Pink princess.

The Winter Soldier doesn't love anyone, he’s got a heart made of Siberian ice and a soul that drowned in the dark waters of his past.A past he can’t even remember, leaving him completely numb to the world.

They built him to be a cold-blooded killer, a weapon wrapped in tactical gear, moving through nights like a phantom. He doesn’t know the touch of a real romance, he doesn't know how to hold a girl's hand without feeling the weight of a trigger.He only understands the darkness.

His metal arm is freezing to the touch, smelling of gun oil, cheap gasoline, and the bitter copper of old blood. It's a flawless piece of Soviet machinery designed to break pulchritudinous things into a million little pieces.

He has seen too many empires fall, too many cities burn, and too many innocent people beg for their lives. There’s no softness left in his damaged mind, no vintage love songs from the quadragenarian years playing in his head. The only sound it the loud static of old military radios and a long list of names he was programmed to erase from the earth without a single spark of pity or regret.

He is a monster masquerading as a god, a beautiful nightmare that you just can't wake up from no matter how hard you scream. When he breathes, it’s just the freezing air of a perpetual winter filling up his hollow chest.

He is not a human, he’s just a ghost trapped in a body of muscle.A hollow shell where a man’s soul used to live before they tore it out and replaced it with wires and Soviet steel. He does not feel, he doesn't know what it’s like to have a warm heart beating against his ribs. He doesn’t feel the sting of the freezing rain on his face, he doesn’t feel the ache of loneliness in the middle of the night, and he certainly doesn’t feel a single drop of guilt when his hands are wrapped around someone’s throat in a dark alleyway.

You could cry right in front of him, you could bleed all over his black leather boots, and those storm-colored eyes wouldn’t even blink, because there is no pity inside him, no tenderness.

So why is it that every time he sees you in your little bookstore, tucked away between the dusty old paperbacks and the soft glow of the lamps, he swears he feels something?—a terrifying little spark that cuts right through his chest?

It’s probably a glitch in his programming...right?An agonizing malfunction that shouldn’t exist in a man like him. Every time he looks at you, the heavy static in his brain suddenly clears, replaced by a strange warmth. It feels like a forgotten memory of a summer sun he hasn't seen in fifty years.

It makes no sense to an asset like him; it scares him more than any bullet ever could, because he doesn't know how to handle the sudden weight of being almost human again.

Because of that terrifying feeling, he’s been stalking you for months now. And he's completely unable to stop himself from drifting toward you. He’s become a permanent fixture in the shadows across the street, parking his motorcycle.

He watches you through the rain-streaked glass of your shop as you dust the shelves, drink your black coffee, and read those sad, romantic books until closing time. He knows the exact time you turn off the radio, he knows the sound of your keys jingling in the front door lock, and he has completely memorized the way your perfume smells when you step out into the night air.An intoxicating mix of expensive vanilla and something he can't name.

He tracks your movements like a predator, knowing which train you take, which street corners you cross, and exactly how long you linger at the flower shop down the avenue.

Pink roses are your favorites,he has learned.

He hates himself for it, he hates that a cold-blooded killer like him is utterly hooked on the simple, mundane sight of a girl who doesn't even know his name. He’s an addict, unable to tear his dead eyes away from you.Because in a world full of blood and white noise, you are the only thing that makes his heart beat against his metal ribs.

He tried to forget you, god knows he tried to wipe the very memory of you from his damaged mind. He went back to the dark streets of foreign cities, trying to forget you. He threw himself into the violence, losing himself in the familiar comfort of high-stakes missions and the sound of gunfire.

He was desperate to let the adrenaline wash away the soft light in your eyes. He stared at the cracked ceilings for days, trying to force his brain back into the icy state of a perfect soldier. But none of it worked, absolutely none of it, because no matter how many miles he put between himself and your shop,it just didn't work.

Mostly, he just can’t get your soft lips out of his mind. It’s a sick obsession that keeps him awake in the dead of night A cold-blooded killer shouldn't know longing, but he craves the thought of your lips more than his next breath, imagining how incredibly soft they would feel against his own unholy mouth.

He imagines the sweetness of you on his tongue even when he’s surrounded by the bitter smell of gunpowder and blood, a torture that makes his metal fists clench in sheer frustration. He is a monster completely ruined by the simple, devastating thought of your lips.

He can’t get the thought of you on your knees for him out of his head.It’s an obscene image that burns behind his eyelids every time he closes them. It's a vision so sharp it makes his breath catch in his hollow throat.

He imagines you there, small and completely surrendered on the cold hardwood floor of your little shop, looking up at him through your eyelashes with that soft innocence. He craves the total submission of it. He wants to look down and see you ruined by him

And your lips. God, your lips on his...

The thought alone is a lethal dose of adrenaline running through his frozen veins. He wants to feel the agonizing contrast of your warmth against his vile mouth. He wants to ruin your neat little world with his heavy, rough hands.

He wants to press his mouth against yours until the taste of blood and gunpowder is completely drowned in your sweetness, leaving him choked on a desire he has no right to feel.

It’s a suffocating hunger. He knows he would break you—but the dark, selfish part of his broken soul doesn't care. He wants to be the one who brings you to your knees, and he wants to be worshipped by your mouth.

He knows that this wrong. Every single cell in his genetically engineered body screams at him that this is a fatal error. A weapon doesn’t crave the softness of a girl’s lips. A soldier doesn’t dream of a submissive angel on her knees in the warm glow of a bookstore.

It’s a betrayal of everything he is. Every time his mind drifts back to the vanilla scent of your skin, a cold sweat breaks out under his tactical gear, a raw panic that he hasn’t felt since they first strapped him into the chair.

Because he knows what happens if Hydra finds out.They will come for you. They would see you not as a girl, but as a contagion. A weakness to be excised with surgical precision. They would hunt you down, shatter the glass of your pretty little shop, and paint those dusty paperbacks with your blood just to prove to him that he belongs to them.

They would make him watch. Or worse, they would re-program him, wipe his mind until his eyes are dead again, and force his own flesh and metal hands around your delicate throat.

The mere thought of Hydra discovering your existence sends a spike of pure terror through his chest. He can already hear the clinical voices of his handlers, the heavy clanking of the laboratory doors, and the terrifying phrase that strips away everything he is: Longing. Seventeen. Daybreak.

He should leave. He should turn the key to his motorcycle, speed into the freezing rain, and never look back at this street corner again. He should let the winter swallow him whole.

It’s Valentine’s Day, but the flashing red and pink neon signs down the avenue don’t mean a damn thing to you. You’re standing inside your little bookstore, surrounded by the comforting scent of old paper and dust, completely detached from the cheap, plastic romance that the rest of the city is buying into tonight.

You haven't cared about this day in years, closing your heart off to the hollow promises of drugstore chocolates and rushed dinners, choosing instead the quiet safety of your own solitude. It’s not that you’re bitter; it’s just that you have these impossibly big, cinematic expectations of what love should be.A grand, dangerous kind of devotion that nobody in this mundane world could ever give you. You have these high standards built from the poetry and romantic novels on your shelves, and you’d rather spend your nights completely alone than settle for a lukewarm boyfriend who doesn't understand the depth of your personality.

You look out the rain-streaked window at the couples rushing past under their umbrellas, knowing that you’re waiting for a different kind of romance.

So it shouldn’t bother you that all of your friends are out tonight with their partners, dressed up in their expensive, velvet clothes, drinking cheap red wine under the dim lights of fancy downtown restaurants. It shouldn't matter that they are whispering sweet, mundane little clichés into each other's ears.

But it does, it really does. You can feel your chest tightening with a heavy ache at the thought of spending another long night entirely alone.

It’s always been like this though. They’ve always had their fun, drifting through the easy phases of normal romance, while you—well, you always stayed behind. A disastrous girl locked away in her own ivory tower of old paper.God,it sounds like you're a character in a Paula Fox novel.

You try to tell yourself that you’re above it all, that their drugstore version of love could never fulfill a girl with your kind of imagination. But as the hours tick away, the quiet of the bookstore becomes an absolute prison, and the crushing, agonizing realization that you are completely on your own in the dark.

Or...are you?

You glance at the clock on the wall and realize it’s finally time to close up, because the streets have been empty for hours and nobody is going to walk through that door tonight. I mean, who in their right mind would come to a dusty old bookstore on Valentine’s Day anyway?

You start moving through the golden shadows of the shop, your fingers lingering on the spines of the sad poetry books as you prepare to shut it all down.

You turn off the vintage radio, cutting off the melancholic jazz that was keeping you company, and the sudden silence hits your chest like a physical weight. You grab your keys, the metal clinking sharply in the quiet room, ready to lock the door, completely unaware that the only man who has ever truly looked at you is still waiting out there in the dark.

You step out into the freezing night, turning the key in the lock until the bolt clicks firmly into place. You pop open your black umbrella against the pouring rain, pulling your trench coat tight around your chest as you take your first step onto the wet pavement.The wind is howling down the avenue, and you’re walking with your head down, just trying to escape the bitter cold.

You only take three steps before you crash hard into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and wet leather. A force so heavy it sends a sharp shock straight up your spine and makes your umbrella wobble in your hand.

You stumble back, your breath catching in your throat as you look up through the rain-streaked air, trying to make out the silhouette towering over you.It’s too dark to see his face under the shadows of the street corner, but you can perceive his shoulders and the dark tactical gear strapped tight under his jacket.

Then you look down, and your heart skips a heavy beat.A single, delicate pink rose is lying in the puddle, its soft petals bruised by the cold water. It must have fallen from his hands the moment you collided.

“I'm so sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly in the freezing air as you lean down to gently pick up the flower.You stand back up, holding the bruised pink rose out to him. You wait for him to take it, wait for a curse, a brush-off, or the sound of his voice—anything to break the awkward silence stretching out between you under the pouring rain.

He doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out and takes the pink rose from your hand, his black leather glove brushing against your fingers for a brief second. He tucks the flower into his jacket pocket, turns around, and walks away into the rainy night, leaving you standing alone under your umbrella.

You stay there on the sidewalk for a long time, watching the spot where he disappeared. Your mind is spinning, completely confused by what just happened.

You wonder who this giant of a man was.You touch your fingers to your lips, still tasting the bitter scent of his gasoline and gun oil in the air.

You walk back to your apartment, the freezing rain soaking through your coat, but you can barely feel the cold. You climb the stairs, turn the key to your bedroom, and throw your wet clothes on the floor.You pour yourself a glass of cheap red wine and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the ceiling.

Your mind is completely hijacked by him. You can’t stop thinking about the dangerous contrast of his body against yours.It’s a haunting image that keeps looping in your head—this silent, terrifying monument of a man, carrying a single pink rose through the storm like a cliché.

You crawl under the blankets, wondering where the stranger was going.

You don't know that outside your window, tucked away in the alley, his motorcycle sits idling in the dark. The Winter Soldier feels so incredibly foolish, a cold-blooded assassin frozen in place by a girl who smells like vanilla and old books.

He looks down at the bruised pink rose resting on the leather seat of his bike. He hadn't planned on any of this. He had only intended to slip into your shop during the closing chaos, to leave that soft, stupid flower on your counter when you weren't looking—a silent, anonymous token from a monster who has no right to feel like this.

But then the brass lock had clicked, you had stepped into the rain, and you had broken right against his chest.He couldn't even speak. A machine that knows how to order an execution in five different languages completely lost his voice the moment your hands brushed his glove.

Oh,he's pathetic.

Maybe it was because, for the very first time, he actually looked at you. Not through the distorted scope of a rifle, not through a rain-streaked windshield, but right there in the blackness of the street corner.

He saw the soft innocence in your eyes, the gentle way you rescued his bruised flower from the puddle. He feels trapped between his violent programming and the terrifying realization that your sweetness has officially conquered something inside him.

He decides it’s better to keep his distance, at least for a little while. He needs to pull back and disappear, if only for a single day, just to analyze the fatal error running wild through his system.

He needs to look at the situation with the calculating precision of the weapon he was built to be, rather than the desperate longing of a man who has lost his mind over a bookstore girl.Yeah..he's pathetic.

Few hours later he sits in a cheap motel room on the edge of the city. The bruised pink rose sits on the nightstand next to his silver handguns and his black tactical knife—a delicate little intruder in his violent world.It's kinda ironic.

He tells himself that one day away from your bookstore will cure this sickness, that twenty-four hours of isolation will put the ice back into his veins and force the vanilla scent out of his head. He promises himself he will stay away, that he won't drive past your street corner, and that he will find a way to become himself again.

And then...the air in the motel room is thick. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his tactical gear half-undone, staring at that pale pink rose on the nightstand until his vision blurs. He tried to think like a soldier, he tried to run the numbers, but the cold analysis completely shatters under the memory of your body breaking against his chest in the pouring rain.

His heavy leather glove hits the floor with a dull thud, and he reaches down with his bare human hand, his fingers trembling with hunger he hasn't felt in a lifetime.Or has he? He knows what he's doing,how to...but why? He knows pieces are missing from his brain.

He closes his eyes, and suddenly he’s not in this rotting room anymore—he’s back in the golden glow of your bookstore, watching your soft lips part, visualizing you shape,your submission as you drop to your knees on the hard wood floor just for him.

He touches himself with a rough slowness, his breath catching sharply in his hollow throat as the image burns behind his eyelids. He visualizes his metal fingers tangled ruthlessly in your hair, holding you down, forcing you to take every inch of him.You look up at him with those innocent eyes,that tear up a bit,and he gets harder at the thought. Every stroke is fueled by adrenaline and a fatal error in his system that makes his muscles lock up and his chest heave as he chases the taste of your skin and your sweet, ruined mouth in the dark.

He groans into the empty room, a low sound that tastes like sins, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm against his own bare hand. He’s completely losing his mind in the red neon light of Valentine's day, hallucinating the friction of your soft thighs against his waist.

He pulls his own hair with his metal hand, wanting the sharp sting of pain to wake him from this wicked dream, but he’s too far gone, too deeply drowned in the fantasy of ruining you. His imagination ahifts from the bookstore.He imagines pinning you down into this mattress, your delicate wrists held captive above your head by his silver fingers.

He is chasing a high he was never meant to know, driving himself closer and closer to the edge with the devastating thought of your lips stretched wide around him.

His muscles lock, veins standing out against his neck as an electric jolt of adrenaline tears through his frozen spine. With one final thrust against his own hand,it hits him like a physical blow, that leaves him completely undone in the bleeding red light of the neon sign.

He gasps, a low sound echoing against the peeling wallpaper. He collapses back onto the damp sheets, his human hand slick and his silver fingers trembling against the mattress, completely paralyzed.

The static in his brain is gone, replaced by a silence that offers no comfort,and terrifying realization that he didn't wash you out of his system at all. He just let you entirely inside,his heartbeat slowly drops back into the freezing dark.

...

Two days. Two whole days of absolute silence.

He managed to stay away from your street corner for forty-eight hours, hiding out in the dark. Trying to cure himself of a wicked addiction. He cleaned his weapons, and tried to pretend that the sweet scent of vanilla had finally faded from his leather jacket.

He told himself that the error in his system was corrected, that the cold-blooded killer was back in control, and that your little bookstore was just a hallucination he had successfully left behind in the rain.

But it was all a lie, a delusion he built just to keep from tearing the city apart. Every single tick of the clock on his nightstand felt like a blow against his ribs. He didn't cure the sickness; he just let it fester in the dark, his hands shaking under his tactical gloves every time he pictured your soft lips.

Two days of playing dead was all his broken soul could take. He needed you.During those two days, you felt a strange mix of disappointment and relief. Part of you wanted the dangerous stranger to reappear out of the rain, to prove that the shock of your bodies colliding wasn't just a figment of your wild imagination. But as the hours dragged on and your shop remained empty, the ache in your chest began to soften into a familiar numbness.

You told yourself it was for the best. You cleaned the shelves, reorganized the poetry section, and drank your black coffee in silence, slowly letting the memory of his heavy leather jacket and the bruised pink rose fade into white noise.You had almost forgotten the whole thing, convinced yourself that he was just a nameless stranger passing through the dark, never to be seen again.

He can't take the distance anymore, and he sure as hell doesn't do polite invitations.So he writes you a letter.It’s not a soft, romantic Valentine's card; it’s a rough piece of paper torn from a tactical notebook, written in aggressive black ink that nearly rips through the page. It’s short, blunt, and so utterly typical of the Winter Soldier that it’s almost funny—a dangerous machine trying to command a girl who smells like vanilla.

Midnight.The old abandoned observatory on the hilltop. Under the broken dome.Don’t make me come fetch you.Be there.

He slips the note straight under the front door of your bookstore right before closing.You find the paper lying on the hardwood floor, your heart doing a dangerous flip against your ribs as you read the crude ultimatum. He isn't asking for a chance,—he is ordering a surrender.

You hold the rough piece of paper in your hands while the cold adrenaline starts to flood your veins. Your mind is racing, honey, frantically trying to piece the puzzle together as you stare at the ldark ink and the aggressive handwriting that feels more like a tactical order than a love note.

You find yourself wondering who could have possibly slipped this under your door. Who even knew you were here...well,you have a lot of costumers. So it could be anybody.

But deep down, in the dark corner of your soul, you already know the answer. Or at least, you desperately hope you do.

You know it’s crazy, you know a smart girl would tear the paper to pieces and lock her bedroom door, but your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs because the thought of him waiting for you up on that star-lit hilltop is a drug you’re already too weak to refuse.

You spend the next few hours in a fever dream, the minutes ticking away on the wall. You step into your bathroom, the mirror fogging up with warm steam as you try to wash away the mundane exhaustion of the day.

You pick out your clothes. You slide into a soft, dark slip dress that clings to your curves, and pull your heavy leather trench coat over your shoulders to protect you from the freezing night air.

You don't put on much makeup, just a touch of your signature expensive vanilla perfume behind your ears and on your wrists. You stare at your reflection one last time.

The winding mountain road is completely black, swallowed by the suffocating silence of the pines and the cold mist rolling off the hills. You drive up the dark asphalt, while the radio hums a slow melody.

When you finally reach the crest of the hill, the abandoned observatory rises from the darkness. Its massive, rusted dome looks like a fractured skull against the midnight sky, with jagged shards of broken glass catching the brilliant light of the stars above.

You cut the engine.You step out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath your boots.And then, you see it—tucked away beneath an old oak tree, the dark silhouette of his motorcycle sits in the dark, its guttural purr vibrating straight through the ground and up into the soles of your shoes.

He just watches you step closer in your dark slip dress and leather trench coat, his jaw clenched tight as he realizes you actually came.

He cuts the engine, and the sudden silence on the mountaintop hits you both. He swings his leg over the seat, stepping off the motorcycle with a predatory grace that makes your breath catch in your throat. He takes a long step toward you, his massive combat boots crunching against the gravel.

“You came,” he mutters.

“I didn't think you'd actually show up,” you whisper.You try to sound brave, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays every high expectation and desperate hope you've been nursing for the last two hours.

He leans down just a fraction of an inch closer, his hot breath brushing against your cold cheek.“You've been in my sights for a very long time.”

He grabs your wrist—his grip tight but not breaking you—and leads you up the rusted iron steps of the observatory, toward the highest observation ledge right under the open sky.

When you reach the top, the entire world opens up below you. The city is distant, completely insignificant compared to the silver cosmos stretched out over your heads.He walks right to the edge of the stone platform. He sits down, letting his heavy combat boots dangle over the ledge into the empty blackness, and nods once toward the space beside him.

You take a slow breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, and sit down right next to him. The contrast is devastating—you in your delicate black silk, and him wrapped in cold tactical gear and wet leather.

Your bare shoulder brushes against his heavy jacket, and the electric warmth of his body almost makes you shiver. You both look up at the infinite dark, completely isolated from the rest of the living.You sit there on the cold stone ledge, your bare legs dangling into the empty blackness right beside his heavy combat boots.

“Which one is your favorite?” you ask softly. You tilt your head back, your eyes search the silver dust of the Milky Way.

He doesn't look up at the sky. His storm-colored eyes stay fixed on the side of your face, watching the way the starlight hits your cheekbones.

“I don't look at them to admire them,” he grunts. He reaches down with his human hand, his rough fingers tracing a line along the seat of the ledge. “In Hy— where I was trained, the stars just meant we had three hours of navigation left before dawn. They aren't pretty, They're just coordinates”

You let out a soft laugh, turning your head to meet his intense gaze. “I know who you are Bucky.”

The realization that you knew exactly what he was didn’t scare him; it liberated him.He leaned in closer, the scent of rain and old leather completely erasef the sweet vanilla on your skin.

“Good,” he growled. “Then I don't have to pretend anymore.”

“You know what I am,” he stated, his human hand moving from the stone ledge to grip the back of your neck. His fingers were rough, anchoring you in place.“You know what these hands have done. And you still drove up a pitch-black mountain just because I told you to.”

He tilted your head back slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze wasn't romantic; it was hungry. It was the look of a predator claiming territory it had been stalking for months. He looked at your mouth, his thumb brushing against your lower lip with just enough pressure to part them. He didn't want a sweet, innocent kiss. He wanted you on your knees, entirely consumed by him, surrendering every piece of yourself to his control. He wanted to ruin you for anyone else.

“Maybe I don't want a softness” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly but holding your ground. “Maybe I wanted exactly this.”

A dangerous silence fell between you. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't say another word. He didn't need to. Your answer was the green light the predator inside him had been waiting months for.

With a single, effortless movement, his human hand tightened on your neck and he hauled you up off the stone ledge. He didn't do polite. He marched you backward into the deeper shadows of the observatory, until your lower back hit the cool, metallic frame of his motorcycle.

You submissively started to sink toward the gravel, your knees going weak as your instincts told you to kneel for him. But before your knees could even touch the ground, his metal hand shot out. His vibranium fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep, arresting your descent with effortless strength and pulling you right back up.

“No,” he growled. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not tonight. You save that for the next time I command it. Tonight, I want to look into your eyes while I take you.”

He didn't give you a chance to process his words. His flesh-and-blood hand moved down to the hem of your dark slip dress, bunching the soft silk upward in his rough palm. His calloused hand dragged against your bare thigh.

He gripped your hip, lifting you effortlessly and placing you right onto the leather seat of the motorcycle. He stepped his heavy combat boot between your thighs, opening you up and claiming every inch of your space.

“Legs up,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a rough growl.You didn't hesitate. You wrapped your bare legs around his waist, the soft skin of your thighs pressing tightly against the rough canvas of his tactical pants. The position placed you perfectly at eye level with him.

He stepped his heavy combat boots closer, crowding right between your thighs until his massive chest was pressing you back against the handlebars. You were completely trapped between his heavy frame and the cold metal of the bike, your delicate black silk dress bunched up around your waist.

His large human hand slid up your bare thigh, his rough fingers hooking into the delicate elastic of your underwear. He didn't ask for permission. With one deliberate tug, he ripped the lace right down your legs, tossing the ruined fabric onto the gravel below without a second thought.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden display of dominance. You were completely exposed to the freezing night air now, shivering against the seat of the motorcycle.

He didn't bother taking off his leather jacket or his tactical gear—he wanted to keep you warm, and honestly, he was too far gone to care about undressing completely. Instead, his human hand moved down to the front of his tactical pants. You watched with wide eyes as his fingers quickly unbuckled his belt and lowered his zipper, aggressively freeing his thick length into the cold air.

“Look at me,” he muttered, his eyes dark with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “I want you to remember this.”

He didn't push in yet. Instead, he just pressed his hot length right against you, teasing the entrance while his storm-colored eyes tracked the desperate, shallow breaths escaping your lips.

“Bucky—”

His human hand clenched tighter around your hip, his thumb digging into your skin to anchor you. “Don't call me Bucky.”

You blinked through the darkness, your breath hitching as your hands clutched the rough leather of his jacket. “Then... what do I call you?”

“Soldat,” he growled.

You didn't fully understand what it meant to him, or what dark memories it triggered in his conditioned mind.You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up into his unyielding eyes.

“Soldat...” you whispered softly, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

His eyes blew out completely black with lust, and without another second of hesitation,he drove all the way inside you.

A breathless scream tore from your throat, as the sudden fullness stretched you completely open. Your legs instantly locked tighter around his waist, your boots digging into his lower back as your fingers clawed blindly through his jacket.

He didn't slow down. The rhythm of his hips remained heavy, each deep thrust making the motorcycle shift slightly beneath you. His combat gear and heavy leather rubbed roughly against your bare skin, a constant reminder of his sheer size and power.

“I watched you for months,” he growled against the skin of your throat, his breath scorching hot as he drove into you again. His metal fingers dug firmly into your hip. “I sat in the dark across the street and counted the minutes until you opened the doors.”

A needy gasp escaped your lips, your body clenching tightly around him. Hearing him confess to the unfiltered depth of his stalking didn't scare you—it sent a violent rush of heat straight to your core, making you tighter and completely undone.

“I know,” you cried out breathlessly. “I knew you were there... I saw the edge of your jacket in the pines. And I liked it, Soldat.”

Bucky’s entire body went dead still for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving violently against yours as your words registered in his mind. The realization that his target hadn't been an innocent victim, but an active participant playing the game right back with him, completely shattered the last of his restraint.

“Fucking whore,” he muttered.His grip on your waist turned entirely feral, lifting your hips higher against the leather seat, and he began to drive into you with a relentless pace.

“You liked it?” he growled. He drove deep, bottoming out inside you until you let out a helpless sob. “You liked knowing a killer was tracking your every move? You're a sick little girl.”

The leather seat of the motorcycle creaked beneath you with every ruthless strike.“Look at you now. Completely stretched out on my bike, taking every inch of me.”

“Soldat... please—” you cried out, your legs tightening around his waist, your fingers clawing deep into the leather of his jacket.

“Please what?” he muttered roughly. “You belong to me now. Say it.”

“I'm yours,Soldat” you gasped.

“Damn right you are,” he growled. He pulled back just enough to drive back in with a heavy thud that made your vision spot. “You don't get to come until I tell you to. You hold it in for me, you hear me? You take every single thrust until I'm ready to give it to you.”

Your fingers clawed desperately into the thick leather of his jacket, your bare legs trembling violently where they were locked around his waist.

“I can't... Soldat,” a helpless sob tore from your throat. Your entire body was trembling violently beneath him, as the agonizingly sharp waves of pleasure threatened to pull you under. “You're... you're too deep. It's driving me crazy, please...”

“I told you to wait. I want to watch your eyes roll back when I finally let you break.” His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, while his flesh hand held your hip perfectly pinned to the leather seat of the bike.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded roughly, his face dropping down until his forehead rested against yours.“Beg for it.”

“Please, Soldat... please let me come,” you sobbed out. You arched your back against the cold handlebars of the bike, your trembling thighs squeezing his waist as tightly as you could.“I'll do whatever you want... just let me come. Please.”

“Good girl,” he growled, the rough words vibrating straight against your wet lips.He didn't give you another second of warning. His hand slammed hard against your hip, holding you locked flat against the leather seat, while his left hand anchored the back of your neck. He picked up the pace.

The motorcycle creaked violently beneath the sheer force of his movement. You couldn't even breathe, let alone speak, as he ruthlessly drove you over the edge.

“Take it,” he muttered roughly, his face burying into the crook of your neck, his teeth bruising the soft skin over your collarbone. “Come for me now,sweet thing.”

The command was all it took. Your head fell back, a loud scream escaping your lips into the silent night.Hearing you break completely unraveled the Winter Soldier.

He let out a harsh roar—a sound of pure animalistic release—as his own climax hit him. His jaw locked so tight the veins in his neck strained.At the final moment, he shifted, pulling away to ensure the intensity of the encounter reached its conclusion outside of you.

The thick heat of his climax painted the dark silk of your bunched-up dress and the pale skin of your stomach and chest in long surges.He stood there shivering from the sheer force of the release, his chest heaving violently against yours.

The only sound in the ruined observatory was the frantic rhythm of your shared, breathless recovery and the distant, lonely sigh of the pines below.His thumb remained resting against your skin, tracing a slow line over your thigh as if he were trying to process the physical reality of what had just happened.

For a man who had spent decades living as a ghost— who only left blood behind—the sight of his own messy, unmistakable mark of possession on a living person seemed to completely stun him. He looked entirely trapped somewhere between the efficiency of the Soldat and the stunned awakening of a man who hadn't felt this alive in half a century.

His fingers aggressively pulled his tactical pants back up, tucking himself away before his metal hand yanked the zipper shut with a sharp, metallic clack. He reached for his tactical belt, tightening the buckle with a loud snap.Only when he was fully dressed and locked back into his soldier uniform did he look back up at you.

Was it normal to get aroused again just by looking at him? Probably not.

He reached into one of the side pouches of his tactical belt, pulling out a dark military-grade utility cloth.He didn't ask you to move. His large flesh hand gripped your thigh to hold you steady on the leather seat, while his left arm braced against the frame of the bike. He leaned over you again.

The cloth was dry and rough against your sensitized skin. He wiped the cooling smears of his climax from your stomach and chest with firm strokes. He didn't look into your eyes while he did it; his focus was entirely objective, cleaning your skin with the same detached, methodical thoroughness he would use to maintain a weapon after a heavy firefight. His fingers were rough, but he wasn't trying to hurt you—he was just completely devoid of tenderness.

Once your skin was clear, he shoved the cloth back into his pouch. He reached down, grabbing the hem of your bunched-up dark silk dress, and pulled it back down over your thighs with a single, rough yank to cover you up.

“I need my underwear back,” you said.He looked down at the dark gravel between his combat boots, where the delicate, shredded lace was lying ruined in the dirt. He had ripped them off with zero regard for their survival, and they were completely useless now.He didn't bend down to pick them up. Instead, he looked back up at your face, his expression deadpan and entirely unbothered.

“You're not getting them back,” he grunted. He took a single step closer, crowding your space one last time. “I tore them. They're mine now.”

“Take your coat,” he ordered. “The mist is rolling in. You're going back to the city.”

He had taken your underwear, marked your body, and ordered you back to the city with military authority. He was already pulling away, retreating back behind the icy walls of the Soldat.But you weren't ready to let him go yet.

“Can I kiss you?” you whispered into the dark. Bucky went entirely still, his hand freezing on the handle of his motorcycle. In all his decades of programming, nobody had ever asked for his permission to touch him. Nobody had ever looked at his lips—the lips of an assassin—and wanted a kiss.

He leaned down just a fraction of an inch, his hot breath brushing against your lips, teasing you with the very proximity you were begging for. His thumb pressed hard against your bottom lip, deliberately parting them, but he kept his own mouth just out of reach.

“You want a kiss?” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly warning that rattled down your spine. “You earn it first. Go back to your shop. Sit bare under that dress all night and think about what we did up here. If you're a good girl, maybe next time I'll give you what you want. Now get in your car.”

You woke up before the sun did,it was your birthday.The curtains barely moved in the early morning light, painting everything gold. For a second, you didn’t move—just listened. The slow rhythm of his breathing — his breathing,Bucky's — calmed you.

His arm was draped over your waist, metal fingers resting carefully against your skin like he was afraid you might disappear if he held on too tight. You smiled to yourself.

“Happy birthday, doll,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep, like he’d been dreaming of you too.

You turned slowly in his arms, facing him. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, and there was something softer about him in the morning.

“You remembered,” you whispered.He let out a quiet huff, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “I remember everything about you.”

Outside, the city hadn’t woken up yet. No sirens, no chaos. Just that fragile stillness.“What do you wanna do today?” he asked, thumb tracing slow circles on your hip.

You thought about it—the candles, the wishes,all those years.But right now, wrapped up in him, none of that felt urgent.“Nothing,” you said softly. “Just… this.”

His lips curved into the smallest smile, the kind he didn’t show anyone else. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours.“Then we stay,” he said. “All day.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into it.Into your birthday and somehow, it already felt like the best one.

Later reality came knocking,Bucky sighed first. You felt it before you heard it, the way his chest rose deeper this time, like he was already pulling away.

“Wish I could stay,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t answer right away. Just traced the faint line of his jaw with your fingertip, memorizing it like you always did when you knew he was about to go.

“Avengers stuff?” you asked softly.

He gave a small nod, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Yeah. Early call.”

That made you smile, just barely.But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.The room felt different now—less like a dream.The quiet ache settling in your chest.

It was your birthday.And he had to leave.

“Hey,” he said gently, noticing the change in you. His hand came up, tilting your chin so you’d look at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he asked.

“That thing where you get all sad and pretend you’re not.” You exhaled, a small, defeated sound. “Sorry.”

He softened instantly.For a second, he looked like he might say screw it—stay anyway, let the world wait. You saw it in his eyes. Felt it in the way his hand lingered just a little longer on your face.

But Bucky Barnes wasn’t built to walk away from duty. And that was why you loved him,he tried so hard to be good,and it made you proud everyday.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised quietly, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Tonight. Just you and me, yeah? I got something planned.”

“Something planned?” you teased faintly, trying to hold onto the softness.

He smirked. “You’ll see.”

Reluctantly, he pulled away, sitting up on the edge of the bed. The absence of him was immediate.

You watched him get dressed—shirt, jacket, gear. Piece by piece, the man you loved turned back into the soldier the world needed.

Before he left, he turned back to you,like always.“C’mere,” he said.

You slipped out of the covers and walked into him, wrapping your arms around his middle, pressing your face into his chest. He held you tight.

“Happy birthday, doll,” he whispered into your hair again, softer this time. “Don’t go anywhere without me.”

You laughed quietly against him. “I’ll try.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough to make it hurt when he pulled away.

And then he was gone,the door clicked shut.The apartment fell silent.You stood there for a moment.

You didn’t stay in bed long after he left.The silence pressed in too much, too loud. So you moved. Shower running, music low, something old and sad humming through the apartment.

You stood in front of the mirror longer than usual.Foundation, soft blush, lashes just right. Lips slightly tinted—nothing too bold, just enough to feel like yourself, or at least a version of yourself you could hold together today.

You wanted to feel pretty today.It was your birthday, after all.You tilted your head, studying your reflection.“Good enough,” you whispered.

Your phone buzzed on the counter.You glanced at it casually at first—but the moment you saw the name, your expression shifted.

Mom.Oh shit.

Your stomach tightened.For a second, you let it ring. Watched the screen light up, fade, light up again.Then, with a quiet sigh, you picked it up.“Hello?”

There was a pause on the other end. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Hello,Antichrist.Hello,theraphy.You frowned without meaning to, leaning your hip against the counter.“Thanks, Mom.”

“You sound tired,” she said.

You almost laughed at that.“I just woke up.”

“That late?” she asked, and there it was—that subtle edge.Your fingers tightened slightly around the phone.“It’s my birthday.”

“I know,” she replied. “I’m your mother.”Silence stretched between you, uncomfortable.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again. The makeup,the effort. The softness you tried to build this morning.It felt… smaller now.

“Are you coming by later?” she asked. “I made something.”

Your chest tightened, just a little.You already knew what that meant. The same table,the same conversations. The same feeling of being ten years old again, trying to be enough in a room that never quite fit you right.“I don’t know,” you said quietly.

“Well,” she sighed, “you should. It’s important to remember where you come from.”

Your jaw clenched slightly.And suddenly, the morning didn’t feel golden anymore.It felt grey.“I’ll think about it,” you said.

“Alright,” she replied.The call ended soon after.You set your phone down slowly, staring at your reflection again.

After that,you couldn't stay in the apartment alone.You couldn’t—not with the ache sitting on your chest like that.So you called Wanda,and she came, of course.

“Absolutely not,” Wanda said the second she saw you, eyes narrowing gently as she took in your expression. “You are not spending your birthday spiraling.”

You let out a small laugh, leaning against the doorframe as she walked in like she owned the place.“I’m not spiraling.”

“Mm,” she hummed, unconvinced, slipping off her coat. “You did your makeup to feel better.”

You blinked. “That’s not a crime.”

“It is when you still look like you want to cry,” she said softly.But instead of pushing, Wanda just reached for your hand, squeezing it once.“C’mon,” she said. “We’re going out.”

...

The city felt different in the afternoon.It felt more alive.You and Wanda walked side by side, her arm occasionally brushing yours.

She took you somewhere pretty—somewhere with soft lighting, velvet seats, music humming low in the background. The kind of place that felt expensive and intimate, like a hidden corner of the world.

“You deserve to be celebrated,” she said simply, sliding a drink toward you.

You smiled, softer this time.“To me?” you asked, raising your glass slightly.

“To you,” she echoed, clinking it gently.You swallowed, throat tightening just a bit.“You always know what to say.”

“I don’t,” Wanda admitted, leaning back slightly “I just care about you.”

Hours passed like that.Soft laughter,stories,a little teasing,a little honesty.Outside, the sky began to dim—gold melting into pink, pink into something darker, something deeper.

You checked your phone without thinking. There were no messages.Your heart dipped slightly and Wanda noticed, of course.“He’ll come back,” she said gently.

You let out a small breath, staring into your drink.“I know.”

Wanda reached for your hand again, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.“Until then,” she said, a knowing smile playing on her lips, “you have me.”

And somehow—that was enough to keep the sadness from swallowing the day whole.At least for now.

“So,” she said gently, “what happened earlier?” You traced the edge of your drink with your finger.“My mom called.”

Wanda didn’t react right away. Just set her drink down softly, giving you her full attention.“And?”

“She was… normal.” You gave a small, humorless smile. “In her own way.”

Her head tilted slightly.“Normal can still hurt.”

“She wants me to come over,” you admitted. “And I know exactly how it’ll go.”

Wanda leaned in just a little, her voice softer now.“Tell me.”

“You are not who she failed to understand,” she said softly.The words hit deeper than you expected.You looked up at her,her thumb moved slowly over your knuckles.

Your phone lit up against the table.You didn’t think much of it at first—just another notification,but Wanda noticed before you did.“Someone’s calling,” she said gently.

You glanced down at the phone.It was Bucky.You picked up quickly, stepping a little away from the table.“Hey,” you said softly.

“Hey, doll.”God, you missed him.

“I’m home,” he said. “Where are you?”

You leaned lightly against the wall, watching the city blur past outside the window.“I’m out with Wanda,” you replied. “She kidnapped me for my birthday.”

“Good. Someone had to.” You huffed quietly. “Rude.”

“Can you come home? I told you I had something planned” he asked.“I don’t wanna pull you away from Wanda,” he added. “But… I kinda need you here.”

You glanced back at the table. Wanda was watching you. Her expression soft like always.“Give me a minute?” you said into the phone.

“Take your time,” Bucky replied. “I’ll be here.” You hung up slowly,for a second, you just stood there, holding your phone, feeling something shift inside you again.

You walked back to the table, slipping into your seat.“Bucky?” Wanda asked gently.

You nodded. “Yeah.He’s home.He wants me to come back. Said he has… a surprise.”

Wanda’s lips curved into the faintest smile, something almost fond in her expression.“Then you should go.”

You hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna just—leave you.”

Her fingers brushed yours again.“You’re not leaving me,” she said softly. “You’re going to someone who’s been thinking about you all day.”

You exhaled, a small smile finally forming on your lips.“Thank you,” you murmured.

Wanda tilted her head slightly, her gaze warm.“Go,” she said. “And enjoy every minute of it.”

You gathered your things, a sudden flutter in your chest making your fingers feel clumsy. You forced yourself to slow down. Rushing felt wrong.

Outside, the evening air hit you first—thick with the smell of cheap street food.Your heels clicked against the concrete, a predictable rhythm that kept you anchored while crowds of people swirled past in a blur of loud laughter and designer coats. Above you, a faulty neon sign buzzed, casting a erratic pink glow over the pavement.

The city kept moving, engines roaring and strangers brushing against your shoulder without a glance. You passed a line of yellow cabs idling at the curb, but you ignored them. You needed the walk to clear your head.

By the time your building came into view, the sky had deepened into that rich, dusky blue color.You slowed your steps without realizing it, your hand brushing lightly against the door as you reached it, hesitating for just a second.

You took a small breath, steadying yourself.And then, finally—you went inside.

The door closed quietly behind you, the sound softer than you expected. For a second, you didn’t move. The lights were low, barely there, replaced by something warmer. Candles lined the room. He’d done it himself, taking his time, trying to get it right. Music played somewhere in the background.

You stepped further inside, your breath catching just slightly and then you saw him.Bucky stood near the middle of the room, like he’d been waiting in that exact spot the whole time. God,you loved that man.

His sleeves were rolled up, his hair a little messy. For a moment, neither of you said anything. He just looked at you—really looked at you—and then his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.You let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your lips curving into a smile.“Hey.”

His eyes moved over you for, taking you in—the way you were dressed, the effort you’d made.He saw all the parts that made you look breathtaking.

“You look…” he started, “You look beautiful.” “Thank you,” you said softly.

There was a small, almost shy smile on his face—as he took a step closer to you, then another. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here,” he admitted.“Didn’t wanna rush you.”

“I wanted to see you as soon as I could,” you confessed.

He nodded once, then glanced around the room like he suddenly became aware of it all again—the candles, the music,the decoration.“It’s not… fancy or anything,” he said. “I just thought—”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupted gently.His eyes came back to yours. You stepped closer, the space between you disappearing without either of you really noticing when it happened. The music filled the silence for a moment.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured, and this time when he said it, it felt different.It felt deeper. His hand found yours carefully,as they always did, he was still a little afraid of holding onto you too tightly, even now.

Neither of you moved for a minute. Bucky’s hand was still holding yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Dance with me?” he asked.

You smiled, softer than before, something easing in your chest. “I'd love to.”

One hand slid to your waist while the other held yours, pulling you gently into him. Your bodies found the rhythm without trying too hard,it came naturally. Your hand rested against his shoulder, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. He kept you closer than usual.

“You okay?” he asked quietly after a while, his voice close to your ear.You exhaled, your head tilting just slightly toward him without thinking.“Yeah,” you murmured. “I am now.”

His hand on your waist shifted just a little, pulling you closer in a way that said he heard everything you didn’t say. You swayed together, the world outside fading into something distant and unimportant. Your cheek brushed near his shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“I thought about you all day,” he admitted quietly. You lifted your head slightly, looking at him. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Didn’t like being away from you.” Your lips curved faintly. “You were busy saving the world.”

“Yeah,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “Didn’t feel as important.” his words made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain. You just moved a little closer, your fingers pressing slightly more into him.

His metal fingers were impossibly gentle as they traced the line of your jaw. The contrast of the cool metal against your warm skin made your breath hitch, a tiny sound that seemed to draw his eyes straight to your lips.

“Bucky,” you breathed.He leaned in, closing the final inch between you with a little hesitation. When his lips finally met yours, it was a slow collision. It was a desperate pouring out of everything he usually kept locked behind his ribs.

Your fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. He let out a ragged exhale against your mouth.His human hand come up to cup the back of your head. The kiss deepened. It tasted like coming home after a lifetime of running.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and uneven as his thumb gently wiped away a tear you hadn't even realized had slipped down your cheek.

You sat on your floor in an old sweater that smelled faintly like vanilla detergent, highlighter stains painted across your fingers like bruises. Your notes were everywhere — scattered open textbooks, half-empty coffee cups, desperate little reminders scribbled in the margins,like remember ATP — adenosine triphosphate.

You were drowning in mitochondria, cell division, Latin words that curled around your brain.

Right...brain! Cerebrum or whatever.

Your knee bounced anxiously while you reread the same paragraph for the fifth time, lips moving silently.“Ribosomes synthesize proteins…”

Nothing stayed inside your head.You groaned softly, letting your forehead fall against the edge of the mattress beside you.God, you were tired.

A soft knock echoed through the apartment, sudden enough to make you jolt upright.Your pen slipped from your fingers.

For a second, your heart kicked hard against your ribs. You stared at the door, breathing shallowly while the rain tapped against the windows.

Another knock came,but slower this time...and familiar.You frowned, brushing hair out of your face. “It’s open,” you called weakly.

The handle turned and then he stepped inside.Bucky Barnes — loverboy.Tall, broad, impossibly solid in the dim yellow light of your room. His dark red henley clung to his chest from the rain outside, hair damp around his face, metal hand catching the low glow of your desk lamp.God,you loved that henley.

His eyes moved over the disaster surrounding you — biology notes spread across the floor, empty coffee cups, your tense shoulders curled inward like you were trying to survive yourself.

“I should’ve never given you that spare key,you scared me.” you muttered, dropping your face into your hands dramatically.

Bucky closed the door behind him with a soft click.“Nah,” he said quietly, toeing off his boots. “Pretty sure you’d be dead by finals week without me.”

You peeked at him through your fingers.“I’m serious,” you groaned. “I think biology is actually trying to kill me.”

Bucky hummed sympathetically as he crossed the room. The floor creaked beneath his weight.“C’mere, sweetheart.”

Your cheek pressing into the damp cotton of his shirt. His heartbeat was slow and steady. Nothing like yours.

Bucky’s big hand moved up and down your back awkwardly, like he was trying to calm a frightened animal.“It’s just a test,” he murmured.

You pulled back immediately, staring at him in disbelief.“Just a test?” you repeated.Bucky blinked once. “...Yeah?”

A laugh escaped you.“James Buchanan Barnes,” you said slowly, “if I fail this exam, my GPA drops, my scholarship gets reviewed, my future dies, and I end up living in a shoebox apartment surviving on instant noodles.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.“You already survive on instant noodles.”

You gave him a look“Bucky.”

“Right. Sorry.”He tried again.“You’re smart,” he said carefully, like he was placing glass on a shelf. “Smarter than anyone I know.”

You groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “That doesn’t help either.”

“Right,” he muttered under his breath.The room fell quiet.Bucky looked genuinely distressed now, metal fingers flexing against his knee. You could practically see him trying to fight an invisible enemy and losing horribly because the enemy was your nervous breakdown over molecular biology.

Back in the forties, he probably could’ve fixed things with a cigarette, a kiss to the forehead, and stealing somebody’s car.But this?Biology finals at one-thirty in the morning?This was defeating him.

Bucky sighed, a deep rumble vibrating against his chest. His large, warm hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers gently kneading the tense muscles at the base of your skull.“That’s enough, sweetheart.Pack it up. Bedtime.”

“No, no, no,” you stammered, pulling your head away and immediately throwing yourself into a defensive position. You slid back down to the floor, grabbing your ATP flashcards with both hands like a shield. “I can’t sleep. If I sleep now, my brain will perform a factory reset. Have you heard of sleep-induced information purging? Because I just made it up, and it feels scientifically accurate.”

His eyes stayed serious. He dropped down onto the floor beside you, stretching his long legs out carefully between the minefield of open textbooks.“You didn’t make up a science rule, you just drank your body weight in espresso,” he pointed out, gesturing with his metal index finger toward the stack of empty mugs in the corner.

“Look at you. It’s past two in the morning. You don’t even know your own name right now, let alone the... what is this? What’s a mitochondria?”

“The powerhouse of the cell!” you blurted out instantly, sounding like a malfunctioning robot.

“See? You know it,” Bucky nodded, nudging his shoulder against yours. His damp hair smelled faintly of the rain outside, but his body was throwing off pure heat. “But if you don’t get at least a few hours of shut-eye, you’re gonna collapse right onto your exam paper tomorrow. Your head won’t be in the game. I know that look. Guys in the trenches used to get it right before—”

“Do not use trench warfare as a metaphor for my biology final, Barnes!” you groaned, burying your face back into your hands. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway. My brain is vibrating. If I close my eyes, I just see chromosomes pulling apart. I’m losing my mind.”

Bucky watched you quietly for a beat, his jaw shifting as he weighed his options. Then, without a single word of warning, he reached out, scooped his arms under your knees and back, and hoisted you right off the floor like you weighed absolutely nothing.“Bucky! What are you doing?! Put me down!”

“Rescue mission,” he muttered shortly. He turned and carried you the two short steps over to your bed, navigating the cluttered floor with terrifyingly perfect balance, making sure not to step on a single notebook.

He dropped you onto the mattress with a soft thud, but the second his hands left your waist, you were already scrambling backward. Your hands gripped the edge of the blanket, your eyes darting back toward the floor where your flashcards lay scattered.“Bucky, I’m serious, I need to look at meiosis one more time—”

“No, you don’t,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He didn’t follow you onto the bed right away. Instead, he stood at the edge, unlacing his damp boots and tossing them aside. When he looked up, his blue eyes were dark, fixed entirely on you. “I told you to rest. You’re not listening.”

“Because I can’t!” your voice cracked slightly, the sheer exhaustion and caffeine making you desperate. “My brain won’t turn off. I can’t just lie here and stare at the ceiling. I need to study, Bucky, please—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupted, and there was a new, low vibration in his tone that made the breath catch in your throat. He crawled onto the mattress, his large, heavy frame looming over yours until you were pressed back against your pillows. He trapped you between his arms, his metal hand resting flat against the mattress right next to your head, pulsing cold against the sheets while his human hand gently caught your chin. “I know you can’t turn your brain off. So I’m going to do it for you.”

You blinked up at him, your heart hammering for an entirely different reason now. “What?”

Bucky didn’t answer with words. He leaned down, his damp hair brushing against your cheek as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He pressed a warm, slow kiss right against your pulse point, inhaling the scent of your vanilla detergent and sweet sweat. A soft, involuntary shiver wrecked through your body, your hands automatically coming up to grip the fabric of his red henley.

“Bucky...” you breathed, but it lacked any of the protest from before.

“Shh,” he murmured against your skin, his thumb caressing your jawline. “Don’t think about the test. Don’t think about biology. Just focus on me.”His human hand slid down your neck, over your collarbone, and down to the hem of your oversized sweater. His touch was burning hot against your bare skin as he slowly slid the fabric up, his eyes never leaving yours.

Before you could even process the shift in the room's atmosphere, Bucky shifted his weight, sliding down your body. His large hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to the bed as he parted your legs, settling himself comfortably between them on his knees.

“Bucky, wait,” you gasped, your fingers knotting into the sheets. “The notes—”

“Forget the notes,” he whispered, his hot breath fanning across your inner thigh, making your toes curl instantly. His metal hand slid up to cup your hip, holding you perfectly still. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Just lay back and take it.”

The cool metal of his index finger brushed against your inner thigh, a stark, shocking contrast to the intense heat radiating from the rest of his body. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers tightening into the mattress as he aligned himself. Bucky didn't rush. He watched your face closely, his blue eyes dark and heavy with an intense, protective focus.

Slowly, deliberately, he worked his metal finger inside you.The sensation made you arch off the bed with a sharp gasp, your back curving as a wave of pure pleasure crashed through the exhaustion fogging your brain. The smooth, unyielding surface of his vibranium hand was completely different from anything else—perfectly sculpted, rhythmic, and incredibly precise.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, his low voice vibrating right through your skin. His human hand remained firmly anchored on your hip, heavy and warm, keeping you grounded while his metal finger slid deeper, finding a rhythm that made your head tilt back into the pillows.

"Bucky, oh god," you whined, your previous anxiety completely evaporating, replaced by the overwhelming feel of him.

He flexed his hand slightly, curling his finger inside you to hit a spot that made your breath catch entirely. Your hips hitched upward instinctively, seeking more of the sensation. A low, dark rumble of satisfaction approved from his chest.

“I told you,” he whispered, leaning up slightly so his warm breath fanned over your stomach, his damp hair framing his face like a shadow. “Just focus on me. Nothing else exists right now, sweetheart.”

He added a second finger, the intricate plates of his hand moving seamlessly together.You reached down blindly, your hands finding the thick muscles of his shoulders, clinging to his red henley like a lifeline as he began to move faster, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

The slick, friction-heated metal of his fingers slid deeper, and your walls tightened around him in a desperate, subconscious reflex. A dark groan tore from Bucky’s throat at the sensation, his broad shoulders tensing as he felt just how tightly you were gripping him.

“God, sweetheart” he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against yours, trapping you beneath his heavy warmth. “Look at you.Taking me so good,bet you could take my cock”

Your breath hitched at his words, the blunt weight of them hitting you harder than the pleasure rippling through your core. You looked up at him, eyes wide and heavy-lidded, your hands gripping the damp fabric of his henley even tighter. The sheer size of him looming over you—broad-shouldered, thick-chested, and completely overpowering—made the thought of it feel impossible.

“I can't,” you gasped out, your voice cracking slightly as your hips twitched against his hand. “Bucky, no... you're too big. I couldn't.”

“Is that right?” he murmured, his gravelly voice vibrating against your lips as he leaned down, hovering just inches from your face. “Too big for you, sweetheart?” You nodded frantically against the pillow, a soft whine escaping you as he hit that perfect spot again.

You nodded frantically against the pillow, a soft whine escaping you as he hit that perfect spot again.Bucky’s smirk widened, a wicked, knowing glint flashing in his dark blue eyes. He didn’t slow the relentless, perfect rhythm of his metal fingers, but he leaned in even closer, the heavy heat of his chest pressing flush against yours.

“Don't give me that,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, teasing purr that vibrated right through your collarbone. “I notice how you look at me. Especially lately, since I've grown more muscles. You look at me like you're drooling, sweetheart.”

The heat in the room felt stifling as a mix of embarrassment and realization washed over you. You tried to glance away, but the intensity of the moment held your attention, making it impossible to look anywhere else but into his eyes.

Gathering what little courage you had left, you looked up at him through your eyelashes. “Bucky?” you whispered, your voice trembling, smaller and more fragile than it had been all night.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he rumbled, his gaze locked onto yours.You bit your lower lip, shifting beneath his heavy weight.

“Can you... can you do something for me?” You hesitated, the next words catching in your throat before coming out very, very shyly. “Could you put your other hand on my neck?”

Bucky’s fingers stilled inside you for a fraction of a second, the sudden pause making your hips hitch in protest. His brow furrowed slightly, his blue eyes searching your face, dark and unreadable.

“Why's that?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, rough and careful all at once. “Why do you want my hand there?”

“Um... to...” You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, mortified but desperately craving it. “Just to apply pressure there. Please.”

The request hit him like a physical blow. You opened your eyes just in time to see the exact moment Bucky went completely feral.“Christ, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice entirely ruined.

In a flash of movement, his large flesh hand came up, his thick fingers wrapping completely around the front of your throat. He didn't squeeze to hurt, but the weight of his palm was heavy, instantly pinning you into the pillows. The sudden, intense pressure against your windpipe sent a shocking jolt of adrenaline straight to your core.

“You want me to choke you?” Bucky growled, leaning down until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath scorching hot. “You want to feel how heavy I am? You think you're too small for me, but you want my hand right here while I make you come?”

You let out a fractured, high-pitched whine, your hands flying up to grip his thick wrist. You weren't trying to pull his hand away from your throat; you were just trying to hold onto something stable while your entire world spun out of control. Your hips hitched upward instinctively, desperate for the friction, your inner muscles squeezing his fingers in tight, frantic pulses.

“Yeah, just like that. Squeeze me,” Bucky ordered, his thumb pressing firmly against your jawline to keep your head tilted back. His dark blue eyes burned down into yours, watching your pupils dilate, tracking every flush of color on your skin. “Take it all, sweetheart. Don't you dare close your eyes.”

The combination of the restricted breath, the heavy, dominant pressure on your neck, and the wicked speed of his hand was too much for your coffee-addled, exhausted brain to handle. The anxiety of your biology final was completely incinerated, replaced by a blinding, white-hot crest of pure pleasure.

Your back arched off the bed, a breathless, choked-off cry catching in your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. Your walls clamped down on his metal fingers in a violent, helpless rhythm, milking him for everything you were worth.

Bucky let out a low, victorious sound, keeping his hand firm on your neck for a few seconds longer, riding out the peak of your climax with you until your hips finally stopped trembling and slumped back into the sheets.Slowly he slid his fingers out of you, the sudden absence leaving you feeling completely breathless and empty.

He released the pressure on your throat, his large flesh hand immediately sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear of pure overstimulation from the corner of your eye.

“Good girl” he whispered, his voice softening, though his chest was still heaving from his own exertion. He crawled further up the bed, pulling your limp, shivering body straight against his chest, tucking your head securely under his chin. “Next time, you're gonna take all of me.”

The university, though, it felt like the next step,or at least it was the only place where people didn’t ask too many questions.Still, strange, wasn’t it? Him, a teacher? Bucky didn’t fully understand it himself.

He got a position in the history department, and if he had to choose, Modern Military History (20th–21st Century) was the only subject he could more or less speak about.Not from books or lectures, no, from somewhere else entirely.

Maybe that was the trouble all along. He didn't teach like the others, those petty and dull idiots.He didn’t care how well someone could memorize dates, and he was especially unimpressed by nicely worded but empty answers. His students quickly learned that you couldn’t “slide by” in his class.

You either knew the answer… or you were lost. And if you were lost? He knew it in a heartbeat.Most of them hated him, called him cruel, impossible, but it didn't sting. Truth was, he knew it too. He had become this bitter old soul. A grumpy old man.

At the university, Bucky Barnes’s name became a concept pretty quickly.Not in a good way.

Freshmen heard about him in their very first week. Not officially, of course. Information like that never made it into any syllabus or orientation guide. It was passed along in hallways.

“Don’t take Barnes’s class.”

And if you were foolish enough to ask why, you'd just get this hollow little laugh. The 'you poor thing, you'll understand soon enough' kind.

There were stories too.Small, half-true,half-exaggerated ones.That once he just stared at a student for minutes after an answer, without saying a word.That he sent someone out of class simply because they “weren’t mentally present.” That he never raised his voice, yet somehow it was worse than shouting.

It all began in a dreamy haze of coffee steam, where laughter intertwined with the faint glow of your phone screen, half-listening to your friends' chatter. And then someone dropped his name.

“Barnes.”

“Jesus, no.”The reaction was immediate

“Who the hell is Barnes?”Your heart fluttered, igniting curiosity.

For a moment there was silence, then your friend just shook her head.“Modern Military History. History department.And if you have a choice, don’t take him.”

For some reason, it drew you in, didn't scare you away. It was intriguing, like a mystery.Not that you needed it.Your International Relations degree already had plenty of courses,but it would look good. A slightly “harder” class. Something more than pure theory. Seemed like a good idea then.It didn’t last long.

After the first class, you knew you made a mistake, tragic mistake. It wasn't about not understanding; it was deeper. There were no easy answers,you could memorize. No safe feeling that if you studied enough, you’d be fine.

Bucky Barnes didn't teach like that; he asked questions,and when you answered, he didn’t tell you if you were right.

He just looked at you,judging you all silently.Like he was waiting for something you hadn’t even managed to put into words yet.

You're a good student. International Relations make sense—connections, analysis, all the right things to say. But this…this was different. Every answer felt incomplete. Wrong.

But it just… didn't work. And that was the real tragedy. You were lost.Your notes were filled with unanswered questions, lines underlined desperately. Things that would've been clear in another class, but here… it always felt like you were missing something.

When you got your first paper back, you already had a feeling.The red ink wasn’t excessive. It wasn’t covered in corrections, not every second line crossed out.Just a grade. And underneath a short note.“try harder”

It wasn't just one bad grade. The first felt like some warning.Something you’d fix later,find the right answers,read more.But then the second came, and the third... after that, who's counting? Your Pages were bleeding with red ink.But you knew, that your answers weren't a mess,that's what made it ache. It just wasn't enough for him.

You really tried, to see the world through his eyes. But the more you chased the answers,the deeper you fell.

Then came that paper in the hazy night, the same tired hope that maybe this time things would turn out a little brighter. But the grade, it was just the same as always. And the note at the end made you snap.

'You're still writing what you think I want, not what you really mean.This isn't high school. Effort doesn't buy you nothing here.'

Suddenly it wasn’t just that you weren’t doing well.It was that he could see it clearly,and he wasn’t helping you fix it.Just letting you run into the same wall again and again.

That night, you just sat there, lost in your notes and books like they could help you. But you weren't exactly reading,you just...well,stared.You closed the book, made up your mind. You were going to office hours.

...

The café was crowded, as it always was after classes.Somehow, you stumbled upon a table tucked away in the corner.Your cup sat half-empty in front of you, but you hadn’t even noticed how long you’d been stirring the same coffee.

“Okay,” Yelena finally spoke, watching you with narrowed eyes.“Something's off.”

“Nothing at all,” you whispered, a little too fast.

Natasha let out a quiet scoff over her mug.“That wasn’t ‘nothing’s wrong’ stirring,” she noted dryly. “That was ‘I’m about to do something stupid’ stirring.”

Wanda tilted her head, studying you carefully.“What happened?”

You hesitate, then let out a sigh. “Barnes.”

That was enough. A name like a curse.Yelena recoiled. “No.No, no, no.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you looked at her.

“Don't need to, sugarplum,”she murmured. “Anything with 'Barnes' in it is automatically a tragedy.”

Natasha set her mug down and looked at you.“What grade did you get?”

“That's beside the point—”

“How bad?”

You went quiet for a moment.“…it was more than one bad grade.”

Wanda’s expression tightened slightly.

“Okay,” she said softly. “And?”

You took a breath, like you were about to drown.“I'm going to his office hours.”

Yelena laughed. “This is a joke, right?”

“No.”

“Then it's even sadder.”

Natasha just stared. “Are you sure,you want this?”

“No,” you confessed.“But nothing is working out. No matter how hard I try. And…” you shrugged. “At least I'll find out what he wants.”

"Nothing," Yelena breathed, "That's the cruelty of it. He wants nothing, just stares until you see all your life's pretty little mistakes shimmering back at you."

Wanda spoke up softly, "Heard someone went to see him… came out more lost than before."

“Thanks, that’s very reassuring,” you muttered.

Natasha shook her head slowly "He doesn't play by the rules, sweetie."

You raised a brow, a flicker of skepticism. "This is a university. There must be rules."

Natasha’s gaze darkened for a moment.“Yeah,” she said quietly. “There should be.”

Yelena leaned in, "Don't let him pull you into that strange, wicked game of his, okay?"

“He won’t,” you said.

“Everyone says that.”

Wanda took a gentler approach.“If you go… just… don’t take what he says too personally,” she said softly. “He’s… different.”

"Yeah, I noticed."

Natasha sighed. "When are you going, love?"

"Tomorrow."

Yelena groaned, "Too late to stop you, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Shame."

For a moment, there was silence.The noise of the café buzzed dully around you, but at the table everything remained strangely tense.And you just stared into your cup.Because you had already decided.

When the time came standing in front of the door, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

The hallway was too quiet.Occasionally someone passed in the background, but the sounds were muted, like they didn’t quite belong here.

Your hand hovered over the doorknob, not quite daring to touch.This was foolish.Just a simple consultation.Nothing more.And yet…something held you back.Maybe all those stories you’d heard about him. Or the way he looked at you in class, like he knew exactly that you weren’t where you were supposed to be.

Or maybe it was simply the unknown,you had no idea what to expect.For a moment, the thought crossed your mind to just leave.To make excuses, to postpone until the next grade.

Then you sighed and pressed the handle down.The office was surprisingly neat. Not warm, not inviting, just… neat.Papers lined up on his desk with a soldier's precision, a few books stacked in the right place.

There were no personal items. No photos, no small details that might reveal anything about him.As if he didn’t really inhabit the space.

He was sitting behind the desk.He was studying a paper, pen in hand, as if he had completely forgotten that anyone might come in. Or as if he was deliberately letting you stand there like an idiot.

Then finally, he spoke up,his voice was like velvet."Close the door."

You obeyed on reflex, a puppet dancing to his tune.The click echoed too loudly in the silence. Only then did he lift his gaze.

And he looked at you, with the same knowing look as in class. Too goddamn sharp. He held it a moment too long, then laid the pen down."You wanted to see me."

No shit,Sherlock.You swallowed the first response that came to your mind and stepped closer. “Yes. About my… grades.”

His eyes drifted to the papers, like he already knew which ones you meant."I know," he breathed.

Of course, he did. He always did."Sit," he murmured, gesturing to a chair.You sat, maybe a little more stiffly than you would have liked. He leaned back in his chair, arms resting loosely on the desk, but his gaze never left you.

“My grades,” you sighed. “They’re not really… going well.”

“I noticed,” he replied dryly.

You were about to beat this man up.

“What don’t you understand?”

You blinked.“Well… all of it. I’m trying, but—”

“Specifically.”His voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped you.“Which part?”

For a moment, you searched for the words.“I don’t know what you expect.”

Bucky tensed, but he didn't say a thing.He just leaned in, pulled a page from the stack, and placed it on the desk.He pushed it toward you.It was your paper,covered in notes.

“Here,” he whispered, showing a paragraph. “What did you mean by this?”

You looked down at your words. It was familiar once, but now it just made you more confused.“That… intervention causes instability in the long term.”

“Yes, you wrote that down,” he crooned. “But what does that really mean?”

You looked up, searching his expression.“Well… that—”

“I’m not asking for the textbook definition.”

Your jaw tightened,like a piano wire about to snap.“Then what are you asking for?”

Bucky watched you, like he was deciding if this was worth the headache.Then he stood up,walked around the desk and stopped beside you.

Not too close, but just enough that you could feel his presence.He pointed at the paper.“If you want to do this, then do it properly. What does this paragraph mean?”

You took a breath.“Tension increases. Local forces… react, and—”

“How?”

You faltered for a moment.“Well… resistance, conflict—”

“That’s very general.”

Everything went silent after that.He didn’t move, just watched you,and you sat there, staring at your failures,feeling like you had to rethink everything from the beginning.

Bucky finally spoke.“It’s not that you don’t study.It’s that you don’t go deep enough.”

It was the truth, not a cruel lie and that's why it stung so much.“Okay,” you whispered finally, your voice strung tight. “And how do I dive deeper into this?”

Bucky stepped back to the desk.“Start by not speaking in generalities.” He picked up his pen.“Specific situation. Specific consequence.This isn’t an IR essay.”

He leaned over the paper, underlined a few words, then shifted it so you could see better.“If you write ‘instability,’ then break it down. Who reacts? How? What happens next? Don’t skip steps.”

You watched him as he spoke. He didn’t overexplain, didn’t try to phrase things nicely—he just went through the mistakes as if it were the most natural thing in the world. There was no impatience in him, but not much kindness either.

“Look,sir,I tried to be specific,” you said, a bit more defensive than you intended.

He cut you off, a smile playing on his lips, so calm it was unsettling.“It's not specific enough,” “This”—he tapped the page—“is an introduction. Not analysis.”

You bit your lip, gazing back at the page. He was right,it really did seem… empty. Like you had just circled around something without actually saying it.

Bucky went on,his voice was low.“It's not about pretty words.The goal is to understand what you’re talking about. If you understood it, you wouldn’t write it like this.”

"Then how, tell me?" you asked, more honestly than before.He looked at you, piercing, as if deciding whether you were just playing a part.

Then his gaze returned to the paper.“Pick a specific example. A situation. Say, an intervention. Describe what happened step by step. Who acted, who reacted, what the consequences were. Don’t skip anything.If you can do that, it’ll be enough.”

You listened, trying to catch his words. For the first time, it felt within reach, a glimmer of hope. It wasn't easy, no, but at least there was something to hold onto.

But your eyes wandered from the script,to him.How he sat there, a statue in the twilight, as if this whole performance meant nothing. No nerves, no masks, no desperate attempts to impress. Just a soldier, standing his post.

And the strangest thing of all was,how cold he was, not in a polite way,but in that closed off way.You were left wondering if he had always been like this, a ghost haunting his own life.Or if it was just…what the war had made him.

Everyone knew the legend, the stories whispered in the dead of night. The rumors, the headlines, the half-truths painting a portrait of the Winter Soldier;that past no one talked about openly, but everyone knew was there.Perhaps, that was the answer.

“Are you paying attention?” His voice pulled you back.

You looked up at him.“Yes.”

Bucky was staring right through you, the pen still poised like a weapon.He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if checking, then looked back down at the paper

The professor continued speaking as if nothing had happened.“You don’t need to write a novel.” he drawled, eyes skimming your notes.“It just needs to be precise. If you can’t lay it out properly within two pages, then you don’t actually understand it well enough.”

He tapped the paper once more with his pen, then set it aside.“Use your sources, but don’t hide behind them. That’s the other problem.”

You nodded, though by now you were only half paying attention to what he was saying. The other half of your focus had shifted—to him. It was hard not to. Up close, he was even more striking than in class.Not in some picture-perfect kinda way. His face, a sharper cut than most and his gaze carried a constant trace of fatigue, even as it stayed alert.

And then there was that beard of hid—salt and pepper, just enough to make it obvious he wasn’t your age. Not even close.That alone should have been enough to put a firm stop to any kind of interest, and yet…The lines visible beneath his shirt didn’t exactly help your situation at all.

You flinched slightly when he spoke again.“Will this work?”

You quickly looked back down at the paper.“Yes, I think so.I’ll rewrite it.”

“Good.”

Silence settled between you at his words.You were about to stand when he spoke again.“You’re not bad, by the way.”

You froze for half a second, then looked up at him.“Sorry?”

Bucky didn't meet your gaze at first, just turned a page in your notes.“Your thinking isn’t bad,” he added. “You just don’t use it.”

Gee thanks. This man really knew how to charm a woman,not that he was trying to. Still.. how do you reply to something like this? 'thanks,professor.That's really kind of you.'

“Thank you…” you said eventually, a little uncertain.

He just gave a small nod,as he chuckled.“Bring it back next week.”

That chuckle made your day,as you moved toward the door, you caught yourself almost looking back,but you didn’t.There was this strange tension still clinging to you in the hallway.

Your steps were automatic, but your thoughts were somewhere else entirely—back to that desk, the papers, the way he looked at you, the way he said, 'You're not bad'.

You couldn't decide if it helped at all, or if it just left you more lost than before.

...

Natasha, Wanda, and Yelena were already sitting at the café at the same table as last time.It was as if they always gravitated to the same spot whenever someone arrived with drama.

Yelena spotted you first. A smile barely gracing her lips. "Well?" she breathed, leaning back. "Was it survivable, or are we diving straight into the trauma now?"

Natasha didn’t even look up from her mug.“Judging by your silence, it wasn’t fun.”

You sat down among them, and for a moment, only the smell of coffee filled the space between you."It wasn't… bad," you sighed eventually.

Yelena laughed. "That's what you say when it was real bad, huh?"

“It’s not what I expected,” you continued. “He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t humiliate you. He just… looks at you. A lot.”

Yelena just snorted, like it was some tired old joke, replayed a hundred times in her mind. “Yeah, that’s what they call it at the university. The Bucky stare.”

You blinked, all innocent. "The… what, exactly?"

Natasha's lips curved into this faint smile.

“Don’t start,” Yelena said quickly, though she was already laughing. “Seriously. It’s a thing. If he looks at you like that, people either rewrite their entire assignment or suddenly discover a new life purpose.”

Natasha shrugged.“So,” she said, grinning, “did you also get hit with the ‘Bucky stare’?”

You went all quiet at the question, then just shrugged.“Well… yeah. Because I have to rewrite my essay.”

A second of silence followed,then Yelena burst out laughing— like that was the best punchline she’d heard all day.“Of course,” she said between laughs. “That is so typical.”

Natasha just smirked, shaking her head a little, like she couldn't decide whether to cry or laugh with you.

"That's not 'getting hit'," Yelena says, still grinning, "that's a diagnosis, baby."

Wanda laughed more quietly, mostly into her cup, but there was a warm, familiar softness at the corner of her eyes.And you just sat there among them, and for the first time that day, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Wanda tilted her head slightly.“And what did he say?”

You went quiet for a moment. The words still felt strange on your tongue.“He said I wasn't bad.”

Yelena almost choked on her coffee.“He said that?”

Silence drifted back,Natasha slowly placed her mug down."From him... that's practically a love letter."

Your breath hitched at her words.A sudden warmth crept up your neck, painting your cheeks in a rosy hue. Did you just blush because of that grumpy old man?

"It wasn't sweet," you snapped back. "It was more like he was stating a fact."

Wanda smiled faintly.“That might actually sound worse than Yelena’s version.”

Yelena leaned back in her chair. “And what the hell do you even want from this man?”

Breath caught in your throat.Oh,you had ideas,a lot...“I just… want to understand,” you said quietly at last. “What he’s asking for. Because what I’m doing now—it’s not enough for him.”

Natasha's eyes narrowed just a touch. "And what if what he's asking for is just… impossible?"

You didn't say anything to that.You were determined to do the impossible.The noise of the café seeped back in between you—the clink of cups, the murmur of conversations, laughter somewhere in the background.

Wanda broke the silence. "What exactly did he say?"

You sighed.“He said not to write in generalities. To be specific. And that if I can’t explain it in two pages, then I don’t understand it.”

A ragged breath escaped your lips,“He said not to write in generalities. To be specific. And that if I can’t explain it in two pages, then I don’t understand it.Still… there’s some logic to it,” you said. “It’s like he actually wants me to think.”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She just watched you for a moment. Then, with slow, theatrical grace, she set her mug down.“Hmm.”

Yelena’s head snapped up immediately.“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

The redhead was still watching you.“Nothing,” she said, her voice dripping with dangerous innocence. “Just interesting how much you’re trying to understand him.”

You frowned, feeling your heart beat a little faster against your ribs.“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Yelena cut in,a glamorous smirk spreading across her face. “It’s just that people usually aren’t this enthusiastic about someone tearing their essay apart.”

A faint smile appeared on Wanda’s lips too.“You do talk about him a bit more than about an average professor,” she noted gently

“I don’t,” you shot back too quickly, your voice betraying you.

Yelena laughed.“Oh, you do.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly, her red hair falling over her shoulder.“You’re saying things like ‘there’s logic in it,’ ‘he actually makes me think’…” she listed with cold, calm precision. “That’s already bordering on a secret fan club.”

“I’m not a fan of him,” you pressed your lips together, feeling the sudden rush of heat color your cheeks.

“Yet,” Yelena added immediately, her voice sweet as poison.

“Yelena,” Wanda said, though a soft laughter danced in her throat.You just looked down at the dark swirl of your coffee for a moment, as if that bitter black liquid held all the beauties of the world.

Yelena leaned forward, resting her elbows on the cold wooden table.“So it wasn’t just the ‘Bucky stare’ that caught you…”

You looked up, meeting her gaze.“Then what?”

Yelena’s smirk widened.“It was Bucky himself.”

“Nothing happened!” you shot back instantly.

“Yet,” Yelena repeated.And though you tried to hold your breath, to keep your composure, you felt the sudden, burning rush of fever color your cheeks.The worst part of it all…was that maybe, just a little, they were right.

The weekend slipped through your fingers almost without you noticing.On Friday night, your plans had been so sweet, so simple. You only wanted to "take a quick look" at the essay. Just open the screen, read the words, maybe rewrite a line or two.

But then, you got stuck.Suddenly, your notes were scattered across the wooden desk, heavy books left wide open everywhere, and the laptop screen cast a glow into the darkness. Beside you, the coffee had turned ice-cold hours ago, but you didn't even notice how many times you had refilled the porcelain cup.

With every single sentence you typed, his voice was there, echoing softly in the back of your mind.

“Don’t speak in generalities.”

“What exactly does this mean?”

“This is nothing but an introduction.”

God,you wanted to impress him.You rewrote the first paragraph.Then, you tore it apart and did it again.And then, one more time.Every word you chose felt too empty, too hollow.

You weren't just searching for what you were supposed to say; you were chasing after what it actually meant. Who reacts. How they fall. What happens when the damage is done. You built the thoughts step by step.And it began to take shape.It wasn't perfect but it wasn’t entirely foggy anymore.

On Sunday night, you leaned back in your chair, your eyes fixed on the glowing screen. The essay sat there waiting for you. It was shorter than the last draft.

Finally, with a soft click, you closed the laptop. A quiet sigh escaped your lips into the empty room.

The weekend died too quickly.By Monday morning, that familiar, heavy ache was already blooming in your chest. The essay lay hidden in the depths of your bag, feeling heavier than it ever should have. It was only a few pieces of paper.And yet... it meant everything. It meant him.

Time dragged its feet, moving in slow motion as the hour of your meeting crawled closer. The afternoon classes stretched out into an endless blur, the professors' words losing all meaning. You found yourself staring at the exact same line of text over and over again, your mind too haunted to understand a single word.

Then, suddenly, the world narrowed down. You were standing right in front of him.The same heavy wooden door. Only this time, you knew the danger that waited on the other side.You closed your eyes for a bittersweet second, letting a shaky breath escape your lips.

Your hand moved on its own, operating on pure instinct, but it froze for one fragile moment right on the brass doorknob.You’ve been in this room before.You survived it once.This is just another hour of your life. Get it together.

Finally, you turned the handle and stepped inside.The office was exactly as you had left it. It was orderly. Too orderly.And there he was,sitting behind the heavy desk, hunched over his papers like the rest of the universe didn't even exist.

Then, his voice broke the heavy silence.“Close the door.”

You shut the door behind you, and this time, the click of the lock sounded less like a trap or maybe you were just getting used to the cage.

His gaze found yours in a fraction of a second.“Did you rewrite it?”

Right, straight to the point.You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reached into your bag for the paper.

“Yes.” You held it out to him. For less than a heartbeat, the tips of your fingers brushed against his skin. It was barely a touch, nothing more, but the sudden heat of it rushed through your veins like a drug.He took it from your hand immediately.

You sat down in the leather chair before he could even tell you to. You knew the rhythm of his game by now.He scanned the first page. His eyes movedp across your lines, pausing only once or twice at certain words.He didn't say a word.Without even realizing it, your hands tightly clasped together in your lap.

After what felt like an eternity, he turned the page.Finally, he rested the paper onto the dark wood of the desk.

“This is actually something,” he said at last.There was no praise in his voice. It was just a cold, hard fact.

A tiny, hidden breath escaped your lips—you hadn't even realized you'd been holding it inside, suffocating in his presence.

"At least I can see you're trying to think now," he murmured.It was almost a compliment.

He tapped the paper with a slow, deliberate finger."This part right here," he said, pointing to a paragraph where the ink seemed to bleed into the margins. "It actually… means something."

He looked up, his eyes catching the fading light. A smile touched the corner of his lips."A dangerous development."

You blinked, caught in the sudden warmth of the room."Excuse me?"

He leaned back, untethered, looking for the first time like a man off the clock, a soldier putting down his armor in the dark."If you keep this up, I might actually be forced to give you a passing grade."

a second, the world stood perfectly still.Then, a laugh slipped from your chest. Did he just make a joke?

It caught him off guard.His brow arched, and a short, dry chuckle escaped him."Don't misunderstand," he added quickly, his voice dropping back into that familiar gravity. "It's still far from perfect."

"I figured," you said, the smile still lingering on your lips.The corner of his mouth twitched again. "But at least it doesn’t hurt to read anymore."

Huh."That’s progress," you shot back.

He looked up at you then, truly looked at you. For a fleeting second, it wasn't that sharp gaze he always wore. It was something else—something blue,nocturnal and soft.Oh,you were fucked.

"So… does this mean I'm not a completely hopeless case?" The question was half-joke, half-dark truth.

Bucky’s brow arched."I didn’t say that."

"Shame," you sighed. "I was just starting to believe it."

"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes drifting back down to the ink on the page. "You're growing.Talking back already."

"Just adapting," you shrugged, your voice dripping with sweet indifference. "Survival instinct."

He looked up again at that."Good," he said, his voice dropping an octave."That’s a useful skill."

Bucky leaned back over the desk and pulled the paper in front of him again.“This here,” he said, his pen cutting a definitive line underneath a sentence. “It’s still too general. If you write ‘escalation,’ then you have to show how it happens. Who moves first, who reacts, what the consequence is.”

He pushed the page slightly closer, a small gesture meant to invite you into his space. But you… you didn’t really see it.

Instinctively, you leaned forward, squinting at the black ink on the page.Bucky paused,the steady rhythm of his lecture just stopped. He looked at you, his gaze curious in the quiet, before he slowly tilted his head to the side.“What are you doing?” he murmured.

You looked up, caught off guard by the sudden stillness. “What?”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, but that strict, academic expression was completely gone.“You’re squinting.”

A second of pure silence hung between you. Then you exhaled, letting your shoulders drop as you gave up the act.“Yeah…” you shrugged, a tiny, helpless smile playing on your lips. “I can’t really see from here.”

Bucky laughed,It wasn't that restrained, quiet chuckle from before.It was a short, genuine laugh that completely broke through his usual seriousness. Hearing it made something untamed spark in your chest, and you laughed too.

“Are you serious?” he asked, the warmth of his smile still lingering.

“Completely,” you nodded. “I just need it… a bit closer.”

“Let’s start with you actually seeing what you’re doing wrong,” he murmured, his voice dropping low.

“That would help,” you muttered, the words disappearing into the space between you.

Paper in hand, he rose from his chair and walked around the desk.You instinctively straightened your posture as he drew near. He didn't rush, nor did he hesitate—he simply stepped into your space with an easy grace.

He placed the paper on the desk right in front of you, then leaned over you slightly, resting one hand on the edge of the page.“Can you see it now?” he murmured.

He was too close.He wasn't touching you, he hadn't even fully bent down over you—but his presence suddenly became overwhelmingly real. His scent, his voice, the calm.

“Yes,” you finally said, a second too late. “Yes, I can see it now.” you added.

“Great.”His voice drifted back to its usual quiet cool, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His finger slowly traced the lines of text.“Right here,” he pointed to a sentence. “This is almost good. But you’re still skipping a step.”

You nodded, though for a fleeting second, your mind was anywhere but on the words.“I understand,” you said softly.

He didn't speak for a moment, the silence stretching tight between you. Then, he leaned a fraction closer to point out another line.“And here, this is better,” he added. “Do you see the difference?”

This time, you actually looked at the paper, desperate for a distraction.“Yes…” you said slowly. “Here it’s actually broken down.”

“Exactly.”

You leaned in a little as well, just to take another look at the corrections. And somehow… it stayed that way.Your hands remained on the desk, not fully pulled back, because you were still pretending to read the fading ink on the paper. His hands were there too, anchoring the other side of the page.Too close.

His metal arm caught the pale light differently than anything else in the room. It looked colder. Foreign. A heavy relic from a different life. And yet… it felt completely natural on him.For a moment, neither of you moved.Then Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands.

He had only just noticed the dangerously small distance between your skin and his cold steel. A small tension crossed his face, a sudden fracture in his composure.“Sorry,”

Then he pulled his metal hand back slightly on the dark wood of the desk.“Sometimes… I forget,” he murmured.His voice was more rigid now, but it wasn't cold.

You glanced up at him.“It’s fine,” you said quickly, your voice barely a breath.For a heartbeat, he still didn’t look at you. He stared down at the desk, lost in some distant thought.

Then he finally raised his eyes.He looked...vulnerable in a way that made your heart skip.“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added.

You instinctively shook your head.“You didn’t.”

Silence settled over the room again. The paper stayed between you, but his hands no longer hovered quite as close.

“That’ll be enough for now,” Bucky said.

You nodded, fingers lingering on the edge of the mahogany desk.“Thank you,” you whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” he replied, not even looking up. “Work with it.”

You finally turned toward the door.“Bye,” you said, looking back over your shoulder.

“Bye,” he answered simply.

The heavy wood door clicked shut behind you. You started walking. One high heel clicking against the floor. Then another.

Panic crept into your mind.Your bag still held your notebook, your essay, your notes. Everything was fine.

Except one thing.You hadn’t agreed on the next time.He hadn’t given you a time. Hadn’t said whether you could come again. Hadn’t said “bring it back next week,” like before.

You stood there in the hallway, staring back at the door.Then you let out a slow breath.“Okay… what was that?” you whispered.

...

The music hit you first, even before the door.Inside, the place was dim, washed in flickering lights and a bass so loud it seemed designed to erase thought entirely. People blurred into each other in the space, glasses clinked, someone laughed too loudly somewhere behind you.

You just stood there in the doorway.“Okay,” Yelena’s voice dripped beside you, sharp as a switchblade. “Something is very wrong.”

Wanda observed you more carefully, sipping something dark, but she nodded too. “It shows on your face, darling.”

“What shows on my face?” you asked automatically, too quickly.

Yelena grinned. “That you either failed or fell in love.”

“Yelena! I'm not in love with him.”

Natasha glanced at you sideways. “So you failed?”

“I didn’t fail,” you said eventually, staring at your chipped fingernails.

“So what is it then?” Yelena commented, leaning against the seat.

You didn’t answer for a moment, watching the ice melt in someone else's abandoned drink.“The consultation… was weird.”

Wanda leaned forward slightly, her silver rings catching the blue light. “Weird how?”

You ran a hand through your hair, completely undone. “He was explaining something, pointing at the paper, and I couldn’t really see because I was squinting.”

“That already sounds bad,” Yelena muttered.

“And then he asked what I was doing, and I said I couldn’t see that far.”

Yelena burst out laughing, loud enough to wake the dead.“You what?”

“I couldn’t see!” you defended yourself, burying your face in your hands. “What was I supposed to say?”

“‘Excuse me, professor, I have a romantic proximity issue.Come closer.” Yelena joked.

“It wasn't even romantic!”

Natasha set her cup down with a soft click. “For now.”

“Natasha!”

Wanda tried to stay serious, but her eyes were glittering with amusement. “And… him?” she asked .

“He… laughed.”

That shifted the air at the table for a second. The teasing faded.Yelena slowed down, her glass stopping halfway to her lips. “Wait. He laughed?”

Natasha looked at you, her gaze turning serious. “That’s new.”

“He’s not as cold as everyone says.” you explained.

Yelena snorted. “Oh, he’s cold. Just in the ‘legend slowly warming up’ phase.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly. “So what now?”

You shrugged, the weight of the hallway returning to crush your chest. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if there will be a next time. He didn't say.”

Then Yelena leaned back, crossing her legs.“This man functions like a badly documented DLC.”

Natasha nodded slowly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You’re going back.”

It was the day of the essay submission in class.Nothing special had happened before it. Same room, same chairs, the same low rustling sound students always made when they tried to figure out how much they were supposed to fear this course.

You placed your paper on the desk with the others.Bucky walked down the row, collecting them one by one. He didn’t say much—just the occasional nod, a brief glance at each submission.

When he reached yours,h took it, skimmed it, then placed it in front of him like all the rest.After a few minutes of silence, he continued the lecture.

At the end, he told you that this is better.The class slowly ended, students started packing up, chairs scraped, conversations began to form.

You gathered your things too.And, completely irrationally, it suddenly hit you. You expected more.All that effort, all that overthinking—just this?

Sure it was a better grade and he gave you half a sentance.You should have moved on.As you stood up, the room gradually emptied around you.

Bucky was already turning his attention to the next stack of papers.And you walked out with that strange, hard-to-name feeling that something you had treated as important had suddenly become… ordinary.

The hallway was already half full by the time you stepped out of the classroom—familiar voices, laughter, hurried footsteps blending into a kind of restless background noise as everyone rushed to their next class or made their escape home.

“So?” Yelena was on you immediately, like she’d been waiting there the whole time. “Did you survive?”

You stopped in front of them for a moment before answering.“It was better,” you said finally.“I got a better grade.”

Yelena let out a short, satisfied huff.“Finally. That means we’re celebrating.”

“That’s good,” Natasha nodded. “Told you he wouldn’t destroy you.”

But Wanda didn’t look away.“And?”

You hesitated, then shrugged lightly.“That’s it.”

A brief silence settled between you.Yelena narrowed her eyes.“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”

You exhaled.“He took it, looked it over, said it was better… and that was it.”

Natasha tilted her head, watching you more closely now.“You don’t seem very happy about that.”

“But that was the goal, wasn’t it?” you said, trying for something casual. “A better grade.”

“Sure,” Yelena replied dryly. “And yet you look like you just got fired.”

“I didn’t get fired!”

“Then what?”

You didn’t answer right away.The hallway felt louder than before.“I don’t know,” you admitted after a moment. “It’s just…”

You glanced down, then back up, your voice softer this time.“It’s just… weird. There was always something before. Now it’s just… over.”

Natasha’s lips curved into a faint smile.“Then go back to office hours.”

You looked at her.“I don't know how...”

“Ask something.”

You sighed, shaking your head.“That’s not how it works.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow.“Oh, it absolutely is.”

After a brief pause, Natasha pushed herself off the wall.“Come on,” she said. “Before you change your mind.” And without really thinking about it, you fell into step beside them.

Yelena watched you intently, her eyes lit up with absolute mischief.“Okay. Then we fix it,” she declared with unwavering confidence.

“Fix what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at her with instant suspicion, fully aware that her version of 'fixing' usually involved property damage or psychological warfare.

“You,” she shot back without a single second of hesitation.“Obviously. Because right now, you are a complete mess.”

Natasha was already rubbing her temples as if physically bracing herself for the incoming disaster.“This is going to be bad. I can already feel the headache this is going to cause all of us.”

“No, this is going to be brilliant—actually, scratch that, it's going to be a masterpiece of modern strategy,” she corrected.

“Listen to me. If you’re this tragically affected by your professor—”

“I’m not affected!” you interjected, your face flushed with a violent crimson as you tried, and failed, to defend your dignity.

“—then it’s time to completely abandon whatever useless defense mechanism you're running and radically change strategy,” Yelena continued.

Wanda let out a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling as she watched the chaotic dynamic unfold.“I have to admit, I’m genuinely curious to hear what you've come up with.”

“Option one,” Yelena announced proudly, raising a single finger into the air. “You write a catastrophically bad essay.”

You made a sharp noise of protest immediately, your jaw dropping in sheer academic horror.“No! Absolutely not!”

“Yes!” she shot back, as if ruining your academic standing was a perfectly reasonable sacrifice. “Just bad enough that he has no choice but to call you back for another one-on-one consultation.”

Natasha slowly shook her head, looking at Yelena with a mixture of disbelief and mild impression.“That might genuinely be the single worst piece of advice I have ever heard in my entire life.”

“Thank you,” Yelena nodded graciously, accepting the criticism as a high compliment. “But don't clap yet, because there’s more.”

“I’m deeply, deeply scared of whatever else is in your head,” you muttered.

“Option two: you march right up to his desk, look him dead in the eye, and say, ‘I strongly disagree with your evaluation of my work.’”

“But I agree with it! He was completely right!” you stared at her in total disbelief, wondering if she had lost her mind.

“A minor detail, completely irrelevant to the grand scheme,” she waved it off with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “The actual grade doesn't matter. The point is the tension. The point is starting the conversation.”

Wanda was smiling, resting her chin on her hand as she leaned forward.“Okay, I’ll give you that one. That’s definitely more of an excuse to get him alone than the first option.”

“Exactly!” Yelena nodded rapidly, pointing at Wanda with an air of immense satisfaction. “Finally! Someone in this room actually gets the vision.”

Natasha turned her attention away from Yelena and looked down at you.“Or...you could just do what a normal student does and ask him a genuine question about the next lecture topic.”

“That’s too normal, Natasha,” Yelena complained, frowning deeply and crossing her arms. “Where is the flavor? Where is the drama in just being a regular student?”

“None of these options are normal. You people have a distorted view of reality.”

“You’re not normal either right now,” Yelena shot back. “Look at what you’re stressing over.”

Wanda stepped a bit closer to you.“You don’t have to go in there and ‘seduce’ him,” she said gently. “Just… find a simple, human reason to talk to him.”

Natasha nodded encouragingly.“And you can do that. You’re smart, you're capable, and you don't need a crazy scheme.”

Yelena crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a stubborn pout forming on her lips.“But if you do choose option one, you have to tell me first. Because I want to see the look on his face when he reads it.”

“I’m not doing that!” you laughed, finally breaking under the weight of their absurdity.

Yelena grinned at you, her mischievous energy returning in full force as she leaned in closer.“So… now that we've established your lack of options, when exactly are you going back to his office?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt.“I’m not going back. The case is closed. I am a ghost to him.”

“Of course you’re not,” Yelena said, her voice dripping with an overwhelming amount of sarcasm.

...

You absolutely didn't mean it seriously.You truly didn’t think you were capable of such reckless stupidity.When Yelena had first loudly blurted out that insane proposition, you had just rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt, dismissing it as classic Belova chaos.

And yet…here you were, hours later in the suffocating silence of your own room, sitting frozen at your wooden desk, staring blankly at your half-finished essay under the harsh glow of your desk lamp, deliberately crossing out a structured sentence just to painstakingly replace it with something weaker and agonizingly generic.

Your hand hovered, trembling slightly, as the ink tip of your pen paused just a millimeter above the ruined page.

“This is absolutely ridiculous, you have officially lost your mind,” you muttered under your breath, you kept going, dragging the pen across the paper.You didn't ruin the piece completely; you couldn't bring yourself to do something that devastating to your academic pride. It wasn't an aggressively bad essay, or filled with obvious errors. It was just… disappointing.

When you finally leaned back in your chair to review the finished product, a deeply unsettling sensation crept over you.

Once class began, you went through the familiar routine of handing in the assignments along with everyone else. However, you held onto your specific papers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before placing them onto the growing stack, almost as if you were desperately hoping you could still reclaim them.

Of course, you couldn’t turn back now.Bucky moved methodically down the rows of desks, collecting the pages one by one with an practiced efficiency. When he finally reached your seat, he took your essay in the exact same casual manner as he had taken all the others, offering absolutely no outward reaction.

It was entirely expected, after all, because there was no logical reason for him to behave any differently.He returned to his desk, sat down, and immediately began reading through the submissions.

The entire room fell into a heavy silence, which was punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic rustling of turning paper. During this time, you found yourself paying far too much attention to his every movement, analyzing his posture with an intense focus.

The exact moment he reached your essay, you caught the subtle shift in his demeanor. It was visible in the sudden stillness of his posture as he paused mid-action—not in an obvious way that anyone else in the room would ever detect, but you knew his habits well enough to notice.

He remained focused on your page for a moment significantly longer than necessary, then deliberately flipped back to the previous section to read it once more.Your stomach instantly dropped with anxiety because you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had noticed the change.

Even so, he didn’t cast a single glance in your direction or utter a word of disapproval; he simply placed your paper down with the rest of the completed stack and moved on to the next task. Somehow, that complete lack of an immediate confrontation felt infinitely worse than an angry outburst.

He finally stood up to address the room again.“Most of the essays you submitted today… were perfectly fine,” he stated calmly. “A few of them were actually particularly good.And one or two represented a distinct step backward.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest, and though he still didn’t look directly at you, you knew with absolute certainty that he was referring to your work.For the very first time since the critique began, he lifted his gaze from the desk, and this time he looked straight at you.

The contact didn’t last long, but it lingered just long enough to deliver an unmistakable message.“We will be talking about this after class,” he said simply.His voice remained incredibly calm and suddenly, you weren’t nearly as confident as you had been before that this entire scheme had been a good idea.

The class went on as if nothing had happened.Bucky explained with the same calm, precise rhythm as always—concepts, examples, questions—everything in its place, everything logical, everything easy to follow.And you… tried to pay attention.You really did.

But your thoughts kept slipping back to the exact same two statements: “A step back” and “We’ll talk about it.” Great, this was a disaster.

Every now and then, you glanced up at him, almost without realizing it.He, on the other hand, didn’t look at you once.As if he had already forgotten the whole thing.

The class slowly drifted toward its inevitable end. Pens slowed down, note-taking completely faded away, and students started shifting impatiently in their seats while bags quietly zipped shut around you. It was that familiar, restless atmosphere when everyone knows the lesson is almost over.

But you didn’t move from your spot. You didn’t pack your things. You just sat there in silence—and waited. You knew exactly that you weren’t going to just walk out of the room with the others.

Bucky closed his notebook and let his gaze sweep across the room for a brief moment.“That’s all for today,” he said clearly.

Chairs moved immediately, casual conversations sparked up, and life seemed to rush back into the room all at once. You stayed exactly where you were. You watched as people slowly filtered out, noticing how the room grew emptier with every passing second.

You didn't rush to move, because you didn’t want it to look like you were staying on purpose—even though it was entirely obvious.Within minutes, only a few of you remained in the classroom. Then there were fewer. Until finally, the last door closed, and it was just you and him.Bucky calmly sorted through the papers on his desk, acting as if your presence didn’t matter to him at all. But he didn’t send you away, and he didn’t look up immediately either. You stood up, then walked over to his desk, taking it step by step, and finally stopped right in front of him.

His steady gaze landed on you immediately, heavy with expectation.“What happened?” he asked.

There was no preamble. He didn't bother with any polite small talk. You held his sharp gaze for half a second before looking away.

You shrugged your shoulders.“I don’t know…” you said, speaking a little too quickly to sound natural. “I just had a lot of other things to do.”

Bucky’s calm expression didn’t change at all.“Did you,” he replied flatly.

“Well… yeah, actually. I’m not even a history major. I just took this class as an elective...”

Even as you said it, you could tell it didn’t sound right, and the words seemed to hang heavily between you.

Bucky’s expression tightened slightly.“I see,” he said, and his voice had gone noticeably colder.“Then was it a conscious decision?” he asked.

“What?” you breathed, the word slipping out before you could stop it.Now he was looking directly at you, his piercing gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“To put less effort into your work.” There was no accusation in his voice, no anger behind his words. And somehow, that complete lack of emotion made it feel infinitely worse than if he had yelled.

“No…” you said, shaking your head slightly as you tried to find your footing. “I just—”

“Because if it was a conscious choice,” he cut in calmly, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered, “then we can stop this right here. You can simply drop the course.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said finally, your voice dropping much quieter than it had been before.

Bucky didn’t move an inch, his posture remaining perfectly still and composed.Somehow, that calm, expectant silence was far worse than any angry outburst or harsh reprimand he could have given you.

You let out a long, shaky breath and shook your head slightly.“That… sounded incredibly stupid,” you added, looking down for a brief second. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t soften his features or offer an easy smile of forgiveness.But that earlier sharp, biting coldness in his demeanor seemed to dull—just a tiny fraction.

“I know this history class isn’t my major,” you continued.“I just… completely failed to manage my time properly this time around.”

Lie,lie,lie.You just wanted drama and mostly his attention.Did you regret it? Well...yeah. Will you probably get more office hours? Yeah!

Bucky remained completely silent for a long moment, letting the heavy quiet stretch out between you.After a tense silence, he finally offered a slow, barely perceptible nod of his head.“Alright,” he said

“Then you’ll fix this,” he stated, his voice flat. It wasn’t a question, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. “Same topic,” he added, his voice cutting through the silence. “But this time—be specific.And you bring it back.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the sudden dryness in your throat. “I will,”

Then, after what felt like an eternity, his rigid shoulders relaxed and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval.“Good,don’t be late.”

You nodded in understanding, the movement simple and deliberate.“I won’t,” you replied softly.

“Alright,” he murmured.That was all there was to it.He didn't say another single word to you.

You were the one who made the first move to break the stillness.You gathered your scattered notes from the table, moving perhaps a little too quickly, just to give your trembling hands something to focus on.

You didn't stop moving or hesitate until you finally reached the safety of the door.Your hand was already resting on the cold metal handle.You could have turned around and said something more to him.But you chose not to.Instead, you pressed the handle down and stepped out into the brightly lit hallway.

The background noise of the building returned to you instantly — distant conversations, heavy footsteps, and someone laughing somewhere down the hall.

...

The weeks that followed, darling, they just kinda dissolved like a memory. One revision turned into endless nights.Just one more question, one more glance… always a reason to drift back.

A reference, a forgotten word, something never fully clear. All accidental, of course. Your talks turned less formal, less… armored.Bucky, he didn't soften, no,but… the rhythm changed.

Fewer explanations, more of that sweet silence. And those silences, strangely, they didn't sting. They just lingered. And in the glow of it all,you started to notice things about him.

Things you shouldn't have noticed. The first was how he remembered small details. Not grand gestures, not prying questions. “You're squinting again,” he'd say.

You'd fire back, "I'm not squinting," before even looking up.

“You are.” And he'd be there, standing over the pages, pointing with his pen. “You can't see,”

Coffee.

You realized it after the third or fourth time you stayed longer than you were supposed to. He always had one on the desk, usually already half gone by the time you sat down. Black,no sugar,no milk. And always cold by the end of the consultation, because he never drank it while talking.He’d take a sip only after you left, if at all.

You also started picking up on his timing.He always arrived before everyone else.The first time you got there ahead of schedule, you expected an empty room. Instead, he was already there, papers laid out, everything in place, like he’d been there for a while.He didn’t look surprised to see you.Just nodded once and continued like it made no difference.

Another thing was that he didn’t repeat himself.If he explained something once, that was it. If you didn’t get it, he wouldn’t rephrase it right away — he’d wait. Give you space to figure it out, like he expected you to.

There were other things too.Like how he never checked his phone.Or how he always remembered exactly where you left off last time, without asking.Or how his voice dropped slightly when he was explaining something more complicated, like he expected you to follow even. if he made it harder.

Or that you loved his hands.There was one time when you both reached for the same page.It wasn’t dramatic,your fingers just barely touched, nothing more than a second, maybe less.But neither of you pulled back immediately.And the thing you loved most? That his hands felt warm.

After that, you started noticing the way he said your name.He didn’t use it often,most of the time it was impersonal, efficient. But occasionally, when he wanted your attention immediately, he’d say your name first.

When you looked up, sometimes you’d find that he wasn’t looking at the paper anymore, but at you, just for a brief moment before his attention shifted back as if nothing had happened, returning to that same controlled, neutral focus like it hadn’t meant anything at all — like none of it had, even if you couldn’t quite convince yourself of that anymore.

As the weeks went on, one thing became increasingly obvious to him,you were there too often.Sometimes it was a question about the assignment. Sometimes it was something you “just wanted to quickly check.” Sometimes there wasn’t really a reason at all, not one you could clearly explain even to yourself.

Bucky never commented on it,he never said it was too much. Never told you to stop coming,never treated it like something that needed to be corrected.Truth was — he enjoyed you,so he simply allowed it to happen.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, something else stayed with him.That one essay.The bad one.As if someone had pulled back on purpose.Just enough to be incorrect, but not enough to fail.Just enough to create a reason to come back.

Bucky didn’t ask about it,didn’t bring it up.But now, with you appearing in his office again and again over the following weeks, something about it settled differently in his mind.

It hadn’t been a mistake.And it hadn’t been about the essay.It had been about him,but he didn't comment on it. Because he had no idea what to say, but also there was no reason for him to make you leave.

Bucky didn’t check the clock,he didn’t need to. He already knew when you were supposed to be there.

The papers lay neatly arranged in front of him on the desk, the pen in its usual place. Everything exactly where it belonged.He was waiting for you.

His eyes shifted to the door just before the knock came.“Come in,” he said.

The door opened and you stepped inside.He looked at you briefly.“You’re late.”

You set your bag down.“Not really,” you said, calmer than you should.No further explanation followed,you didn’t offer one.

He gave a small nod.“Show me.” he reached for your papers, but didn’t look down at them yet.

Barnes read through the essay, this time moving much slower than usual. It was not because he was actively looking for mistakes in the text; it felt more like he was carefully weighing every single sentence individually in his mind. He liked what you had to say.

You did not speak in the meantime—in fact, you did not even dare to breathe too loudly. You just sat there, completely still.

When he finally set the paper down, he did not speak right away. Instead, he placed the pen on the desk with calculated precision. Only then did he look up to meet your eyes.“This is good.Very good.”

Huh. That was new.

You could instantly feel your face betraying your relief, the corner of your mouth lifting. It was not a full smile. In that moment, you felt exactly like a dog that had been trying its hardest to behave all day and finally received a well-deserved pat on the head.

The corner of his mouth moved, just barely, creating a faint, almost imperceptible curve. Of course, you noticed it immediately.

“Was that… a smile?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

“No,” he said. The reply was simple, completely automatic, and devoid of any emotion.

Your smile only grew wider at his stubbornness. “Yes it was.”

“It wasn’t,” he repeated, maintaining the exact same even tone, refusing to give you an inch.

Sensing his defensive walls going up, you leaned forward slightly over the desk, invading his space just enough to tease him. “I think it was.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice flat.

“Do you always say that with this much confidence?” you asked, though your eyes never wavered from his face.

“When I’m right, yes,” he replied, his tone steady, matching the unwavering intensity of his stare.

The corner of your mouth twitched, fighting back an amused grin.“And when you’re not?”

“Then I don’t usually say it out loud,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled a little, the tension in your shoulders relaxing just a fraction.“That’s pretty honest.”

“I don’t play games,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost like a warning.

Was he...flirting with you? Or are just delusional?

You tilted your head slightly to the side, studying the rigid line of his jaw. “No?”

“No,but you do,” he said calmly, though the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his composure.

You didn’t move for a long moment, freezing in place as the weight of his words sank in.Then, deliberately breaking the distance, you leaned forward slightly across the wooden desk. “I’m not playing,” you said, looking straight into his eyes. “I’m just noticing things and acting on them”

His eyes blinked a fraction slower, getting darker, and entirely focused on your lips before snapping back to your eyes. “Like what?”

This time, you didn’t blink, holding his gaze with absolute certainty.“That sometimes you look at me for too long when you think I don’t notice.”

Bucky didn’t move a single muscle after that, barely even breathing.“That’s not a correct conclusion,” he said at last, the words dragging out of him.

You smiled, a slow, knowing expression spreading across your face.“I didn’t say it was correct.I just said I noticed.”

“You should go,” he said.His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of any anger or panic.

“I should,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, yet steady enough to fill the quiet space between you. “But I’m not going to.”

Bucky didn’t just move; he snapped. The carefully constructed wall of military discipline he spent decades building vanished in a single, breathless second.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up, pushing his chair back so hard it screeched against the floorboards. He leaned over the desk, invading your space entirely, forcing you to look up at him.

Before you could even register what was happening. His fingers wrapped firmly around your waist.“You think this is a joke? I told you to leave.”

You didn't pull away. Instead, your hands found their way up to his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart beneath.

You looked up, your eyes wide, meeting his dark gaze. You didn't say a word,you didn't need to. The defiance in your eyes was the only invitation he needed.

Bucky let out a ragged growl.Then, he closed the remaining distance.His lips crashed against yours with a desperate intensity that took your breath away. His hand at your waist tightened, lifting you slightly, pulling your body flush against his hard chest until there was absolutely no air left between you. His other hand flew up, his metal fingers surprisingly warm and unbelievably careful as they tangled into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.

The kiss wasn't gentle at all.It was a hungry release of weeks of unspoken tension, stolen glances, and agonizing restraint.

He tasted like mint and unfiltered hunger. Every swipe of his tongue, every desperate press of his lips felt like a man dying of thirst. He was consuming you, pouring all his unspoken words, his dark past, and his fierce devotion into the kiss.

Bucky didn't give you even a single second to catch your breath.Before the daze of the first kiss could clear from your mind, his metal hand slid from your hair down to your hip, while his flesh hand gripped your thigh. With a single, effortless surge of super-soldier strength, he lifted you up.A sharp gasp left your throat as he swiped his arm across the desk, carelessly sending the neatly stacked essays and pens flying onto the floor. The papers scattered like confetti in the quiet room, but neither of you cared. He set you down on the edge of the cleared wooden surface, stepping deeply between your thighs to lock you in place.

He crashed his lips back onto yours with double the intensity. It was a wild, bruising kiss that made your toes curl. Your hands scrambled up his shoulders, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair, pulling him closer, matching his frantic energy with your own.Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sound deep and vibrations rattling through his chest.

His hands grew bolder, sliding up under your shirt, his warm skin sending a shockwave of electricity through your spine. He pinned you against his body so tightly you could feel every muscle in his chest tightening, his breathing ragged and completely out of control.

He tore his mouth away from yours for a split second, only to bury his face into the crook of your neck. His hot breath brushed against your skin right before his teeth nipped playfully, then dangerously, at your pulse point. You threw your head back, a breathless sound escaping your lips, which only made him press himself even harder against you.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growled against your skin, his voice raw, completely undone by the smell and taste of you. “You know that?”

“Well,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire. “I think you’re finally losing it.”

Bucky didn't deny it. Instead, a low groan escaped his throat. “I lost it the moment you smiled at me,” he confessed against your throat, before his lips traveled down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

His metal hand shot up to the collar of his shirt, and with a single, impatient tug, the top buttons flew off, bouncing quietly onto the wooden floor. He ripped the fabric open, exposing the hard, scarred planes of his chest and the sharp line of his collarbone.Before you could even take in the sight of him, his flesh hand grabbed the hem of your shirt. His eyes locked onto yours, asking a silent, burning question. You answered by raising your arms, and in one swift motion, he lifted the shirt over your head and tossed it carelessly somewhere into the dark corner of the room.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his voice vibrating directly against your chest.

God,you loved it, when he bossed you around.He slid his hands down to the button of your jeans, his metal fingers surprisingly warm and precise as they made quick work of the denim. At the same time, his mouth slammed back onto yours, completely swallowing your gasp as he began to slide the fabric down your legs, lifting you slightly off the desk to completely strip away the final barrier between you.He looked at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your body with a raw, reverent intensity that made you flush from head to toe.“You're beautiful,” he breathed out, his voice so deep and raspy it sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine.

You leaned back slightly on your hands, arching your back and looking down at him with a hooded, playful gaze, trying to keep your composure despite your racing pulse.He reached down, his movements fast and impatient now, unbuckling his belt and shedding his own trousers in one smooth motion. The moment he stepped back between your thighs, completely unburdened by clothes, the heat radiating from him was intoxicating. He was all hard muscle, sharp angles, and beautiful, battle-worn skin.

He leaned forward, pressing his chest back against yours, his hands sliding under your thighs to lift them around his waist. You locked your legs securely behind his back, pulling him as close as physically possible.“Bucky,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, feeling the contrast between the warm, smooth skin of his right side and the cold, intricate seams of his metal shoulder.

He rocked his hips against yours in a soft, torturous preview of what was to come, making a desperate whimper escape your throat.“Say my name again,” he commanded against your mouth, his breathing completely ragged.

His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, holding you still so he could look directly into your eyes. “I want to hear it again.”You looked straight into those fierce blue eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire, tightening your grip on him. “Please.”

That was the final breaking point. His gaze darkened with pure, unfiltered possession. He shifted his grip on your hips, aligning himself, and with a deep, breathless groan, he pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, masterful stroke.

You let out a long, trembling exhale, your legs tightening around his waist as your body slowly adjusted to the overwhelming fullness of him.— “Bucky...” you whimpered, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, silently begging for movement.He lifted his head, looking down at you with a gaze so fiercely possessive it made your heart skip a beat.

“I’ve wanted this,” he confessed, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly whisper that vibrated straight through your bones. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Even now, with your legs wrapped tightly around his waist and your breath hitching with every micro-movement of his hips, you couldn't resist having the last word. “Why do you think I wrote that essay so horribly wrong?” you spat out, your voice laced with a bitter, provocative edge. “I wanted to see how long you’d play your stupid, perfect soldier routine before you finally snapped.”

“You think I didn’t notice that?” he murmured, his voice laced with a smug confidence.“You think this is a game?” he growled, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register. “You think you can just mess with my head for weeks, pull my strings, and then mock me for it?”

You gasped as he suddenly drove forward again, deeper and harder than before, as if punishing you for the confession.“You're so cockdrunk,it's pathetic.”

Before you could even answer, he suddenly stopped. With a sharp, ragged exhale, he pulled completely out of you.The sudden cold and loss of his warmth made you gasp, but you didn't even have a second to breathe. His metal hand grabbed your waist, and his flesh hand gripped your shoulder. With a single, brutal surge of super-soldier strength, he gripped your body and flipped you over on the desk.

Your stomach slammed down onto the cold wood, sending the remaining papers flying. He pinned your upper body down, lifting your hips high and leaving you completely exposed and helpless, facing away from him.

“You wanted the Winter Soldier?” Bucky whispered viciously against the back of your neck, his hot breath making your skin crawl. “Fine. You got him.”

The sharp, heavy crack of his flesh hand slamming against your bare skin echoed loudly through the quiet office. A shocked, high-pitched gasp tore from your throat, the stinging heat of the impact instantly blooming across your skin

“That’s for the weeks of playing games,” he muttered.SLAP.Another hard, punishing strike hit you, making your hips twitch reflexively. The pain was sharp, but the rush of adrenaline and the sheer humiliation of being completely his made your core ache with desire.

He didn't give you a single second to recover. He grabbed your hips with both hands, his grip tight enough to leave bruises, aligned himself, and drove himself back inside you from behind in one deep, brutal, uncompromising stroke.

A choked sob escaped your lips as he began to move with a relentless, punishing speed. It was raw, angry, and fast. The desk groaned violently under the impact of his heavy hits. There was absolutely no gentleness left—this was him taking what was his, breaking through your defiance and forcing you to submit to his strength.

You dug your fingernails into the wood of the desk, your head spinning from the sheer intensity of the friction and the stinging heat on your skin. You hated his control, but you were completely consumed by it, crying out as he pushed you harder and deeper than ever before.

“Look at the mess you made,” Bucky commanded, his voice tight and breathless as he slammed into you, his chest crashing heavily against your back.He reached forward, his metal fingers tangling into your hair and pulling your head back just enough to force you to see the ruined desk, the scattered papers, and the utter chaos you had triggered.

“This is what happens when you push me,” he gasped out, his breathing completely wild, his body running on pure, unfiltered adrenaline.The tension inside you snapped like a tight wire. Your body went rigid, your muscles clenching around him in a tight, desperate spasm as a violent, overwhelming release tore through you, leaving you completely breathless and sobbing into the wood.

seeing you break finally pushed Bucky over the edge. With a deep, guttural roar of pure frustration and surrender, he drove into you one last, devastating time. His whole body shook violently as his own explosive climax ripped through him, pinning you flat against the desk under his heavy, sweaty weight until neither of you could move.

For a long moment, he didn't move a single muscle. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breath scalding your damp skin. The anger in the air hadn't fully evaporated; it had just transformed into something thick, heavy, and intensely possessive.Slowly, deliberately, Bucky lifted his head.

His metal fingers, still tangled in your hair, tightened just enough to force your head back up, making you look at the mess of papers on the desk again. His blue eyes, dark and entirely unreadable, caught your reflection in the darkened window pane across the room.

“Say it,” Bucky growled softly against your skin, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle over your hip. “Say: Thank you, Sir.”