testthecows

Bucky remembers you fondly as Steve's kid sister, a little spitfire who hung fearlessly off the back of his bike growing up, all uncoordinated limbs and wild freckles and toothy smiles. When he and Steve went off to college, you were just starting high school, and the most he’s connected with you since has been through Facebook ‘happy birthday’ posts and the occasional Instagram comment. 

You were serious about your academics, about making something of yourself, which is what kept you away so long. A real smart cookie, he’d always called you. You'd graduated college in just three years, thanks to all your hard work. Internships and summer courses and work studies have stolen you away for so long that Bucky has nearly forgotten what your laugh sounds like. 

Until he hears it echoing off the trees outside, like a long-forgotten favorite song.

Bucky abandons Steve while he loads up the fridge with groceries (aka beer and liquor), and jogs out onto the front porch.

Coming down the dirt path is a small group of Steve's cousins, laughing boisterously, talking plans for the three weeks ahead at the cabin. A flash of hair catches Bucky's eye. You have an arm slung over your older cousin’s shoulders, laughing along with the rest.

Your smile is exactly the same, but it fits your face better now, Bucky notices. You look… grown up. The untamed spirit of your youth still lives in your eyes, but you’ve matured considerably elsewhere. 

He can’t help the way his eyes wander to your frayed jean shorts and the way they hug your hips, the expanse of thigh that lays below their ripped hemline. He tries to pulls his gaze away, but it lands on your freckled shoulders, your tank top, the neckline that slopes down to frame breasts that developed quite nicely while you’ve been away.

Bucky looks down at his feet, feeling like the world’s biggest creep.

Steve had made him promise years ago to never touch you. It was long enough ago that Bucky had never even thought he’d have to worry about keeping it. Bucky wouldn’t have dreamed of it — you were Steve's kid sister. You were never even on his radar in that way before.

Suffice to say, his radar is definitely picking you up now.

“Bucky!”

He glances up to see you running full tilt towards him, bounding up the steps with your smile overtaking your whole face. You crash into him, your arms looping around his neck in a tight embrace. Bucky stumbles back slightly from the force of it, and his hands find your waist to steady you as he huffs a laugh.

He breathes you in, sunscreen and clean sweat and something fruity that makes his mouth water. You give him a squeeze, holding on for a few beats before releasing him.

Your eyes still have that familiar, impish sparkle. “Hi.”

“Long time, no see,” he drawls, trying to keep his eyes where they won’t get him into trouble. It doesn't work.

A large hand claps him on the shoulder, startling Bucky. Steve shoves past him and sweeps you up into a hug, spinning you around in greeting while you squeal and laugh.

It only serves to remind him of his promise. Bucky sighs and rubs the back of his neck. It's gonna be a long couple of weeks.

You have been hopelessly in love with Bucky Barnes since you were nine years old. Since the time your cousin had wrestled you into the dirt and Bucky nearly put his lights out, then cleaned the scrape on your knee with great care.

He’d never noticed you that way, and you’d resigned yourself to that a long time ago. Mostly.

You threw yourself into your studies with zeal and occasionally entertained the idea of a boyfriend. They never lasted long — A, because they were a distraction, and B, because they weren’t Bucky Barnes. Not their fault, but not something you could tolerate, either.

But now, school is behind you. For now, at least. You had been toying with the idea of a masters, but right now the idea of more school makes you want to puke. You have three weeks ahead of you with no books, no plans, no demands or schedule.

Just your family and friends and Bucky.

The moment your eyes meet his on the front porch of the cabin, you can tell something has shifted.

His hands are warm on your waist even though your clothes, and the way he looks at you makes you preen a little with satisfaction. I'm a woman now, Bucky. Surprised?

He, on the other hand, hasn’t changed a bit. He still has that slightly grown in stubble and those infuriating muscles that he started sporting in high school, much to the chagrin of your raging hormones at the time. The only thing that is different about him is the glimmer of interest in his expression, interest that has never once been directed at you before.

Every time his eyes stray towards you that afternoon, it feels like glitter rushing through your veins, shimmering and hot. You feel it everywhere.

Once everyone is sufficiently unpacked, the group loads up a cooler of drinks and grabs their bikes. The plan being to head down to the pier and watch the sunset, as a reward for a long day of driving.

You hang off the back of Bucky's bike like you’ve done a thousand times before, your feet on the rear axel pegs, your hands on his shoulders. But this time, his shoulders flex lightly underneath your touch, his jaw ticks when you lean down to speak into his ear, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the road despite your attempts to distract him.

At the pier, the sun turns everything gold and red, slowly descending to kiss its reflection in the water. You glance at Bucky to find him already looking at you, and he quickly turns his head away, caught.

You grin and take a swig of your beer. This is going to be fun.

Bucky is being tested. He's sure of it.

That night, he stares at the ceiling in the top bunk until exhaustion pulls him under. He tries and fails to think of anything other than you. Those eyes. That mouth. Those thighs peeking out from those god-forsaken shorts. 

In the morning, he climbs down the ladder, creeps past Steve snoring softly on the bottom bunk, and out to the kitchen to start preparing breakfast for the group. He'd gotten the short straw last night, so no rest for the wicked.

The living room is littered with sleeping bodies. There's only so many beds in the cabin, and they were first come, first serve. Which had resulted in you and two of your female cousins crashing on a large air mattress in a tangle of limbs.

In the adjoining kitchen, Bucky earnestly tries to keep his eyes to himself. But you’re splayed out on the air mattress, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt that has ridden up your stomach and flimsy pajama shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.

When Bucky starts on the bacon and pancakes, the noise stirs you. You stretch, your t-shirt riding up even higher, letting out a soft little groan that doesn’t help his morning wood in the slightest. He fixes his attention on the pan and resolves to keep it there.

It wanders anyway. When it does, he finds you looking right back at him from where you lay on the mattress, watching him with interest and a little amusement. His first instinct is to immediately look away, the way he did yesterday. But he doesn’t want you to know how much you’ve rattled him, so he holds your gaze for a beat before returning his focus to flipping pancakes.

He thinks that’ll be the end of it, but of course it isn’t. Before long, you untangle yourself from your cousins, who groan in protest and roll over as you stand. Bucky can hear the sound of your bare feet padding across the wooden floor toward the kitchen.

“Morning,” you greet him in a slightly gravelly morning voice.

“Morning,” he replies casually.

“That smells so good.” You pluck a grape from the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter and pop it into your mouth. “I’m starving.”

A muscle ticks in Bucky's jaw. He's not sure what’s worse — if you’re unaware of the effect you’re having on him, or if you are aware, and doing it on purpose.

“It’ll be ready in a few,” he declares, pouring the last of the pancake batter into the pan. “So, you enjoying your freedom from school?”

“Definitely.” You hoist yourself up to sit on the counter, placing yourself very much in the way, but Bucky doesn’t have the heart to ask you to move. especially when the position grants him another tempting view of your thighs.

“You miss me?” you purr, playfully nudging his hip with your foot.

He doesn’t take the bait. Flipping pancakes is simple, so that’s what he does. “Of course I missed you. The place isn’t the same without you.”

You smile, and Bucky gets stuck on it momentarily. A moment passes, tense and delicious at the same time. You just watch him, content to wait, to sit in the tension winding tighter between you.

Bucky reaches up by your head, opening a cabinet and fetching a plate. His hip brushes the outside of your knee, and he doesn’t move away immediately.

“You planning on helping, or are you just gonna sit there staring?”

“I’m appreciating the view,” you counter, your eyes dragging over his frame as you steal another grape from the bowl.

A chuckle slips out of him at your boldness. “You're trouble, you know that?”

Your eyebrow ticks, a silent dare.

And then Steve stumbles in, bleary eyed, and the moment shatters.

“Please tell me there’s coffee,” Steve mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

As inconspicuously as possible, Bucky shifts a respectable distance away from you to plate the bacon and quietly clears his throat. “By the microwave,” he says.

Steve doesn’t appear to have noticed the atmosphere he walked into, but Bucky still scolds himself internally. You make it way too easy for him to forget where he is, forget his promises and responsibilities to his friend. Too easy to forget that he shouldn’t be looking at you like that in the first place.

He shoves all of it down and brings plates of breakfast out to the picnic tables outside, leaving you and your dangling legs and sharp eyes behind.

“Hey.”

Bucky's voice rings out from behind you, into the open air of the night. You turn to see him descending the cabin steps, towards where you’re sitting on top of a picnic table, your feet resting on the bench. 

You'd come out here to be alone, just to have a quiet moment, while the muffled sounds of laughter and celebration from the cabin underscore your solitude. But you find that you don’t mind having your solitude disrupted, if Bucky is the one to do it.

“What are you doing out here all alone?” he asks, circling the table to face you.

You glance up at the sky. “Too much light pollution at school to really see the stars. Thought I'd remind myself what they look like.”

It really is a sight to see. Swirls of stars glittering in the dark expanse, configurations and constellations you never get to see in the city. All around, crickets chirp and cicadas sing, a familiar song floating on the balmy summer air.

Bucky looks up right along with you, just as appreciatively. Even with several feet of space between you, you can feel that tension that’s been winding tighter ever since you arrived yesterday. You wonder why he came out here tonight. If he came to find you.

“I thought all you boys were playing beer pong,” you say with an arched brow.

Bucky smiles sheepishly, as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. From within his pockets, he produces a joint and a lighter. “I’m being selfish. Don't tell on me.”

“I can keep a secret,” you reply conspiratorially as you pat the space beside you on the picnic table. “C’mere.”

He hesitates, and you wait ever-patiently, watching him carefully as his brain wars with itself until he finally gives in. Keeping a careful distance — not too far to be cold, but not close enough to touch — he sits beside you and sparks up.

The cherry of the joint glows in the darkness as he takes a drag, and tendrils of smoke curl out from behind his lips when he exhales. Bucky looks briefly surprised when you reach for the joint, plucking it from his grasp to take a drag of your own.

Smoking isn’t new for you — you’ve indulged a handful of times at the handful of college parties you’d attended between school obligations. But seeing you smoke, smoking with you, is very new to Bucky. Hypnotized, he watches your lips as they wrap around the joint, where his mouth had just been. He only manages to break his gaze away when you breathe out and let the current of smoke escape.

He shakes his head in disbelief. “If Steve knew I was getting his little sister high, he’d beat my ass.”

Your older brother is the last subject you want to discuss right now. You pass the joint back to him, letting your hand linger just a little against his. “What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Following up on that comment feels a little too dangerous, and so the two of you sit in silence for a moment, passing the joint back and forth underneath the canopy of smoke and stars.

Before long, you start to feel it. That slight, pleasant heaviness in your limbs, that heightening of your senses. That warm, fuzzy feeling settling over your mind. The high is better here, in this place that has known you since you were a child, shared with someone you’re completely at ease with. You shift closer to him, your knee bumping his.

“This is nice,” you sigh.

“Yeah,” he agrees, something bittersweet in his tone. “Real nice.” 

“Just like old times.”

“I can think of a few things that are different,” he chuckles.

“Such as?” you ask, deftly snatching the joint back from him.

“You’ve grown up.” He looks at you pointedly as you take a long drag. “Quite a bit. It's kinda…complicating things for me.”

You hadn’t expected him to own up to it like that, this newfound attraction. You turn to him, passing back the joint, head tilted in curiosity. “Complicating things how?”

He fidgets with the joint between his fingers, as if he’s debating what to say or how to say it. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re warm and dark and full of want.

“Steve made me promise. That I wouldn't touch you. That I wouldn't even look at you that way.”

You hadn’t known about this, not really. But it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. Steve has always been protective of you, even when he didn’t have to be.

“What do you call how you’re looking at me now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Complicated.” 

His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. The night seems to fold around the two of you, heavy and hot and close.

You shift closer to him, your thigh now pressing against his.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Buck,” you murmur as you slowly lean into him. “I don’t need a big brother to protect me. I can make my own decisions.”

For a fleeting moment, you’re close enough to breathe the same air as Bucky, lips nearly brushing his. But then he pulls away, gets to his feet, runs a hand through his hair as he looks firmly at the ground.

“I can’t. I'm sorry.”

You don’t have the chance to say anything else, because he walks with quick strides up the cabin steps, disappearing through the screen door. The joint lays on the picnic table beside you, half-smoked and smoldering.

You sigh, frustrated, head in your hands.

Bucky should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it. Maybe if he had never said anything at all to you, it would have been easier. But now it’s out in the open, and you seem to be intent on torturing him.

It’s already difficult to avoid your presence, with everyone cramped into one cabin. Even still, you’re almost always in his orbit, your laughter in the air around him, your eyes occasionally finding his across bonfires and picnic tables. Then there’s the seemingly endless parade of tiny shorts and barely-there tops and strappy little sundresses. He's sure Steve will catch him staring at some point, because he just can’t seem to keep his gaze from wandering in your direction, snagging on whatever new inch of exposed skin he finds there.

At the end of each day, Bucky forces himself under the cold stream of the shower, shamefully stroking his cock as he tries in vain to think of anything other than your hands on his skin and the way you’d looked at him that night.

On the fourth day, the group heads down to the lake for a proper swim. Bucky finds himself woefully unprepared for the toll it takes on his sanity.

The trek down to the lake isn’t long, but with the noonday sun high in the sky, everyone is sweating by the time you arrive down at the dock. Clothes are eagerly shed in favor of sinking into the cool lake water. You waste no time, pulling your tank top overhead and wiggling out of your shorts.

It's not the first time Bucky has seen you in a bathing suit. But that was a different time, a different you. Gone are the sweet little one-piece swimsuits of your youth, replaced by a very enticing little bikini. Every curve of your body that the passage of time has wrought is on full display. Of course, you catch him staring, and you smile coyly before catapulting yourself off the end of the dock and into the water.

You resurface, laughing and gasping, as Bucky sets down the cooler and removes his shirt. He doesn’t have to look to know you’re watching, but he does anyway. He sees you floating on your back, observing him with a siren’s gaze.

Behind him, Steve smacks a mutual friend in the back of the head for staring at you. “That’s my sister, man,” he warns.

Bucky's chest tightens with lingering guilt, and he hopes against hope that the water will cool the afternoon off, so to speak.

Wishful thinking.

Everyone else whiles away the hours laughing and splashing and relaxing, while Bucky is wound tight as a spring. He watches as Steve hoists you onto his shoulders, watches you squeal in delight as he tosses you into the water, and remembers the times when things could be easy and fun with you, in that way. But he can’t seem to trust himself around you anymore. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, sick of himself.

He sits on the edge of the dock, feet dangling into the water, a beer in his hands that is rapidly turning tepid from the summer heat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots you hoisting yourself out of the water and onto the dock, lake water sluicing off your body. Bucky peels the label off the bottle and stares at the horizon while you dry yourself off.

A nudge at his shoulder grabs his attention. You’re standing over him, a bottle of sunscreen in your hand and a smirk on your lips.

“Could you get my back?”

Swallowing with difficulty, he looks back out towards the water where Steve and three other cabinmates are engaged in a game of chicken. He appears otherwise distracted, and it would be weirder of Bucky to refuse than just help you. It's an innocent enough activity, after all. Or it should be.

Bucky sighs and turns towards you, taking the bottle from your hands as you sit down in front of him.

You pull your damp hair over your shoulder and out of the way, glancing back at him. Bucky squeezes a dollop of sunscreen into his palm and begins to apply it to your shoulders. He works in silence and keeps his touch perfunctory, but he can’t help but note the warmth and softness of your skin.

His hands work lower and lower, until he has to slip his fingers beneath the strap of your swimsuit. He's a gentleman about it and doesn’t linger longer than he needs to, though he can feel a flush creeping into his face.

It’s so quiet for a moment that when you speak, it almost startles him. “Are you planning on ignoring me the whole rest of the trip?”

“I'm not ignoring you,” Bucky counters.

“Bucky.” You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder. “I've known you for, like, two thirds of my life. I can tell when you’re lying.”

Bucky sighs again as he finishes working the sunscreen into your lower back and lets his hands fall away. “What do you want me to do?”

You turn towards him. “I think you already know,” you reply smartly, with an arch of your brow.

“Jesus, I mean…” He rubs his temple, looking everywhere but at you. “I already told you why this can’t happen,” he says quietly.

You huff in annoyance and pick up the bottle of sunscreen off the dock. “Well, I think your little bro code is stupid.”

Bucky chuckles under his breath in spite of himself at your bluntness.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, you turn him until he’s facing away from you and begin to apply sunscreen to his back now, without having been asked. Bucky grows very still underneath your touch, trying desperately not to be affected by it. It's not really working.

“You made your little promise when I was… what, fourteen?” you continue. “We're both adults now.”

Bucky frowns. “Steve is my friend.”

“Steve is a big boy. He'll get over it.”

Bucky feels your hand run along his spine, nails dragging slightly, and he hates the way his cock stirs at the feeling.

“I’m not gonna touch you,” he says firmly. “Not like that.”

“You don’t want to?” You’re closer now, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your body inches from his back, your breath at his ear.

Bucky takes a deep, steadying breath. “It's not about what I want.”

Finally, your hands leave him, and Bucky doesn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed.

“Maybe it should be,” you muse softly, before getting to your feet and diving back into the water.

It's nearing the end of the first week. You've been so very, very patient. But you’re done waiting around for Bucky to stop torturing himself over nothing.

After dinner, everyone gathers around the bonfire to make s’mores for dessert. And you’re on a mission. 

You take up the seat directly across from him instead of next to him, where you know you’ll be right in his eyeline all night. And as soon as the marshmallows come out, you put on a show.

For Steve's sake, as well as your cousins, you keep it on the subtle side. You craft a s’more in a less-than-neat fashion, so naturally it makes a bit of a mess as you eat. And naturally, it leaves a few stray smears of chocolate and melted marshmallow on your fingers. And there’s no harm in licking away the evidence, not among friends and family. You're very thorough about it, not missing a single sticky morsel.

As you drag the pad of your thumb along the corner of your mouth and close your lips around it, you glance at Bucky across the fire pit.

Admittedly, he’s doing an admirable job of keeping it together in front of Steve, but the tell is in his eyes. They're hungry, and they don’t waver when they connect with yours. It almost makes you shiver, despite the balmy temperature, and it makes you press your thighs together on instinct.

Because you know you’ve got him — hook, line, and sinker.

Phase two begins. You announce to your cousin sitting next to you that you’re heading inside to wash your hands. You make meaningful eye contact with Bucky as you stand. You turn to walk up the front steps of the cabin, screen door swinging shut behind you.

And you wait, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

Bucky is going to hell. He's sure of it. His fate is sealed as soon as he walks up the front steps.

But he does anyway, two minutes after you left the bonfire. It's a small consolation that no one seems to notice when he slips away.

He closes the screen door quietly, aware that this is probably the point of no return, his last chance to turn around and preserve his friendship with Steve from unnecessary risk.

He doesn’t turn back.

Light glows from the crack underneath the bathroom door down the hall. Swallowing back his nerves, he raps his knuckles softly on the door.

The door swings open, revealing you, excitement and a hint of smugness glittering in your eyes. You reach for his hand and gently pull him through the doorframe, and he shuts it behind him.

His back meets the cool wood seconds after, and his lips meet yours in a tangle of heat and desperation. 

You still taste sweet from your little performance with the s’more, the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your skin. Bucky expects you to at least play at innocence first, but there is nothing innocent about this. It’s immediately filthy, your tongue in his mouth and your hands in his hair and your entire body pressed against his.

His hands find your hips, partly to steady himself and partly to bring you even closer. He tells himself that he’s going to stop, that he just needs a taste of you and then he can go back out there like nothing happened. But you moan softly against his mouth, and he can already feel himself getting addicted.

Bucky had already been half-hard at the bonfire, watching you suck your fingers clean right in front of everyone without an ounce of shame. Now, as your lips wander across his jaw and down his neck, as you subtly rock your hips against his thigh, it feels like all the blood is rushing out of his brain and straight to his cock. He’s harder than he’s been this entire trip so far, which is saying something, because he’s been very hard, very often.

You reach for the button and zipper on his pants, and it snaps Bucky back to reality for a split second. He still has a chance to stop, to be the good guy, to not let this go any further.

“Baby,” he pants. “I can’t—“

“You're not touching me.” Holding his gaze, you slip your hand past the waistband of his boxers and wrap your fingers around his cock. “I'm touching you. It's okay.”

It’s more following the letter than the spirit of the law. but when you stroke him, slow and firm from base to tip and back again, Bucky’s head thuds back against the wood of the door. He knows he’s not going to stop you. He's already going to hell, so he might as well enjoy the perks.

Once you’ve successfully freed him from the confines of his shorts, you sink to your knees in front of him. Bucky's eyes widen as he looks down at you. Fuck, he really is going to hell, because he’s about to let you do this. He’s about to let you suck his cock, all while your brother sits right outside the cabin, unaware.

Your hand slowly works him as you experimentally swirl your tongue around the tip, and Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. “Jesus, you’re—“

The words die on his lips as you lick a long stripe along the underside of him, stroking a particularly sensitive vein. He lets out a startled moan, his hand finding your hair of its own accord.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You don’t tease him for long. Perhaps you sense that he’s too worked up for that, or perhaps you know time is limited before someone comes looking for one of you. Soon enough, you take him fully into your mouth, sinking down slowly.

Bucky watches, hypnotized. “Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face so he can watch how his cock sinks into the wet heat of your mouth, how your perfect lips wrap around him like you were made to ruin him. “Gorgeous.”

You moan around him, the vibration traveling down his cock and settling into his bones. His abs twitch and his hand tightens in your hair, and Bucky can tell this is going to be a pathetic showing of his stamina. You've barely started, and already he’s starting to lose it.

Your head begins to bob, finding a rhythm as you work to take him further and further down your throat, applying the perfect amount of suction on the uptake. Bucky has to make a considerable effort to keep quiet, lest everyone outside hear exactly what the two of you are doing. 

Eventually, you take a long breath to prepare and take him so deep, your nose brushes the hair at the base of his cock. For a brief moment, Bucky wonders where you learned this, who you’d practiced on at school, and the thought turns him a little bit feral.

You stay where you are for a moment, your throat tensing and relaxing as you struggle to accommodate him. And all of a sudden, Bucky becomes a man possessed.

His other hand tangles into your hair alongside the first. his hips twitching with the effort of keeping still, and he begs in a wrecked voice, “Sweetheart, please, I need— I need to—“

Your hands slip to the backs of his thighs, squeezing lightly as you hum your encouragement.

With your permission granted, Bucky takes control. With his hands fisted in your hair, he fucks your face with with as much control as he can muster. He’s far gone, but not quite far enough where he can bear the idea of really hurting you.

You gaze up at him with hazy, dark eyes as you let him use you, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as he feeds his cock down your throat.

“That's it,” Bucky groans, low and filthy. “You take it so fuckin’ good.”

He starts to lose the fight for control, his thrusts becoming a little rougher, a little sloppier. Tears collect at the corners of those wide eyes, and he can feel and hear you gag around him.

“I know, honey, I’m sorry, I — I’m almost done,” he gasps, teetering on the edge, guilt and shame and arousal swirling in his gut. 

You gag again, and even though Bucky is seconds away from finishing, he loosens his grip on your head to give you room to pull away. He warns you in a strangled voice, “I’m gonna come, baby, fuck—“

Your grip tightens on the back of his thighs. Stubborn and determined in spite of your need for air, you take him down your throat again, eyes locked on his. Bucky shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle his groan as he comes down your throat, shuddering as he feels you gag and swallow around him. You take every single drop, only pulling off when there’s nothing left to take. You cough and gasp for air and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

Bucky gazes down at you in disbelief — you on your knees in front of him, hair wrecked, face flushed, lips swollen. Guilt surging hot through his veins, he gently helps you to your feet.

“Honey, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Don’t be.” Those lips curl into a satisfied smirk.

“You taste even nicer than I thought.”

Bucky stands there in shock as you stretch up onto your toes to kiss him again, and he moans softly when he tastes himself on you. He responds with just as much enthusiasm, just as much hunger as before, in spite of how thoroughly you’ve wrecked him. 

You pull away first, and he chases after your lips, still starving for more of you. Gently pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, you murmur, “People are gonna be wondering where we are.”

His arms tighten around your waist as he protests, “What about you?”

“Later.” 

Bucky hisses as you gently tuck him back into his shorts, straightening out his clothes and hair with a smile.

“Meet me at the dock after everyone’s asleep.”

You turn to the mirror and fix your own face, smoothing out your hair to look slightly less debauched.

“Okay,” Bucky replies, a little bewildered.

Nudging him out of the way, you pull the door open, looking much more composed than he feels. “Wait a couple minutes before you follow me out.”

You slip out of the bathroom without another word.

When Bucky finally leaves the bathroom, he grabs another six pack of beer and tries not to look too visibly shaken as he heads back out of the cabin. You're already laughing with the group like the past five minutes didn’t even happen. Steve throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders when he sits back down, and it seems that nobody suspects a thing.

When your eyes meet his across the fire pit, they still glimmer with mischief and desire and the promise of more to come. And Bucky can already feel his body stirring in response, his hunger for you only momentarily sated. 

It's only the beginning.

The moon is a spotlight on the water as you look out from the dock.

The bonfire smoldered out about two hours ago, and you’d snuck out almost an hour ago after your cousins had collapsed onto the air mattress, exhausted. The night air is cooler than it has been, a breeze coaxing goosebumps up the back of your neck. 

And you wait. It's made tolerable by the fact that you know you won’t be waiting much longer.

Underneath the cicada’s song, you hear footsteps coming down the path. Bucky approaches, clad in a hoodie and pajama pants, looking almost shy with his hands in his pockets. A thrill of excitement runs down your spine just at the sight of him.

You lean back on your hands, looking him over openly. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“I'm not that much of an asshole,” He chuckles sheepishly. Walking about halfway down the dock towards you, he stops for a moment, still hesitating after everything that has passed between you.

It's a little endearing and, at the same time, almost frustrating. Most of all, it makes you hungry. 

“You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna come kiss me?” you ask, a smile playing at your lips.

Bucky rises to the challenge, closing the distance and sitting next to you on the wooden dock. He reaches out a careful hand, brushing your hair back from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture, considering what transpired in the bathroom earlier. Maybe because of it. Maybe he feels a little guilty about it, though you know he shouldn't. He wouldn’t feel that way if he knew how much it had turned you on.

This time, he kisses you first, slow and sweet and entirely too patient for how long you’ve been waiting for this.

Your fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him closer. You invite him in, opening your mouth for him and letting out a soft whimper when he accepts the invitation, his tongue sliding against yours. 

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to turn messy, needy, heated. You’re not sure whose idea it is for you to climb into his lap, who exactly initiated that particular move. But there you are, your hips flush against him, his cock already rising to the occasion and pressing where you’ve been aching for him all night.

“You got any idea,” he mumbles against your lips, “how crazy you’ve made me these last few days?”

You pull back with a smirk.

“Consider it payback.”

“Payback for what?”

“All those years I was following you around like a lovesick puppy,” you explain as you play with the strings of his hoodie, “and you didn’t even look in my direction.”

“Yeah?” For the first time since the two of you arrived at the cabin, he breaks out into that boyish grin you’ve always adored, the one that made you fall for him in the first place. He leans in and kisses the soft skin just below your jaw. “You had a crush on me?”

“Don't pretend you didn’t know, you dick!” You smack his chest playfully, fighting a sigh as he drags his lips along your neck. You can feel the ghost of that smile against your skin as he laughs softly.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “I might have had an inkling.” Another kiss, this one pressed to the hollow beneath your ear, earning another quiet whimper from you. “But I didn’t want to encourage you.”

You like how playful he’s being with you now. It's how things always should have been between you — easy, familiar, natural, without all that guilt in the way. Without your brother’s masculine pride and overprotective nature looming over your heads.

“This is pretty encouraging,” you reply breathlessly, rolling your hips against his. His hard cock grinds into your clit through the layers of clothing between you, and you both gasp nearly in unison.

“Jesus.” Bucky grasps your hips to still you, looking at you seriously for a moment. “If we do this… we can’t tell Steve."

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

You wish he’d let you move again, but his eyes grow worried. “I don't… I don't have anything with me. I wasn't exactly expecting...”

Leaning to press a brief kiss to his lips, you whisper, “I'm clean. And on the pill.”

His eyes darken with want. “You really have grown up, sweetheart,” he remarks, chasing after your lips again.

Bucky loosens his grip on you, and his breath hitches as you slowly grind in his lap again.

“I’m clean, too,” he murmurs, pulling back far enough to get a good look at your face. “But only if you’re sure.”

You nod as you reach for the zipper of his hoodie. “I’m sure.”

You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.

Bucky generously allows you to remove his hoodie and tug off his shirt, even more generously allows you to look your fill. You’ve seen him shirtless probably dozens of times over the years, but it never fails to spark your excitement. You run your hands down his chest, his abs, your nails dragging just slightly. He groans under his breath, the sound an echo of the ones he’d made in the bathroom.

Only now, the two of you don’t have to be quiet. You're far enough away from the cabin that your moans are swallowed up by the cicadas in the trees.

Warm, calloused fingers curl beneath the hem of your t-shirt as Bucky's lips brush against your sternum. He peels the garment off of you, his eyes full of wonder and desire as he takes them over your bare chest. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, cupping your breasts in each hand.

His mouth descends to one, his hand idly exploring the other, and your gasp pierces the night air. You've waited years, a decade and some change, for him to touch you like this. His tongue carefully strokes your nipple, and it makes you ache and pulse and want him so badly you can barely breathe right.

You want to let him take his time, to stretch this moment as long as it can last. But his ministrations soon have you rocking rhythmically in his lap, seeking relief as the ache between your legs builds.

“Bucky,” you whimper, “please.” 

Bucky reluctantly breaks away from worshipping your chest, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows. For a moment, you worry that the old hesitation is back, that things will stall.

“Just… gimme a second here,” he mumbles as he reaches for his hoodie.

He shifts you off his lap and spreads the hoodie out on the cool wood of the dock. Then he guides you backwards until you’re laid on top of it. The gesture makes you giggle affectionately.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease.

But he doesn’t laugh. He wears a hangdog expression as he leans over you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I'm sorry. You deserve nicer than this.”

You tilt your head. You're exactly where you want to be. What could be nicer than this?

Sensing your confusion, he rubs the back of his neck and addresses the trees. “Inside, in a real bed. Not a secret hookup in the middle of the woods.”

You can see the guilt, the shame resurfacing his eyes, and you’ll have none of that. So you reach up and take his face in your hands.

“Bucky. Look at me.”

He does, albeit reluctantly.

“This is perfect. I'm under the stars, in my favorite place in the world, with someone I trust.” You weave your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping that honesty will break through the guilt. Softly, you amend your statement. “Someone I love.”

It might be too much, but it’s true. You've loved him for practically your whole life. As a friend, and as more than a friend. As a fixture in your life as constant as the sun. And it feels right to tell him, even though part of you is worried that it could ruin everything.

Bucky is silent for a moment, realization filling his eyes. There's something else, too — something like discovery, like finding something.

The silence extends long enough that it starts to make you nervous.

“Too much?” you ask, so quiet it barely disturbs the night air.

“No,” Bucky replies. “Not at all.”

His mouth dips to meet yours again, and you don’t even mind that he doesn’t say it back. You know that he loves you, even if it’s not the exact same way, and you can feel how he wants you. That's more than enough. 

Fingers slip past the waistband of your pajama shorts, past the fabric of your underwear, until they drag through the slick mess gathered between your legs. The sound you make in response is equal parts relief and need.

Ever the gentleman, Bucky works you open, not exactly rushing, but not exactly taking his sweet time either. You can feel how bad he wants this as his hard cock nudges at your thigh, that he wants this just as bad as you do.

Then he drags your shorts and underwear down, down, until you’re naked underneath him, under the stars and the moon, in the open night air where anyone could see you if they happened to walk by. You don’t give a damn in the slightest, because Bucky is looking at you like you invented having a body, like he can’t believe you’re real.

At last, Bucky settles between your legs, shoving his pajama pants down just far enough to free himself. A slow drag of his cock against you coats him in your wetness, both of you panting in anticipation.

 Carefully as he can manage, he pushes inside, and you gasp at the sudden fullness. It's overwhelming and right and everything you knew it would be.

Bucky's forehead drops to your shoulder, clearly struggling to keep it together, breath ragged. “Jesus christ, you’re so fuckin’ tight.”

“You feel so —“ You cut yourself off with a moan when he moves, hips withdrawing and then snapping them into yours, driving himself into you. “—so good, Buck.”

“Baby,” he nearly growls, hips snapping perfectly against yours once again, “you feel like you were made for me.”

As he moves inside you, everything else disappears — the trees, the dock underneath you, the stars above you. You could be in a five star hotel, as far as you’re concerned. You're on cloud nine, because after years of dreaming of this moment, it’s finally real. Bucky on top of you, inside of you, his moans and encouragement and endless praise on your ear. Every sound, every word, every thrust driving you closer and closer to climax.

His hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit and making your body arch beneath him as he rubs tight little circles into it. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, your pleasure climbing higher and higher. His words turn to stream-of-consciousness, rambles of pleasure and praise.

Somewhere in the middle of it, something slips out that sends you reeling through space.

“So good,” he groans softly, his mouth lowering to taste the sweat on your neck. “Love you so much, honey.”

You’re not sure if he even meant to say it out loud, but the effect is immediate and all-consuming. You clutch him against you, your heart swelling, your lips crying his name as you come apart around him. 

A wrecked moan spills out of him as his rhythm falters, thrusts turning sloppy and rough. “Fuck, i’m close,” he pants, his eyes finding yours. “You want me to—“

“Inside,” you beg, clutching him tighter, aftershocks of pleasure still pulsing through you. “Please, I want it.”

With a shudder and a curse, he buries himself inside you, hot pulses of his spend filling you as he thrusts shallowly to push it deeper. You feel claimed, marked, owned. What a glorious thing, to be claimed by him. You think if you could see yourself from the outside, you’d be glowing all over like a bonfire.

As the two of you come back to yourselves, Bucky brushes a tender kiss against your jaw and carefully pulls out of you. He rolls off of you, his back meeting the wood of the dock, his chest still heaving as he recovers.

For a few moments, the two of you stare up at the glittering sky, the reality of the situation settling in now that the intensity of sensation wanes.

You turn, curling into his side, and his arm drifts around you on instinct, natural as breathing.

“Did you… did you mean it?” you ask quietly.

It could have been the heat of the moment, and you wouldn’t blame him if it had been. People say all kinds of things when they’re about to come, things that look different in the afterglow and in the light of day. You know he cares about you. But you need to know how much truth lived in those words.

“Yeah.” He looks down at you, his eyes so soft and affectionate that it almost makes you want to climb on top of him again. His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together and resting against his chest. “I did.”

That's when it sinks in. This isn’t a one-time, clandestine rendezvous in the woods that you’ll both carry to the grave. It’s not something that will fade in the daylight. It will repeat itself. It will make demands. It will not keep to the shadows. It will not be easy to hide.

You sigh. “We have to tell Steve, don’t we?”

Bucky's sigh mirrors yours. “Yeah.”

“He’s gonna kill you.”

“Yeah.” 

His lips brush against the crown of your head, his voice already resigned to his fate. “Still worth it.”

That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take. 

It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you. 

Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand. 

He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline. 

The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you. 

Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd. 

He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view. 

It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.

His fourth mistake is looking at your lips. 

Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you. 

It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier. 

Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection. 

Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static. 

Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you. 

A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie. 

When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense. 

He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.

It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.

You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word. 

Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech. 

It hits him all at once. 

He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-

He can't understand a word you say. 

What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either. 

It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.

You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match. 

Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty. 

You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.

Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?

"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream. 

He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.

Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky. 

"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.

His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.

He wants to know yours. Badly.

Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.

He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.

That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere. 

Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.

“I see you’ve met Sirène.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?

“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.

“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”

The bald suits, presumably.

“Oh.”

“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.

While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.

You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.

“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.

“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”

Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.

He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something. 

Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.

"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."

Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.

Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could. 

Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.

"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease. 

"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."

"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"

"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."

Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus. 

He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in. 

With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece. 

"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."

You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head. 

"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."

Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen? 

"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip. 

He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response. 

"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"

Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for. 

"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."

He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.

"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.

One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve. 

His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so. 

You beam, smile widening with approval. 

"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted. 

You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."

"He's headed toward you." Sam translates. 

You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."

"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor. 

"My pleasure." Bucky agrees. 

With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.

Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.

Or more specifically, test his sanity. 

With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to. 

And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French. 

They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company. 

If he can even call it that. 

What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head? 

Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees. 

What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?

Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.

You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle. 

Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find. 

Instead he asks you to teach some more French. 

Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky. 

Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.

Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?

Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?

Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.

That one is probably his favorite. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork. 

He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about. 

You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence. 

Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand. 

"I'm not exactly sure how to-" 

You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place. 

"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod

Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.

At least he's pretty sure that's what it was. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now. 

And it hurts his ears.

Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-

What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting. 

You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt. 

"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."

Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.

He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."

Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice. 

"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided. 

"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?" 

Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?" 

Bucky shrugged. 

"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned. 

The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-" 

"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted. 

"No." 

"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.

Bucky's protest died on his tongue. 

"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."

So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club. 

He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror. 

"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust. 

Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there. 

Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you. 

He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam. 

"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.

You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by. 

When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked. 

"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder. 

Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar. 

Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth. 

"You look good enough to eat." 

Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction. 

"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."

Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified. 

His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway. 

You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"

Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer. 

The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting. 

Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?

His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.

"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink. 

Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night. 

As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music. 

"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before. 

"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't." 

By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long. 

He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.

It's three songs, maybe four. 

Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.

Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper. 

Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck. 

Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular. 

Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.

You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth. 

His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest. 

He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder. 

He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel. 

For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak. 

Mercifully, he's fluent. 

His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose. 

The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all. 

Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off. 

He definitely wants to find out if there's more.

"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room. 

He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared. 

It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me on." 

Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge. 

"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper. 

Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand. 

"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."

You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."

"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song." 

You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."

He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself. 

His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst. 

Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his. 

It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.

Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes. 

Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.

The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.

When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look. 

Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession. 

You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it. 

When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question. 

"Ramène- à ta maison?"

"Can I take you home?"

Both of you are answered with another kiss.

Bucky - woefully unprepared Bucky, takes you back to his apartment. He guides the most ethereal woman he's ever met up two flights of stairs and into his shoebox. 

Okay, it's little bigger than a shoebox but not by much. 

He does his best to steer you through the living room, kissing you earnest as he walks you back toward his bedroom. In part just to kiss you, but also to keep you from seeing the makeshift bed on the floor by the couch. 

You either don't notice his tactics or don't care. By the time you make it to his room you've stopped walking altogether. No, instead your legs are wrapped around his waist, having jumped up somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. Just threw your weight at him between kisses and trusted him to catch you.

It makes his head feel warm to think about. 

The bed is softer than he remembers, his hands sinking into the plush mattress as he lays you down on it. 

He waits until your back is flat, then leans onto his haunches. His chest pulls tight at the distance, like an invisible is string gone taut between you. His jacket comes off in rushes drags of sleeves down his arms, one side even catching on his wrist in the hurry. He doesn't even remember putting it back on, doesn't remember much about leaving the club except the way you were tucked into his side with a hand in his back pocket. 

The jacket lands somewhere behind him with a thud, the sound marrying beautifully with your giggle. 

Bucky has to take a moment just to look at you. 

You perched on your elbows and staring up at him with nothing but excitement. Youwith your dress bunched up around the tops of your thighs, bare skin catching in the dim light of his lamp. You with a pretty smile on your lips, any lipstick that you had started the night with long gone.

He wonders if it's rouge on your cheeks or if you just glow like that all by yourself.

For a second, he's out of his body. Who is he to have this? The soft bed beneath his knees is unfamiliar, the trust you offer yourself up with even more so. 

It must show on his face. 

"Bucky?" You whisper, humming as you bring his attention back to you. "Ça va?"

He nods, only half sure he understood the question. "I'm okay." He promises, "Just making sure you're real."

You melt, slight enough that only someone as well attuned as him would notice. Shoulders curling inward, lips twitching at the corners, the brief break in your eye contact. 

Slowly, you lower yourself flat once more, this time grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with you. 

Your hands grab the hem of shirt, reclaiming the skin you had teased on the dance floor. This time you don't stop at a sliver, pulling it up over his head until it lands somewhere by his jacket. 

A low breath blows from between your teeth, borderline a whistle. "Es tu?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow as you flatten your palm over his abdomen. 

Bucky can't be bothered to decipher that one, instead he decides he's much more bothered by the fact that you are still wearing so much clothes. 

Okay the dress really isn't much in the way of fabric but his point stands. It's between him and your skin and that's crime enough.

Your zipper slips between his fingers twice, the delicate metal pull taunting him as he tries to grasp it. That's when he gives up. 

The zipper pulls apart with just a little pressure, coming undone in a cascade of popping teeth. From the top of the dress to the end of the zipper at the base of your spine, it's rendered useless in seconds.

Bucky waits to be scolded, a hand slap or sharp glare. 

When he finally looks back up at you all he sees is want, pupils blown wide with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

Bucky's hands freeze where they had been pulling the dress down, fabric bunched in his hands like a brute. 

Then you nod. 

It rips like paper, tearing along the seam that had run up your hip and all the way to the base of the zipper. 

He throws it so hard it hits the wall. 

You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush. 

It's his turn to be greedy. He copies the path you took, from sternum to ribs to belly button. Only he paints it with his mouth instead. 

A kiss over your collarbone, then just over your heart. Then one is pressed in the valley between your breasts, another further down at the base of your ribs. Until finally he laves one more just above the waist band of your underwear, low enough for the elastic to tickle his chin. 

Your breath catches, a sharp gasp that catches just as he makes contact. Like he's caught you off guard, something he didn't even know was possible. 

It would make even the worst cowards brave. 

Bucky tucks a finger into the elastic on either of your hips, pausing just long enough for you to know his intentions. 

Without missing a beat you raise them, lifting off the bed by just as inch and giving Bucky the only signal he needed. 

They don't even get pulled all the way off, abandoned somewhere around your ankles and left for you to kick away as Bucky gives all his attention to the sight in front of him.

The low lights cast a shadow across your body, draping you in gentle curves and sharp contrasts. It settles over your skin until you look like a painting, and your cunt is no exception. 

There at the apex of your thighs, Bucky's is pretty sure sits the holy grail. 

He moves slow, like a predator stalking its prey. He makes a home for himself between your thighs, pushing your knees apart to make room as he lays down between them. 

Your words from earlier play back in his mind, the translation Sam had fed him.

"Vous êtes à croquer" He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. He probably butchered the pronunciation, dragged the vowel too hard or exaggerate a letter that doesn't belong but you don't seem to care. "Means you look good enough to eat."

As if forgetting him, your legs immediately try to close, a little whimper bubbling from the back of your throat as you're blocked by his hands. 

Bucky clicks his tongue, using the movement to shift your position. The legs that had been on either side of him are lifted onto his shoulders, rendering you completely vulnerable to hid intentions.

"Sil te plaît." You whine, hips jerking up toward him. Your breathing turned erratic, sharp inhales and cut-off exhales as you wait for him to finally do something.

Bucky doesn't pretend to hide just how much he likes it. 

His fingers find you first, wet heat that catches on his skin. You feel like fire, tantalizing and hypnotic. His index and pointed drag through your folds, parting them to give him a better view of your ruin. 

He repeats the motion a few times, gathering slick around his digits and watching your reaction with every pass. 

The tensing of your thighs when he just misses your entrance, the way your chest stills when he passes over the hood of your clit. 

Your body is a language he's desperate to be fluent in. 

The taste of you melts on his tongue, potent and sweet. Better than anything he's had the privilege to swallow in years. 

One lick, then a second slower one. The full width of his tongue pressing flat against your clit. Then he can't bear another second, closing his lips around the bud in a sloppy wet kiss. 

Your hands fly to his hair, followed by a jagged moan that sounds more like it was torn from your body than given willingly. 

"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!" 

Your slip up is missed completely, half covered by your thighs over his ears and half drowned out by the his own satisfied groan. 

His mind is blissfully blank, for the first time in a long time he's not thinking about anything other than the task at hand. 

Your pleasure isn't even a direct motivator, well it is, but Bucky's driven by his own just as much. The way you feel in his mouth, the vibrations of your moans and the how your entire body jolts when he finally slides two fingers inside of you. 

It's relief, finally understanding that as much as he wants you, you want him. It only fuels him further, his nose pushing against your clit, fingers working along side his tongue inside you. Curling at different angles until he hears that scream again-

"Bucky!"

You're wet everywhere, the insides of your thighs and down his chin. Some sick part of him wishes he could bottle it, where the most natural part of you as a cologne.

His own hips grind into the mattress, more instinct than intention. He's harder than he's been in seventy fucking years and you don't even speak the same language.

Your legs go rigid around his head, tightening as your orgasm starts to build.

Bucky's making sure you get there, pressing his fingers into that spot inside you until he's all but giving it a massage. Your walls pulling tight around him, pulsing in time with your rapid heart. 

His lips close around your clit one more time, tonguing it with gentle pressure. He can't help but hum, he's damn near choking on you and would die happily if it was between your legs. 

Then it all bursts. 

His nightmare, his French muse, his siren, his Venus cums hard on his tongue. 

Bucky swears he can taste a whole language, the sweetest elixir God could have ever made and he's drinking it from the source. 

You're one fire above him, broken curses and whimpered babbles of his name. 

As it retreats, your grip finally loosening, Bucky crawls back over you. Not stopping until he's above your face, watching it contort in the come down. 

You're still speaking, the sound of it finally coming back into focus. 

"So good," you gasp, "So fucking good Bucky don't stop-"

Everything goes still. An entire orbit freezing in place. 

He can see it in your eyes, something hazy and romantic as you finally lock in on him. Your hands cup his face, oblivious to the fact that you've given it away. 

"You speak fucking English?" It comes out harsher than Bucky means for it to. "This whole time you spoke-"

You groan, pulling his lips back to yours. 

Despite it all, Bucky goes willingly. He kisses you and instead of betrayal he tastes something sweeter.

"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?" 

When he pulls back that look is there again, the mischief he saw that first night. 

He kisses you again, even harder this time. 

Yeah, he thinks, it was.

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