you're not going anywhere."

Bucky looks up at his best friend. "And if she still won't listen?"

"Then you keep trying until she does. Because that's what you do when you love someone." Steve moves away towards the door. "But first you need to deal with Jason and whoever else was talking shit."

"I'm firing them."

"I figured." Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth? She's miserable too. I've never seen someone look that sad while trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing would be talking to me."

"Yeah. But she's scared… and in love. Those people? They tend to do stupid things."

When Steve leaves, Bucky sits there in his office, trying to breathe through the mess of emotions churning in his gut.

Three weeks. Three weeks you've been carrying this alone because you were trying to protect him. Three weeks of him lying awake wondering what he did wrong, replaying every conversation, every touch, trying to figure out where he fucked up. And the whole time you were just scared, of people talking, of damaging his reputation, of being reduced to some cheap rumour.

He gets it. He does. The world's not kind to women in kitchens, not kind to women who get ahead. But what he doesn't get is why you thought you had to handle it alone, why you thought he wouldn't fight for you.

Because he would. He will.

He's in love with you. Has been for weeks, maybe longer. Since the interview, probably, when you looked at him like you could see right through all his bullshit. Since that first night when you fell asleep in his bed and he laid there watching you breathe, thinking this is what he'd been missing his whole life.

He's in love with you and you're out there thinking you have to protect him.

And some asshole has been running his mouth about you and still working in his fucking kitchen.

Bucky stands up. His hands are still shaking for a different reason now, pure, concentrated rage.

When he walks into the kitchen, everyone's in the middle of prep, focused on their stations, and the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the space.

Bucky's voice cuts through the noise. "Everyone stop what you're doing. Meeting. Now."

The sudden silence is almost jarring. People look up from their stations, confusion flickering across faces that quickly shift to wariness when they clock his expression. They start gathering near the pass, wiping their hands on their aprons.

You're standing near the back. When Bucky's eyes find you, his heart breaks clean in two. You look exhausted. Scared. Like you're bracing for whatever's about to happen.

He tears his gaze away from you and focuses on the rest of the kitchen. "Someone want to tell me," Bucky keeps his voice calm even though he wants to scream, "what gives anyone the right to talk about their coworkers like they're pieces of meat? In my kitchen?"

Silence. He watches a few people shift their weight, suddenly fascinated with the floor.

"No? No one? Let me be more specific then. Someone — multiple someones, apparently — have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."

More uncomfortable shifting. 

"You know what the really fucked up part is? She earned this job. She's got more talent in her fucking pinkie than most of you have in your entire bodies. And instead of respecting that, instead of learning from someone who's better than you, you reduce her to a cheap rumour."

"Chef —" Jason starts.

"I'm not done. This kitchen runs on two things. Talent and respect. You need both to work here. Both. Not one or the other. I don't care if you're the best cook I've ever seen. If you can't treat your coworkers with basic fucking human decency, you don't belong here."

Bucky's eyes scan the group, making contact with each person individually. He wants them to understand this isn't just talk. "This is me telling you how this kitchen works. How it's always worked. This isn't negotiable. And if you have a problem with that, there's the door."

No one seems to move.  

"I've spent years building this place. Years earning the stars, making sure every plate that leaves this kitchen is perfect. And I will not let anyone ruin that because they can't keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves."

He turns to look at Jason directly. "Especially when those opinions are rooted in misogynistic bullshit that has no place in my kitchen."

Jason's face goes from pale to flushed red in seconds, stain of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't —"

"You did. I know you did. And you know what really pisses me off?" Bucky takes a step closer and watches Jason try not to flinch. "You made her feel like she had to hide. Like being good at her job wasn't enough, like she had to prove herself over and over again because assholes like you can't accept that a woman earned something on her own merit."

"Chef, I —"

"Save it. You're fired. Clear out your station and get out of my kitchen."

Jason's mouth works like a fish out of water, opening and closing without any sound. "You can't —"

"I can. I just did. Out. Now."

"This is bullshit —"

"It's consequence. There's a difference. And whoever else was part of this conversation? You know who you are. You've got two minutes to come forward."

The new line cook — Miller, Bucky thinks his name is — raises his hand like he's in grade school. "I'll resign."

"Smart choice."

Jason's still rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the kitchen like he's waiting for someone to come to his defense. But there's only silence. Nobody meets his gaze.

"I said out," Bucky repeats.

Jason rips off his apron and throws it on the ground, storming toward the back door. The new guy follows him. When the door slams behind them, the kitchen stays silent.

"The rest of you, get back to work. We've got service in three hours and we're down two people. Figure it out."

The kitchen erupts back into motion immediately, everyone returning to their stations like they can't get away fast enough.

Bucky's eyes find you again. You're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. There's shock there, definitely. Disbelief. But underneath it all there's something that looks like it might be hope. It's breaking his heart and healing it at the same time.

He wants to go to you, pull you aside and tell you that you didn't have to protect him, that he would've done this two weeks ago if you'd just told him, and firing Jason is one of the easiest decisions he's made ever.

But the kitchen's watching. Bucky knows better than to push right now. He just holds your gaze, trying to pour everything he can't say into that single look. Then he turns and heads back toward his office before he does something dumb like forget where he is and kiss you in front of everyone.

Bucky's staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing anything, waiting for the kitchen to clear out, to come find you.

When the office door opens and you step in, he cannot believe his eyes. You close the door behind you and stand there frozen on spot.

You both are. Waiting for the other to make the first move. It's stupid, honestly, the two of you stuck on opposite sides of this tiny office like there's some invisible line neither of you knows how to cross first.

The human heart is a wonderful organ, capable of supplying the entire body without missing a beat. Bucky's heart, though, trips over itself right now, like it forgot how this is supposed to work.

Thankfully, you're crossing the small space in three strides and he's standing, reaching for you, every tense muscle in his body finally remembering how to relax, his heart knowing how to function properly again. 

Your arms wrap around his waist, bury your face in his chest, hard enough he feels the shape of your nose, your forehead. You're shaking, just this fine tremor he can feel everywhere you're touching him. Like you're trying really hard not to fall apart and it's not quite working. His arms come around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses flat against your spine. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. God, you smell the same. Like the shampoo he's still got in his shower, the one you left behind three weeks ago. "I'm here, baby. Please don't cry."

Crying like this is hardly strong. But his arms are around you and he smells like home, and the last thing you want to be is strong. You've missed him so much it physically hurts. The sob that escapes you is wet against his shirt, "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"Yeah? Whose fault is that?" There's a soft, familiar teasing in his tone, makes you pull back just enough to look at him. Your lips jut out before you can help it, the one that only comes out when it's just him, when you don't have to keep your guard up. Everyone else thinks you're tough and competent, and you are, but with Bucky you've never had to pretend you don't also want to be soft sometimes.

He wants to kiss that pout off your face. Wants to do a lot of things, actually, but first he needs to make sure you're okay. His thumb comes up to wipe under your eyes, catching tears.

"You're being mean." Your lips are still doing the thing he adores most.

"You're the one who disappeared on me for two weeks."

"I had a reason —"

"A stupid reason."

You want to argue but he's smiling at you. One of those real smiles that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. You've missed that smile so much you ache with it. "It wasn't stupid. I was trying to protect you."

"I know." His expression goes serious but still soft. "I'm sorry for doing that without asking you first. The meeting, firing Jason — all of it. But I was so fucking mad, and I would never let anyone talk about you like that. Never."

The fierceness in his voice does something to your chest, makes it warm and painful at once. "I know. I just — I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've told you."

"Yeah, you should've." But his voice is gentle, at odds with the words, hands never leaving you, holding you like you're something precious even though you fucked this up. The tears start again, harder this time, and you hate it. You hate crying, feeling this vulnerable, that you can't just pull it together for two seconds.

"Sweetheart, no —" Panic flashes across his face, knows he's said the wrong thing and scrambling to make it right. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have — I should've just read your mind or something —"

That startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little broken but still a laugh. "You're not a mind reader."

"Clearly. Would've saved us both a lot of trouble if I was."

"You would've been horrified by what I was thinking."

His eyebrows go up, that interested look he gets. "Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"

"That I was in love with you and terrified you'd figure it out." The words come out before you can stop them, honest and raw and so vulnerable it makes you want to grab the words back out of the air and shove them back in your throat. But you don't, you can't. Not when Bucky's looking at you like that.

"You're in love with me?"

You can feel your face heating up, but you nod. "Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while."

"Mhmm, that's good. Because I'm in love with you too."

The relief that floods through you is so intense you actually sway a little, his hands tightening to keep you straight. "You are?"

"Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while." He's using your words back at you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. You want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not. I'm —" How does he explain this? That he's been miserable without you? That his apartment felt wrong? That Alpine's been waiting by the door every night? "I've been going crazy without you. Alpine too. Keeps waiting for you."

Guilt speaks for you, "I'm sorry. I should've —"

"Stop apologizing." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We both fucked up. You should've told me what Jason said. I should've pressed more."

Standing in his cramped office with your faces inches apart, it feels like you can finally breathe again after weeks of suffocation. "I missed this."

"Yeah?" His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. "What specifically?"

"You being annoying. Me wanting to hit you. The usual."

A soft smile curves his lips as you study his face, taking in details you'd memorized weeks ago. The small scar on his chin you liked to trace, the way his hair falls across his forehead. But now there's darkness under his eyes, that you've caused. "You look tired."

"Haven't been sleeping." 

You pull him closer, words failing, conveying what you want through touch alone. Bucky seems to understand, a soft kiss placed on your temple as he speaks, "we're really bad at this."

"At what?"

"Being apart." He says it like a confession, like admitting weakness, but his hands are still gentle on your face. "I don't want to do it again."

"I don't want to do it again either."  

Bucky has to kiss you now. Can't not kiss you when you're looking at him like that, all soft and more importantly, his. 

The apartment looks exactly the same as you remember. The book you were reading is still on the table. There's your coffee mug on the counter. From the faint ring outside, it looks like Bucky's been using it.

Alpine appears the second you step inside, meowing so loud it's almost accusatory. She's looking at you like you personally betrayed her. You sink down onto the floor right there in the living room, don't even make it to the couch, Alpine immediately climbing into your lap. She's purring, that rumbling engine sound that always makes you smile. "I'm sorry, baby," you murmur, scratching behind her ears. "I missed you too."

Bucky watches the way you curl around Alpine like you're trying to make yourself small enough to fit in her world. This is what he wanted. This. You in his space, in his world, with his cat, looking like you belong here. Without a second thought, he's drops down next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, arms around both of you. One around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and the other joining yours in Alpine's fur.

You let yourself lean into him, head finding that spot on his chest that feels like it was made specifically for you. Alpine's purring gets louder, pleased to have both her people back where they belong. "This is nice," you say.

His chin rests on top of your head. "Yeah. It is."

"I'm sorry I left."

"I'm sorry too. Can we stop apologising now?"

The laugh out of you, however soft, startles Alpine enough that she whips her head around to glare at you, but she recovers and nuzzles back into you, apparently deciding to forgive the disruption.

It's the most peace you've felt in weeks. Possibly longer. Alpine's warm weight in your lap, Bucky's arm solid around your shoulders.

"I was thinking," Bucky says eventually.

"Mhmm, dangerous."

He pinches your side gently, making you yelp and squirm in his grasp. "I was thinking you should move in."

"What?"

"Your stuff's already here. Work's downstairs. Commute's easier. Just makes sense."

"That's very romantic."

"I'm in love with you and I want you here all the time. Better?"

You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "A little better."

"Is that a yes?"

You think about your empty apartment, waking up alone, not having this — Bucky and Alpine and home. "Yeah. That's a yes."

The kiss he presses to your temple is soft and lingering. "Thank God. Because I actually cleared out more drawer space — you know, before all this."

Alpine meows, annoyed at being squished between you, and you both laugh. But neither of you move. Neither of you want to.

"I love you," you say. Testing the words out loud now that you can, now that you know how to say it, and that he feels the same.

His arm tightens around you. "I love you too." He's smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips on the top of your head.

Alpine purrs louder, like she's agreeing, and you let yourself sink into this. Into Bucky and Alpine and the feeling of home.

COLLAB MASTERLIST ✧ MY MASTERLIST

EXTRAS. Thank you so much for reading! Please do support all the amazing authors who are participating in this collab! Did I know anything about chefs? No. Did I one day watch a random ass movie and decide chefs are hot? You know.

bucky's a jealous person. he always has been.

he doesn't like to share, nor does he pretend otherwise. not his kitchen, not his recipes, not his workers, and certainly not you.

he doesnt like it when you're working the front of house, all bright smiles and flirty little laughs, coaxing tips and compliments from men who don't deserve your attention, and it doesn't help that you're walking around in that tiny little skirt and buttering up the customers, it also doesn't help that you're so good at it.

bucky knows it's a part of your job, knows that you do it to survive— but do you really need to be doing all of that? he's sure that if you lean any closer to the guy at table seven, he'll be able to see the lining of your panties, and at this point, he's not even sure if you're wearing any.

the kitchen behind him is organised chaos— pots and pans clattering against the stoves, utensils scratching against ceramic, and shoe soles padding around the linoleum floor.

but bucky doesn't hear any of it. his eyes are locked on you through the serving hatch, where you're leaning over a little too close to the asshole at table seven, your smile soft and sweet as you pour him another glass of whiskey and giggle at something he says.

bucky hates it. you might as well be sitting on his lap and hand feeding his steak to him. hell, you might as well pull down his fancy suit pants and just start fucking him in the middle of the restaurant with everyone watching.

"you're staring."

bucky's jaw clenches as he glances sideways. steve stands next to him at the grill, sliding a seared salmon onto a plate, eyebrow arched like he's just caught bucky with his hand in the cookie jar.

"i'm not." bucky snaps back a little too fast, eyes darting back down to the pan in his grasp. his knuckles are bone white from how tight he's gripping the handle.

steve smirks as he places the seared salmon onto the counter with practiced ease, "y'know, you could just tell her. it won't hurt. you're already staring at her like you've claimed her."

as well as being jealous, bucky's awfully proud. chateau barnes is a renowned high-end restaurant in new york. as the head chef of his own restaurant, he almost has to be. he prides himself on order, control, and precision in the kitchen— every knife sharpened, every pan and pot in its place, and every dish leaving the kitchen exactly as he had envisioned it.

and because of that, bucky would never admit that he loses all control of his mind the second you step out onto the floor. he'd rather die than admit it to steve, who seems to notice everything anyways.

"i don't know what you're talking about." bucky grumbles, basting the steak in butter, eyes fixed firmly on the pan as if it's the only thing that matters.

steve cocks a brow, "you know what i'm talking about."

bucky doesn't respond. he doesnt want to give steve the satisfaction of knowing he was right, and this steak was currently more important than whatever bullshit his sous chef was about to spew.

steve stops what he's doing just to taunt bucky, his voice low enough that only he can hear. "the fact that you wanna bend her over the counter and take her right there in front of—"

"finish that fucking sentence and you're on dish duty for the next month." bucky cuts him off, eyes snapping towards steve. the glare alone would have made an apprentice shit their pants, but it only makes steve grin wider.

"tough crowd." the blonde mumbles. he shrugs as if its the most normal thing in the world, then goes back to slicing into a perfectly roasted duck breast.

there's an annoyed quirk in bucky's eyebrow as he goes back to plating the dish. putting steak down, drizzling the sauce, adding garnish, every detail done with deliberate and precise movements— anything to keep his hands and mind busy. anything to keep steve from seeing how close he'd come to hitting an exposed nerve.

bucky doesnt look up. he knows that if he does, he'll see that rich asshole at table seven still trying his luck, and he'll see you entertaining him like he's paying you a million dollars to do so. both of you would piss him off, and right now, he needs his head in the pan. the butter's foaming and the steak is searing, and focus is the only thing that keeps him from calling a smoke break.

so he keeps his eyes down. baste, tilt, baste again. control. order. discipline. that's what he's good at.

but it's you out there, and that alone stirs up an itch under his skin that he can't ignore. its an almost unbearable urge that picks at him— the urge to just look up. because if its you, then he wants to see. he needs to.

and when he finally gives in— when his eyes drag up from the dish he's preparing to you— you're already prancing towards the kitchen, weaving through the tables with that little sway in your hips, balancing a half-eaten dish in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

it scratches the itch, but now he has to deal with you.

you slide the dish onto the window sill with a small clink, gingerly leaning into the cut-out just enough to make your presence known. you tilt your head when bucky glances up at you, a half-grin tugging at your lips like you're ready for whatever bite he's about to throw at you.

"table seven said his steak is over cooked, james." you say, nudging the dish towards him, "he also said the sauce is too peppery."

bucky keeps his focus on his work, but it's impossible to ignore your presence. he slides the freshly prepared steak onto the window sill with a quick flick of his wrist, but you're staring at him like you can see the control he's trying so hard to cling to. he reaches over to grab another ticket, but he can smell whatever sweet perfume you'd dusted yourself with drifting through the window. it's torture.

bucky's not sure whether he wants you to leave him alone or if he wants you to lean over the window a little more just so he can sneak a glance down your collar.

but he doesn't spare you a second glance. "it wasn't."

you suck your teeth in mock thought, eyes narrowing in on where the steak was ripped open by a knife, "well, he asked for medium-rare, and i'm pretty sure i wrote down medium-rare, so it must've been a performance issue on your end, boss."

"yeah?" his blue eyes snap towards you. his voice is controlled, but you can hear the tension coiling in his throat. "you should probably check that notepad again, doll. the ticket said medium-rare, so i gave him medium-rare."

"that's funny..." you drawl, "because he's still complaining."

bucky's jaw tightens. his grip around the knife tightens like a vice. "why don't you just stick your tits in his face a little more? maybe then he'll stop complaining about the fuckin' steak and start tippin' you like he means it."

his voice is low and rough, and laced with venom that he doesn't bother to hide. he's jealous, and he knows that. his voice cuts sharper than the knife in his hand, but it does nothing to hinder your attitude.

"y'know, he looks a little bit like you." you lean your head on the palm of your hand, your lips tugging into a grin that teeters on the edge of mockery. "a little more clean-shaven... has manners... smells good too. says he's the ceo of a record company or something fancy like that."

god, if you weren't so gorgeous— if you hadn't made every word sound like pure honey— bucky mightve told you to turn around and continue taking orders like the good little waitress you are. his thoughts die in his head the second a particular one hits him— you're being a brat.

"you shove your tits close enough to get a whiff of him?" he spits, eyes ever-so-slightly glancing down at the midriff you have exposed. "you enjoy being a tease?"

you follow his line of sight and roll your eyes, almost instinctively leaner lower, "so what if i do? theyre my tits.”

bucky looks back down to the scallops he's preparing, his lip turnt, "not anymore with the way you're parading them around."

he hears you suck in the tiniest gasp— just audible enough that it makes him huff out a breath of amusement.

you're not necessarily offended by him calling you a tease. you're more offended by the fact that he thinks you're 'parading them around' like some bimbo. you'd argue that you're just doing your job— keeping the customers happy, looking hot while doing it, and making some tips in the process.

you open your mouth to say something, to rip into him without saying something that seriously jeopardises your job— because he is your boss after all— but before you can say anything, steve stops you.

"could you guys stop flirting? its dinner rush."

his voice catches your attention. you shift your weight as you lean over the pass, your elbows resting against the cold metal as you grin at steve. he's cute— everybody knows it— and you've always liked how easy it was to talk to him.

"what, feeling left out, rogers?" you tease with a dramatic pout, reveling in the way steve's ears tint the lightest shade of pink.

"a little." he plays into your teasing, brows raised, "but the tickets are piling up and i'm not likin' how that guy at table five is looking at us."

"oh, those guys?" you turn on your heel, eyes flashing to a large table of around six guys. the man at the head of the table sits like he owns the restaurant, his gaze locked straight on you. "yeah, i'm pretty sure theyre apart of the mob."

steve blinks, "the mob?"

"the mob." you emphasise with a dramatic nod, "they're drinking us dry of our entire whiskey reserve."

"i'll order in another lot tonight. the next lot should hopefully last us a couple more months.” steve nods, already scribbling down a note on the corner of a ticket. he taps the pencil against the pass and shoves the ticket into his pocket like it's already been handled.

then steve's eyes flick up to you, who's standing there with a tired smile. he— very obviously— looks you up and down, slow enough that bucky catches every damn second of it, then he meets you with a grin that's just shy of smug.

"looking good, sugar."

the pet name runs off of steve's tongue like it belongs there, entirely too sweet for a restaurant running on blood, sweat, and tears.

the knife in bucky's hand stills, the blade pressing unnecessarily hard into the scallop underneath. his eyes flick up to look at whatever weird little flirting match you and steve have going on just inches away from him, and he's glaring like he's seconds away from snapping the cutting board in half.

if steve wasn't his best friend, he probably would've stabbed him— no, wait— he'd still stab him anyways.

bucky turns his attention to you to see your reaction. and sure enough, you're standing there, practically twirling a strand of hair around your finger, acting like you've just been complimented by the hottest guy in the world. your lips curl into a grin that you try (and fail) to stifle. but because steve's your friend, you roll your eyes like it's no big deal— like you're too used to his charm for it to get under your skin.

"thanks, stevie. you’re not so bad yourself." you grin, sing-songing as you pull away from the pass, "anyways, i've gotta go. fancy guy at table seven was just about to tell me about rising stars and pop music or... something like that."

and then you're turning away. you toss a small wink over your shoulder as you saunter away— but then you adjust your skirt, just subtly enough to be casual, but bucky can't help the sharp intake of his breath. the curve of your ass presses up against the thin fabric, the faint lining of your panties traced just beneath it, teasing him with more than he has any right to see.

bucky's jaw locks. heat crawls down his spine and coils deep within his gut, dragging low until it settles in his cock. he feels the shift in his pants, and the sudden tightness makes his breath hitch.

focus, bucky, focus. control and order. that's what you're good at.

he forces his gaze down, anything to get over it, but his body aches with the phantom burn of you. the imagine of your body swaying as you walk away is burnt into the skin behind his eyelids, and it's a sight he can't just run from with the repetitive motions of his knife. every slice and every stab only presses it deeper.

he blinks and you're still there. he sees the curve of your ass and the way you tug your skirt lower like it might cover something. the arch of your back as you stretch just slightly, and the press of your tits against the weak buttons of your blouse like they're begging to be let loose. and the worst part— the part that makes his cock twitch in his pants— is that bucky isn't even sure if you're doing this on purpose or if you're just that effortlessly fucking tempting.

"it did look like you just sent out leather, man." steve's voice cuts in like nails on a chalkboard, "you... distracted?"

buck's knife lifts from the board as he slides the scallops on to the plate, "sugar?" he grinds out, not looking up.

steve can already tell. he doesn't need bucky to say a single word. the way his jaw tenses, the way his grip flexes around the handle of the knife, the way he slides the scallops around like he couldn't care less, and the way his eyes subtly dart towards the floor where you're entertaining table seven again.

bucky barnes is jealous, and it's the most entertaining thing steve has seen all night. he wants to laugh, and he almost does, but he holds it in.

"what, you jealous?" steve teases with a shit-eating smirk.

"you can't flirt with the staff." bucky's words are deadpan, like he's been repeating the phrase over and over in his own mind— like he's repeating it again moee for himself than for steve.

"i understand." steve nods, but then he pauses just long enough to be smug about it. "we can't flirt with them, but we sure can eye-fuck them from across the restaurant—“

the cutting board suddenly screeches against the metal counter as bucky pushes it back. steve's still smirking as bucky rips at the knot around his waist, tearing his apron off and tossing it haphazardly over his shoulder with an annoyed huff.

"i'm goin' for a smoke." he grunts, not even sparing steve a glance before he pushes past the other kitchen staff.

the back door slams shut behind him, and steve feels it's only in his best interest as his best friend to follow. someone's gotta make sure bucky doesn't burn down the alleyway with his temper.

the back of the restaurant is quiet. the clanking of pots and pants and shouts of orders fade behind thick brick, leaving only an echo of the chaos inside. the moon is bright and high up in the sky, casting pale white light onto the alley.

bucky leans against the wall, his hand shielding the flame of his lighter from the wind. the cigarette glows, the smoke curling upwards. he takes a long drag of it, letting the smoke fills his lungs.

the cool air does little to ease the burn in his skin— if anything, it makes it worse. every muscle in his body feels like they've been pulled taut, as if the mere memory of you has set fire to his body.

as he exhales, a small white cat slinks out from around a dumpster, moving like a pale shadow in the dark, her delicate paws padding against the concrete as she wanders closer. she's a familiar face that makes bucky sigh.

bucky calls her alpine, a sweet reminder of a trip he once took a few years ago— a quiet winter in the mountains, snow blanketing the world in a stillness he rarely ever witnesses in his line of work. in a way, alpine was his calm in the blinding chaos.

she brushes against his leg, her tail curling, and for a moment, the tension bucky feels in his chest eases, replaced by the memory of calm he almost never allows himself.

steve tucks his hands into his pockets as he leans against the wall beside bucky. he watches his friend for a moment, analysing how his jaw tenses and how his head tilts away like making eye contact with steve would cause every thought in his brain to fall from his mouth.

"you really letting her get to you that much, huh?" steve says, his voice low. he's not teasing anymore— just simply asking.

bucky doesn't say anything. his shoulders are tense as he takes another long drag of his cigarette like it’ll help.

"c'mon—" steve nudges him, "let me hear it."

bucky exhales a long stream of smoke, finally meeting steve's eyes, jaw tight and eyes low, "she just... she gets under my skin. every word, every look, every little movement. i can't—“ he pauses for a second, “i can't stop thinking about her, even when i try not to. i know it's stupid, but—"

he drags in another breath as if he's finally accepting what he feels, "i just... can't look away. i dont want to even if it's killing me inside seeing her kissing up to the customers."

"i mean—" the cigarette trembles in his hand, and a more annoyed expression replaces the forlorn one. "she said he smelt good, steve. can you fuckin' believe that? its like she's trying to get on my nerves."

steve huffs out a laugh, "i mean.. you dont exactly smell like roses and daises, buck. you've got more of a... cooking oil scent—"

"and she said he's clean shaven. what does that even mean?" he runs a tired hand against his jaw, feeling the stubble rub against his fingers, "i shave, don't i?"

the way bucky complains is similar to that of a teenage boy whining about the girl he likes not liking him back. it's boyish. it would be endearing if it wasnt wrapped up in frustration— like he might actually punch through a wall because of it.

"you care way too much about what she thinks for someone who insists they don't give a shit." steve points out, a sincere smile tugging at his lips as he shrugs. "just... ask her out, man."

bucky doesn't answer right away. whether it's because he's not sure how to reply or because he knows steve's right, he doesn't know.

beside him, alpine perks up from where she's curled up next to his feet, ears twisting at full attention towards a noise in the distance. bucky glances down at her— this small, stubborn creature who doesn't leave no matter how many times he shoos her away— and sighs, an uneven trail of smoke trailing through the air.

"i can't." he finally mutters, grinding the cigarette against the brick until the embers die. "what if she's seeing someone? a woman like her would probably have a line of guys out the door."

steve cocks an eyebrow like he has the solution to all of bucky's problems. "last i heard, she's not seeing anybody. hasn't been for a while."

that piques bucky's attention. "where'd you hear that?"

"from mikaela." steve replies like it's obvious.

the name doesn't ring a bell. it's not even in the drawer of names that bucky half-remembers. the cluelessness on his face has steve barking out an amused laugh.

"you don't know mikaela?" he says pushing off of the wall and crossing his arms against his chest, "waitress with the brown hair and blonde highlights? c'mon, buck, you're telling me you don't know mikaela?"

bucky sucks his teeth, shaking his head like the mere idea of knowing waitresses other than you was laughable, "i don't pay attention to front of house.”

"that's a damn lie. you pay plenty of attention to front of house— just not to mikaela or any of the others. you don't know mikaela, but you sure as hell know the one with the tiny skirt and fuck-me-eyes."

bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. "watch it, steve." he warns, but it doesn't land as harsh as he wants it to, because it's true— he does know you. he knows you more than he should. more than he wants to admit.

his job was easier before you were hired— before you started running around the restaurant like you owned it, before you had befriended steve or any of the other chefs, before you had stuck your fingers in every single crevice of his fucking brain.

sometimes he wishes he could go back in time to tell steve not to hire the applicant with a dozen waitressing jobs under her belt and references who did nothing but praise you. but other times, he wishes he was the one who had interviewed you just so he could have weaselled his way into your life from the start, claiming some part of you before anyone else had the chance.

bucky flicks the dead cigarette and stamps it out until it's a grey mess of ash on the ground. his shoulders loosen a fraction as he steps forwards, ready to push his problems away and slip back into the kitchen.

"okay. smoke break's over." steve claps a hand against bucky's back, gently ushering him back into the door. "sam can't run the kitchen by himself."

bucky huffs out a small laugh, low and dry, "he probably thinks he can run it better than both of us."

steve nods, "and some days, i think that might be true."

bucky just rolls his eyes as steve playfully pushes him towards the hum of the restaurant. the doors swing shut behind them, leaving the alleyway and alpine behind, quiet again.

hours pass. the restaurant is empty now, the dinner rush long over.

in the kitchen, pans and knives are freshly washed and stacked and the hum of the kitchen is softer, almost intimate. the harsh fluorescent light overhead has been switched off and replaced by a single lamp that casts an orange light over the counters, which smell of citrus scented cleaner.

in the main room, the lights are dimmed and there's a faint aroma of charcoal and expensive cologne in the air. the energy from hours ago still buzzes throughout the restaurant like an echo. a few glasses are left drying on the bar and there's a few chairs stacked haphazardly on top of each other, but otherwise, the building feels quiet.

it's just you and bucky. it's been only you two for the past hour.

steve had left earlier with a tired wave and a reminder to lock up, but not without shooting bucky a knowing look as he stepped out of the door. bucky ignored it at the time— brushed it off with the same scowl he always gave steve when he thought he was being clever— but now that the restaurant was almost silent, it settles a little heavier in his chest.

bucky's sweeping the wooden floor of the main room. sweeping. he never sweeps. not when there's busboys or waitresses or literally anyone else around to do it. he didn't know what possessed him, and neither did you.

when he had asked if you had needed help cleaning, you had looked at him like he'd just asked if the sky was blue— baffled, a little amused, and even a little suspicious. james buchanan barnes offering to help with front of house duties? it's unheard of.

now that it's just the two of you, he can't seem to sit still. he sweeps and sweeps, pulling dust from crevices that probably haven't been touched since they first bought the restaurant.

he glances at you.

you're leaning on the bar, a pen in your hand and your head in the other. you're staring down at a notepad containing god knows what. orders? inventory? you're honestly probably just scribbling nonsense just to look busy— and if you are, it's working.

a particularly harsh drag of plastic against the wood gains your attention. your eyes move upwards before your head does, catching the broom mid-sweep in bucky's hands. he's tense. you can see it in the way his shoulders are squared and that familiar scowl on his face as he drags the bristles against the ground.

"you keep that up and i'm gonna start thinking you have a secret love for housekeeping, james." you joke, watching in amusement.

bucky falters for a moment, eyes flicking up to you before he cocks a brow and continues his assault against the floor, "just figured the place could use it."

"uh-huh." you nod suspiciously, pen poised but not writing. "what's with the sudden kindness? what'd you do?"

"nothin'." bucky's quick to respond, "pretty little thing like you shouldn't be running around the restaurant this late. might get yourself hurt."

you'd be flattered if this wasn't totally out of character for him, and also because it's bucky. he's calling you a pretty little thing? who flayed james barnes and crawled into his skin?

"pretty little thing?" your lips twitch, trying not to grin at the absurdity of it. you raise your brows, "okay, who'd you kill?"

"what, i can't compliment you? you sure seem to like it when customers do it." he snaps, broom held a little too tight in his grip.

you pause and raise a brow, "excuse me?"

bucky stops. he isn't sweeping anymore. the broom stands neglected in his hand, his new focus being you. the way you're staring at him makes his skin burn.

"don't act like you don't know what i'm talkin' about." he rolls his eyes, lip almost turned into a snarl, "all those fancy assholes throwing compliments at you, and you eat it up. but me? god forbid i say a word."

you scoff as you stand up a bit straighter, arms crossing against your chest as a defence, "so it's a crime to like being complimented?"

"it's not a crime." bucky retorts, "but you goin' around sticking your tits in their faces and practically sitting on their laps? it should be considered criminal. and it's all you can do, isn't it?"

you narrow your eyes, "that's rich, coming from a man who stares at them every chance he gets."

"sweetheart, it's hard not to." he fires back, watching as you shake your head in bewilderment.

"so, what are you saying?" you challenge, eyes glaring daggers into bucky. "that you think i'm an attention-seeking slut who parades herself around for everyone to see?"

you know this is destructive. bucky's your boss, the one who can put you out of a job with two words, but part of you can't stop— can't stop pushing, can't stop poking and prodding, needing to hear him either admit it or deny it. you don't really care which one it is at this point— you just want to hear it from his mouth instead of reading it in his eyes.

he lets out an annoyed sigh, "don't put words in my mouth—"

"oh, come on, james. we both know you think it." you take a step forwards, the space between you two shrinking until the air is electric. "just admit it and we can get this over with."

your voice is quiet, but so full of venom. you don't need to be loud— you're so close to bucky that it felt like if you even thought too loud, he would hear it.

your stomach twists as you step even closer. you're practically chest-to-chest with bucky, your chin tilted upwards just enough to meet his stare head on. his jaw clenches as he stands his ground, like he's testing how far you're willing to go, and you both know that neither of you will stand down.

his shadow swallows you whole. you feel like you've been caught inside of it. there's nowhere to step and nowhere to breathe that isn't him— his heat, his stare, his scent, his unrelenting presence pressing down on you.

he looks down at you, his eyes half-lidded and twitching as you near him, "you've got a mouth on you, don't you, sugar tits?"

the nickname wrings out a dry laugh from your mouth. he's mocking you, taunting you, poking at some sore spot just to see you flinch— and god, it works.

"what, want me to put my mouth to better use?"

you don't mean to sound flirty— you really don't— but with him this close, his scent practically wraps around you like a ribbon, warm smoke and faint cologne threaded through something else that was unmistakably him. his presence swallows up the space between you, heat curling up your neck until you feel it burrowing underneath your skin.

"is that an offer, doll?"

"in your dreams, barnes."

he's practically in your face, and suddenly every word you say is full of a weight you don't recognise. it's suffocating.

and then— just subtly— you watch as his eyes slowly rake down from your eyes towards your lips, lingering for too long. tracing the curve, memorising the way they part when he leans in a little closer. his breath fans over your face, and you feel your resolve completely dissolve.

you let out a little hitched breath, sharp and caught in your throat, and it's just enough to break whatever restraint he's been holding on to. bucky's eyes darken, and then he's on you before you can even think twice, closing the space between you and pressing his lips to yours.

it's not gentle. it's claiming, leaving no room for regret or argument, and the world narrows to the heat of your mouth against his and the press of your body against his chest.

he indulges in your taste— almost intoxicating— drinking you like you're an oasis in the middle of a desert. every press of his lips draws a ragged breath from your mouth, and the tension and anger you'd been holding onto melts into something raw.

bucky rakes a warm hand up your back, the other sneaking around your waist, pressing you closer as if he can't get enough of the feeling of you in his hands. his fingers trace the curve of your spine, sliding beneath the fabric of your too-tight shirt.

you break free from his lips just enough to whine, a shaky hand running against his jaw, almost pushing him away. "james—"

every move he makes is deliberate, and there's an air of want in the way his lips trails down your jaw and how he buries his face into your neck, pressing wet, open-mouth kisses along the tender skin.

"if you want me to stop—" he murmurs against your skin, each word soaked in something tender that betrays the intensity of his touch, "jus' say it and i'll stop."

this is wrong. bucky is your boss. every rational thought in your body is telling you that this shouldn't be happening, screaming at you to just pull away, to push him off of you before this goes too far.

but then he nips at the skin on your collarbone, his tongue swiping lightly over the tender spot, and something in you flips. every rational thought you had is drowned out by the heat pooling low in your stomach.

your silence is the invitation he needs. his eyes flick up to yours, searching for even the faintest signs of hesitation, but finds none.

he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss again. your bodies press against each other, moving together almost instinctively, and he guides you towards a nearby table. without breaking the kiss, you let yourself sink into the edge, the tablecloth cold against your skin as bucky hovers just above, his hands bracketing your face.

your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel the hard outline of his cock straining against his jeans— a delicious yet torturous reminder of how urgent this has become— and it only makes you press against him even harder.

bucky's hands trail down to yours hips, fingertips digging into your sides as he pulls you tighter against him. you grind against him, the friction sending sparks throught your bodies. a whimper leaves you as your hands bunch the fabric of his shirt, tangling the cotton as you pull yourself impossibly closer. bucky pulls away from the kiss, memorising the way you push your hips into his and how you respond to his touch.

you look so pretty and desperate trying to grind against his cock, and he groans at the sight.

"fuck—" he rasps, "you don't know what you do to me."

you whisper, "then show me."

bucky's lips find yours again, harder this time as his hands fall to your thighs. you lean back as his fingers glide under the fabric of your tight skirt, sliding it up until it bunches around your hips, and the sight that greets him is enough to make his mouth run dry.

you're wearing the cutest pair of black lace panties he's ever seen, and the sight alone almost undoes him completely— delicate and teasing, like they were made specifically to drive him insane.

"is this all for me?" the question drips with smugness as his thumb presses against the band of your panties, watching as it cuts into your thigh.

"don't flatter yourself, james." you huff, flustered but defiant, your body betraying you with a small jerk of your hips, "you're not that special."

"not that special?" he raises a brow, eyes focused on the way you lean into his touch, "sweetheart, we both know none of those men were ever gonna get to fuck you. not the suits... not the smooth talkers... not a single one of 'em. if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be sitting here, dripping through this pretty fabric."

you bite down on your bottom lip, because he's right. you would have never given any of these rich guys the light of day. all they were good for was their money and their attention— nothing that made you feel utterly exposed and electric like bucky did with a single word.

he presses the pad of his thumb against your folds, pressing down right over the spot you need him most, feeling you soak through the lace. you gasp at the pressure, back arching just slightly, the soft sound that leaves your mouth almost pathetic.

"look at you. you've been saving this for me, haven't you?" he cocks his head, eyes half-lidded as he watches you squirm. "walking around in this skimpy little skirt and that tiny shirt— practically beggin' me to tear them off of you."

"awfully cocky for a man who hasn't made me moan yet." you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers hook around the lacy fabric on your hips,

bucky scoffs, the way your hips lift for him to drag your panties down your hips betraying your words. "you keep talkin' like that and i'll make sure the whole block hears you."

the lace slips down the expanse of your legs, each second growing more and more agonising with every painful stop bucky makes. when it finally slips from your foot, bucky stuffs it into his pocket. the lace sticks out like a sore thumb— a trophy.

he looks down at your cunt, a low, guttural groan escaping him, and it's almost enough to make you cum right then and there. his eyes flick back up to yours before his lips crash back into yours, the kiss far hungrier and desperate than before.

your hands thread into his hair as the world narrows in on the taste of his tongue and the feeling of his hand sliding from your knee down to your inner thigh. every glide and subtle press of his fingers ignites a fire you can't control.

bucky catches your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it until it burns red. you huff when he pulls just a little too hard, but to make up for it, he runs a finger through your folds, your argumentative grumbles turning into airy gasps before he's pressing his lips against yours again, swallowing any last shred of resistance you have left.

his thumb finds your clit, brushing lightly at first, sending heat throughout your body. your breath hitches and bucky's quick to press harder, drawing figure eights onto the bundle of nerves.

his touch is both punishment and reward, a bitter reminder of how he has you unraveling under his touch. every whimper, every shiver, and every gasp seems to feed him, as if your reactions are what's keeping him alive.

you pull away from the kiss to breathe. you can feel the press of a finger against your entrance, and before you can fully grasp what's about to happen, bucky pushes two fingers into you.

your head tilts back before you can stop it, a broken moan slipping from your throat— unrestrained and humiliating. you can feel bucky shifting against your skin and you already know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.

"what did you say about not making you moan?" he murmurs into the skin just below your ears, smugness dripping off of every syllable.

heat rises up your neck, but you refuse to give him the full satisfaction of watching you submit to him.

"just..." you breathe, your nails digging into the tablecloth as he pumps his fingers into you, "sh-shut up and keep going.”

he hums, "gladly."

bucky's fingers drag in and out of you, curling against your walls with devastating precision. his fingertips brush against all of your sweet spots like he knows exactly where to touch to make you fall apart.

he can tell you're close by the way your eyebrows knit together in concentration and the way you fuck yourself back onto his fingers. he reaches down with his other hand and adds a delicious pressure against your clit, watching as your arms buckle and almost collapse back onto the table.

"c'mon, cum for me." bucky urges, "cum on my fingers, baby."

and you do, your legs quivering as a wave of heat flashes over your entire body. bucky doesn't stop— he continues his assault on your clit and he drives his fingers into your cunt until you're clenching around him, whimpering protests.

he pulls his fingers out and you instantly clench around nothing. your eyes track him as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to taste you. he groans around his fingers, the sound low and almost animalistic as he leans in to kiss you.

you can taste yourself on his lips, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressing him closer to you.

"that feel good?" bucky asks, his lips glistening with your slick.

you huff out a small laugh, "what do you think?"

he rolls his eyes and dips his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble scratchy as he presses kisses to your skin. you lull your head back, lips parting with a shaky sigh, but then your eyes land on the large glass doors of the restaurant— completely see-through and mercilessly reflective.

all rational thought comes crawling back to you, but your next words are already in bucky's mouth, his hands crawling up to slide into your hair.

"shit, jame—" his kiss steals your breath, "james, we can't—" his tongue grazes yours and you whimper, "we can't—" another kiss, rougher this time. "we can't do it in here. people'll—" he swallows the protest whole, "people will see."

it's almost like he enjoys watching you struggle.

"what, afraid table seven'll walk past and see you sitting here all pretty and spread out on his table?" his words come out muffled as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"it's bad for our image, james. if someone walks by—" you grumble into his mouth, but he cuts you off by simply pulling away.

there's a flicker of arrogance in his eyes as he tilts his head like your reasoning doesn't make sense. "i was just knuckles deep inside of you, sweetheart. you're really worried about our image right now?"

"i'm serious." you push at his chest, but it's light-hearted at most. your nails curl into his shirt like you don't want him to stop, "what if steve comes back and—"

bucky just dives back into your neck like it's a five star restaurant, teeth grazing the skin on your collarbone before his tongue swipes over it.

"rogers has a date tonight." bucky pulls back and swipes a thumb against his teeth marks, "he's not comin' back anytime soon."

you glare at him when his eyes flick up to yours, dead serious. "i'm not having sex with you in the middle of the restaurant, barnes."

he rolls his eyes. "okay, okay, fine. whatever the princess wants, the princess gets." he exhales against your throat, the joke falling upon deaf ears when he grabs you by your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the table.

you tense when he wraps a thick arm around your back and his other arm snakes under your thigh, hoisting you upwards. you wrap your legs around his waist and giggle.

he walks you towards the kitchen with ease, eyes closed and face still stuffed in the warmth of your neck. you're almost amazed, but then you remember that he knows this place like the back of his hand and he could probably do this blindfolded.

bucky pushes the door open with one hand and it slams behind you as he presses his lips to yours, swallowing the startled gasp that leaves you. the faint hum of the fridge and the overhead led lights fill the kitchen, but you're far too preoccupied to notice.

he sets you down onto the cold, hard counter, his palms pressed firmly into your thighs and you hiss at the contact. youre pressed flush against his chest, every breath you take tangling with his, like he can't even stand an inch of distance between you. his stubble scrapes along your jaw as his mouth trails to your cheek, and then down your throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

"on the counter?" you furrow your brows, the cold metal searing into the burning skin on your thighs and ass.

he hums, sucking a delicate bruise onto your neck, "on the counter."

"this is such a health and safety violation, james—"

"bucky." he interrupts, voice stripped of teasing or smugness and replaced by something softer— something more sincere. "call me bucky."

you blink at him for a moment. part of you wants to tease him, but another part of you just wants to press sweet little kisses across his face and melt into his arms. you let out a breathy laugh.

“nicknames, huh?” you grin, “okay, i can do that... bucky."

the single word hangs between you, and you swear bucky moans a little bit before he's on you again, lips wet and swollen. every inch of him presses against you, the weight of his body pinning you into the counter.

you can feel his cock straining within the confines of his jeans, pressing insistently against your inner thigh. your hand trails from his neck down to the outline of him, the pressure of your palm dragging out a low, shaky inhale.

"fuck..." bucky mumbles, pressing a kiss to your jugular to hide the sharp intake of air that escapes him. his fingers dig deeper into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.

you can feel him pulsate under your palm, and the way he presses into your hand makes you bite your lip. "do you want me to—"

he shakes his head, "don't worry about me." he murmurs, his hand sliding down and finding the heat that awaits him. "just lean back. wanna taste you."

you swallow and obey. it's almost pathetic how quick bucky can make you listen to him— one moment you're talking back, and the next, he has you spread out like a whore. every thought of self respect and decorum escapes you the moment he lays a single hand on you.

and then bucky's kneeling in front of you like a sinner at an altar, worshipping you like you're the only source of forgiveness in this sorry world. he's looking up at you with half-lidded eyes as he gently spreads your legs open, his lips parting as he leans closer, letting the heat of his mouth hover just above your cunt.

your breath hitches when his tongue presses flat against you, licking a slow line from your opening to your clit. bucky takes your hand threading through his hair as a good sign and presses his face into you a bit more, nose digging into your heat just right.

compared to his hands— rough and calloused, gripping your hips so tight that you're sure they'd leave bruises— his tongue was soft, poking and prodding at your cunt like he's trying to figure out what makes you feel good and how to make more of those pretty little moans fall from your mouth.

"bucky—" you moan when you feel his tongue breaching your hole, the muscle fucking into you, "oh, god."

bucky hums, the vibrations shooting shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire nervous system. you rut into his face, but his hands slide up to hold your hips down, and he only pulls off to breath before diving back in.

you're close, and bucky can tell. the sounds are obscene— wet and sloppy— his tongue sliding over your heat and your moans and whimpers mixing together like an orchestra.

when you finally cum, your legs are clamping around bucky's head, your head thrown back against the wall as you grind yourself onto his face. you don't even care if he's breathing— the muffled moans that leak from his mouth tell you he's enjoying it.

when you finally let him go, he pops off of your cunt with a small hum, looking completely pussy-drunk. he presses his cheek against your thigh, a curious finger pressing against your folds.

"fuck, that was good." you blurt out, still fucked out of your mind.

before you know it, bucky's rising to his feet and unbuckling his belt. you start undoing the buttons on your shirt, the action tedious and repetitive when all you want is his dick inside of you. you're left in your bra— black and lacy to match your panties— and bucky's eyes never leave your chest, even when he fumbles with the loops of his belt.

before long, bucky pulls himself out of his boxers. the first thing you notice is how flushed the tip is after being pressed against denim all night. he's also long and thick, and far bigger than anything you've ever taken before. you're almost scared.

he hums, a teasing smile on his face. "thanks, sugar."

even through your hazy state of mind, you still know what he's talking about— and you're going to kill him. steve called you sugar once, and now bucky's running around throwing the word at you like he's taunting you.

you can't believe he's literally about to be inside of you and you're still letting him torment you. you're lucky he's making you feel good, because if he wasn't, you'd probably say some half-assed insult just to spite him. even in the middle of pressing into you, he can't get steve out of his head.

he presses his tip against your entrance, and you have to hold yourself back from rocking onto his dick. bucky tilts his head, almost amused at your desperateness before something else cuts through his thoughts.

"you sure you want this?" he asks, his voice low, giving you one last chance to back out.

you nod quickly, your hands planting themselves onto his shoulders, "i do. i want this."

"mh-hm." he presses a kiss to your forehead with a smile, all rational thought getting thrown out of the window as he teases, "alright, sugar."

you roll your eyes. "oh, bite me, buck." you grit out halfway through a gasp.

and maybe he takes you too literally, because he does— he quickly undoes your bra and he bites you, hard and wet right into the flesh of your breast. your breath hitches as you drag a needy hand up his neck and into his hair, tugging at the root.

he groans into your flesh as he quickly pushes in and bottoms out. it’s quick and overwhelming, stealing the air from your lungs. you gasp, the sudden breach both burns and soothes all at once, your nails clawing at his shoulders just to get a grip.

but it leaves bucky feeling like something is missing, feeling like he needs more of you— like being buried in you isn’t enough— so he tries.

he tugs your bra off of you and tosses it somewhere on the ground, his hands desperate and greedy as his thumbs graze your nipples before leaning down and taking one into his mouth, tongue flicking and sucking like he’s a man starved. it’s so messy yet so good that you’re almost confused.

"what are you—"

you're cut off when bucky jerks. your hips are already flush, but bucky tries as hard as he can to push into you ever further, the tip of his dick practically digging into your cervix. you tremble in his arms as he pops off of your tit, a string of saliva connecting you.

"god, you taste like pure sugar." he groans, “and you're so tight. you been waiting for me? waiting for me to fuck your pretty little cunt?"

you nod, because what else can you really do? he’s grinding against you like his life depends on it, and the force of it has you turning into jelly in his arms. the drag of his cock inside of you has your back arching into his chest.

his hands are pressing into your hips so hard that you’re sure it’s going to bruise. his forehead is resting against yours, and it feels less like sex and more like he’s trying to claim every single part of you at once.

and then he finally pulls his hips back, his dick sliding out of you slow enough to make your walls clench around nothing before he hammers himself back into you with a force that rattles the counters. he swallows your cry in a desperate kiss before he repeats it again, and again, and again before he lays you down.

the counter makes contact with your bare back, goosebumps shooting throughout your entire body, but it’s nothing compared to how bucky’s driving his cock into you like you belong to him. your hands are reaching for something— anything— before you grab a hold of a rickety spice shelf above you, the metal groaning under the tension. one of the containers threatens to fall with a particularly hard thrust, but you don’t pay it any attention.

you’re sure bucky’s gonna be upset with you later, but you can’t really bring yourself to care when he’s fucking you like he’s determined to ruin you.

the kitchen echoes with you moaning bucky’s name and his groans, the loud wet plapping of his dick driving into you almost drowning you both out. bucky’s touch is electric, his hands sliding up your sides to pinch at your nipples with a shit-eating smile.

"you think that asshole at table seven could fuck you this good?" he grits out as he watched you writhe under his hands, "you think he could have you moaning his name like this?"

"ugh— no. fuck, no— only you." you groan, "only you, bucky."

the sound of his name on your tongue has him doubling over. "fuck. that's right." he groans into your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your earlobe.

your grip on the shelf tightens until your knuckles whiten and the rattling of the jars and containers gets drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. heat coils low in your stomach, and your mouth falls open but no sound comes out— just desperate, broken breaths that tell him exactly how close you are.

bucky feels it— the way your walls flutter and clench around him— and his hand snakes down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with ease, pressing down and rubbing tight circles that make your whole body jerk.

“c’mon, sweetheart, give it to me.” he rasps, and you can feel him coming undone inside of you, “give it to me— wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.“

and you do— the coil of heat in your stomach snaps and your head tips back, hitting the cool metal of the counter. a loud, strangled cry leaves your lips when every muscle in your body goes numb, then shatters into waves of molten pleasure with a final thrust.

he lets out a small laugh when he feels you clench around him, coming on his cock. he twitches in you, nails digging into your waist as he drives himself into you, “fuuuuck—“

“cum in me, buck— please.” you whimper, starting to feel overstimulated. your hands reach up to tug at his hair, pulling him towards you, “need it— need you.”

his hips stutter at your plea, your voice breaking whatever restraint he had that was holding him back. a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he buries his face into your neck, his thrusts turning ragged and messy, almost desperate to fill you.

bucky spills into you, cum hot and thick against your cervix, coating your insides like an artist does to a canvas. you pull him to your mouth, swallowing his groans. he feels drunk on the way you’re clenching around him, his thrusts faltering as you ride out your orgasms.

when he finally stills, forehead pressed against yours, he wraps his arms around you, holding you as if you might slip away. and then his voice comes out, soft and unguarded— sweet.

“you’ll be the death of me, sweetheart.”

you let out an uneven laugh, still shaky from your climax. you press a warm kiss to the edge of his hairline just long enough for him to feel it.

“what a way to go, huh?”

the first thing buckys notices when he steps into the restaurant the next day is that it smells of coffee— and it never smells of coffee. the aroma is strong and oddly comforting, wrapping around him as he takes a deep breath.

the first thing he notices is you. you’re already moving between tables, apron tied around your waist and a small trolley full of cutlery standing idly beside you. the sunlight streaming through the windows catches your skin just right, and bucky can’t help the subtle smile that tugs at his lips.

and then you look up at him, all polite and composed, none of your usual snarkiness coating your voice.

“morning.” you say with a small smile, voice overwhelmingly casual, but there’s a softness in it that has bucky’s chest tightening.

“mornin’.” he replies, eyes flicking to a tray of paper coffee cups that sits idly on the bar counter, “you felt nice enough to buy us coffee?”

you shrug like you’re hiding a secret, “i was in a good mood this morning.”

and just like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you go back to setting up the tables— placing cutlery and plates in their places, smoothing out the table cloths, and straightening up the chairs.

there’s a moment where bucky pauses to study you, his mind racing with the memory of you spread out and arching your back on the table you’re currently setting up, before he clears his throat and moves towards the kitchen.

from the pass, bucky can see steve, already knee-deep in prep work, chopping vegetables with precision. steve glances up at bucky as the kitchen door swings open, eyes already scanning his friend like he’s reading the aftermath of last night before he turns back to his cutting board.

bucky can sense something’s wrong before he even steps through the door. he tucks his bag under the counter and pulls his apron off of the hook, the strap settling into the back of his neck as he fastens it around his waist, preparing himself for whatever smirk and comment steve’s already lining up.

“have fun last night?” steve asks without looking up.

"hmm?" bucky's brow twitches as he opens the fridge and pulls out a tray of prepped ingredients. he tries to look indifferent, but he’s sure the way he tenses his jaw betrays him. “sure.”

he didn't tell steve he was doing anything last night. he just assumed steve would think he went home and sat on his sofa, cooked up some mac and cheese and nursed a beer or three— not that he had fucked you right where he was preparing vegetables.

steve nods like he’s interested, but then his knife pauses. he places it down carefully before he turns to bucky with an inquisitive eye, and bucky doesn’t miss the way steve stares for a moment too long.

“when i opened up this morning, old man pat came by and complained about a noise.” he mentions, his voice even and calm. “said it sounded like a cat screaming and meowing all night long.”

“weird.” bucky mutters under his breath. the memory of you coming undone on his cock plays in his mind on a loop, and you were definitely pretty loud. “probably alpine trying to catch rats near the dumpsters again.”

“yeah, probably.” steve narrows his eyes for a moment before he claps his hands and points to the door with his thumbs, “i’m gonna head over to the grocer to pick up some stuff. you mind watching the stock for me?”

“yeah, sure.”

steve undoes his apron and pulls it over his neck, hanging it back onto the hook. he dusts his hands off and pulls open the kitchen door, but pauses in the doorway.

“oh, and buck?” he calls.

bucky hums as he glances at steve.

“the next time you fuck the waitress in the middle of the restaurant, make sure the cameras are off.“

every muscles in bucky’s body tenses. heat crawls up his neck fast and hot, his eyes instinctively finding you— maybe to see if you heard that steve knows, or maybe to just calm himself down in this moment of immense horror— but you’re there, folding napkins with practiced motions and pursed lips, completely unaware that steve knows your dirty little secret.

bucky blinks, still frozen. he feels like he’s a kid caught with his arm elbow-deep in the forbidden cookie jar.

“and hey—“ steve casually adds as he pulls his jacket over his shoulders, “while you’re at it, next time, invite me.”

The man is a menace. A complete and utter disaster of a human being who somehow manages to fail half his classes while looking like he stepped out of a cologne ad. He doesn't give a single flying fuck about his GPA, shows up to lectures hungover more often than not, has this way of smirking at you that makes your blood pressure spike in more ways than one. 

Three days ago, everything changed. And by changed, you mean you fucked him in a club bathroom like some kind of feral animal in heat, and now you're sitting here trying to pretend it never happened while your pussy has the audacity to clench at the memory.

It went down like this. Steve and Nat had dragged you both to that overcrowded club downtown, sticky floors and watered-down drinks that cost twenty dollars. You'd volunteered to be the designated driver because you're a good friend, responsible, the kind of person who thinks ahead. What you didn't know — because why the fuck would you, since you and Bucky barely exchange civil words — was that he'd made the same decision.

So there you were. Stone-cold sober, watching Nat and Steve get progressively more handsy on the dance floor while nursing the same Coke you'd been working on for an hour. You were contemplating faking a family emergency just to escape when you noticed some guy sidling up to you at the bar.

He was fine. Decent smile, nice enough jawline, generically attractive. And you were bored, so you smiled back. Laughed at his mediocre joke. Let him lean in close enough that you could smell his cologne, woody and expensive that did absolutely nothing for you.

What you didn't notice, what you were too focused on Mr. Mediocre to catch, was Bucky watching from across the bar, jaw doing that tense thing it does when he's pissed, fingers drumming against his beer bottle.

The guy's hand landed on your lower back, and that's when Bucky materialized beside you like some kind of vengeful spirit. "We need to go."

You turned to look at him, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his we, when you caught the look on his face. "Excuse me?"

"Steve's sick. We're leaving."

The guy next to you raised his eyebrows, clearly picking up on the tension, and Bucky's gaze slid to him with something that might have been a smile if smiles could draw blood.

"Bucky —" But he was gripping your elbow, steering you away from the bar, toward the bathroom hallway, and you were too stunned to resist.

The second you were out of earshot from the main crowd, you yanked your arm free. "What the actual fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" He laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "My problem is you throwing yourself at some random dickhead when you're supposed to be here with us."

"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone, you absolute asshole. I was having a conversation. You know, that thing normal people do?"

"Looked like more than a conversation to me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to people." Your voice was getting louder, going shrill. "And Steve's not fucking sick, so what's the real issue here? Mad I'm not paying attention to you?"

Bucky's jaw clenched and unclenched before he spat his next words. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a mean drunk. As usual."

"I'm not drunk."

"What? Then why the hell am I not drinking?" The words came out with frustration that had been building. "This whole time I could've been getting shitfaced instead of playing babysitter to —"

"I'm not taking care of your ass," Bucky cut in. His chest was rising and falling too fast, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth and then snapping back up like he was fighting himself.

"Fuck off, Barnes."

You turned on your heel and headed for the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing to be anywhere but near him and the confusing mess of anger and heat that seemed to tangle in your stomach whenever you fought.

The bathroom was one of those single-occupancy ones with a lock on the door and a mirror that had seen better days. It was blessedly empty. You braced your hands on the sink and took a breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

The door flew open behind you. Bucky filled the frame, broad shoulders and wild eyes, and before you could tell him to get out, to leave you the fuck alone, he was inside with the lock clicking home behind him.

"What are you —"

His mouth crashed into yours, and every coherent thought evaporated. The kiss was mean, biting, aggressive, tasting like the anger that had been simmering between you for months, since the first time you met maybe. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could devour your mouth properly, and you heard yourself moan before you could stop it.

"Shut up," he growled against your lips. You wanted to argue, push him away and knee him in the balls for being such a presumptuous prick, but his other hand was sliding up your thigh, shoving your skirt up around your hips.

"You're such an asshole," you did manage to gasp out when he moved to your neck, teeth scraping over your jugular.

"Yeah?" His fingers found the edge of your underwear, you felt him smirking against your skin. "Is that why you're soaked?"

God, you wished he was wrong, but your pussy had apparently missed the memo about hating him, embarrassingly wet and dripping down your thighs already. His thick fingers made filthy, wet squelching sounds as they slid through your slick folds, spreading your juices everywhere. "Bucky —"

"That's right. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your knees nearly buckled. "Let everyone in this shitty club know who's making you feel this good."

You bit down on your lip, trying to stay quiet out of pure spite, but he crooked his fingers just right and a whimper escaped before you could stop it. He was good at this, unfairly good. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, and you could feel yourself getting close already, wound too tight from months of unresolved tension.

"Look at you," he murmured, wonder creeping into his voice even as his words stayed cruel. "So fucking desperate. How long have you been thinking about this, huh? How long have you been getting yourself off to the thought of me?"

"Fuck you," you spat. Spat might've been an exaggeration for it came out breathy and weak.

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget that asshole's name. Forget your own name."

He pulled his fingers out. Before you could protest the loss, he was spinning you around and bending you over the sink. Your palms slapped against the porcelain, as you felt him behind, the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass through his jeans. The sound of his belt buckle alone made you wetter.

"You want this?" Voice rough, he tugged your hair to make you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Tell me you want this."

"Yes." It came out as a hiss. "Now stop talking and fuck me already."

"Needy little thing." Bucky shoved his thick cock inside you in one brutal thrust, stretching your open around his girth until you were gasping and clawing at the sink. Nothing could have prepared you for the stretch. He was big, bigger than you'd let yourself imagine in the privacy of your own room. The burn of it mixed with pleasure, had you gasping. "Tight," he gritted out, pupils blown so wide and face slack with pleasure as he gripped your hips, and thrusted into your weeping cunt. "Jesus Christ, you're squeezing me so fucking tight." Brutal, punishing strokes had you scrambling for purchase on the sink. Each thrust pushed you forward, and you had to brace yourself to keep from smacking into the mirror, heavy balls slapping against your clit with every snap.

"This what you wanted?" he panted, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up to wrap around your throat. "Wanted me to ruin this greedy little cunt?"

"Yes — fuck — yes —"

"Who's making you feel good? Say it."

"You — Bucky — oh my god —" The bathroom filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock pistoning in and out of you, and your moans that you couldn't control anymore. He felt incredible, impossibly good

"That's it, fuck." His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin. "Take it."

You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too far. His cock was dragging against your walls, thick and perfect, so much you were babbling now, words falling out of your mouth, uncontrolled. "Please — please — I need —"

"You need to cum?" His laugh was mean. "Look at you, begging so pretty for me. Such a good girl when you're getting fucked stupid." The hand on your hip slid around to your clit, pressing down hard, circling the swollen bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. That was all it took. You came with a broken cry, clamping down around him so hard you felt him stagger.

"Fuck — fuck —" He pounded into you through it, chasing his own release, getting sloppy, losing his rhythm. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna make you drip with my cum."

True to his word, he buried himself deep and came with a groan that you felt vibrate through your whole body. You could feel him pulsing inside you, spilling hot and thick, triggering another smaller aftershock that left you trembling. His forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, cock still buried inside you.

Reality started creeping back in. The uncomfortable reality that you'd just fucked Bucky Barnes in a club bathroom, smeared makeup and all. He pulled out slowly, his cum immediately starting to leak out of you in a thick, creamy trail down your thigh. You felt him watching it, possessive. "This is never happening again," you said, trying to inject some steel into your voice even though your legs felt like jelly.

Through the smudged mirror, you could see his expression, something like disappointment or hurt taking over his features, but it was gone so fast you couldn't be sure. "Yeah. Never again."

When you turned to face him, his face was carefully blank. Expecting a fight or at least some sarcastic comment, you stared at him, but he just looked at you with those blue eyes that gave nothing away. "Seriously? You agree?"

He shrugged, already tucking himself back into his jeans with an insulting efficiency. "You said it, not me. But yeah, probably a bad idea."

It shouldn't have stung. You were the one who said it first. But how quickly he agreed, how easily he dismissed what had just happened, made your chest feel tight. 

Of course he agreed. He hated you just as much as you hated him. This was just... what? Hate sex? Getting it out of your systems? It didn't mean anything. "Right. Bad idea," you echoed, trying to fix your skirt with shaking hands.

He watched you struggle with your appearance for a moment, then reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so at odds with everything that had just happened that you froze. "You good?" his voice was soft.

"Fine."

"Okay." He unlocked the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "Wait like five minutes before you come out. Don't want anyone getting ideas."

Now, he’s sitting right in front of you, hands flying over his phone, not one look to your face.

Nat's grip on your wrist is unrelenting, dragging you down the hallway toward Steve and Bucky's dorm like you're a toddler being hauled to the dentist.

"I don't know why I have to be here," you complain, but she's not listening. She never listens when she's on a mission. And tonight's mission involves you third-wheeling while she and Steve do whatever disgustingly domestic couple activity they have planned.

"You've been holed up in your room for two days and it's getting weird," Nat says, not breaking stride. "Besides, we're just watching a movie. It's not a big deal."

It shouldn't be a big deal. You've done this a thousand times before. You've crashed at their place, sprawled across their furniture, stolen their snacks. But that was before. Before you knew what Bucky looked like when he came, how his cum felt like dripping down your thighs. Before everything got weird and complicated in ways you're desperately trying to un-complicate. 

Steve opens the door, and you scan the room behind him automatically. The couch is empty. The kitchen is empty. No dark-haired asshole anywhere in sight. There's an annoying twist happening inside you. 

"Where's Barnes?" Nat asks, stepping inside and immediately gravitating toward Steve.

"Class ran late," Steve says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "He texted like twenty minutes ago. Should be back soon."

You settle onto the couch and try to figure out why you're irritated. There's a prickling sensation under your skin, this restless energy that has nowhere to go. It doesn't make sense. Usually when Bucky's not around, it's a relief. A chance to breathe without his smirking presence taking up all the oxygen in the room. Since when do you care if he's here or not?

Since never. You don't care. You're just... noticing. That's all.

Nat and Steve are doing that thing where they're technically watching the movie but mostly just existing in each other's space. It's sweet. It's nauseating. It's making you feel like a massive third wheel, which is exactly what you told Nat would happen.

An hour creeps by. The movie's some action thing with explosions you're not paying attention to. You're checking your phone every thirty seconds like a psycho, which is ridiculous because you don't even text him, the chat is nonexistent. 

The door finally opens and Bucky looks like shit. Like he's been awake for seventy-two hours straight and spent most of that time getting hit by a truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. His usual sharp energy has been replaced by something dull and heavy.

"You good, man?" Steve asks, pausing the movie.

"Fine." Bucky's voice is rough. His eyes sweep the room and land on you for half a second before skittering away. "Long day. Gonna crash."

"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want —"

"Not hungry." He disappears into his room, door clicking shut with a finality. Steve and Nat exchange a look, shrug and go back to the movie. But you can't focus now, can't stop thinking about the way he couldn't quite look at you.

Before, he'd have said something. Some stupid comment designed to get under your skin, to start a fight, to make you snap at him. Before, he was always here, always present, finding new and creative ways to piss you off. Now he's not. It's wrong somehow. Off-balance.

You last another fifteen minutes before you can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," you mutter, standing abruptly.

The hallway to Bucky's room is short. The actual bathroom is to the left, and you don't care. You turn right and knock on his door before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Go away, Steve."

"It's not Steve."

Silence keeps you company before his voice comes. "What do you want?"

Without waiting for permission, you push the door open. Bucky's sitting on his bed, still fully dressed, looking up when you enter. His face slips for a fraction of a second, a raw, unguarded edge breaking through before he shuts it down like it never happened. "Can't you read a room? I said I was tired."

"You look like shit."

"Thanks. That why you're here? Give me a wellness check?" His voice comes out sharp, waking your frustration that was simmering beneath. 

"No, I'm here because you've been acting weird and I want to know why."

He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "I'm acting weird? That's rich coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Forget it." He stands up, and you realize how small his room feels with both of you in it. "Seriously, go back to the movie. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."

"Whatever this is? You're the one who's been avoiding me."

"I haven't been avoiding shit. I've had class and practice and a fucking life that doesn't revolve around you."

"Oh, so now I'm being self-centered? That's hilarious, Barnes, really. Because last I checked, you're the one who can't go five minutes without being a condescending asshole."

"And you can't go five minutes without starting a fight. What do you want from me? You said never again. I agreed. So what the fuck are you doing in my room?"

He's inside your bubble, closer, and you don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer that makes sense except for the truth, which is that you missed fighting with him. Missed the way he looks at you like you're the most infuriating person on the planet. Missed him, which is insane, stupid and absolutely cannot be true. "I don't know — I just... you weren't here and then you were and you looked like hell and I —"

"You what? Cared? Don't waste your energy. The only good thing about me is my dick, right?"

Oh. He's pissed about that. About how you treated him in the bathroom, one round of messy sex and immediately shutting down anything else.

"I didn't —"

"Yeah, you did." He's so close that you can smell him, the sweat of a hard day. "And you know what? You're right. That's all this is. All it's ever gonna be. So if you're here for round two, say it. But don't pretend it's anything else."

Your heartbeat stutters, starts hitting too fast, like it’s trying to climb out through your ribs. "Fuck you."

"That an offer?"

"You're such a prick."

"And you're a fucking brat who can't figure out what she wants." His hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "So let me make it simple for you. You want me to fuck you again? Is that what this little tantrum is about?"

Slapping him would make sense. Turning around, walking out, cutting him off completely. But your pussy is getting wet, he can probably see it in your eyes, the way you're leaning into him despite yourself. "That's not true." It sounds weak even to your own ears. "Your dick's not the only good thing about you."

His fingers press in harder, thumb digging into the skin just beneath your chin. "No? Then what else?"

"I don't know... your mouth?" It's a gamble. A stupid, reckless gamble that could blow up in your face. But his eyes darken, a dangerous smile curving his lips.

"My mouth," he repeats it syllable by syllable. "Wanna know what my mouth can do besides piss you off?"

Before you can answer, he's kissing you. More urgent, more hurried than the bathroom, but not any less filthier. His mouth moves over yours and then deeper, testing how far he can go before you pull away. The drag of his tongue lingers, presses, coaxes your mouth open wider until you’re reacting before you can think about it. A sound slips out, caught somewhere between your throat and his mouth, swallowed almost as soon as it happens. "Get on the bed."

"You can't —"

"I said get on the bed." The command goes straight to your cunt. "Unless you want Steve and Nat to hear me make you scream."

That gets you moving, climbing onto his bed, him immediately on trail, caging you in with his body. Hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. "These are cute," he says, fingers hooking into your underwear. Light pink with a little bow. "Be a shame to ruin them."

"Don't —"

He yanks them down your legs and dangles them in front of your face before shoving them into his pocket. "Too late."

"You're —"

His hand sliding between your thighs cuts you off, thick fingers spreading your soaked lips wide open, putting your dripping cunt on full display for him. He spits directly onto your exposed cunt, the warm, thick glob of saliva landing with a wet splat right on your swollen clit. He rubs it in, smearing the spit all over your slick folds until it mixes with your own juices and drips down your ass. Holding your pussy lips open even wider with both thumbs, his fingers dig into the soft flesh so nothing is hidden. He spits again, this time aiming straight into your twitching hole, watching the spit disappear inside you. "Look at this needy little pussy. Already soaked and I've barely touched her."

Humiliation and arousal both flood your system as he's inspecting you like you're something he owns, thumb dragging through your slick folds, smearing your juices everywhere before circling your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm and whine. "Bucky —"

"Shh. Let me look at what's mine."

His?? 

"It's not—"

"Whose cum was dripping out of this cunt two days ago?" He slides two thick fingers inside you, pumping them slow and deep, a moan slipping out, teeth clamping tight to pull it back. "Who fucked you so good you could barely walk straight?"

"That doesn't mean — oh fuck —"

"It does." Broad, rough fingers pump into you faster, your slick juices coating his knuckles and dripping down to his palm. "Got my cum all in this greedy pussy and you loved it. Loved being full of me. Bet you've been thinking about it, haven't you? Getting yourself off to the memory of my dick splitting you open."

What's worse is that he's not wrong. You have been thinking about it. Every night since it happened, fingers between your legs, trying to recreate the feeling of him inside you. "You're delusional," you lie through your teeth, and he laughs like he's caught you in it.

"Am I?" His fingers curl inside your walls, hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. "Then why are you clenching around my fingers like you're trying to keep me inside you? Why's this pussy begging for more?"

Bucky pulls his fingers out abruptly, a filthy wet sound echoing as a whimper slips past your lips in the wake of the loss. Bringing them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time, he licks them clean, sucking every drop of your slick off with a groan. "Taste so fuckin' good."

Without wasting another breath, he moves down your body, shoving your thighs apart roughly and settling between them, mouth sealing over your throbbing clit like he's starving for it. Nothing is gentle about this. Calloused fingers dig into your thighs, holding you spread obscenely wide while his tongue works your clit in ruthless, sloppy circles, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. "Oh my god—"

"Let me hear how much you love my mouth. Thought it was only good for pissing you off?" The words against your cunt are muffled, but the vibration of it makes you writhe under him. 

"Shut up and — fuck — keep doing that —"

He slides his tongue deep inside you, fucking your dripping hole with it in long, filthy strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. You forget how to breathe. Forget your own name. One of his hands leaves your thigh to push two fingers back inside you. The combination of his tongue and fingers has you climbing toward orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Such a messy girl," he says, pulling back to look at you. His chin is wet with your arousal, the sight of it making your pussy clench around his fingers. "Making a mess all over my face. Getting my sheets wet. Think they can hear you whimpering in here?"

"Bucky, please —"

"Please what? Use your words."

"Make me cum, you asshole —"

"Nope, ask nicely." A sharp smack lands straight to your swollen clit, the sting shooting straight up your spine, making your pussy clench hard around nothing.

"Please, Bucky. Make me cum." The words leave you in record speed, the need for release much more than the desire to keep your self-respect. 

"Since you asked so nicely." His mouth goes back to your clit, sucking, while his fingers work inside you. You come with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around his head. The squeeze doesn't do anything to him, he continues his attack on your weeping hole, until you're pushing at his shoulders.

Looking entirely too pleased with himself, he pulls back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still think the only good thing about me is my dick?"

You're still trying to remember how to form words, whole body feeling like jelly. There's a suspicious wet spot spreading beneath you on his sheets. "You're still an asshole."

"Mhmm, but I just made you come so hard you nearly broke my jaw with your thighs. So, be nice." The finger which was buried inside your cunt, still slick with your release, taps your nose once.

He's hard, painfully so, you can see that. You almost say 'fuck me', beg him to put his dick in you and make you forget your own name again. But then reality creeps back in. Steve and Nat are just down the hall, more than that, you two are supposed to hate each other, and this was supposed to be never again.

"This can't keep happening." Sitting up, you try to fix your skirt even though your underwear is currently in his pocket.

"Right. This again."

If you didn't know him better, you'd think his face was neutral. Unfortunately for both of you, you do know him better. "I'm serious. This was — this was the last time."

"You said that two days ago."

"Well, I mean it now."

For a second too long, he stares at you, an expression you can't read this time. Hurt or anger or frustration or all three. "Fine," he finally says. "Last time. Got it."

"I'm serious, Barnes. We can't — I don't want —"

"I said fine." He stands up, adjusting himself in his jeans. "You should probably get back out there before they notice you've been gone for twenty minutes."

On shaky legs, you stand, very aware that you're not wearing underwear and that your hair probably looks like a disaster. At the door, you pause. "Bucky—"

"It's fine. Really. We're good." His back is to you. 

Nothing about this feels good at all. You slip out of his room and head to the actual bathroom, taking a minute to clean yourself up and try to put yourself back together. When you look in the mirror, your lips are swollen, eyes too bright, and you look like exactly what you are — someone who just got eaten out within an inch of her life.

This was the last time. It has to be. Even if some traitorous part of you is already wondering when the next never again will happen.

Bucky Barnes never ignores you. He might annoy you to death, but ignoring you was beyond him. That is, until now. 

The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso. There's a crack in the table that keeps catching your pen, your notes are all haphazard, the result of you not paying enough attention in class. But none of that matters because Bucky is sitting across from you and acting like you don't exist.

Before, he'd make a show of it, intentionally looking past you, making little comments to Steve that were clearly designed to get a rise out of you. This is different. He's genuinely not paying attention. Eyes on his textbook, highlighter moving across the page in steady strokes, completely absorbed in whatever bullshit he's supposed to be learning.

It's infuriating.

Steve and Nat are comparing notes, discussing, you're supposed to be doing the same but you can't focus. Because Bucky's right there, close enough to touch, and he might as well be on another planet.

You stretch your leg out under the table, let your foot bump against his calf. Nothing. No reaction. He just shifts slightly and keeps reading.

Fine. Maybe that was too subtle.

You lean forward to grab your coffee, making sure to press your shoulder against his. He's warm, you can smell that soap he uses, the one that's been haunting you for days. He glances up, shifts to give you more room and goes back to his reading. 

What the actual fuck.

"Can you pass me that?" you ask, pointing to his highlighter even though you have three of your own sitting right in front of you.

He hands it over without looking at you.

There's a pressure building in your chest, hot and uncomfortable, anger or something much worse. You click the highlighter open and close, open and close, the sound obnoxiously loud, out of place.

Bucky doesn't say anything. Again. 

You highlight a random sentence in your notes. Then another. You're not even reading what you're marking. Neon yellow drags across the page while you watch him from the corner of your eye. But he's a statue. A really attractive statue that ate you out yesterday and is now acting like it never happened.

At this worst possible moment, you also remember what his mouth felt like between your legs, the filthy things he said, how he pocketed your underwear like some kind of trophy. Fuck him for being able to compartmentalize like this. Fuck him for sitting there looking all studious and put-together while you're falling apart.

'Accidentally', you knock your notebook off the table. With a soft thud, it lands on his foot. Bucky closes his eyes, takes a breath that looks like it's taking considerable effort, and leans down to pick it up. When he hands it back, his expression is carefully neutral.

"Thanks." The word is saccharine. 

"Mhmm." That's it. That's all you get. Not even a proper word.

You last another five minutes before you physically can't take it anymore. You nudge his leg again, harder this time, and he finally looks at you. Exhaustion in his eyes makes an ugly twist in your gut. 

"You done?" His words are simple. Calm, even. But they land like a slap, and suddenly you're furious. Furious at him for being so unaffected, at yourself for caring, at this entire fucked-up situation that you can't seem to escape.

"Yeah. I'm done."

It's been fifteen minutes and Bucky hasn't even acknowledged that you exist. 

The bar is crowded, loud, and you're three drinks deep, feeling pleasantly buzzed. The tall, dark haired, decent smile guy, has been buying you drinks.

His name is Mike or something with an M. You're just nodding while you scan the room. You spotted Bucky the second you walked in, sitting at a high-top with some guys from his team, nursing a beer and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

He hasn't looked at you once. Not when you walked in, not when M-name put his hand on your lower back, not when you threw your head back laughing at something that definitely wasn't that funny.

You don't care. Why would you care? He made it perfectly clear at the coffee shop that he's done with whatever game you two have been playing, agreeing oh-so readily that it was a mistake.

The alcohol makes this easier somehow, looser. That's how you let the guy pull you towards the mass of bodies near the speakers, when he says something about dancing. The music is too loud, bass thumping in your chest. His hands land on your hips, chest to chest. You press back against him, definitely more grinding than dancing.

Over his shoulder, you can see Bucky. Still at his table, still not looking.

Fuck him.

You roll your hips, let this random guy's hands wander, and pretend you're having the time of your life. The guy's mouth is at your neck, saying something you can't hear over the music, hands sliding too low but you don't stop him.

Three songs. That's how long you last before you can't take it anymore.

You extract yourself from his hands, with a smile and an excuse about needing another drink, and make a beeline for Bucky's table. His friends scatter like they can sense the incoming storm. Then it's just the two of you. "Having fun?" you ask.

Bucky takes a long pull from his beer. "Could ask you the same thing."

"I am, actually. Matt's a great dancer."

"It's Mark, actually. And that wasn't dancing."

You lean against the table, invading his space. "Oh, so you were watching? Thought you were too busy brooding over here to notice."

"Hard to miss when you're putting on a show."

"I'm not —" You cut yourself off, force a breath. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't." He clearly doesn't, what with you storming over here to make a point. But his knuckles are white around the bottle and there's a muscle jumping in his jaw that makes you look closer.

"Liar."

"Go back to your date." His voice is so cold it actually makes you flinch. "I'm sure he's missing you."

"What's your problem?" The words come out loud, but the music swallows most of it. "You've been acting like I don't exist. Like nothing happened."

"You said it couldn't happen again. I'm respecting that."

"By ignoring me completely? By acting like we're strangers?"

"What do you want from me?" He finally looks at you, a burn in his eyes. "You want me to what, pine after you? Beg you to change your mind? You made your choice. Multiple times, actually."

"You agreed!"

"What the fuck was I supposed to say? No, I won't respect your boundaries? Jesus Christ." He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, worn down. "Go dance with Mark. Go home with him. Do whatever you want. Just stop —"

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want me to do something about it."

The bass of the music has nothing on your heart, you can feel it in your throat. You do want him to do something. To fight for this, whatever this is, to care as much as you’re suddenly realizing you do.

Reckless with alcohol and frustration, the words get past you. "Maybe I want you to —"

He sets his beer down with a force. "Well I'm not going to. So go find someone who will."

The dismissal stings, the casual way you're written off, like you're an inconvenience he's tired of dealing with. You're drunk enough that your filter is nonexistent, angry enough that you don't care about the consequences. "You know what? Fuck you, Barnes. I was trying to —"

"Trying to what? Start another fight so we can fuck about it later? I'm not playing that game anymore."

"I'm not —" But you are. You came over here specifically to get a rise out of him, to make him react. "God, you're such a —"

"Watch it," he warns, but you're too far gone to stop now.

"Or what? You'll ignore me harder? Give me the silent treatment? Real mature, Bucky. Really —" His hand shoots out and catches your nipple through your flimsy top, pinching hard enough to make you gasp. Right there in the middle of the bar, where anyone could see.

"Mind your manners," his words are quiet, only to your ears, but there's nothing quiet about the look in his eyes.

The pain mixing with pleasure makes your brain go numb. The shock of him touching you after days of ignoring, shoots straight to your cunt. The way he's looking at you like he wants to devour you whole definitely helps. "Or what?" The words come out breathy, challenging.

His other hand comes up to your mouth, calloused fingers pressing against your lips, pulling your lower lip down, even as you try not to give in. "You really wanna find out?"

When your mouth opens — to say what, you're not sure, — his fingers slip inside. The taste of salt and skin floods your senses. And because you're you, because you can't help yourself, you bite down. Hard enough to make a point.

Saliva smeared fingers pull out, only to hold your cheeks, smushed together. "That's it. We're leaving."

"'m — ngh — n’goin’ any — wheh —" 

Bucky doesn't let you finish your pathetic excuse of a sentence, he's pulling you through the crowd, fingers wrapped around your wrist in a grip that's just shy of painful. You could fight him, dig in your heels and make a scene. But you do what lost causes do best, follow him. 

He drags you out a side door into an alley that smells like garbage and stale beer. The door slams shut behind you, muffling the music. It's just the two of you in the dim light from a flickering streetlamp.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice is rough, angry, and he's backing you up against the brick wall.

"Takes one to know one."

"Can't go five minutes without running your mouth. Can't follow a single fucking boundary you set yourself. What am I supposed to do with you?"

His hand slides under your skirt, where you're already wet. You've been wet since he pinched your nipple in the bar, maybe since you saw him sitting there looking miserable.

"This what you wanted?" His hand yanks your soaked panties aside so his thick fingers can drag through your dripping folds. "Wanted me to lose my shit? To stop being nice?"

"You're never nice," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.

"No, I'm not." He curls them viciously, battering that spongy spot inside you while his thumb grinds rough circles over your swollen clit. "I'm the guy who can't stay away from you even though I know I should. I'm the guy who gets hard every time you look at me like you hate me, who's so fucked up over you I can't think straight."

The confession should probably mean something, but you're too busy trying not to collapse as he fucks you with his fingers. Fast and rough, his thumb circling your clit, his other hand gripping your hip to hold you in place. "Bucky — please —"

"Please what? You want my cock?" He's grinding his rock-hard bulge against your thigh so you can feel every thick inch straining against his jeans. "Want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could see?"

"Yes —"

"No." He emphasizes the word with a particularly brutal thrust of his fingers. "Bad girls don't get cock."

"That's not fair —"

"Life's not fair, darling'." His fingers are pistoning into you, three thick digits stretching your pussy open, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet alley. "You cum on my fingers or not at all."

Whimpering, you're chasing your orgasm, feeling his hard length against your hip, but he's not giving you what you want. Won't give you what you need. "C'mon," he murmurs, almost gentle despite the way he's finger-fucking you. "Let me feel it. Let me feel this greedy pussy cum for me."

It crashes over you sudden and intense, your cunt clamping down hard around his fingers, gushing slick all over his hand as your legs shake. He works you through it, fingers gentling as you breathe hard against each other.

After the post orgasmic haze, you realise you you just let him finger you outside a bar. He just made you cum, now he's pulling his hand away and putting distance between you like he can't stand to be close anymore. "Bucky —"

"Go home." He won't look at you. "Go home and sleep it off."

"I'm not drunk."

"Then you've got no excuse for acting like this." His eyes finally meet yours, the look in them makes your chest ache. "We're done with this. Whatever this is, we're done." Walking away into the bar, he leaves you standing in the alley his fingerprints bruised into your skin.

The first thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The second thing is that you're not in your bed. The third thing, the thing that makes your eyes snap open in pure panic, is that you're in his bed.

Bucky's bed. The same bed where he'd eaten you out two days ago, where you'd gripped his sheets and fallen apart on his tongue. The same room you'd stormed into and started a fight that ended with his hand between your legs. The mattress is firmer than yours, and there's this indent in the pillow that smells like him.

You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room spins, a pounding in your skull that suggests last night was a terrible series of decisions. You're wearing a t-shirt. Not yours though. Grey and soft from too many washes, hits mid-thigh, it's his. 

Your jeans are folded on his desk chair. Your top, the black one with the low cut, is there too, along with your bra. Which means you're bare under his shirt, which means —

The door opens and Bucky walks in holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a mug of what smells like coffee. He's already dressed in a jeans and a Henley, that looks ridiculously hot on him. Hair is slightly damp like he just showered, looking way too put together for whatever the fuck happened last night.

"Did we—" You can't even finish the sentence, mortification crawling up your throat. "Did we fuck?"

Bucky laughs, a sound you realise you've grown to miss these past few days. "We've fucked before," he says, setting the ibuprofen on the nightstand. "But no. Not last night."

The relief is immediate and confusing. "Then why am I wearing your shirt?"

"You don't remember?" His words are soft, so soft so as to not spook the skittish animal — you. 

"No?"

Something flickers across his face as he sighs, too quick to read. Could be frustration or concern or maybe just exhaustion with your bullshit. He sits on the edge of the bed, which feels weirdly intimate considering you're barely dressed, and runs a hand through his hair. "After the alley, you went back to the bar. Did a few more shots with Nat. Then you puked in the bathroom, I had to change your clothes because you'd gotten it all over yourself."

Oh god. Oh god. You want to sink through the mattress, disappear into the floor and maybe cease existing entirely. He had to change you. He had to see you messy and puking, had to strip off your clothes and put you to bed like you're some kind of disaster he's responsible for. Your voice is small when you ask, "why didn't Nat help me? You didn't have to do that."

"Nat was in the exact same condition as you." He hands you the coffee, your fingers brushing his when you take it. "Steve took care of her."

The parallel. Steve and Nat. You and Bucky. Like you're couples, like this is normal, like taking care of each other when you're shitfaced drunk is just what you do. Except you and Bucky aren't anything. You're just two people who can't stop fucking each other in semi-public places and then insisting it'll never happen again.

Panic starts crawling up your spine. This is too intimate and domestic.

"You can shower before you go," Bucky says, standing up. "I'll get you some clothes to wear home. Your stuff from last night is probably beyond saving."

He's being nice. That's what's so disorienting about this whole thing. He's being genuinely nice to you, and you don't know how to process it. Where's the smirk? Where's the condescending remark? Where's the Bucky who makes you want to simultaneously punch him and jump his bones? This version, the one who brought you coffee and pills and is offering you his shower, is uncharted territory. "Thanks." The word feels awkward in your mouth.

Bucky nods, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You sit there, holding the coffee mug and trying to organize your thoughts into something that makes sense. The coffee is exactly how you take it, meaning he's been paying attention. This is somehow worse than you thought.

The shower helps. There's something grounding about standing under the hot water, washing off last night's mistakes with his soap and shampoo. You're now going to smell like him all day, which is just another thing to add to the list of problems you're actively ignoring.

When you come out, there's a stack of clothes on the bed. Sweatpants with a drawstring, another t-shirt, a pair of boxers. Which you're definitely not going to wear. A lie to keep yourself sane.

The walk home is a blur. You spend the rest of the day aggressively not thinking about any of it. His hands steady while he dressed you when you were too drunk to manage it, the coffee fixed exactly how you take it, the way he didn't just drop you off, even though he could've. You wouldn't blame him. 

By evening, the guilt sets in. You need to return his clothes. That's what a decent human being would do. Definitely not because you want to see him, not because you can't stop replaying the morning in your head.

You fold the sweatpants and t-shirt neatly, walk to his dorm with a stomach full of nervous energy. The boxers you're keeping, because returning used underwear is a level of awkward you're not prepared to handle. That's what you tell yourself now, what you'll tell him if he asks. 

He answers on the second knock, surprise in his eyes.

"Hey," you hold out the clothes. "Wanted to return these."

"Could've kept them." But he takes them. There's this moment where you're both just standing, not knowing what to say.

He looks good. He always looks good, but right now he's in joggers and an old t-shirt, barefoot and relaxed, something you rarely see in him. Your stupid brain is reminding you of all the ways you know what's under those clothes, all the ways he's made you fall apart.

Bucky does what you're not expecting, he leans in slowly, giving you time to see it coming, time to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath before it happens.

No, not again. You turn your head at the last second, his mouth missing yours, catches your cheek instead, the contact soft and wrong all at once. He goes still, not sure of what he just touched. "We can't do this anymore." The words taste like ash on your tongue.

His expression is carefully blank as he pulls back. "Right."

"I'm serious, Bucky." You're talking fast, words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Last night was — this morning was — we need to stop. This whole thing, whatever it is, it needs to stop."

"Okay."

"No offense, you're a great lay —" God, could you sound more like an asshole? "— but this is getting too complicated. And I just think it's better if we —"

"I said okay." His voice is flat, face carefully set, not to give anything away. The problem is, you don't want him to just agree. You want him to fight you on it, to argue, to do literally anything other than just accept it. But he's standing there looking at you with those blue eyes that give nothing away, and you're realizing that maybe he's relieved. Maybe he's been looking for an exit and you just handed him one.

The insecurity, the pain in your chest, doesn't reflect on your words. "Okay. So we're good?"

"Yeah. We're good."

There's nothing left to say after that. Walking away feels wrong, even though it was you who'd suggested it. 

The truth you're not ready to admit, the one that's been building since that first bathroom encounter is that Bucky's not really that much of an asshole. Or maybe he is, but you're starting to not find it annoying. You like the way he challenges you, pushes back, doesn't let you get away with your bullshit. You like the quiet moments too, the coffee this morning, the way he took care of you when you were a disaster, how he looks at you sometimes like you're more than just someone to fight with.

You can handle hating him. You can even handle wanting him. What you can't handle is this other thing, this softer thing that's taking root in your chest and making everything more complicated than it needs to be.

So yeah. It has to stop. It has to. Even if you're already missing him, and he's only been gone from your sight for thirty seconds.

The thing about trying not to think about someone is that the harder you try, the more they invade every corner of your brain like some kind of parasitic thought you can't evict. It's been three days since you handed back Bucky's clothes, since you told him it was over, did the mature, responsible thing and ended whatever fucked-up situationship you'd stumbled into.

It's also three days of failing spectacularly at not thinking about him.

You see him everywhere. In the guy at the coffee shop who orders black coffee, the way Bucky takes. In the dark-haired stranger at the crosswalk whose shoulders are just a little too broad. In every fucking corner you turn, there he is. 

Except he's not. He's never actually there.

Fourth afternoon you end up at Steve's dorm. Not on purpose — well, maybe a little on purpose. Nat wanted to pick up some textbook Steve borrowed, and you tagged along. With a thin, embarrassing hope inside your ribs that thinks Bucky would be there on the couch like always, smirking at you over his laptop.

He's not.

Steve's alone, doing dishes in his hideous yellow rubber gloves, and he barely looks up when you walk in. "Bucky's at practice," he says, like you asked. Like it's written all over your face that you're looking for him.

"Cool," you aim for casual and land near manic. "I wasn't — I didn't ask."

Steve gives you a look that says he's not buying it, but he's nice enough not to call you out.

The next day, you hit the cafe where you do study group. Your regular table is empty. The corner booth where Bucky always sits, is occupied by some freshman with headphones the size of dinner plates. You order your latte and sit in the wrong seat. Everything feels off-kilter.

Your phone sits on the table in front of you. You've opened his contact approximately sixty-seven times in the last three days. His name just sitting there, never texted him, never called. The message thread between you is completely blank, just a white screen full of possibility and cowardice.

What would you even say? Hey, remember when I said we should stop? Yeah, about that. Or maybe: I think I made a mistake. Or the truth, which is something closer to: I can't stop thinking about you and it's making me crazy and I don't know what to do.

Your thumb hovers over his name. You close the app. Open it again. Close it.

Next night you end up at the bar. Same one where he fingered you in the alley, where you drank too much and ended up in his bed wearing his shirt. The bar is busy, some kind of hockey watch party that you don't care about. You scan the crowd automatically. Looking for dark hair and blue eyes.

He's not here either.

You end up doing a shot with some girls from your class. They're nice alright, but you're barely listening to what they're saying. An exam, about a professor's office hours. Your brain is white noise and static, all Bucky all the time, and you hate it. Hate that he's taken up residence in your head without paying rent, and that you can't seem to function like a normal person anymore.

The group chat is the worst part. Steve posts a meme about a professor. Nat responds with crying-laughing emojis. Bucky texts back with 'lmao'. Your thumb swipes his text, ready to reply, or react. But what use is it? 

He's alive. He's fine. He's out there somewhere living his life like nothing happened, like you didn't happen, while you're spiraling in this pathetic tornado of your own making.

What do you say to someone you pushed away? What do you say when you're realising that maybe you made the biggest mistake of your life?

Next morning, Nat corners you in your dorm room.

She uses the key you gave her for emergencies. You're still in bed even though it's almost eleven, wrapped in your comforter like a burrito. She takes one look at you before sighing, sitting on the edge of your bed. "Okay. We're talking about it."

"Talking about what?"

"Don't play dumb. You've been weird. You're not eating, you're not sleeping —"

"I'm sleeping fine."

"— and you've been moping. So we're talking about it."

You could deny it, brush her off, change the subject, keep pretending everything's fine. But you're so tired of pretending, and it's Nat. Maybe if you say it out loud, it'll make more sense. "I slept with Bucky."

There's not an ounce of surprise in her face, she doesn't even blink. "I know."

"What? How —"

"Please. You two have been eye-fucking each other for months. It was only a matter of time. How many times?"

"Does it matter?"

"Humour me."

You count in your head. The bathroom at the club. His room when he ate you out. The alley. "Three. Ish."

"Ish?"

"It's complicated."

"It always is with you two. So what happened? Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"

You spill all of it. Nat listens without interrupting. By the time you're done, you feel wrung out and empty. "I told him it was too complicated. That we needed to stop. And he just... agreed. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing."

"Did you want him to disagree?"

The question you don't know the answer to, or rather, gaslighting yourself into not knowing the answer. "I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."

"Babe." Nat reaches over and squeezes your hand. "Why did you tell him to stop?"

"It was getting messy. Because we were supposed to hate each other and instead we were —" The words gets caught in your throat.

"Instead you were what?"

"I don't know. Something else."

"Like what?"

You close your eyes, and try to find the words for this feeling that's been building in your chest for weeks. "He knows how I like my coffee. When I was drunk and disgusting, he took care of me. He gave me his clothes. He's an asshole but he's also... he's not. He's funny and smart when he's not trying to piss me off, and the way he looks at me sometimes —"

"You like him." Three words you were not ready to hear. 

"No. I don't — we hate each other. We fight constantly. He drives me crazy."

"Yeah, because you like him." Nat says it gently, like she's explaining something obvious to a child. "You like him, and it scares you, so you pushed him away before he could hurt you."

"That's not —"

But it is. The realization hits you like cold water. You like Bucky Barnes. Not just his dick — though, that too —, but him. The way he challenges you, the way he sees through your bullshit, the way he makes you feel alive in a way nothing else does. You like him, and you sent him away. "Oh my god. I'm so stupid."

"Little bit, yeah."

"What do I do?"

"Tell him."

"I can't just — he agreed it was a mistake. He was probably relieved when I ended it. He hasn't tried to contact me once in three days, Nat. Not once."

"Because you told him it was over. What's he supposed to do, ignore your boundaries?"

She's right. Of course. You set the boundary, and he respected it, he even said so. Now you're mad at him for doing exactly what you asked.

Your phone is in your hand before you fully decide to grab it. You don't let yourself think this time, thinking is what got you into this mess. It rings, and rings, and rings. 

After more ringing and more nothing, you're ready to give up, and he picks up. "What?" His voice is rough, annoyed, your courage almost failing you.

"I need to talk to you."

There's silence first, sigh second, and then, "I'm busy."

"It's important."

"I said I'm busy."

"Bucky, please."

Another pause, longer. You can hear noise in the background. Voices, music maybe. He's somewhere, anywhere but talking to you. "Fine," he finally says. "Library. Tomorrow. Two o'clock."

"Okay. Yeah. I'll be —"

He hangs up before you can finish.

Bucky is ten minutes late.

Not that you're counting.

Eleven minutes now.

You picked a table in the back corner, the one behind the stacks where people go to make out or cry during midterms. Private enough for this conversation, whatever this conversation is going to be. Your hands are shaking, like you're some kind of nervous wreck, which you are.

Twelve minutes.

Maybe he's not coming. Maybe this was his way of telling you to fuck off without actually saying the words. You pull out your phone, pull up his contact for the thousandth time, and that's when you see him.

He looks wrong. There's no better word to describe him right now. Bucky always carries himself like he owns whatever space he's in, loose, confident and just arrogant enough to be annoying. But right now he's tense, shoulders up near his ears, and he won't quite look at you as he drops into the chair across from you.

"Hey." Your voice comes out too soft.

"Hey." That's it. That's all you get. He's looking at the table, at his hands, at anything that isn't you. There's this wall between you that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there and you were busy being annoyed to fully notice it.

"Thanks for meeting me," you try again.

He shrugs. 

This is going great. Really stellar. You've had more productive conversations with your houseplant.

"I wanted to talk about — about what happened. About what I said."

"It's fine." His voice is flat, bored almost. "You were right. It was getting complicated."

"No, I wasn't right. I was —" You take a breath, try to organize the thoughts that have been ping-ponging around your skull for four days. "I was scared. And I said things I didn't mean because I didn't know how to —"

"Don't." The word cuts through your rambling, sharp enough that you stop mid-sentence.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this." He's finally looking at you now, his eyes cold in a way you've never seen. "Don't come here and try to rewrite what happened. You said you didn't want this. I respected that. We're done."

"But I do want —"

"Want what? To fuck again? Is that what this is?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Because if you're just looking for a booty call, you could've just sent a text."

The casual cruelty of it makes you flinch, you try to hold yourself together. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

Okay, here it is. The moment you've been building toward, the confession you practiced in your mirror this morning like some kind of lunatic. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I like you." The words feel clumsy and inadequate. "I know I said it was just sex, and I know I pushed you away, but I was wrong. I like you, Bucky. I want to — I don't know what I want, but I want to try. To see if this could be something."

The silence that follows is excruciating. He's just staring at you, face completely blank, you can't read anything even if you try so hard. 

"You're confused," he says finally.

"I'm not —"

"Yeah, you are. You're confusing good sex with feelings. It happens."

"Don't tell me what I'm feeling." There's an edge creeping into your voice now, frustration bleeding through. "I know the difference between —"

"Do you?" He leans forward, there's a meanness in his smile. "Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like buyer's remorse. You ended things, realized you miss getting fucked, and now you're trying to make it into something it's not."

"That's not fair."

"No? Then explain it to me. Explain how four days ago you couldn't get away from me fast enough, and now suddenly you're catching feelings."

"Because I was scared, okay? I was scared because it was starting to feel like more than just sex, and I didn't know how to handle that, so I —"

"So you ended it. Which was the right call."

You're getting angry now, the frustration boiling over. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like an asshole. Like you don't —" You take a breath. "You took care of me. When I was drunk and disgusting, you took care of me. You made my coffee the way I like it. You gave me your clothes. That wasn't nothing."

"That was basic human decency. Don't make it into more than it was."

"I'm not —"

"You are." He stands up, the sudden movement making you jerk back. "You're making up a story in your head where this was something it wasn't. We fucked. It was good. It's over. That's it."

"Bucky —"

"I don't like you that way." Each word lands on you like a physical blow, bruising your skin. "I liked fucking you. That's not the same thing."

Sitting feels wrong now, feels too vulnerable, too small compared to him, you stand too. "I don't believe you."

"I don't care what you believe."

"Then why did you take care of me? Why did you —"

"Because I'm not a complete monster. Leaving you to choke on your own vomit seemed like a dick move. Don't romanticize it."

You're too close now, in his space, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Under all that, there’s a raw, painful part of him he’s trying to hide behind cruelty. "You're lying."

"I'm really not."

"Then why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There's a difference."

Without giving yourself time to think it through, you reach for him. Your palm lands against his chest, warm through the fabric, fingers curling like you can hold him there, keep him from slipping out of this moment. It comes out of you all at once, that need to make him stay, to make him understand what this is doing to you. You push up on your toes, closing the distance, tugging him closer as you go for his mouth like it might fix something, like it might make this real in a way words haven’t managed to.

He turns his face away, just a quiet shift, a small angle of his head at the last second. Your lips miss his mouth, drag across his cheek instead.

The contact is wrong. You feel it immediately, the way your mouth presses into skin that isn’t answering, isn’t meeting you halfway. Your hand is fisted in his shirt. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm, steady, unchanged, like this isn’t cracking anything open for him the way it is for you. The rejection is clean, absolute, leaving a sharp burn behind your eyes you can’t blink away fast enough.

"I just wanted to fuck you. That's all this was. That's all it's ever going to be. So if you're looking for feelings, if you're looking for some kind of relationship, you're barking up the wrong tree."

"No — no — you're —" You choke on your own words, trying to get the word 'lying' out, but you cannot. 

"I'm not. You're just too caught up in your own bullshit to see it. You want the truth? You're too much drama. Too much back and forth, too much hot and cold. I don't have the energy for it. The sex was good, great even, but dealing with you? With all your shit? Not worth it."

Each word is a knife, precise, designed to cut you, gut you, you feel yourself bleeding out right there in the library.

"Fuck you." Your voice cracks on the words.

"Yeah, that's about all you're good for."

Whether you want them or not, the tears flow. But you're not going to cry in front of him and give him the satisfaction of breaking you. You just won't. Grabbing your bag, you run. Past the stacks and the reference desk, you don't stop until you're outside in the cold air that bites at your wet cheeks.

What use is knowing you like him when he doesn't like you back? When he never did? When all those moments you thought meant something were just your imagination filling in blanks that were never there to begin with?

You were stupid to come here. Stupid to think he felt the same way, to think you were anything more than a convenient fuck.

He wasn't respecting your boundaries. He was relieved when you ended it. The anger, the coldness, the cruelty, that was all him, telling you the truth. That was him showing you exactly what you meant to him.

Nothing.

You meant absolutely nothing.

Heartbreak is supposed to be metaphorical. That's what you always thought, anyway. Just a turn of phrase people use to describe feeling sad. But it turns out your body doesn't know the difference between metaphorical and literal, and it's staging a full-scale revolt against the fact that Bucky Barnes doesn't want you.

Day one, you can't eat. Your roommate makes you toast. It sits on your desk going cold and hard while you stare at the ceiling. Your stomach feels like someone filled it with concrete, and the thought of putting anything in your mouth makes your throat close up.

Nat texts. You don't answer. She texts again. You turn your phone face down and watch the light bleeding around the edges when it buzzes.

Sleep doesn't come. You lie there in the dark, and your brain plays the library scene on repeat like some kind of sadistic highlight reel. Too much drama. Not worth it. That's about all you're good for. The words have teeth, and they're chewing through your chest cavity, making a home in the empty space where your self-respect used to be.

Day two, your head starts pounding. It's this dull, persistent ache that sits right behind your eyes and pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take two ibuprofen and they sit in your empty stomach like rocks. Everything hurts. Your muscles, your joints, your skin when the blanket touches it, everything. You tell yourself it's just tension. Just stress manifesting physically. Just your body being dramatic because apparently you are, according to Bucky, too much of everything.

The crying comes in waves. You know how in the movies, a single tear rolls down your cheek? Yeah, it's not that. This is ugly, snotty, hiccupping, making your eyes swell up so bad you can barely open them. You cry so hard you throw up, and then you cry about that. The whole thing is so pathetic you almost laugh. 

Throat feels you swallowed glass. Every time you try to drink water it's a special kind of torture. You've got a fever. Skin too hot, too cold at the same time, thoughts getting fuzzy, everything feels like burning. 

Nat comes by. You pretend you're asleep. She leaves soup outside your door that you don't touch.

You're not heartbroken, you tell yourself. You're just sick. Getting sick right after emotional trauma is just a coincidence. People get colds all the time. This has nothing to do with the fact that you put yourself out there and got eviscerated for your trouble, nothing to do with the fact that you cried your eyes out. 

The room swims when you open your eyes. Everything's blurry and soft, like someone smeared Vaseline on your corneas. You try to blink, the ceiling fan is on, rotating slow because you're freezing even though you're pretty sure you're burning up. There's your hot water bottle on the nightstand, the one shaped like a box that Nat got you as a joke. There's your water glass. There's Bucky.

There's Bucky? 

Sitting in your desk chair like he belongs there, you must be hallucinating, delirious with fever because there's no way he's actually here, in your room, looking at you with something that might be concern if you didn't know better.

You reach out without thinking, hand stretching toward him like you could touch him if you tried. Your fingers are shaking. Everything's shaking. "Hey," you mumble, voice sounding like someone beat you up for days. "You're not real."

He leans forward, and dream-Bucky looks tired. Worried. Nothing like the cold, cruel version from the library. "What do you want?" Dream-Bucky asks, his voice soft. Softer than he's ever used with you, softer than you knew he could be.

"Not fair," you slur, coherent sentences are beyond you right now. "S'not fair of you to haunt my dreams."

"It's not a dream, baby."

Baby. He's never called you that. Not even when he was inside you, not even in the heat of the moment. You almost laugh, but it comes out as a cough that rattles your chest.

"Sure isn't," you speak when the coughing stops. "Dream-Bucky would hate me too. Just like real Bucky. Can't even have nice hallucinations."

You think dream-Bucky says something else, but the words blur together and you're already sliding back under, into the dark where nothing hurts quite as bad.

Hours later — could be three, could be ten, time is meaningless when you're this sick — you surface again. The room is dimmer now. Your mouth tastes like death, and your whole body aches like you got repeatedly hit.

And dream-Bucky is still there.

Still in your desk chair, but now he's got his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, hasn't realised you're awake yet. It's nice watching him, even if it's just a dream. He looks tired. "Can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to dream of you."

Your voice brings him to your room again, head snapping up, relief plastered on his face. "You're not dreaming."

He reaches out, hand cupping your face, palm cool against your too-hot skin. Real. Definitely not a fever dream. "You've still got a temperature."

You jerk back from his touch like it burns. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Nat told Steve you were sick —"

"Why the fuck do you care?"

Bucky flinches, like the words hit him physically. "Can we not do this right now?" he asks, tiredness in his voice prominent.

The audacity of this man, flinching like you hurt him and not the other way around. "Yeah, of course. Get out."

"I just want to help you. You're in no shape to take care of yourself."

"Better me than you. So get out." You try to sit up and the room tilts sideways. 

"I'm sorry. Please let me help you." His words are pleading, an act, you think. 

You're upright now, barely, using the wall for support. "Sorry for what? For saying I'm just a good fuck? For telling me I'm too much drama? For —"

"For everything. I'm sorry for everything." There's hurt in his eyes, but you're too angry to care about right now. 

"I don't fucking care, Bucky. Get out."

His jaw sets in that stubborn way you recognize. "No. I'm not doing this push and pull again."

"Oh, that's great. Because I'm just pushing you. There's no pull whatsoever."

He stands up, takes a step toward you. "Please. Let me just take care of you, help you, and then I'll be gone if that's what you want."

"What are you gonna possibly do that I can't do myself?"

"I made broth." He gestures toward your desk where there's a thermos you didn't notice before. "I'll heat it up. It's supposed to help with the cold. I also got aspirin for the fever, and some throat lozenges, and —"

"Fine. Leave that here." You swing your legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand, the floor immediately rushes up to meet you.

Bucky catches you, though you wish he didn't. His hands are on your arms, steadying you, you're too dizzy to push him away. "Did I say you can touch me?" you snap when the world stops spinning.

"Please. I just didn't want you to fall."

The irony is not lost on you. Didn't want you to fall. The audacity of that statement when he's the one who made you fall in the first place — metaphorically, emotionally, completely. Now he's worried about the literal fall? Fuck him. Fuck him for every mixed signal, every cruel word, every moment he made you think you might mean something.

You're too weak to fight his hands on you, the touch burns, even if you're the one running hot now. "You know," you say, and you hate how shaky your voice sounds, "I can't really fuck you right now. Since — you know — I'm sick and all."

The embrace of his touch leaves you like you'd slapped him, hands dropping to his sides. "That's not — I didn't come here for that."

"No? Then why are you here?" You're shuffling toward the bathroom because you desperately need to pee and also need to get away from him. "Come to finish the job? Make sure I'm completely destroyed?"

"I came because I was worried about you."

"Well, don't be. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You can barely stand."

"Not your problem." You make it to the bathroom and shut the door in his face, leaning against it, legs shaking.

Through the door, you can hear him moving around. The sound of your microwave running. Cabinet doors opening and closing. He's still here, still in your space, you don't have the energy to keep fighting him.

You finally emerge, teeth brushed, face washed, feeling slightly more human. The smell hits you first, however slight they may be. Savory and warm that makes your stomach remember it exists. Bucky's set up your desk like a sick station: the bowl of broth with a spoon, aspirin, a fresh glass of water, those throat lozenges he mentioned. "Sit," he says, gesturing to your bed.

"I'm not a dog."

"Please sit down before you fall down."

You sit, mostly because standing is taking more effort than you have to give. He gently moves the bowl to sit in front of you. 

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something."

"I said I'm not —"

"When's the last time you ate?" His voice is gentle but firm, and it pisses you off how much he sounds like he actually cares. If you didn't know what he's capable of, you'd trust this act. 

"Doesn't matter." Truth is, you can't remember. Day before yesterday, maybe? Time is soup.

"It matters. Drink the broth."

"You're not my mother."

"No, I'm the guy who made you soup at four in the morning because I've been losing my mind worrying about you. So please, for the love of god, just drink the fucking broth. "The words come out sharp, frustrated. 

You don't point out that he has no right to lose his mind worrying about you, and take the bowl mostly to shut him up. It tastes even better than it smells, rich and salty with actual vegetables and herbs you can't identify. Your stomach wakes up properly, growling, and before you know it you're halfway through the bowl.

Bucky sits back in the desk chair, watching you with what looks like relief.

"Happy now?" you ask between bites, because you can't let him think this means anything.

"Getting there."

You want to throw the bowl at his head and scream at him for showing up here, for being nice to you, for confusing everything when you were just starting to build up the walls you need to survive this. You want to ask him why he said all those horrible things if he was just going to show up at your door with homemade soup like some kind of reformed asshole.

But you're so tired. Tired of fighting, of hurting, of not understanding what he wants from you.

After the soup, your body decides it's had enough excitement for one day. Bucky helps you back to bed, his hand on your elbow, steadying you even though you don't ask for it. The sheets are cool against your fever-warm skin, and you're asleep before you can tell him to leave.

When you wake up, the room is bright with morning light. Your head feels clearer, the fever-fog lifted enough that you can think in actual sentences instead of fragmented thoughts. The chair where Bucky sat is empty.

Of course it is. He came, he did his good deed, checked the 'take care of sick girl' box off his list, and now he's gone. Probably relieved to escape before you woke up and made things awkward again. The thermos is still on your desk, the bowl washed and sitting in your dish rack. The whole thing feels like something you might have dreamed except for the physical evidence that he was here.

You sit up slowly, testing your body's response. Better. Definitely better than yesterday. Your throat doesn't feel like shredded glass anymore, the headache has downgraded from horrible to a dull throb. Progress.

Thing is, you can still feel where his hand was on your face. The ghost of his touch like a brand, and you're pathetic enough to wish it was still there. To wish he was still here, sitting in that stupid chair, looking at you like you're worth worrying about.

You're reaching for your phone, to do what, you don't know, maybe check the time, maybe torture yourself by looking at his contact, when your door opens.

Bucky walks in carrying another bowl, and you just stare at him. He's wearing different clothes than last night, so he definitely left and came back, which means this is intentional. A choice he's making. "Sorry. I went to my dorm to make this. You didn't have enough ingredients here."

You continue staring. Your brain is trying to process the fact that he left to make you soup. That he came back. That he's here, in your room, in the morning light, and he doesn't look like he's planning to run.

He sets the soup on your desk and crosses the room quickly, crouching beside your bed. "Are you feeling better?"

Words seem beyond you right now. You're too busy cataloging the worry in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, how he looks at you like he's afraid you might shatter.

"Hey." His voice softens, warmth seeping through. "I'm gonna check for fever, okay? Is that alright?"

He's asking you permission to touch you. You want to trust this. The gentleness, the care, the softness he's showing you. But soft can turn sharp so quickly. You learned that in the library.

"People usually do that with a thermometer." Your voice is still rough but functional.

"I'm a college student. I don't own a thermometer." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, and you feel an answering pull in your own lips before you remember you're supposed to be mad at him, supposed to be protecting yourself.

When you nod, his hand comes to your forehead, gentle, soft. His palm is cool, and you fight the urge to lean into it. "Better. Still warm, but better."

The shower helps. Standing under hot water, letting it beat against your sore muscles, washing away two days of sick-sweat and misery. You take your time because the steam feels good, and also because you're half-convinced that when you come out, Bucky will be gone. This is a fever dream. An elaborate hallucination. He's not really here making you soup and checking your temperature and asking permission to touch you.

But when you open the bathroom door, wrapped in your towel, he's still there, still sitting in your chair. Very much real. You really should've brought a change of clothes inside. 

His eyes drop to the floor immediately, color creeping up his neck. "Uh. Uhm. I'll go — I'll step out. While you — you know — change."

The awkwardness is almost funny. This is the same guy who's been inside you, seen you fall apart on his tongue, who's had his hands all over your body. Now he can't look at you in a towel?

"Dude, you've seen me naked before. You don't have to be this awkward."

The memories hit you both at the same time, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. All the ways he's touched you, all the sounds you've made for him, all the times you've been bare and vulnerable.

Maybe it's defiance or maybe you're just tired of this dance, but you reach for the edge of your towel and start to unwrap it. Bucky crosses the room in three strides, hand catching yours. "No."

You're backed against the wall. He's close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough to see the specks of gray in his blue eyes. "Yeah, sorry." The words tasted bitter in you head, tastes bitter when they come out too. "Forgot you can't keep it in your pants with me. That's all I'm good for, right?"

"Stop." His hand moves to your waist. His other hand catches both of yours, pins them gently above your head, no force in them. You could break free if you wanted. Except you don't want to.

"Bucky, what the fuck —" You twist against him, pushing at his hold, more stubborn than urgent, trying to get free more out of principle than actual desire to escape.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up. Monumentally." His words are earnest, desperate. 

Your heart is trying to break out of your ribcage. He's so close, and he smells like coffee and that stupid soap he uses. This is too much, confusing, reminiscent of all the times you've been in this position, pinned, wanting and completely at his mercy.

"I was horrible to you that day," he continues. "In the library. I haven't been able to sleep since I fucked up."

You stop squirming inside his touch. Stop breathing, maybe. Because he's looking at you like you matter, like hurting you actually hurt him. "Then why did you — You don't get to simply apologize and be done with this."

"You know you're confusing, right?" He sighs as he says it, almost a fond exasperation. His thumb is tracing circles on your waist through the towel, probably without him realizing.

"What?"

"Baby, you fucking confuse me. All the fucking time."

Baby again. He keeps saying it like it's natural, like it belongs in his mouth when he's talking to you.

You're still very aware that you're in a towel. That his hand is on your waist, warm through the terry cloth, your hands still above your head, however light his hold is. "You know, if you don't want to see me naked, maybe don't put me in this position. The towel's gonna slide off my tits any second now."

He drops your hands like they burned him, steps back, putting distance between you that feels wrong now that it's there. "Sorry," he mutters.

You want to tell him to stop apologizing. Or maybe apologize more. Or maybe come back and put his hands on you again because the absence of his touch feels like a loss. Your thoughts are tangled up in themselves, a mess of want, hurt, anger and confusion that you can't sort through.

"I liked you." The words burst out of him like he's been holding them in too long. "Fuck it— I like you. I've liked you since the very start. Since Nat and Steve started dating. No, even before that."

Hope starts building in your chest, easing the pain, soothing the hurt, which is dangerous, which you can't afford right now.

"I saw you in class one day and I've liked you ever since." He's rambling now, words spilling out faster than he can organize them. You've never seen him like this. Bucky doesn't ramble. "That's how Steve got to know Nat, actually. Because Nat's your friend. I talked about you all the time to Steve and that's how Steve got to know Nat."

Wait.

"And then you're this firecracker who can't shut up, and we got off on the wrong foot —"

"What?" Your brain is trying to rewrite history, slot this new information into the narrative you've been carrying around forever.

"I didn't mean to pick a fight with you that day." He runs his hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. "I didn't mean to pour coffee over your notes, I was — I was nervous. And we've been butting heads ever since, and it's my fault because I had this huge crush on you and I poured coffee all over your fucking notes. How dumb is that?"

The coffee incident. You remember it, the way your carefully highlighted notes had turned into a brown-stained disaster. You'd snapped at him, and he'd fired back instead of apologizing. That was the start of it. The first battle in a war you thought he wanted to fight. But he's saying it was an accident. An accident born from nerves, from liking you, from being so focused on trying to impress you that he'd fucked it up spectacularly.

You think about all the fights since then, all the barbed comments and intentional provocations. You'd convinced yourself he hated you when, this whole time, he was just trying to get your attention the only way he knew how.

"Ever since then, you've not let me know peace." He's pacing now, and you're still standing against the wall in your towel like an idiot. "I just wanted to get to know you, and then we started annoying each other, and I started liking it because it was kinda our thing. Our love language, you know?"

Love language. Like fighting with you was how he showed affection, like every argument was actually him trying to be close to you. 

"And then we — uh — had sex that day," he continues, "and you told me it wasn't happening again. I was crushed. Then it happens again, and you say the same thing."

"You agreed," you point out, because that part still stings.

"What was I supposed to say? No, I love you so much, please don't break my heart? I thought if I could just have you in whatever way you'd let me, that would be enough. Even if it was killing me."

Love. He said love. Did he notice? His face doesn't change, like the word slipped out without him registering it, and you're standing here holding this piece of information in your chest, this fragile thing, while he's still walking back and forth like standing at one place could kill him. 

"And then that night," he says, and his voice gets quieter. "The night you got drunk."

"What about it?"

"You told me you liked me."

Suddenly, the room starts spinning, like you're both drunk and hungover at the same time. "What?"

"We — uhh — I — I fingered you in that alley, and then we went inside, you got drunk, and you told me you liked me. Said you'd been thinking about me, that you couldn't stop thinking about me."

No, no, no. You don't remember that. You remember drinking, remember Bucky's hands on you in the alley, remember waking up in his bed. But confessing your feelings? That's a blank space in your memory. "I don't — I don't remember that."

"I know." He stops pacing, looks at you with what might be sadness. "The next morning, you didn't remember anything. Asked if we'd fucked like the idea horrified you. And I realized you had no idea what you'd said to me."

Oh god. Oh god, the morning after. You'd been so mortified, so convinced it was just another mistake, and he'd been hoping. He'd been carrying your drunken confession around like a promise, and you hadn't even known.

"I thought maybe — I don't know what I thought. That maybe on some level you meant it, even drunk. So I was hopeful. And then that evening, you came to return my clothes, and when I tried to —"

The way you'd turned your face, the way you'd said he was a great lay but it was too complicated. Fuck. 

"You pulled away, said I was — I was — Like that's all I was to you."

The hurt in his voice is tangible, the way he couldn't even repeat your words, and you're realizing how many ways you've wounded each other without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to, because hurting him felt safer than being vulnerable.

"That fucking destroyed me," he admits. "I'd just heard you say you liked me, and then hours later you're reducing me to a dick. So when you showed up at the library saying you liked me, I — I panicked. I thought you were confused, or trying to spare my feelings, or that you'd just had some realization about missing the sex. I couldn't go through that again. Couldn't let myself hope and then watch you take it back."

It's all clicking into place now. The cruelty in the library wasn't because he didn't care. It was because he cared too much, because you'd hurt him first, even if you didn't know you were doing it.

"So you decided to hurt me first," you say. 

The pain in his face is visible, pulling at your heartstrings even though he was the one that hurt you. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That wasn't fair at all. I thought I was protecting myself, because I couldn't bear to be hurt like that again."

He's pacing like a caged animal now, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. His hands are running through his hair, tugging at the ends, and he's still talking, apologizing, explaining, words tumbling out in this stream of consciousness that you can barely keep up with.

"Bucky," you call, but he's not listening. 

"— and I just kept fucking it up, kept saying the wrong thing, kept pushing you away when all I wanted —"

"Bucky." 

"— and in the library I was such a dick, I can't believe I said those things to you, I can't —"

You step into his path, hands on his chest, and physically push him backward until his the back of his knees hit your bed and he sits. The look of surprise on his face would be funny if this whole situation wasn't so fragile, so precarious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening between you.

This position — him on your bed, you between his legs — feels intimate, maybe even more than those three times. His hands come to your hips automatically, looking up at you with eyes that are red-rimmed and devastated, pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his face against your stomach. The hug is tight, almost desperate, you can feel him shaking. "I'm sorry." His voice is muffled against the towel. "Please don't leave me."

His words pry you open from the inside. This is Bucky Barnes, the guy who struts through life, who never asks for anything, who'd rather die than show weakness. And he's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored, like the thought of you leaving is unbearable.

Your hands find his hair without conscious thought, fingers threading through the dark strands. You've had your hands in his hair before, have pulled it while he was between your legs, gripped it while he fucked you. But this is gentle, tender, you offering comfort instead of taking pleasure.

There's wetness seeping through your towel. At first you think it's just water from your shower-damp skin, but then you feel his shoulders hitch, feel the way he's breathing in these controlled inhales like he's trying not to fall apart completely.

He's crying.

Bucky is crying, face pressed against your stomach, arms locked around you like you might disappear.

The realization hits you at the same moment you feel wetness on your hand. Your hand that's still in his hair, your own tears dripping onto your fingers. When did you start crying? You didn't notice, too focused on him, on the way he's holding you, on the impossible fact that this is happening.

You're both crying. Two people who've spent months hurting each other, finally breaking down.

"You hurt me." The words need to be said, need to exist in the space between you, even if he's not ready to hear it again. "What you said in the library — it hurt me so much I got physically sick."

His arms tighten against you, pulling you closer. "I'm so fucking sorry." The words are desperate, broken. "I will never hurt you. Ever again. I said those things and I couldn't breathe afterward — hurting you hurt me too, baby. I'm so fucking sorry."

Baby. This time it doesn't make you bristle or question. "I thought you hated me," you whisper. "I thought I was nothing to you."

He pulls back enough to look up at you, face wrecked, tears tracking down his cheeks, eyes swollen. Beautiful, broken and completely open in a way you've never seen. "You're everything to me. You've been everything to me for so long, and I've been too scared to say it. Too scared you'd walk away."

One of his hands leaves your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing away your tears even as his own keep falling. The gentleness of it makes you want to sob. How many times has he touched your face? But never like this. Never with this kind of reverence.

"I'm not walking away. I'm right here." You mirror his movement, your hand on his cheek. 

"You're right here," he repeats, like he can't quite believe it.

You're both a mess. Crying, shaking, holding onto each other, towel soaked through with tears. You're pretty sure you look like a disaster, and Bucky's face is blotchy, eyes red. But none of it matters.

None of it matters because he's looking at you like you hung the moon. "I love you." This time there's no mistaking it for a slip. "I'm in love with you. I don't even know how long. I love the way you argue with me. I love how you never back down. I love that you called me out on my bullshit from day one. I love —"

You kiss him. Soft, tentative almost, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing is forming between you. His lips are salty with tears, so are yours, and you can feel him trembling as he kisses you back. He's pulling you closer while trying to be gentle about it. The towel is probably going to fall, but you can't bring yourself to care. This kiss feels like a promise. Like an apology, a confession and a beginning all wrapped into one.

Breathing hard, you pull back. His forehead drops to rest against your stomach again, his breath hot against your skin through the damp towel. "Say it back," he whispers. "Please. I need to hear you say it."

Maybe it's too soon, maybe you should make him work for it, make him prove he means all these pretty words he's saying. Maybe the smart thing would be to guard your heart a little longer, keep some walls up just in case.

But you're so tired of being smart, of protecting yourself, of pretending you don't feel what you feel. "I love you too." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I love you even though you're an idiot. I love you even though you hurt me. I love you even though — maybe because — you drive me completely insane."

His whole body sags with relief, like he was holding his breath waiting for your answer. "Thank god," he breathes.

No more pretending this is just physical when it's been emotional from the start.

He kisses your stomach through the towel, pulling you down onto the bed with him. You land in a tangle of limbs as he wraps himself around you like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.

He's quiet for a second, looking at you with those devastated blue eyes, "I'll never hurt you like that again." Unadorned, nothing poetic or flowery about the words. 

You're a realist even now, even in this moment. "You can't promise that. People hurt each other. It happens."

His hand caresses your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Not like that. I'll never speak to you like that again, never make you feel like you're nothing to me. I promise. I promise, baby."

There's a desperate sincerity in his voice that makes you believe him. Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe it's the same thing. "Okay," you whisper.

"Okay?"

"I believe you."

His exhale is shaky, relieved, and he pulls you closer, the towel finally giving up its fight to stay in place and gaping open at the side.

"I'm gonna fuck this up sometimes," he says. "Probably a lot. I'm gonna say the wrong thing or do something stupid because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to handle feelings."

"Yeah, probably. I'll fuck up too. I'll push you away when I get scared. I'll pick fights because it's easier than being vulnerable." You're tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt, random swirls and shapes that don't mean anything. 

"So we're both disasters."

"Seems like it."

His laugh is quiet, almost surprised, like he didn't expect to be laughing right now. "At least we're disasters together."

Together.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, slip underneath to touch warm skin, the need to feel him solid beneath your hands, maybe to tell yourself this is real. "Tell me something."

"Anything."

"That first day. When you spilled coffee on my notes. What were you actually trying to do?"

He groans, the vibration of it you feel against your cheek. "I was trying to ask you out. Had this whole speech planned. Then I got nervous and forgot I was holding coffee and — yeah. Disaster from the start."

"What was the speech?"

"Absolutely not. That's going to my grave."

"C'mon."

"Nope. Some secrets stay buried. All you need to know is I'd been watching you for weeks like a creep. Knew your coffee order, knew what corner of the library you liked, knew your schedule."

"That's actually kind of creepy."

His hand slides into your hair, fingers gentle against your scalp. "I know. I'm not proud. But then you yelled at me about the coffee and you were so pissed and so pretty, and I just... kept trying to talk to you. Even if it meant fighting with you."

You think about all those fights. The debate that got so heated the TA had to separate you. The time you fought about nothing at all, just because you could, because it meant you got to be in each other's space.

"I liked fighting with you," you admit.

"I know. I could tell."

"It was the only time you paid attention to me."

"Baby, I was always paying attention to you." His voice gets more serious. "Every single second you were in a room, I knew exactly where you were, who you were talking to, if you were smiling. I was so far gone for you it was pathetic."

All this time you thought he barely noticed you except to annoy you, he was cataloguing your every movement.

"The club. That first night. You got so mad. Was it — was it about that guy?"

There's no shame in his words. "I wanted to punch him, wanted to drag you away and tell him you were mine even though I had no right. I was jealous, pissed off and I followed you to the bathroom to yell at you about it."

"And then we fucked instead."

"Best decision of my life. Fuck, it was incredible. But, after that I couldn't pretend anymore, couldn't pretend I just wanted to annoy you. I was addicted."

You lift your head to look at him, there's a softness in his expression that makes him look vulnerable.

"Every time you said it was the last time, I died a little," he continues. "But I kept coming back for more because having you for a moment was better than not having you at all."

The words hurt in the best way. You did the same thing, kept saying never again while knowing you'd end up right back in his orbit. "I'm sorry," you say.

"For what?"

"For pushing you away. For not seeing it sooner. For — For making you think you were nothing to me."

"Hey." He sits up, brings you with him so you're straddling his lap, towel falling away completely now but neither of you caring enough to correct it. His hands cup your face, making you look at him. "We both fucked up. We both hurt each other. But we're here now, right? We're figuring it out."

"Yeah. We're here."

His lips brush yours, and you think about all the ways you've kissed before. It's nothing like before, it's a kiss that means something beyond want, that says I'm sorry and I love you and I'm not going anywhere.

There's a specific kind of torture in wanting someone you think you can't have. You'd lived in it for months — watching Bucky, fighting with Bucky, fucking Bucky, all while convinced it meant nothing. Convinced you were nothing to him beyond a convenient release. The torture was in the wanting, in the knowing it could never be more, the way your heart skipped when he walked in a room even as you told yourself you hated him.

You'd gotten good at that torture, had made a home in it, learned to navigate the ache of unrequited feelings dressed up as animosity.

Now it's gone. This is having Bucky, knowing he wants you back.

He is lying next to you now, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Your towel is somewhere on the floor. You're still sick, still running a fever, but he's here. He stayed. 

He's going to keep staying, you realize. Through the sickness, fights and the moments when you both fuck up. 

It won't be easy. You're both too stubborn, too quick to anger, too used to hurting each other to suddenly become soft and gentle all the time. There will be fights. Real ones, not the foreplay kind. And there will be days when you drive each other crazy, and there will probably be moments when you wonder if this was a mistake.

But then he'll make you coffee exactly how you like it. Or you'll catch him watching you like you're precious. Or you'll patch him up after a game, or you'll fight about something stupid and end up laughing instead of crying.

His fingers are tracing patterns on your bare shoulder and you think about how touch can mean so many different things. All the times he's touched you in anger, in desperation, in hunger. And now this. Gentle, aimless touching, just because he can, because you're his and he's yours.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs.

"How we got here."