howdy.

There’s a click.

And then a voice.

“Sweetheart, it’s Bucky.” Nat breathes out shakily.

Your heart is beating so loud you barely hear a word.

Hospital.

Serious condition.

Coma.

A mission gone wrong.

The world tilts. 

You forget how to breathe.

No. No. No… Please God no…

You’re running before you realise what’s happening.

Your ears ring.

Your heart is in your throat.

Every footstep you take up to Bucky’s room vibrates through your body.

He’s on the bed—dried blood spread across his face.

There’s so much blood.

So many wires.

You collapse into the chair next to him, taking his hand.

“M’so sorry Bucky, so sorry. m’sorry I couldn’t get to you. Please don’t leave me Buck, please— I—” Your voice breaks off into a sob.

You plead silently, gripping his hand in yours, pressing it to your chest—to your heart, like maybe your love could be enough to bring him back.

Bucky please, you can't leave me, please stay here.

I— I never got to make you a birthday cake.

We never got to dance together.

I don't remember if you like honey or not and I need to ask you.

I don't remember what your voice sounds like when you cry.

“We don’t think he’s going to make it, he’s sustained too much injury to his brain.” The nurse’s voice reaches you like you’re underwater.

“Bucky, please, say something.”

His heart monitor slows.

The sound of it flatlining pierces through you—ringing through your ears until there’s nothing.

Silence.

“Say something…”

Your home was right in the open field, with nothing and no one around for miles except for green grass and trees, so when you heard what sounded like rocks being thrown at your window, you knew exactly who it was.

You didn't even have the energy get up to the window and yell at him to stop damaging your property, so you ignored him.

He threw a couple more rocks and when that didn't work your phone started ringing, the man was starting to get on your nerves.

He called out your name, you thought he almost sounded sad… "I know you're home, and I'm not leavin' doll, you're gon' have to come talk to me"

You covered your ears with a pillow and you smiled when his shouts drowned into muffled sounds. You had no intention of hearing him out, but then you heard the most god awful crack on your window, that was it. He ruined your sleep and now your window. "I'm going to fucking kill him" you growled as you opened the window which didn't break.

"Barnes you keep throwing those rocks I swear I'll send them right back in your face!"

"We have to talk" he demanded, as if he wasn't the lying bastard that broke your heart, "we got shit to talk about, jus' leave me alone!".

He considered leaving, you saw it in those gorgeous blue eyes, but then he got that determined crinkle in his brows that made you want to go get your shot gun. He ran to your front porch, you lost sight of him but you could hear him trying to come inside — Thank God your granny always taught you to lock your doors —

You furiously stormed down stairs in your night gown, not even caring he might notice you weren't wearing any underwear. When you opened the door you caught him off guard, so you pushed him back.

"What the hell is your problem?" you barked, just about done with his bullshit, pushing him again when his eyes looked hurt.

"I can't sleep I—" his voice broke when he spoke your name "The thought of- of not kissing you again, it makes me sick! I love you damn it" he finally cried, and you couldn't help but laugh "cry me a river".

You hated that deep down his words affected you, for a second the thought of wiping away his tears crossed your mind, but just as quickly you remembered how bitterly you cried into your hands on the bathroom of that bar, and then every night for god knows how long.

"Please sugar" he begged, his hands almost brave enough to come near you, but you snapped them away "shut the fuck up" you snarled.

"Why should I listen to you? I want you to leave me alone! why don't you get that?" now you were the one crying, a swirl of sadness and anger overwhelming you.

"I don't want to talk to you" you push.

"I don't want to see you" you push again, surprised he even budged, maybe he was too ashamed to even defend himself.

"After I let you in, you introduced me to your friends like I was a stranger, you stood there and said nothing when they laughed at me" your knees buckled but you refused to show him any more weakness.

"Now you say you love me, after you ruined everything, after you ruined m— you stop yourself before screaming your deepest shame, because you wouldn't give him that, he's the one that should be ashamed.

"I don't want to be with someone that judges me just for existing, I'm not some secret fetish you get to keep…"

The silence was horrible, as you catch your breath, he stood completely still, shirt unbuttoned and with his sleeves rolled up, the howling wind blew off his hat but he made no effort to grab it, his eyes never left you, moving from your eyes to your soft lips, a sign of what he wanted to do to you, when his arms caged you, his lips claimed you with ferocity, fingers digging into your flesh, you let yourself be his for a brief moment before you use all of your force to push him back "no! Get the fuck away from me" you wiped away his kiss.

Without another word, you turn your back to him and go back inside the house, slamming the door shut and quickly locking it.

“I’m not broken or anything,” you muttered, staring down at your hands, voice smaller than you meant it to be. “It’s just… it’s never been good.”

The words felt heavy once they were out, but you couldn’t stop now.

“My first boyfriend just—went for it. Like two minutes of nothing and then he just… shoved in. Said I was too dry, like it was my fault.” You huffed a quiet laugh that didn’t sound like humor at all. “The next one lasted maybe thirty seconds and then rolled over and started playing video games. I just… pretended to sleep.”

Steve’s hand stilled on your knee.

You kept going anyway.

“Another one kept asking if I was close every ten seconds until I faked it just to make him stop talking.” You shrugged, like it didn’t sting. “It always hurt. Or felt like nothing. Or just… like I was something to get through.”

Silence stretched for a beat.

Then Bucky let out a low, dangerous sound that rumbled through his chest.

“Doll,” he said, voice rough, edged with something protective and furious all at once, “those assholes didn’t deserve to touch you.”

Steve’s hand moved again, gentler now, grounding. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, turning your face toward him. His eyes were soft—softer than you’d ever seen them—but there was anger there too, quiet and controlled.

“You’re not broken,” he said firmly. “You’ve just never had anyone who cared enough to learn you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Let us show you,” he added, thumb brushing your lower lip. “No pressure. We stop the second you say the word. But if you want to know what it’s supposed to feel like…”

Bucky’s metal fingers traced slowly down your arm, sending a shiver in their wake.

“We’ll make it good, sweetheart,” he murmured. “So good you forget those idiots ever existed.”

Your heart was pounding hard enough you could feel it in your throat.

Part of you wanted to run.

The other part—the one that trusted them, that had been quietly aching for something more every time they kissed you like you were something precious—nodded.

“Okay.”

They didn’t rush.

Not even a little.

Steve kissed you first, slow and deep, his mouth warm and patient as he coaxed you open, letting you set the pace without ever making it feel like you had to. It wasn’t overwhelming—it was steady. Safe.

Behind you, Bucky’s lips found your neck, soft at first, then a little firmer when your breath hitched. He paid attention to every tiny reaction, like he was memorizing you.

Clothes came off gradually, piece by piece, like there was no finish line waiting, just the moment you were in.

Hands mapped your body like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

Bucky lifted you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, settling you back against Steve’s chest so you were cradled between them, surrounded.

“Tell us what feels good,” Steve murmured against your ear, his hands warm as they slid over your chest, cupping your breasts.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples and when they tightened under his touch, you gasped.

Neither of them missed it.

Bucky’s gaze flicked up to your face, watching, before he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your stomach.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “We’re gonna take our time with you.”

By the time he settled between your thighs, your skin was buzzing, anticipation coiling low in your stomach in a way that felt… new.

“Already wet for us,” he praised softly.

The words alone made heat flood your cheeks.

Then his tongue dragged slowly up your center.

Your hips jerked before you could stop them.

He did it again, firmer this time, circling your clit with careful precision, like he was figuring you out one reaction at a time.

Steve didn’t stop touching you—hands kneading gently, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your jaw as he whispered soft encouragement that made your chest feel warm and full.

“Doing so good,” he murmured. “Just feel it. Let yourself feel it.”

Bucky’s fingers pressed at your entrance and when he slid them in, it wasn’t the sharp, uncomfortable stretch you expected.

It was…right.

Full, but not painful.

His fingers curled, just slightly, and something inside you sparked.

“Oh—”

Your fingers tangled in his hair instinctively, and he hummed, the vibration sending a jolt straight through you.

“That’s it,” Steve murmured. “He’s got you.”

The feeling built differently than anything you’d known before—slow, deep, coiling instead of rushed or awkward. It spread instead of staying sharp, turning into something warm and overwhelming.

“Bucky—Steve—I’m—”

“Come for us, doll,” Bucky growled, mouth closing around your clit.

You shattered.

The sound that left you didn’t feel like it belonged to you—raw and unfiltered as your body clenched and pulsed around his fingers.

It didn’t stop all at once, either. It rolled. Wave after wave until you were trembling. You’d never—never—had that before. They didn’t rush you after, either.

Bucky pressed soft kisses to your thigh while Steve eased you down onto your back, hovering just enough to meet your eyes.

“Still okay?” he asked gently.

You nodded, breathless.

“More.”

The word surprised even you.

But you meant it.

Steve entered you slowly, giving you time to adjust, his hand steady on your hip.

“Okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, it’s—good.”

His forehead dropped to yours, a soft exhale leaving him before he started to move, slow at first, like he was still checking in even without words.

Bucky leaned in, kissing you deep and messy, his hand sliding down between your bodies.

“Feel that?” he murmured. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Steve’s rhythm picked up gradually, each movement controlled, deliberate, hitting that same spot Bucky had found earlier until your breath stuttered.

Bucky’s fingers found your clit again, circling just right.

The combination was overwhelming.

“Too much—” you gasped, even as your body arched into it.

Steve’s mouth curved faintly against your skin.

“Not enough,” he corrected softly. “Let go again.”

And you did.

The second orgasm hit harder, sharper, pulling a broken sound from your throat as your body tightened around him.

Steve groaned, low and wrecked, your name falling from his lips like something sacred.

By the time Bucky took his place, you were already trembling again.

He was rougher—but never careless.

Never thoughtless.

Every movement was still tuned to you, to your reactions, to the sounds you made when something hit just right.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice thick. “Taking us so well.”

Steve’s hands grounded you from beneath, his voice soft against your lips as Bucky drove deeper, the rhythm more intense now, the sounds louder, messier.

When your third orgasm hit, it was almost too much—your whole body tightening as Bucky followed you over the edge, his grip firm, his voice breaking on your name.

Afterward, everything softened again. Warm cloths. Gentle hands.

The two of them settled you between them under a blanket like you belonged there.

Because you did.

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

Steve traced lazy circles along your thigh.

“So?” Bucky asked after a moment, a hint of a smirk in his voice. “Still think you don’t like sex?”

You let out a quiet laugh, body loose and warm in a way you’d never felt before.

“I like your sex,” you admitted, a little shy now.

A pause.

Then, softer—

“Can we… do that again sometime?”

Steve’s grin was immediate, bright and warm.

“Every damn day if you want.”

Bucky nuzzled into your neck, voice satisfied.

"Ladies, could I possibly have a moment alone with the bride?"

The deep voice was like a bucket of ice water as everyone slowly filtered out of the room.

Bucky Barnes, dressed in black tie as the invitation requested, shoved his hands in his pockets as he looked you up and down.

"Buck, you really shouldn't be here," you whispered, turning back to the mirror and smoothing down your bodice.

"And you really shouldn't be marrying that asshole."

Meeting his eyes through the mirror, you saw the set of his jaw. Like it had pained him to say the words. "He's a good man," was your only rebuttal.

"A good man, and yet every single smile you fake when you're with him."

"There's no way for you to know that." You turned to fully face him now, trying to act defiant when you knew deep down he was right about this mistake.

"Your eyes don't sparkle when you're around him, and ever since he put that engagement ring on your finger, your light has dimmed even further." His fingers curled around your wrist, bringing your left hand up so he could glare at the diamond in question.

You couldn't ignore the way your heartbeat stuttered at his gentle touch. How it always sped up in his presence.

"Run away with me," he whispered.

"Okay," you agreed.

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain @larissareidbarnes @castielscaplan @juniebjonesin @angelryex

The air in the room is heavy as velvet and smelling faintly of cheap tobacco and the wet, rain-soaked asphalt outside the window. You are drowning under a sea of paper, charcoal pencils, and the half-finished ink of a research project that feels entirely pointless while the rest of the world is spinning toward a war.

The desk lamp casts a low glow over your knuckles. You’ve been staring at the same sentence for an hour. It’s an oppressive kind of silence, the kind that makes you want to break something.

Bucky is there on the bed.For the last forty minutes, he’s been sitting on the mattress, idly flipping an unlit cigarette between his knuckles, pretending to be occupied. Slowly, you realize, the rhythmic movement of his hands has stopped. The cigarette slips out of his grip, rolling onto the sheets.

When you steal a glance, you see he isn't paying attention to anything else at all. He is just staring. His eyes are fixed entirely on the back of your neck.His broad shoulders are pulled tight, the muscles in his jaw ticking with a restless tension. He looks at you with an aching concern, waiting for you to notice him.

You deliberately choose not to turn around. The wood of your chair creaks softly under your weight, but you keep your eyes glued to the white pages, forcing your spine to stay rigid. There is a strict rule in this room, a line drawn in this Brooklyn apartment that cannot be crossed: no distractions while studying. The rule is simple, and it has to be followed.

It is a cruel kind of discipline because your boyfriend is dangerously attractive, a boy built out of old leather jackets, and bad habits. He is intimately familiar with you, knowing exactly where to touch you to make you forget your own name, let alone the words on a page. You can still feel his fingers on your skin from earlier. But the boundaries are set. You keep your face turned toward the lamp, your knuckles white against your pen.

He knows the rule just as well as you do, and he is staying in his corner of the dark. He is obeying you, sitting there with his jaw clenched and his broad shoulders are tense.

Bucky Barnes was never good at following simple rules. The rebellious streak that made him a legend on the Brooklyn boardwalks, a restless energy he could never quite contain.

“You've been staring at that exact same paragraph for twenty-three minutes, doll,” he murmurs. His gaze tracks the tense line of your shoulders with a lazy intensity, checking the clock on the wall just to prove his point.

“You’ve been keeping track of the time down to the exact minute, James?” you say softly. You twist your pen between your fingers, keeping your gaze locked onto the blurred text in front of you. “That’s unusually obsessive, even for you.”

A faint smile pulls at the corner of your lips as you keep your eyes fixed on the page, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your full attention just yet.

The mattress groans softly as he gets up from the bed, his leather shoes making no sound against the rug as he crosses the small room. Even as the warmth of his body approaches, your attention remains fixed on the paper, your eyes stubbornly tracking the same black lines of ink.

He steps up behind your chair, a presence that smells of rain, wool, and the sweet scent of his hair pomade. Without a word, he places his hands on your shoulders. His palms are warm, slowly his thumbs begin to press into the tense, tightly coiled muscles of your neck and shoulders.

He kneads the tension away with his large hands. For a boy who spends his days fighting on the streets or training for a war, he is entirely soft under your roof. He keeps his head bowed close to yours, silently waiting to see if you will finally break your own rule for him.

“You’re tight as a piano wire, doll,” he murmurs. “And don't tell me you're too busy for a breath. You've been reading the same line since the streetlamps came on.”

“I’m busy, James,” you insist, forcing your eyes to stay glued to the ink even as his fingers send a melting warmth straight down your spine.

He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Busy,” he repeats, the word tasting sour on his tongue. “Right. Or maybe you’re just avoiding me.”

The sharp accusation finally snaps your discipline. You drop your pen, and you finally turn around in your chair to face him.The defense you had prepared dissolves the second your eyes meet his.

Up close, his appearance completely distracts you. He is dressed in his casual loungewear—a lightweight cotton camp shirt with the top buttons left entirely undone, revealing the skin of his collarbone.Below, he wears a pair of dark high-waisted wool trousers, sitting loosely on his hips without a belt or suspenders. His dark hair is still neatly slicked back with pomade, but a few shiny strands have loosened over his forehead.

But it’s his eyes that lock you in place. They look bruised, dark with exhaustion, revealing that he hasn’t been sleeping well at all. Or, perhaps, that he has been staying awake craving something entirely out of his reach—hungry for a closeness that has been denied from him all night.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you say softly. “I’m just stressed. It’s a twenty-page paper, and the deadline is suffocating me.”

Bucky lets out a soft huff from his chest, his lips twitching into a lazy smirk. He doesn't take his hands off your shoulders, his thumbs smoothing over your collarbone. “Twenty pages?” his gravelly Brooklyn drawl dripping with exhaustion. “Jesus, doll. Sounds incredibly boring. No wonder your neck is stiff.”

“It is not boring,” you say. “The topic is actually interesting. It matters to me.”

Bucky lets out a rough chuckle. He keeps his hands resting firmly on your shoulders, his thumbs resuming their teasing rhythm against your collarbone.

He leans down just a fraction closer, his scent completely clouding your senses. “Is that so?” he whispers. “Tell me then, is that paper really more fascinating than I am?”

His hands slide slowly from your shoulders, before his fingers come to rest gently along your jawline. His touch is incredibly soft, holding your face like you are something fragile.

It is a desperate touch, and you both know why. It has been a full, excruciating week since you had shown him anything more than simple affection—just quick kisses at the door or a distracted squeeze of the hand. During that long week, Bucky had repeatedly tried to get your attention, bringing you cold bottles of Coca-Cola, or casually messing with his lighter just to hear you tell him to stop, practically begging for you to look at him.

Now, he finally has your eyes on him, and the hunger in his face is undeniable. As his thumbs slowly caress your jaw, his grip shifts, his touch becoming deeply intimate. He begins to lean down, his lips parting slightly as he chases the warmth of your skin.

The heat of him is intoxicating, but the sight of the open textbooks snaps you back to reality. Before his lips can find yours, you place your hands against his chest, gently pushing against the soft cotton of his camp shirt to stop him.

“James, stop,” you say softly. You look directly into his tired blue eyes. “There is still a mountain of work left to do on this desk. Look at all of these papers.”

Bucky freezes against your hands. For a second, he stays completely still, his thumbs lingering on your jawline. The cocky smirk vanishes entirely from his face, leaving him looking utterly defeated by your words.

“You always seem to have more work to do,” he complains. He looks down at you. “It’s always another book, another page, another hour.”

You don't let his frustration sway you, keeping your hands steady against his chest. “This is simply how earning a degree works, James,” you reply calmly. “It doesn't just happen. It takes time, and it takes rules.”

Then, unexpectedly, Bucky drops to his knees.The abrupt shift in his height catches you completely off guard. He sinks down right beside your chair. He doesn't say a word as he rests his large hands on your thighs, anchoring himself to you.

“Please,” he says. The word slips from his lips so quietly, that it is barely a breath.

“What are you asking for?” The question hits him visibly. Bucky struggles to answer, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, his hands tightening their grip on your thighs just enough to show how desperately he is holding onto his composure.

The smooth-talking boy from the neighborhood is completely paralyzed under your gaze, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths as he tries to find the courage to tell you exactly how weak he is for you.

Many girls in Brooklyn would never believe this if they saw it. To the rest of the world, to every girl on the Coney Island boardwalk or in the crowded jazz clubs, Bucky Barnes embodies masculinity. He is the boy who is always confident, and entirely in control of every situation. He is the protector, the soldier, the leader of the pack.

But with you, he has always been like this. He doesn't want to be the leader here; he doesn't want the burden of control. He craves the exact opposite. He wants to beg for your scrap of attention, completely content to lay his pride on your floorboards if it means he gets to belong to you. With you.

Bucky swallows hard, his knuckles turning white against your thighs as he forces the words past his lips.

“Just... touch me,” he whispers. The request seems physically hard for him to make. “Please. It’s been a week, doll...” He trails off, struggling to express the weight of how much the distance has been affecting him.

You look down at him from your chair. “I know exactly how long it’s been, James,” you reply gently.

“It’s driving me crazy,” he confesses. “You not looking at me, not touching me for seven days. It’s driving me completely out of my mind.”

Your hand moves into Bucky’s hair, your fingers tangling into the thick, dark strands. You grip it firmly and pull his head back, forcing his chin up so he has no choice but to look directly into your eyes.

He makes a desperate sound at the sudden constraint. It is the kind of helpless noise that the proud Brooklyn boy would later feel deeply embarrassed about, a total betrayal of the smooth soldier persona he wears on the streets. But here, on his knees, he doesn't have the strength to hide it.

A faint smile plays on your lips as you look down at him.“Only a week without my attention, Jamie,” you murmur. “And you’re already acting this needy. What am I going to do with you?”

The moment the name leaves your lips, Bucky’s entire body goes rigid against your chair. Jamie. Hearing it now, while he is on his knees completely shatters whatever sliver of composure he had left.

“You’re pathetic,” you say.Bucky doesn't flinch, nor does he try to defend his proud reputation. Instead, he closes his eyes for a fraction of a second.

“I know,” He accepts the humiliation like a holy thing, his head bowing slightly under the firm grip of your hand.

“Stand up,” you command.He obeys immediately,rising until he is towering over your seated figure once again. But as he stands before you, you notice how profoundly the situation is affecting him. The confident of his posture is completely gone; his chest is heaving beneath the loose camp shirt.

His hands hover uncertainly at his sides.He is starving to reach out, to wrap his arms around you. Yet, he doesn't dare close the distance.Waiting with a beautiful patience for your permission.

Underneath the unbelted line of his high-waisted wool trousers, you notice the unmistakable outline of his bulge.A dark flush creeps up Bucky’s throat as he catches your gaze.

You slowly stand up from the creaking wooden chair, but your fingers never leave his hair. Using the grip to maintain your control as you slide your body close to his.

“You’ve been distracting me all night, Jamie,” you accuse him. You tilt his head back slightly, forcing his shadowed blue eyes to stay locked onto yours. “Sitting there on the bed, just staring at the back of my neck while I’m trying to work.”

“I couldn’t help it,” he admits. “I couldn't help it, doll... you're right there. You're so close to me all the time, and it's killing me. I need you. I just need you so bad.”

With a sudden movement, you push Bucky backward, catching him completely by surprise. For a boy who spends his days fighting on the rough streets, he offers absolutely no resistance against you; he lets out a breathless gasp as he stumbles over his own feet, falling onto the mattress with a soft groan.

You follow him onto the bed instantly. You position yourself over him, pinning his body down under your weight while keeping that unrelenting grip tangled in his hair. The glossy strands twist around your fingers, locking his head against the pillows as you look down at him from above.

“I'm paying attention to you now, Jamie,” you whisper against his skin. “Tell me... is this the kind of attention you’ve been wanting all week?”

His thighs buck up beneath you. He arches into your weight, his large hands finally coming up to grip the mattress on either side of his head.

“Yes,” he gasps out, the word breaking into a helpless sob. “Yes, doll...thank you.” He repeats it over and over again. He is begging, entirely unmade by your attention.

“Be still,” you command and he freezes instantly. The desperate motion of his hips halts mid-air, and he drops flat against the mattress, just because you told him to. You sit up over him, shifting your weight on his lap, feeling the thick, hard outline of his bulge pressing firmly against you through his trousers.

Slowly, your hands trail down from his hair, your fingertips sliding over the smooth skin of his jaw before resting against his chest. His heart is hammering like a trapped bird beneath your palms.

“Take your shirt off,” you tell him.Bucky’s breath hitches. His hands shake noticeably as he releases his grip on the bedsheets and reaches up to the remaining buttons of his shirt, his movements clumsy and hurried because he is so desperate to please you.

Bucky manages to get his shirt off, he shoves the lightweight cotton fabric off his broad shoulders, leaving it discarded somewhere in the dark corners of the mattress. In the golden fringe of the desk lamp, his bare chest looks striking.

You look down at his exposed skin, a satisfied smile playing on your lips as you slide your palms over the smooth contours of his chest.

“You behaved so well all week, Jamie,” you comment. “Keeping your distance, letting me work. Such a good boy.”

“I tried so hard,” he whispers, his voice thick with honesty. He lets out a defeated whine, his hands flattening against the sheets. “Jesus, I tried so hard to be good for you... it was killing me.”

“I know it was hard,” you murmur back, your hands slowly trail down the rigid lines of his stomach, your fingertips drawing a lazy path until they find the high waistband of his wool trousers.

The moment your thumbs slip just beneath the fabric, brushing against the skin of his hips, Bucky’s entire body goes completely stiff under your weight. His breath catches in his chest, his hips twitching in a tiny buck against your palms.

You slide your thumbs beneath the thick fabric of his wool trousers, your movements agonizingly slow. One by one, you pop the high-waisted buttons of his fly. He arches his back slightly against the mattress, a tortured groan vibrating deep in his chest.

Once the fabric falls open, you don't reach inside to give him the relief he is starving for. Instead, your hand trails back up the sweaty expanse of his stomach, until your fingers find his throat.

You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your fingers wrap around his throat. Not enough to cut off air completely, just enough pressure to make him feel it.

Bucky just likes it wild,huh.

“Eyes on me,sweet boy,” you say. Your thumb strokes along his pulse point. “You don't get to come until I say so. You don't move withou my permission.You answer every question I ask, and you use your words. Understand?”

He nods, but you tighten your grip just a fraction, making him gasp. “Words,Jamie.”

“Yes,” he breathes, voice already rough. “I understand.”

Your fingers slip inside the open fly of his trousers, brushing over the damp fabric covering his cock. He twitches under the touch, hips jerking slightly before he forces himself still.

You hook your fingers into his trousers and tug them down his hips, the fabric sliding over his thighs until it pools around his knees. Bucky shifts under you, his breath hitching. Your hand moves next, gripping the edge of his underwear and yanking it down in one motion.The head is already glistening with pre-cum that beads at the tip and starts to drip down the shaft.

You wrap your fingers around his throat again, applying that steady pressure he craves while your other hand points directly at the leaking head. “Look at that,” you say. “Already dripping all over yourself. Such a mess before I've even touched you properly.”

Bucky's cheeks flush deeper, his cock twitching visibly under your gaze. You ease off his lap, sliding back until your feet touch the floor beside the bed. He stays where he is, propped against the pillows, trousers and underwear shoved down to his knees.

You take a deliberate step back and start with your blouse, peeling it up and off in one smooth motion. The fabric drops to the floor. Next come your skirt, unbuttoned and pushed down your hips until they pool at your ankles. You step out of the fabric slowly, letting him see every inch of skin revealed. Your underwear follows last, sliding down your thighs until you're bare in front of him.

Bucky's eyes track every movement, pupils blown wide. His cock jerks hard. “You like this, Jamie?” you ask, voice low and teasing as you stand there naked, letting him look his fill.

He swallows hard, throat working under the faint red mark your hand left earlier. “Yes,” he breathes, voice rough. “Fuck, yes,doll.”

You settle back onto his lap, thighs bracketing his hips as you reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock. The shaft is hot and slick, pre-cum coating your palm the moment you close your fist around him. You give one slow stroke from base to tip, thumb dragging over the swollen head to spread the mess.

Bucky’s breath catches. His eyes stay locked on yours. “please,” he whispers, voice already ragged. “Please… fuck.”

You stroke him again, tighter this time, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. More pre-cum wells up and spills over your knuckles. He twitches hard in your grip, hips jerking once before he forces them still.

“Please,” he says again, almost desperate. “Thank you. Feels so good. Please don’t stop.”

His cock throbs between your fingers, another thick bead of slick leaking out with every pass of your hand. You keep the pace steady, watching the way his stomach tightens and his thighs tense under you. Every time you squeeze near the head he lets out another shaky “please,” the words tumbling out like he’s been trained to say them.

You lean in closer, your bare chest brushing his shirt, and keep stroking him while he repeats the words, voice cracking with need. “You been thinking about this all week, Jamie?”

He swallows, then manages to nod. His hair is stuck to his forehead, dark strands plastered with sweat.That's not nearly enough for you. “Words.“ You command.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks on the single syllable. He clears his throat, tries again. “Yeah, I — all week. Couldn't think about nothing else.”

You let your palm rest flat on his stomach, feel the muscle jump under your fingers. He's warm and shaking a little.

“I knew you'd be like this,” you say. Conversational. Like you're talking about the weather. “Saw you watching me at my desk all weeks.”

You curl your fingers, drag your nails light across his stomach, and his breath catches. “That's what I mean. I knew you'd be like this. Desperate.Touch-starved. One week without my hands on you, and you're falling apart,sweet boy.”

His brow furrows. Something flickers across his. “You... you knew?”

“Mmhm.” You take him back in your hand, and the sound he makes travels right through your palm and up your arm. His hips tilt into the touch, and you let him have that half-inch of friction before you settle into a rhythm.

His head falls back against the pillow. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, that's...fuck — that's good,sweetheart.”

His cock is slick in your grip, and you use your thumb to spread the wetness down his shaft, and his hand shoots out.His fingers close around your waist,just above your hip.

And then he freezes.You see it the second he realizes what he's done. His eyes go wide, his hand stays where it is.

Your hand stops moving.“Jamie.”

“I know.” It comes out strangled. “I know, I just... I forgot, I didn't mean to, I just—”

“You grabbed me without asking.” He closes his eyes. The hand on your waist is trembling now. “Yes.”

Slowly, you lift your hand from his cock. Let it hover an inch away. Let him feel the absence of it. “No, please,sweetheart.”

His hand slides off your waist and falls to the mattress.“I'm sorry,” he says again, and his voice cracks. “Please. Please don't stop. I'll be good. I'll be so good, just, please, I need, I need your hand on me, I need it so bad, I can't —”

His chest is heaving. His eyes are wet again, but this time they're searching yours, desperate for a sign, for a crack in the wall.“I'll be good,” he whispers. “I promise. I'll be so good for you.”

You place a finger on his lips, and he falls silent immediately, his breath hitching.“Shh,” you murmur. “I know.”

He shudders beneath you, his hips twitching involuntarily. He's hard, aching, the length of him pressing against your thigh. But he doesn't move,he waits. He always waits.

You shift your weight, positioning yourself above him. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and he gasps, his hips bucking up instinctively before he catches himself. “Please,” he breathes. “Please, sweetheart, I'll be good. I'll be so good.”

You don't answer. You hold his gaze, watching the fear and want war in his eyes. Then, slowly you sink down onto him.

The sound he makes is broken. A sob and a moan tangled together, torn from the depths of his chest. His eyes roll back, his jaw going slack, and you feel him pulse inside you as you take him inch by inch, filling yourself with him. “Look at me,Jamie.”

His eyes snap to yours, wide and wet. There are tears clinging to his lashes, and his lower lip trembles.

“What happens when you break the rules?”

He swallows hard, his throat bobbing. “I get punished.”

“That's right.” You begin to move, a slow, rolling grind that makes him gasp. His hands clench in the sheets, his knuckles white, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still.

“You wanted to touch me,” you continue, your voice low as you rock your hips. “So now I'm going to use you. I'm going to ride you until I'm satisfied, and you're going to lie there and take it. You're not going to come until I say so. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, I understand. I understand.”

You pick up the pace, rising and falling on his cock, your hands braced on his chest. The sound of your bodies meeting fills the room.

He's so beautiful like this. So undone. His hair is splayed across the pillow, dark and disheveled. His eyes are fixed on you, worshipful and desperate. His mouth hangs open, helpless sounds escaping with every thrust.He lies there, taking it, letting you use him exactly as you please.

You lean forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips close to his ear. “You're doing so well, Jamie,” you murmur. “Taking me so perfectly. My good boy.”

A sob escapes him, and a tear slips down his cheek. “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“I know.” You kiss the tear away, tasting salt. “I know you are.” You ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure now. His hips twitch beneath you, but he holds still, his restraint absolute. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Close,” he chokes out. “Sweetheart, I'm close. Please—can I—”

“Not yet.”

He groans, but he nods.You take what you need, moving over him until the tension coils tight in your belly, until the pleasure crests and breaks, washing over you in waves. You cry out, your body shuddering, and he watches you come undone with reverent, tear-filled eyes.

You rise slow, almost to the tip, and then sink back down just as slow, letting him feel every inch of your heat, every clench of your inner walls.

Beneath you, Bucky is a study in restraint.His hands are still fisted in the sheets, but his knuckles have gone white, the tendons in his forearms standing out like cords. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his ribs rising and falling beneath your palms. His eyes are locked on you, wide and glistening, pupils blown so dark there's hardly any blue left.

“Please,” he whispers, not even knowing what he's begging for anymore. “Please, sweetheart, please—”

You ignore him. You take more. “Shh.” You slow your pace, almost stopping, and he whimpers at the loss of friction.

You begin to move again, building the rhythm back up, faster now, harder. His cock slides in and out of you, slick with your combined arousal, and you can feel yourself climbing toward the edge, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

You can feel yourself getting close. The coil in your belly is wound tight, ready to snap. You increase your pace, chasing the peak, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. “That's it,” you gasp. “That's it, Jamie. Take it. Take all of me.”

“Let go,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Let go, sweetheart. I've got you.”

The words break something inside you. The tension snaps, and pleasure crashes through you like a wave, fierce and overwhelming. You cry out, your body convulsing around him, your nails raking down his chest.

He watches you come undone with reverent, tear-filled eyes.When you still, panting, spent, he's still hard inside you, still trembling on the edge.

“Now,” you whisper, giving him the release he's been begging for. “Come for me, Bucky. Fill me up.”

His back arches, his mouth opening in a silent cry, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're still straddling him, his seed trickling down your thighs. His chest heaves beneath you, his eyes closed, his face slack with exhaustion and relief.

Then his hands come up to cup your face, so gentle. His thumbs brush away the sweat on your cheeks, and he looks at you with such overwhelming love that it steals your breath.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you down against his chest, holding you close. His heart hammers beneath your ear. “I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “More than anything.”

And in the dark, you let yourself be held.

Easy for him to say.

The gala was all crystal chandeliers and whispered deals in dark corners. You wore a backless black gown that clungto you like sin, your hair pinned up to expose the vulnerable line of your neck. Bucky cleaned up in a tailored tux, metal arm hidden beneath sleek black fabric, hair swept back. He looked annoyingly good.

You hated it.

You danced once—stiff, close enough for cover. His hand on your waist burned through the silk. “Smile, darling,” he murmured against your ear, voice dripping sarcasm.

Your heel dug into his polished shoe in reply.

Halfway through the night, you slipped away to the upper floors, hunting the encrypted drive in a private office. The door clicked shut behind you. Bucky moved to the safe, hands quick and precise, while you kept watch.

Thirty seconds later—footsteps.

Too many. Too heavy.

“Shit—hide!” you hissed.

No time.

The only exit was the door they were now pounding on.

Bucky grabbed your arm, dragging you toward the far wall—the one fully visible from the entrance if it gave way. Voices shouted in Russian.

“Open up! We know someone’s in here!”

Your heart hammered. No windows. No vents. No way out.

An idea sparked—filthy and desperate.

You backed into the wall, chest rising fast. “Barnes. Come here.”

He shot you a look. “What—”

“Shut up and get over here.”

You grabbed his tie and yanked him forward until his body caged yours against the cool plaster.

“We make it look like we’re fucking,” you whispered. “If we're loud and convincing enough, they’ll leave.”

For once, the Winter Soldier looked completely speechless.

The pounding got louder. “Last warning!”

You didn’t wait.

Your head tipped back against the wall, lips parting. “Bucky…” The sound that left you was low, breathy, practiced—but it still sent a jolt through your own spine. Your hands slid up his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Harder—fuck, yes—”

His breath hitched.

His hands landed on your hips, gripping tighter than necessary.

The fake was supposed to stay fake.

But something in the way you said his name—soft and wrecked—flipped a switch.

“Damn it,” he growled, voice rough. One hand slid down your thigh, bunching your dress up to your hip. He pressed forward, thigh slotting between yours, rocking once.

The friction hit just right.

Your next moan wasn’t entirely staged.

Outside, the guards hesitated. One muttered something under his breath. Another laughed.

You doubled down. “Bucky—right there, baby—don’t stop—”

Your voice cracked.

His metal hand spread over your ass, dragging you harder against him. You felt him—hot, thick, straining through his slacks—and the realization sent a sharp thrill straight through your core.

“Fuck, doll,” he rasped into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. Not part of the act. Not even close. His hips rolled again, deliberate now, grinding against you through layers of fabric. Your back arched.

A real whimper slipped free.

The door rattled again. “Hey! People are trying to enjoy the party!”

Bucky’s mouth latched onto your throat, sucking a mark that would darken by morning. “Louder,” he ordered, voice dark velvet. His hand slipped beneath your dress, fingers teasing the edge of your panties. “Let them hear how good I’m making you feel.”

You obeyed—because you had to.

Because you wanted to.

“Ah—Bucky! Yes—fuck me—”

The words broke into something real as his fingers pushed your underwear aside and found you already slick. He groaned before sliding two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

Your knees nearly gave out.

He caught you easily, holding you up while he worked his hand between your thighs, pumping slow and deep. His hips kept moving, grinding against you, the friction relentless and filthy. The sounds—wet, obscene—echoed in the small room.

Your hand fisted in his hair, pulling hard. “More—please—”

No act left now.

Just want.

He added another finger, stretching you, his thumb circling your clit with devastating precision. The distant hum of the gala faded into nothing. All you could hear was his breathing, rough and uneven, and the slick rhythm of his hand.

Your orgasm built fast.

Outside, the guards were arguing now. “Probably just some horny guests. Waste of time.”

Bucky’s teeth sank into your shoulder as he drove his fingers deeper, curling just right. “Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let go. Let them hear you scream my name.”

You did.

The orgasm hit like a shockwave—your body tightening, trembling, breaking apart around his hand. A loud, wrecked cry tore out of you.

“Bucky—fuck—!”

It wasn’t fake.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was real.

He worked you through it, slower now but no less intense, until your legs were shaking and you were barely upright. Only then did he pull his fingers free—bringing them to his mouth without breaking eye contact.

The look he gave you while licking them clean made your stomach flip.

The hallway outside had gone quiet.

Footsteps retreated.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell, his eyes blown dark. “Mission’s not over,” he said hoarsely.

But he didn’t move away.

Instead, he kissed you.

All teeth and tongue and months of tension snapping at once.

You bit his lip, tasting copper, breath mingling with his. “Then finish the job, Barnes,” you muttered. “And make it quick.”

Your hand dropped between you, palming him through his slacks.

“I want you inside me before they circle back.”

A dark laugh left him, already reaching for his belt. “Yes, ma’am.”

The drive could wait.

Five minutes.

Maybe ten.

It started with coffee.

You worked at the little café just off NYU’s campus, paint smudges on your fingers half the time, sketchbook permanently tucked beneath the counter. Arts major. Barista. The antithesis of the revolving door of women Bucky entertained.

Bucky Barnes: serial dater, allergic to commitment, campus heartbreaker, realized he was completely, utterly screwed.

Suddenly the rules felt stupid.

“Large black coffee,” he’d say every morning.

“You know, for someone so handsome, you’re remarkably boring.”

And every morning he’d scowl while handing over his card. Every morning you smiled. Every morning he came back. Three weeks later, his teammates noticed.

“You’re whipped,” Sam grinned as they changed in the locker room.

“I’m not.”

“You literally changed coffee shops,” Steve quipped. “It isn’t even on your route to campus.”

Bucky glared. The idiots weren’t wrong. Things got worse when his parents came down for Parents Weekend. George and Winnie Barnes arrived from Glen Cove, Long Island looking like they’d stepped out of a country club brochure. They were meeting you for the first time for lunch.

You were in paint-splattered overalls. Bucky thought you looked beautiful.

His parents looked horrified.

You smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

Winnie’s gaze dropped briefly to the tattoo peeking from your wrist and then to the chipped nail polish and then to the sketchbook under your arm.

“Oh.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened immediately. The rest of lunch only got worse.

“What exactly are you studying?” George asked.

“Fine arts.”

Silence.

It was the kind of silence that wasn’t really silence. No, it was the kind that was packed full of judgment.

“That’s… interesting.”

Every smile you faked was done out of sheer politeness. You knew the implication. You wanted to hear them say it anyway.

“Translation?” you asked. “Not practical?”

George looked startled. Winnie laughed nervously.

“Well, our James has always been ambitious.”

There it was.

Engineering student. Hockey captain. Future six-figure salary. His entire life mapped out from conception.

And you?

Just a lowly barista who painted.

Bucky spent the next ten minutes looking like he was considering committing a felony. You kicked him under the table every time he opened his mouth. Eventually the visit ended and his parents left, leaving you and Bucky alone in his apartment.

You immediately sighed. “Well…”

“Doll,” Bucky began but you shook your head, raising a hand cutting him off.

“No, it’s okay.”

“It isn’t.”

You shrugged. “They don’t like me.”

“They don’t know you.”

“James.”

That got his attention. You only used James when you were serious.

“They want someone different for you. Not me.”

He stared at you for a long moment before bursting into laughter. “You think I care? Do you know how many girls they’ve tried setting me up with?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. I stopped counting.”

Before you, Bucky’s parents actually liked all the girls he dated. They were exactly what they expected.

Pre-med. Law school. Finance. Country Club. Perfect hair and manicures. Beautiful. Polished. Accomplished.

Meanwhile Bucky was bored out of his mind. They’d laugh and preen as they poured over their resume for the Mrs. Degree. Then came the other women who warmed the bed but not his heart. The ones he tried to connect with, but couldn’t no matter how hard he tried.

Bucky leaned down until his forehead touched yours.

“You know what I want?”

“What?”

His smile softened.

“You.”

The artsy barista with paint on your jeans. You who can and will argue with him. You who teases him on the regular. You who steals his hockey hoodies.

Your heart skipped.

“And if they don’t approve?” you whispered.

Bucky’s grin turned positively dangerous. His chest did that annoying thing again. The thing only you caused.

The thing that made a serial dater, commitment phobe hockey captain start browsing apartment listings with two bedrooms and wondering what your last name would sound like attached to his.

“Well doll, they’re gonna have a really rough time at our wedding.”