Die to stay alive

It was the least welcoming greeting you’d ever received. The word came out as if he were legally compelled to say it — as though someone had a gun to his back, mouthing say the nice thing whilst he white-knuckled his way through the syllable.

You filled your water bottle in silence, fully aware of him watching you before you finally made your escape.

That, as far as you were concerned, was the entire thesis of Bucky: hostile on arrival, aggressive on eye contact, and thoroughly allergic to basic human warmth.

Case closed.

Nothing about the compound gave you any reason to revise that opinion.

Over the following weeks, you accumulated evidence much like a prosecutor building a trial — methodically and without the slightest interest in the defense. He glared at you across the briefing room table, just as he did in the lift. He glowered at you in the corridor while you were simply trying to reach the gym, continuing the routine once you were inside.

On one occasion, he held a door open for you. This might have passed for a kind gesture, had his expression not suggested he was actively weighing up whether to slam it shut on your hand. Passing through quickly, you muttered a thank you, subsequently spending the next ten minutes wondering what you’d done to personally offend a hundred-and-six-year-old super soldier.

To make matters worse, this treatment seemed exclusively reserved for you.

Sam gave Bucky relentless, industrial-grade grief on a daily basis, receiving nothing worse than a tired sigh in return. Natasha spoke to him in brief Russian phrases that made him almost  — almost — soften around the eyes. Steve, naturally, could coax out something adjacent to a smile, provided the lighting was right and the conversation touched on baseball.

You, meanwhile, received the murder stare.

Consequently, you took the only reasonable course of action: you decided to hate him back. Nothing loud or dramatic — you were a professional, after all. Yet if Bucky insisted on looking at you like you were gum on his tactical boot, you were more than happy to match his energy. You ceased saying hello, just as you stopped making eye contact. Whenever his name arose in briefings, your gaze remained glued to the nearest screen, offering nothing beyond what was strictly required.

In your professional opinion, it was a perfectly proportional response. He had started it, after all.

Except, as it turned out, he hadn't started anything at all.

0010 — two

Steve, for all his tactical brilliance, possessed the interpersonal radar of a golden retriever at a dog park. Which is to say: he assumed everyone was having as good a time as he was, believing that if they weren't, they simply required a more intriguing chew toy.

"I want you two running point on Riga," he said, tapping something on his tablet without looking up. "Buck, your ground coverage coupled with their aerial support makes for a clean overlap. No blind spots."

You felt your left eyelid twitch.

"Seems efficient," Bucky remarked from across the table. He spoke in that low, even tone you had long since catalogued as dangerously neutral, which was, in reality, merely his natural way of speaking.

"Incredibly efficient," Steve agreed, radiating the enthusiasm of a man who genuinely loved logistics. "You'll insert here, sweep the perimeter in tandem, and report back. Forty-eight hours, tops."

You opened your mouth to suggest — diplomatically, calmly, and with exquisite professionalism — that perhaps literally anyone else on the roster might prove a better fit. Clint. Wanda. A reasonably trained Labrador. However, Steve was already moving on to exfiltration windows, whilst the moment sailed past like a ship you hadn't boarded.

Bucky glanced at you across the table. Although you didn't look back, you could feel it regardless: the stare. That ever-present, searing, what did I do to you in a past life stare, which you had fully reinterpreted as I am imagining your demise in vivid detail.

Riga was cold and grey, smelling faintly of rain-wet concrete. Bucky crouched behind a low wall, running through the sweep route as though he had memorised every sewer grate in the Eastern Bloc. Which, to be fair, he probably had.

"If we cut through the service corridor on the east side," he said, tracing a line on the projected map between you, "we avoid the camera cluster at the northwest junction. That shaves off thirty seconds and gives us a cleaner sweep."

It was a good call — objectively and tactically sound. Naturally, you hated it.

"Alternatively," you countered, "we take the northwest junction. The camera cluster has a six-second rotation gap offering more than enough cover, whilst saving us from rerouting through a corridor we haven't physically cleared."

Bucky looked at you. There was that look again: that infuriating, immovable expression. "The corridor's been cleared on satellite."

"Satellite isn't boots on the ground, a fact I'd have thought you of all people would appreciate."

A brief pause followed. He blinked once, slowly and deliberately, like a cat processing new information it had already deemed irrelevant.

"Right," he said simply. "Northwest junction. Six-second gap."

There was no argument, no pushback, and no retaliatory escalation. Desperate for him to fight you on it — to give you something concrete to push against — you were met instead with immediate agreement. He adjusted and moved on. You couldn't even determine whether his baseline glare had shifted, as it remained entirely one temperature: a perpetual overcast with no forecast of change.

Infuriating.

Taking the northwest junction proved successful; the six-second gap worked seamlessly. Bucky offered no comment afterwards, a silence you promptly interpreted as resentful, even if, by any objective measure, it was merely quiet efficiency.

By hour thirty, you had swept two-thirds of the perimeter, flagged three points of interest, and exchanged roughly forty words that weren't operationally necessary. Bucky held position whenever required, adjusted without complaint when you called an audible, and covered your flank with the mechanical precision of someone who had been doing precisely that for the better part of a century. 

When you snapped at his suggestion to double back on the north quadrant — "We've already cleared that, so unless you want to walk the same block a third time, let's finish before the century's out" — he studied you for a long moment, uttered a brief "Copy," and carried on.

By every metric that mattered, you worked brilliantly together. That was easily the most annoying aspect of the entire operation.

Steve's check-in crackled through the comms at hour thirty-six. "How's it looking out there?"

"Clean sweep," Bucky reported. "On schedule."

"Good to hear. Really good. You two are a natural fit, so I'm going to keep this pairing going."

The line clicked off before you could object.

Somewhere across the rooftop, Bucky shifted his weight without making a sound, having never once felt the need to fill a silence. You, meanwhile, were mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to Steve regarding the actual definition of the word natural.

The extraction window opened at dawn. It was a simple retrieval — collecting an intel package from a secure drop followed by a confirmation sweep for surveillance, wrapping up before the city woke up properly. It was the kind of job that barely qualified as a mission, resembling more of an errand, assuming your errands typically involved fake passports and a concealed weapon in your waistband.

Bucky moved through the drop site with an efficient, practiced quiet. Covering the perimeter, you tagged two potential cameras before feeding him the all-clear. He retrieved the package, confirmed the seal, and stowed it without ceremony.

"Clean," he reported over the comms.

"Obviously," you shot back, unable to help yourself.

The walk to the vehicle spanned six blocks through early-morning foot traffic. Bucky fell into step beside you — maintaining not a companionable proximity, but rather the tactically sound distance of a partner keeping visual range. Keeping your eyes fixed forward, you occasionally caught the peripheral flicker of him looking over, despite his efforts to look straight ahead as well.

At the fourth block, he spoke. "You did good work on the north sweep."

You nearly tripped. It wasn't a physical stumble, but rather a sudden jolt behind your ribs, as the compliment arrived so entirely stripped of inflection that it took a full three seconds to confirm it wasn't an insult.

"Thanks," you replied, as though the word were costing you money.

He offered a single nod before looking ahead once more. His expression remained entirely unchanged throughout the exchange — neither when he spoke, nor when you responded, nor now. It was the same furrowed brow, the same hard-set jaw, and the same general aura of a man who held a personal grievance against the concept of sunlight.

Walking the remaining two blocks in silence, you climbed into the vehicle and pulled out of Riga without incident.

In the passenger seat, Bucky stared out of the window, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.

In the driver's seat, you white-knuckled the steering wheel, contemplating how deeply, profoundly, and cosmically unfair it was that Steve had designated your personal nemesis as your ideal work partner.

Bucky glanced over at you once more. You caught it in the corner of your eye — the slight turn of his head and the weight of his attention settling on the side of your face like a physical presence.

He looked away a moment later. Had you been watching, you might have caught a fleeting micro-expression that, on a more animated face, could have passed for confusion: a subtle narrowing of the eyes accompanied by a barely-there tilt of the head. It was the physical equivalent of a quiet huh.

Yet you were not watching. You were driving, nursing your resentment, and dreading the next mission you would inevitably be shackled to him for.

Bucky turned his gaze back out of the window.

Feisty, he thought, though not in explicit words. It was more of a general registration of facts: Teammate. Competent. Annoyed for some reason. Right then.

He let the matter drop.

0011 — three

The second phase of Riga went sideways on account of Bucky, and he had the decency to admit it — which made the entire situation infinitely worse.

It should have been straightforward. The intel package retrieved from the drop site pointed to a secondary location: a warehouse on the industrial fringe of Vecriga, flagged for potential weapons caching. Steve wanted confirmation before committing a full team, meaning it remained just the two of you — still purely recon, still strictly a matter of looking and reporting.

Bucky took the south entrance whilst you took the north — a standard split providing clean coverage without anything overly elaborate. Having swept your half in twelve minutes and tagged two points of interest, you reported clearly, subsequently waiting for his confirmation.

It failed to arrive.

What came instead was the muffled crack of a door being forced open from the inside. This was followed by three seconds of silence that felt significantly longer, before Bucky’s voice cut through the comms, clipped and flat: "Contact. Four hostiles, south corridor. I tripped a sensor."

You were already on the move. "You tripped a sensor?"

"There was a secondary grid. It wasn't in the schematics."

"So check for a secondary grid!"

"I'm aware of the oversight." A brief pause ensued, accompanied by the sound of distant, contained gunfire. "Heading to you. Thirty seconds."

He burst through the connecting corridor like a freight train with security clearance — fast, controlled, without a single wasted movement, yet carrying four exceptionally motivated hostiles funnelling in behind him. He had dropped two already, though the remaining four had evidently summoned reinforcements.

"An oversight," you hissed, falling into position beside him behind a concrete support column. "You call six armed hostiles an oversight?"

"I call the sensor an oversight; the hostiles are merely a consequence." Checking his magazine with a mechanical click, he remained as calm as a man sorting his morning post. "I ought to have caught it. That's on me."

There it was: no excuse, no deflection, and no complaints about incomplete schematics or how it could have happened to anyone. It was simply a clean, unvarnished admission of fault, delivered with the same flat affect he applied to everything else — as though accountability were merely another line item on the operational checklist.

You wanted to strangle him.

You wanted to seize him by the front of his tactical vest and shake him until something other than that granite composure gave way, purely because he had no right to be so utterly reasonable about it.

How dare he own his mistake with quiet professionalism when you had been actively gearing up for a proper row?

You had an entire speech prepared — reckless, sloppy, typical — only for him to dismantle it in two short sentences by simply agreeing with you.

"I'm going to kill you," you said.

"After the hostiles," he replied, which might have passed for a joke, had his face offered any confirmation.

They advanced in pairs. The warehouse consisted entirely of long sightlines and sparse cover — a layout ill-suited for defence and even worse for retreat, leaving forward progression as the sole option. 

Bucky moved left, drawing fire toward the heavier cover near the loading bay, whilst you veered right to utilise the elevated walkway for a tactical angle. For thirty seconds, the response was clean and coordinated — the precise sort of synchronisation Steve would have had framed and hung on a wall.

Then the third pair flanked wide, resulting in one of them getting behind you.

You heard it before you saw it: the scrape of a boot against the metal grating of the walkway — far too close and coming from the wrong direction. Spinning round, you fired and caught him in the shoulder, yet his momentum carried him forward as a burst from his automatic weapon chewed through the railing to your left.

Dropping off the walkway to avoid the spray — rolling through a two-metre fall purely on instinct — you came up in the open on the warehouse floor, stranded between two columns of cover with nothing but concrete dust and bad options.

The remaining hostile on the upper level held the high ground. You could see him repositioning, his barrel swinging round to track your movement. Meanwhile, the nearest cover stood four paces away, which was roughly two paces more than you had time for.

At that moment, Bucky hit you from the side like a wall with a pulse.

It wasn't a tackle, nor was it a shove. It was something altogether more deliberate: his arm wrapping round your waist as his body pivoted to place himself between you and the muzzle flash, dragging you both behind the nearest column in a single, brutal motion that briefly lifted your feet off the ground. Your back struck the concrete just as his chest slammed against yours. His left arm braced against the wall beside your head, his metal fingers digging shallow grooves into the surface with a sound guaranteed to haunt your next several attempts at sleep.

He fired over your shoulder without once looking away from you. Two shots rang out, followed by the heavy thud of something hitting the floor above.

Silence settled over the warehouse like dust after a demolition.

You were breathing heavily; he was not.

His heartbeat against your collarbone remained steady, measured, and offensively calm — the resting rhythm of a man whose circulatory system simply refused to acknowledge combat as a cardiovascular event. His face sat inches from yours as he scanned past you, his eyes tracking the upper walkway, the exits, and the corners, conducting a very focused threat assessment.

You, on the other hand, could register nothing else.

He was warm, which served as your first entirely unhelpful observation. Beneath the Kevlar, the grime, and the faint metallic tang of discharged rounds, he felt warm, broad, and solid in a manner resembling architecture rather than a person.

Your hands were resting on his vest again — a recurring habit you genuinely needed to address — and from this distance, you could see that his eyelashes were dark and unreasonably long. Furthermore, a small scar sat at the corner of his jaw that you had never previously noticed, owing to the fact that you had never been this close, alongside the small detail that you hated him.

You hated him — that remained vital. You were furious.

He had tripped a sensor, dragged you into a firefight, and then possessed the sheer audacity to throw himself in front of a bullet meant for you as if it were nothing. Protecting your body with his was apparently just another Tuesday to him, and now he stood there with his arm caging you in, his ridiculously muscled chest pressed against yours, leaving you absolutely, categorically, and without question hot, bothered and —

"Clear," Bucky said, looking down at you.

The stare remained identical to always — completely unreadable — except that from seven centimetres away, it felt less like I want you dead and more like I am looking at you because you are here and I am thorough. "You good?"

"Peachy," you managed.

Stepping back, he holstered his weapon. He offered you a single, efficient once-over — not lingering or appreciative, but rather a simple field check akin to inspecting a piece of kit after a drop — before turning to clear the rest of the warehouse.

"Sorry about the sensor," he called over his shoulder, already moving away.

You stood there for a moment, back pressed against the column, vest askew, with your heart executing something architecturally unsound in your chest. Your face felt hot, your hands felt foolish, and somewhere amidst the wreckage of your higher reasoning, a small, traitorous voice pointed out that pure American muscle was not a phrase you ought to be associating with a man you'd spent months despising.

You instructed the voice to shut up. Naturally, it refused.

By the time you caught up with him at the south exit, you had reassembled your composure into something functional, if not entirely convincing. Bucky crouched by the door, checking the exterior. As you approached, he looked up with that exact, unchanging, immovable expression and said, "We should report the secondary grid to Steve. My error; I'll log it."

"Damn right you will," you replied, albeit with significantly less venom than intended.

He nodded once before turning his attention back to the door, completely failing to notice that your ears were bright red — because Bucky, as a rule, simply did not notice things like 'ears'.

0100 — four

The safehouse was Steve's idea, because of course it was.

"Sit tight," he instructed over comms, speaking with the serene authority of a man issuing orders from a heated facility several countries away. "The firefight flagged local attention, so I need twenty-four hours to reroute extraction without drawing eyes. There's a safehouse logged in the system — Bucky, you know the one off Avotu iela?"

"I know it," Bucky replied.

"Great. Supplies should still be stocked from the last rotation. Hunker down, stay off the radar, and I'll have you out by tomorrow evening."

The line went dead. You stared at the comm in your hand as though it had personally betrayed you.

Twenty-four hours. In a safehouse. With Bucky Barnes.

Steve would answer for this. Not today, nor tomorrow, but one day, in a time and place of your choosing, Steven Grant Rogers would look you in the eye and reckon with the cumulative consequences of his logistical enthusiasm.

The safehouse was a third-floor walk-up in a residential block that looked like every other on the street — beige concrete, narrow windows, and a front door requiring a keycode that Bucky punched in from memory without hesitation.

Inside, it was sparse in the way all safehouses were sparse: functional furniture, blackout curtains, a bathroom with aggressive water pressure and no hot water, a kitchen stocked with tin cans and dry pasta, alongside, inexplicably, a full spice rack.

There was only one bedroom. However, you had yet to discover that detail.

Bucky executed a sweep of the flat in under two minutes — checking windows, exits, sightlines, and the building's stairwell — before returning to the main room with a nod that signified clear and absolutely nothing else.

Having taken up position at the far end of the kitchen counter with your arms crossed, you watched him move through the space with the efficiency of someone who had spent a great deal of time in rooms he didn't wish to be in.

"I'll make something," he said, already opening cupboards.

"I'm not hungry."

Your stomach growled with immaculate comedic timing. Bucky paused, hand on a cupboard door, yet he offered no comment and made no attempt to smile. He simply resumed opening the cupboard, which was somehow far worse than if he had laughed outright.

He proceeded to make soup.

You didn't know what you had expected — something perfunctory, perhaps, assembled with the same grim pragmatism he brought to everything else. A tin of broth heated in a pot, perhaps with some pasta thrown in for caloric necessity.

Instead, Bucky stood at the narrow safehouse cooker and diced an onion with a knife never intended for onions, moving with the quiet focus of someone who knew precisely what he was doing and had no intention of explaining why.

He sautéed garlic — actual garlic, peeled and minced, from a bulb he had found in the crisper drawer alongside potatoes that had no right being that fresh in a safehouse. He added tinned tomatoes, a selection of dried herbs from the inexplicable spice rack, the potatoes cut into even cubes, and a splash of something from a bottle bearing a Czech label that might have been vinegar, wine, or lighter fluid.

It smelled incredible.

You watched this unfold from your position at the counter — still with arms crossed, still glaring — feeling the mounting indignation of a person whose nemesis was failing to behave according to the established narrative.

Enemies did not make soup. Enemies did not dice onions with careful, practised hands. Enemies did not stir a pot with a wooden spoon, taste from the rim, and subsequently add more salt with the measured consideration of someone who understood that soup was a dish worth getting right.

He set a bowl in front of you without ceremony before sitting down across the narrow table with his own and picking up his spoon.

You glared at the soup. The soup failed to glare back, sitting there instead and steaming gently, smelling like something a grandmother would make if she’d happened to have a vibranium arm and the emotional range of a concrete wall.

You ate the soup.

It was — and you would take this to your grave before admitting it aloud — delicious. The potatoes were tender without being mushy. The broth possessed depth — actual depth, featuring layers of flavour that had no business existing in a meal assembled from safehouse scraps by a man who looked as though he were being forced at gunpoint to participate in civilian life.

Across the table, Bucky ate in silence, just as you ate in silence. The only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic alongside the distant hum of Riga's evening traffic filtering through the blackout curtains.

You were glaring at him over the rim of the bowl.

You knew you were glaring and found yourself unable to stop. Every spoonful felt like a personal offence — not owing to the soup, which was infuriatingly above reproach, but purely on principle. He had no right to be good at this. He had no right to sit there, eating soup he had made with his own two hands — one of which was made of metal and had attempted to kill multiple heads of state — looking for all the world like a man entirely at peace with his evening.

He wasn't at peace with his evening; he was simply eating soup.

Yet he did notice you were quiet — quieter than usual, which was quite a feat given that your usual baseline around him sat somewhere between terse and legally admissible silence. Glancing up once, he caught the edge of your expression, filing it away as he filed most things about you: without reaching any conclusions whatsoever.

Rough day, he thought. The warehouse was a lot. The sensor business rattled them. Fair enough.

It had not occurred to Bucky, at any point in the preceding months, that your hostility towards him was personal.

Having considered and dismissed several theories — that you were private, focused, cold towards everyone, or merely adjusting to the team — he had landed on the most generous possible interpretation every single time. The notion that you simply didn't like him, specifically as an individual, had never crossed his mind, as Bucky did not assign himself enough importance in other people's emotional landscapes for that to feel plausible.

You finished the soup, as did he. Taking both bowls to the sink without asking, he washed them by hand, thorough and unhurried, whilst you sat at the table staring at the back of his head, trying desperately to maintain the structural integrity of a grudge that was developing hairline fractures.

He dried the bowls, put them away, and wiped down the counter.

You hated him — obviously. However, the soup had been exceptionally good, and the counter was immaculate.

"I'll take the first watch," he said, settling onto the couch with a clear sightline to the front door.

"Fine."

"Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long extract."

"I know."

He looked at you. You looked away first — a new development, and one that neither of you chose to examine.

0101 — five

The bedroom situation revealed itself with the slow, inevitable horror of a punchline that ought to have been obvious from the start.

There was a single bed: full-sized, pushed against the far wall, and made up with military corners alongside a single wool blanket that looked as though it had been government-issued during a war — quite possibly the one Bucky had personally fought in. Accompanying it were a single pillow, one nightstand, and an overhead light with a pull chain that lent the entire space the ambience of an interrogation cell.

You stood in the doorway whilst Bucky remained directly behind you. Neither of you spoke for a long, damning moment.

"I'll take the floor," he offered.

"No."

"It's not a problem. I've slept on worse."

"I said no." Turning round — a mistake, as it turned out, given his proximity — you had to look up to meet his eyes, which were performing their usual trick of boring into you as if you owed him money. "I'll take the floor. You take the bed."

Bucky's brow furrowed. Or rather, it furrowed further — it was already permanently set that way by default, yet it deepened to a degree you hadn't previously known was architecturally possible. "That doesn't make sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"You're smaller than me. The bed is more efficient for —"

"I don't care about efficiency, Barnes. Take the bed."

"I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor."

"You're not letting me do anything. I'm choosing the floor. Independently. Of my own volition."

This was — a fact you were distantly aware of even in the moment — not actually about chivalry, comfort, or any rational metric of who ought to sleep where.

It was entirely about the fact that Bucky had suggested the bed, and you would rather lie on cold hardwood until your spine fused than accept a single accommodation from a man who had spent months staring at you as if you were a code he was trying to crack, only to decide you weren't worth the effort.

Bucky looked at you, and you looked back at him. The standoff held for a stretched, ridiculous beat — two highly trained operatives with a combined century of combat experience, thoroughly deadlocked over a mattress.

"We could —" He stopped, recalibrated, and started again carefully, in the manner of a person approaching a suggestion they already know will go badly. "We could share it."

"Absolutely not."

"It's a full. There's room."

"There is not room."

There was, objectively, room.

A further eleven minutes of negotiation ensued — eleven minutes that could have been spent sleeping, maintaining perimeter awareness, or doing literally anything other than arguing about a bed with a man whose face hadn't changed expression once throughout the entire exchange.

In the end, the solution was reached not through compromise, but through mutual exhaustion: you on the left side, him on the right, with a gap between you wide enough to accommodate a respectably sized third person, or possibly a coffin, which felt appropriate.

You lay on your back, rigid, arms at your sides, staring at the ceiling. The blanket covered you to mid-chest. Although your boots were off, everything else remained on; you were certainly not changing clothes in a safehouse with Bucky on the other side of a bed you were sharing against every instinct you possessed.

He lay on his back, equally rigid, with hands folded over his stomach as he too stared at the ceiling. The blanket covered him to the waist. Having removed his jacket and gloves but nothing else, the plates of his left arm caught the ambient glow of the streetlamp outside in the dim light filtering through the window.

Silence followed — a long, heavy, weighted silence.

Steve Rogers, you thought, with the focus and clarity of a prayer, I am going to find you, and I am going to make you understand what you've done. When the history books document your demise, they will note that it was thoroughly deserved.

Somewhere beyond the curtains, Riga hummed its quiet nighttime hum. A car passed, a dog barked, and the kitchen refrigerator cycled on with a low rattle that settled into white noise.

Bucky shifted. Not towards you — if anything, he pressed further into his own edge, as though attempting to grant the gap between you additional square footage through sheer force of will. The mattress dipped slightly with the movement before settling into stillness once more.

More silence followed. You could hear him breathing — a steady, measured rhythm suggesting either deep calm or trained control. Unable to tell which, it bothered you that you were listening closely enough to wonder.

"Can I ask you something?"

His voice was quiet. It wasn't soft — Bucky didn't do soft, or if he did, you had never been granted access to it — yet it was low and careful. He directed his gaze at the ceiling, speaking in the manner of someone who had determined that eye contact would prove a tactical error.

"What?" you said, flat and with your guard firmly up.

A pause followed while he chose his words with the deliberation of a man disarming a device he didn't fully understand — which, in a sense, he was.

"Why do you glare at me?"

The question landed in the dark between you like a stone dropped into still water: simple, direct, and genuinely, painfully confused. It was neither accusatory nor hurt, but merely curious — like a puzzle he had been turning over in his hands for months and had finally decided to open here, in the dark, lying on his back and addressing the ceiling, having apparently calculated that looking at you while asking would make whatever was already wrong significantly worse.

You didn't answer immediately, far too blindsided by the fact that he had noticed. This was insane in retrospect because, of course he had noticed — you had been glaring at the man with the intensity of a sustained laser for the better part of six months.

"Why do I glare at you?" you repeated, as though the question had been delivered in a language you didn't speak.

"Yeah." Still staring at the ceiling, still careful. "I've been — I don't think I've done anything to you. I've tried to run through it, and I can't find the point where I —" He paused. "I've been professional. I've followed protocol, and I've done everything by the handbook. Yet you look at me like I've murdered your cat."

"Because you glare at me!"

It came out louder than intended. You felt the bed shift as he reacted —not flinching, but merely offering a slight turn of his head, which he immediately corrected back to facing the ceiling. "You've glared at me since my first day at the compound. You looked at me like I'd committed a federal crime simply by walking into the kitchen. Every briefing, every corridor, every — you just stare at me, Barnes, as if I've personally wronged your bloodline. So yes, I glare back. What did you expect?"

Silence.

A long, heavy silence.

The sort of silence that possessed a distinct shape.

"Oh," Bucky said.

A single syllable, loaded with the slow, dawning weight of a revelation he hadn't seen coming, precisely because it had never once occurred to him as a possibility.

You heard him exhale through his nose — neither a sigh nor a laugh, but something in between that sounded like a man arriving at a destination he wished he hadn't.

"That's —" He stopped, then started again. "That's just my face."

"What?"

"That's how I look." His voice had grown careful again, though in a different register now — less disarming-a-bomb and more confessing to a crime he hadn't realised he'd committed. "Sam told me about it last year. He said I — the word he used was intense. I've been working on it."

A beat passed.

"Apparently, I have not been successful," he added, with the quiet devastation of a man confronting a failed self-improvement project. "My sincere apologies."

You lay there motionless, staring at the ceiling Bucky had been using as a conversational safe harbour, feeling the entire scaffolding of the last six months begin to buckle.

That was simply his face.

The glare, the stare, the flat, searing, unblinking hostility around which you had constructed an entire narrative of enmity — it was merely his face. It wasn't directed at you, nor was it directed at anyone else. It was simply the natural resting state of a man whose features had been frozen, thawed, wiped, reset, and reassembled enough times that they had settled on murder as their factory default.

He had been working on it. Sam had told him, and he had tried. He had been making an active, conscious effort to look less like he was plotting the downfall of everyone in his immediate vicinity, yet the gap between his attempt and his result was apparently so microscopic that you hadn't detected a single pixel of difference.

"Barnes," you said slowly.

"If it helps, I — it's not intentional. It's not — I'm not thinking hostile thoughts when I look at you. I'm usually not thinking anything specific. I'm just..."

"Looking."

"Looking. Yeah."

Another silence descended, though this one differed markedly — less loaded and more bewildered, representing the shared quiet of two people arriving at the same understanding from opposite ends of a very long, highly unnecessary misunderstanding.

"I owe you an apology," you said, the words tasting like something you ought to have uttered months ago, which made them harder to get out, not easier.

"You don't."

"Barnes, I've been horrible to you."

"You've been direct." He said it as though he meant it — not being generous or diplomatic, but simply accurate, by his measure. "I've had worse."

"That's not a particularly high bar."

"It's an honest one."

You lay there with that thought for a moment, letting the recalibration settle.

Every interaction — every terse exchange, every ignored greeting, and every pointed refusal to acknowledge his existence beyond operational necessity — replayed in fast-forward with the new context overlaid. Each one landed differently, and considerably worse. He had held doors open for you, complimented your sweep work, and made you soup. In return, you had met every gesture with the warmth of a closed fist, simply because his eyebrows didn't move the way you thought they should.

"I should also probably tell you something," Bucky said, still addressing the ceiling.

His voice had shifted once more, and had you not been lying close enough to hear the minute changes in his breathing, you might have missed the new tension within it. It wasn't discomfort or reluctance, but rather something closer to the careful steadying of a person about to step off a ledge they had been standing on for longer than planned.

"What?"

"I like you."

The words hit the dark ceiling and hung there, suspended, whilst your brain ran them through several rounds of processing, returning an error every time.

"I —" He cleared his throat. "I like working with you. Your tactical instincts are — the northwest junction call was good. It was better than my call. Furthermore, the way you handle aerial overwatch possesses a precision that — it makes my job easier, which isn't something I say about many people. I actually like that you argue with me, too. Most people don't; they either defer or avoid, whereas you just — " He made a vague gesture towards the ceiling with his right hand. "You come straight at it."

He was rambling.

Bucky — who usually communicated in sentence fragments, silences, and single-word affirmatives — was rambling. The words spilled out in a steady, almost helpless stream, as if he had uncorked something he didn't know how to reseal. The ceiling received the full force of it, given that he still hadn't looked at you and, at this point, probably couldn't.

"And the — the attitude. I know it was directed at me, and I understand that now, but even before I understood it, it didn't bother me. I thought it was simply how you were with everyone. I thought, they’re sharp, they’re focused, and they doesn't waste words, and that's —" He paused, swallowing hard. "I like that. I like all of it. And — you're not going to believe this — the glaring. Even the glaring. You commit to it. There's a — you're very —"

He stopped, breathing out as the sentence died a merciful death somewhere between his intention and his ability to articulate it.

"I don't care if you snap my ears off," he said quietly. "I never have."

On your side of the bed, behind the safety of the gap that now felt less like a demilitarised zone and more like the only barrier preventing you from doing something irreversible, you stared at the ceiling as the universe rearranged itself.

He liked you.

He liked you.

Bucky — whom you had spent six months hating with the dedicated focus of a doctoral thesis, whom you had categorised, filed, and sealed under enemy with absolute certainty — liked you.

He had liked you, quite possibly the entire time. He had appreciated your tactical calls, your aerial work, your stubbornness, and your glaring — which he had apparently found more charming than threatening.

This recontextualised every single moment you had ever shared into something so fundamentally different from what you had believed that your brain was essentially executing a factory reset in real time.

The Big Bang, as they said, originated from a single point of infinite density before expanding outwards in every direction at once. This felt remarkably similar, except the point of infinite density was Bucky saying I don't care if you snap my ears off in the dark, whilst the expansion represented every assumption you had ever made about him detonating simultaneously.

He had gone quiet. The ramble had passed itself, leaving him lying there, still aimed at the ceiling, presumably regretting every word he had spoken while steeling himself for whatever you were about to throw back at him.

The gap between you felt enormous — and suddenly, completely absurd.

0110 — six

You rolled over.

Not gradually, nor cautiously, and certainly not with the measured calculation of someone who had spent the last several hours maintaining the maximum possible distance from the man beside them.

You simply turned, crossing the gap as though it had never existed, before propping yourself up on your elbow on his side of the bed — close enough that your shadow fell across his chest.

Bucky went very still: the sort of still that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with the fact that his entire operating framework for this interaction had just been upended without warning. He had been braced for a multitude of possible responses — silence, anger, dismissal, or a scathing deconstruction of every word he had just uttered — yet certainly not this. He had not anticipated you being right there, leaning over him and looking down at him with an expression he had never before seen on your face, leaving him without a filed reference for it.

You were smiling.

It broke something in him — not loudly or dramatically, but with the quiet internal shift of a gear slipping into a position it hadn't known existed. He had seen you focused, furious, mid-combat, mid-argument, and mid-glare. He had catalogued every version of your face that you had ever shown him, yet none of them — not a single one — had included this. Open and bright, your eyes creased at the corners whilst your mouth curved in a way that made you look like an entirely different person, or perhaps the exact same person with a wall removed.

"Are you serious?" you asked.

He blinked. "About what?"

"Barnes. Are you serious? You like me?"

"I — yes. I just said —  I spent a significant amount of time just saying —"

"You like me." You said it again, not because you required confirmation, but rather because the words were new and you wished to feel them in your mouth a second time. A grin spread across your face—wide, uncontrolled, and entirely without your permission — and you couldn't have stopped it had national security depended on it.

Bucky stared up at you, his lips parting, closing, and parting again. The ramble that had poured out of him minutes ago had emptied his tank entirely; confronted with the direct, beaming, up-close reality of you smiling at him, he was left with nothing.

Every word he had ever learned in two languages, alongside a handful of operationally acquired phrases in four others, had vacated the premises.

"Yes," he managed, the word sounding as though it had been dragged out of him with a hook.

You laughed.

It wasn't at him, but rather at the situation, at yourself, and at six months of wasted hostility collapsing in real time. The sound landed on Bucky like something physical, making his chest shift beneath it. You watched his throat work through a swallow, observing his eyes as they tracked across your face with the bewildered focus of a man seeing a new colour for the first time and not yet trusting that it was real.

"You absolute idiot," you said, as your hand found his jaw.

His breathing changed. You felt it — the catch, the skip, and the barely perceptible hitch of someone whose body had just been informed of a development his brain hadn't authorised. Your fingers rested against the edge of his jaw, your thumb lying along his cheekbone. His skin felt warm beneath your hand — warmer than you had expected, which was a foolish thing to have expectations about, given that thirty seconds prior you had still been on your side of the demilitarised zone pretending to hate him.

"You —" he began.

"Shut up. I'm having a moment."

Your other hand landed on his shoulder — not in a grip or a shove, but in simple contact. With your palm resting on the curve of muscle through his shirt and your fingers settling against the junction of his neck, you felt him tense beneath you. He didn't pull away, but held himself in the rigid stillness of someone who didn't trust himself to move, having not yet determined what the correct movement ought to be.

You were slightly draped across him now, with one hand on his jaw, the other on his shoulder, and your weight shifted onto his side of the bed. You were close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the way his pupils had widened in the low light. This was uncharted territory for both of you, obviously.

Yet watching it happen to him was something else entirely: observing the composure that had survived decades of ice, combat, and reprogramming falter over the simple, devastating fact that you were touching his face and smiling about it.

"Hi," you said, foolishly.

"Hi." His voice had dropped into a register you hadn't heard before—rough at the edges and quiet in the middle. His right hand came up slowly and carefully, as though reaching for something he expected to be snatched away, hovering near your elbow without quite landing. "You're — this is — I thought you hated me."

"I did hate you."

"And now?"

"Now I'm re-evaluating my methodology."

His hand landed. Gentle and uncertain, his fingers wrapped round your forearm with a pressure so light it was barely there, as if holding something he had been told was fragile without being informed where the cracks were.

You watched his eyes search yours — back and forth, quick and unguarded, stripped of the flat intensity you had been misreading for half a year. He wasn't glaring, nor was he staring; he was simply looking at you. For the first time, you could see what was actually present beneath the granite: a banked, cautious want, held at arm's length for so long he had forgotten he was doing it.

"For the record," you said, "the soup was incredible."

A sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, nor quite a breath, but something in the middle. It was an involuntary noise that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. The corner of his mouth moved; it wasn't a full smile, nor even half of one, but a subtle shift — a fracture in the architecture — that transformed his entire face in a way that made your stomach drop pleasantly into your shoes.

"Noted," he said.

"And the business where you threw yourself in front of a bullet for me —"

"Standard protocol."

"It wasn't, actually."

"It felt standard."

"Barnes."

"Yeah."

You leaned down and kissed him.

It wasn't graceful, as the angle was wrong. You were still propped half on your elbow and half on his chest, your hand sliding from his jaw to the side of his neck as you closed the gap, your nose bumping his because geometry refused to cooperate with the urgency of the moment. Yet his mouth was warm, and when he took a full second to respond, you almost pulled back — nearly retreating to your side of the bed to die of mortification in peace — before his hand tightened on your arm. His other hand came up to the back of your head, and he kissed you back with a quiet, focused intensity suggesting he had been considering this for significantly longer than the duration of your conversation.

He kissed in the same manner he did everything else: thoroughly, unhurriedly, and deliberately, without a single wasted movement. His fingers slid into your hair whilst his thumb traced the line behind your ear, tilting his head to fix the angle problem you had created.

Distantly, in the remaining functional portion of your brain, you thought, Ah, so this is what it's like when he isn't on the other side of a room looking as though he wants to murder me.

It was better — categorically, unreservedly, and across every imaginable metric.

You broke apart just far enough to draw breath, his hand remaining in your hair while yours stayed on his neck. The gap between you had been reduced to practically nothing, leaving the wool blanket as a lost cause somewhere around both your waists. He was looking at you with an expression that, for the first time since you had known him, you could actually read.

"Just to be clear," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "this means you don't hate me."

"This means I don't hate you."

"Right." His thumb moved against your scalp — slowly and absent-mindedly, as though he were doing it without realising. "Good. That's — yeah. Good."

You kissed him again — because he had said good like a man who had just been told the war was over, because his hand was tangled in your hair, and because his voice was wrecked.

You had six months of hostility to make up for, and you intended to be exceptionally thorough about it.

0111 — seven

Steve opened the safehouse door at 0600 with his shield strapped to his back, a cereal bar in hand, and the calm, satisfied expression of a man who had successfully rerouted an extraction under pressure — feeling, frankly, rather pleased with himself.

"Rise and shine, I've got us a window —"

He stopped dead.

You were on the bed, and Bucky was on the bed.

More accurately, you were on top of Bucky — your fingers tangled in his hair, his arm hooked securely round your waist, and your mouths occupied in a manner that had absolutely nothing to do with a mission debrief. The wool blanket had been kicked onto the floor at some point during the night, alongside, apparently, every professional boundary either of you had ever maintained.

Steve stared.

Breaking apart, Bucky's hand remained precisely where it was. You looked at Steve, Steve looked at you, and Bucky looked at Steve with the exact same unreadable expression he always wore — which, given the context, was doing a spectacular amount of heavy lifting.

The cereal bar lowered slowly to Steve's side.

"I —" Steve began.

"Morning," Bucky said.

"You —" Steve pointed at you, then pointed at Bucky, before pointing at the non-existent space between you. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The strategic mind that had orchestrated the fall of HYDRA and the defence of three continents was, for the first time in recorded history, attempting to process something it had failed to anticipate.

"This is —" He took a step backwards. "I'm going to — I'll be in the — you have ten minutes."

The door clicked shut, followed by footsteps retreating down the corridor at a pace that could only be described as fleeing.

You looked at Bucky, and Bucky looked back at you. His hair was a disaster, whilst your shirt was untucked. Neither of you had slept for more than two hours, both of you looked it, and somewhere on the other side of the door, Steve was having a private reckoning with the direct consequences of his own tactical genius.

"He's splitting us up," you said. "You realise that, don't you? After this, he'll never put us on the same mission again."

Bucky's mouth executed that familiar movement — the subtle shift, the fracture in the architecture, the not-quite-smile that remade his entire face and caused your chest to do something structurally inadvisable.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Probably."

He didn't sound remotely bothered by the prospect.

From the corridor, muffled and vaguely traumatised, came Steve's voice: "Ten minutes, Buck!"

You kissed him again — partly because Steve had set a deadline, and mostly because spite had always been your love language.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @elarapheonix @hisokamywaifu @froggibus @axtira @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker

$ join taglist

You're twenty minutes late to your first mandatory meeting with the new Dean of Graduate Studies, and you don't even have a good excuse.

Well, that's not entirely true. You do have an excuse—your advisor's lecture ran over, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and honestly, you'd forgotten about the meeting until you got the reminder notification—but whether it's a good excuse is debatable. Probably not good enough for someone like James Buchanan Barnes, whose reputation preceded him by about three weeks and several strongly worded emails.

The administrative assistant gives you a disapproving look as you breeze past her desk, still juggling your coffee and bag.

"He's been waiting for you for almost half an hour," she says, voice clipped.

"I know, I know. Traffic sucks."

It's 10 AM on a Wednesday, there was no traffic. She knows it. You know it. But you flash her your most charming smile anyway and knock twice on the heavy oak door before pushing it open.

"You're late."

His voice is deeper than you expected. Rough around the edges, like gravel and smoke. You take the opportunity to study him while his attention is elsewhere—dark hair that's a bit longer than typical administrator— short, sharp jaw, broad shoulders that fill out his button-down shirt in a way that's frankly distracting. He's younger than you pictured too. Mid-thirties, maybe. Which seems impossibly young for a dean, but then again, you'd heard he had an impressive background. Former military, something classified, then a PhD that he'd blazed through in record time.

Great. An overachiever with something to prove.

"Sorry," you say, not sounding particularly sorry. "My advisor's—"

"Save it." He finally looks up and you're struck by the intensity of his blue eyes. They sweep over you once, assessing, cataloging. You have the distinct impression he's already formed an opinion and it's not favorable. "Just don't let it happen again."

You bite back the retort on your tongue—yes, sir delivered with just enough sarcasm to be insubordinate— and instead, drop into one of the chairs across from his desk.

He watches you settle in, one eyebrow slightly raised. "I didn't say sit."

Oh, this is going to be fun.

"I assumed, since this is a meeting, we'd be sitting." You take a deliberate sip of your coffee, maintaining eye contact. "Unless you prefer to conduct business standing? I'm flexible."

Something flashes in his expression. Annoyance, maybe. Or disbelief that you'd speak to him like this in the first ten seconds of knowing him. "Ms—" He glances at his computer screen, confirming your name, even though you both know he already knows it. He called this meeting, after all. When he says your full name, it sounds like an indictment.

"You can just use my first name," you interrupt. "We're all adults here."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I've asked you here because your academic record has come to my attention."

"Oh good, I love being noticed for my achievements."

"That's not—" He stops, taking a deep breath through his nose. Patience, you realize. He's already exercising patience with you and you've been in his office for less than two minutes. "Your grades are exceptional. Some of the highest in your program. Your research proposal was brilliant, according to Dr. Morrison. Which makes the rest of your file particularly… concerning."

You wait. Let him say it.

"You've missed 40% of your mandatory seminars this semester. You've submitted three separate assignments past deadline. You were given a verbal warning last month for—" he checks his notes"—'disruptive behavior during a guest lecture'. And apparently, you've been avoiding your advisory meetings."

"I haven't been avoiding them… Dr. Morrison and I have an understanding."

"An understanding." He repeats it like he's tasting something sour. "What kind of understanding allows a master's student to simply not show up to scheduled meetings with their advisor?"

You shrug. "The kind where he knows I'm working and doesn't need me to hold his hand through every stage of the process. I send updates, he responds. It's very efficient, actually."

Dean Barnes closes his laptop with a decisive click. He leans forward, palms flat on the desk, and you notice for the first time that his left hand has some scarring across the knuckles.

"Let me be very clear," he says, voice low and controlled. "I don't care how brilliant your research is or how high your GPA sits. At this university, under my administration, you will attend your required seminars. You will meet deadlines. You will show up to your advisory meetings and you will conduct yourself professionally. Are we understood?"

The reasonable part of your brain—the small, usually ignored part—suggests that maybe you should just nod and agree. This man has the power to make your academic life substantially more difficult. He could put you on probation, revoke funding, even recommend dismissal in extreme cases.

But there's something about his tone, the way he's looking at you like you're a problem to be solved, a recruit to be disciplined, that makes your spine straighten and your chin lift.

"I understand that you've been dean for all of three weeks and you're very eager to make your mark," you say sweetly. "But micromanaging graduate students who are already producing exceptional work seems like a waste of everyone's time. Maybe focus on the students who are actually failing?"

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

Dean Barnes straightens slowly and you notice he's tall. Really tall. The kind of presence that would be commanding even without the title and the office and the obvious military bearing.

"This meeting is a courtesy," he says, each word precisely enunciated. "The next one won't be. You have two weeks to demonstrate significant improvement in your attendance and professional conduct. If I don't see that improvement, we'll be having a very different conversation about your continued enrollment in this program."

Your heart kicks against your ribs with anger—not fear, you tell yourself— but you keep your expression neutral.

"Is that all, Dean Barnes?" You load his title with just enough emphasis to make it clear what you think of this entire conversation.

"Yes, you're dismissed."

You stand, gathering your bag with unhurried movements. At the door, you pause and glance back. He's already focused on his computer again, effectively erasing you from his attention.

"See you around," you say lightly, but don't wait for a response.

Outside, the administrative assistant gives you a knowing look.

"How'd it go?"

"Oh, you know. Just another power-hungry administrator on a mission." You adjust your bag on your shoulder. "I give him six months before he burns out."

She actually laughs at that. "I wouldn't underestimate Dean Barnes. He doesn't strike me as the burning-out type"

"Everyone's the burning-out type eventually."

But as you walk back across campus, coffee gone cold in your hand, you can't quite shake the memory of those sharp blue eyes and the controlled anger in his voice.

Two weeks. He'd given you two weeks.

You'd show him improvement. Just… maybe not the kind he was expecting.

You make it exactly five days before you're back in Dean Barnes' office.

To be fair, this time it's not entirely your fault. Well, it's mostly not your fault. The seminar was mind numbingly boring, the visiting professor had clearly not updated his research since 2015, and when he'd made a factually incorrect statement about recent developments in your field, you'd… corrected him.

Publicly.

Perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. And maybe you'd rolled your eyes when he'd tried to double down on his outdated information.

"Please tell me," Dean Barnes says as you walk into his office—on time, you note, which should count for something—"that you didn't tell Professor Whitmore that his keynote address was 'a fascinating glimpse into how people thought about this subject a decade ago."

You hover near the door. He hasn't invited you to sit, and you're not about to make the same assumption twice. "I was complimenting his historical perspective?"

"Sit down." It's not a request, so you sit.

He's wearing a different shirt today—still button-down, still perfectly pressed, but this one's a dark henley that makes his eyes look even bluer. He's also skipped the jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and you can see more of that scarring on his left forearm.

"Professor Whitmore," Dean Barnes continues, voice tight with controlled frustration, "is a respected scholar who has published over forty papers and—"

"Thirty-seven," you correct automatically. "And only twelve in the last ten years, most of which were just rehashing his—"

"That's not the point," he interrupts as he closes his eyes, like he's praying for patience.

"Then what is the point? That I'm supposed to sit there and smile while someone spreads misinformation to a room full of graduate students who might actually—"

"The point," he says, leaning forward, "is that you cannot speak to visiting faculty like they're undergraduates who got a question wrong on an exam. There's a way to engage in academic discourse that doesn't involve public humiliation."

"I didn't humiliate him. I just corrected—"

"You told him he should consider 'updating his references to include something from this century."

"And that's accurate feedback!"

"In front of sixty people!"

You're both on your feet now, though you don't remember standing. The desk is between you, but it feels like no distance at all.

"So what?" Your voice rises to match his. "I'm supposed to just sit there and nod along with bad science because his ego is too fragile to handle being challenged?"

"You're supposed to conduct yourself like a professional!" He slams his hand on the desk, and you actually flinch. Not from fear—from surprise at the crack in his controlled demeanor. "Do you have any idea how many complaints I've fielded about you in the past five days? Five days! You've been late to three more seminars, you got into an argument with Dr. Burns about her grading criteria, and now this!"

"Dr. Burns' grading criteria are arbitrary and—"

"I don't care!" He runs his hand through his hair. "I don't care if you're right. I don't care if every single person you've argued is wrong. You are a master's student at a prestigious university, and you will show respect to the faculty, or you will be gone. Do you understand me?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

You can hear your own heartbeat, can see the muscles ticking in his jaw, can feel the anger radiating off him in waves. "You want me to be a good little student," you say quietly, voice sharp as glass. "Smile and nod and never question anything, even when it's wrong."

"I want you to think before you speak. I want you to consider the consequences of your actions. I want you to act like someone who actually wants to be here."

"Jeez, Dean. I worked my ass of to get into this program, of course I want to be here!"

"Then act like it!" He's around the desk now, closing the distance between you. "Because from where I'm standing, you're doing everything possible to get yourself kicked out. Late, disruptive, insubordinate—"

"Oh, here we go." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Insubordinate. There it is. You know this isn't the military, right? You can't just bark orders and expect everyone to fall in line."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I think you're so used to people following your commands that you can't handle someone who pushes back."

"Pushes back?" He's close now, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You're not pushing back. You're acting like a spoiled brat who's never been told 'no' in her life."

The words hit like a slap. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His voice is lower now, but no less intense. "You think your intelligence gives you a free pass to treat everyone around you like they're beneath you. You think because you're smarter than most people in the room, the rules don't apply to you."

"That's not—"

"When's the last time you actually listened to feedback? When's the last time you considered that maybe, just maybe, someone else might have a point? Or are you so far up your own ass that you can't see how you're sabotaging yourself?"

Your hands are shaking from anger… at least that's what you tell yourself.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." He's not yelling anymore, which somehow makes it worse. "I know you're brilliant and talented and completely wasting it because you'd rather prove you're the smartest person in every room than actually accomplish anything meaningful. I know you're going to talk your way out of this program within the semester if you don't get your act together. And I know—"

He stops abruptly, jaw clenching.

"What?" you challenge. "You know what?"

"I know I'm done trying to help someone who doesn't want to be helped."

The words settle between you like stones.

"I never asked for your help."

"No," he agrees, voice flat. "You didn't, which is why, effective immediately you're being placed on academic probation. You'll meet with me every Monday at 9 AM to review your attendance and conduct for the previous week. You'll submit weekly progress reports, and if I receive one more complaint about your behavior you're out."

Your mouth goes dry. "You can't—"

"I can, and I am." He steps back, putting professional distance between you again. When he speaks, his voice is completely detached. "You have potential, but potential means nothing if you can't work with other people. Consider this your last chance."

You want to argue, tell him exactly where he can shove his probation and weekly meetings and his condescending concern. But the look on his face stops you. He doesn't look angry anymore, he's disappointed. And somehow, that's so much worse.

"Fine," you bite out.

"Fine," he echoes.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, see you Monday 9 AM. Don't be late."

You turn on your heel and walk out, managing to keep your composure until you're halfway across campus. Then you find an empty classroom and let yourself feel the full weight of what just happened.

Academic probation. Weekly meetings with Dean Barnes. One complaint away from expulsion.

You should be terrified.

Instead, all you can think about is the way his eyes had blazed when he called you a spoiled brat, the way he'd gotten close enough that you could smell his cologne, the way your heart had raced you when he'd challenged you.

You're in so much trouble, and not just the academic kind.

The Monday meetings become a special kind of torture.

On week one, you show up on time with printed documentation of your perfect attendance and professionally worded emails to faculty. Dean Barnes reviews them with barely a nod, asks if you have anything else to report and dismisses you in under ten minutes.

Week two, you're three minutes late because the printer jammed. He doesn't say anything, just marks something in his notes while you apologize. You hate how the silence feels like criticism.

Week three, you're early. You bring coffee— one for you, one for him, because maybe if you try being nice, this will be less awful. He looks at the cup you set on his desk like it might be poisoned, but he drinks it anyway.

By week five, you've developed a routine. Monday mornings, 9 AM, sitting across from Dean Barnes while he reviews your week. You've been perfect. Perfectly punctual, perfectly polite, perfectly compliant.

You hate every second of it.

"Your attendance has been flawless," he notes, scrolling through something on his laptop. It's mid-October now, and he's traded the henleys for sweaters that somehow make him look more approachable and more intimidating at the same time. "Dr. Morrison says you've been attending all your advisory meetings."

"As required."

He glances up at that, catching the edge in your tone.

"Is there a problem?"

Yes, you want to say. The problem is that you've spent five weeks performing like a trained seal, and he hasn't once acknowledged that maybe, just maybe, his assessment of you was harsh. The problem is that you lie awake at night replaying your arguments, thinking of better comebacks, sharper retorts. The problem is that you've started noticing things about him—the way he drums his fingers on the desk when he's thinking, the small scar through his eyebrow, how his entire demeanor softens when he talks to the administrative staff.

The problem is that you can't stop wondering what it would take to crack that professional facade.

"No problem," you say instead.

He studies you for a long moment, and you have the unsettling feeling that he sees right through you.

"You seem…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Subdued."

"I'm being professional, isn't that what you wanted?"

"I wanted you to engage constructively, not to shut down completely."

You laugh—a short, bitter sound. "I literally cannot win with you, can I? I'm disruptive, I'm a problem. I'm quiet, I'm shutting down. What exactly do you want from me, dean Barnes?"

His expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his features.

"I want—" he stops, jaw tightening. "I want you to find a balance between being yourself and being respectful, that's all I've ever wanted."

"Right, because you know so much about who I am from our what, six conversations? All of which have been you telling me everything I'm doing wrong."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You're leaning forward now, exhaustion and frustration bubbling over. "You decided who I was in our first meeting. Spoiled, bratty, someone who needs to be put in her place. You never once considered that maybe there are reasons I am the way I am."

"Then tell me." He matches your posture, leaning in. "Explain it to me."

"Why should I? So you can use it against me? Add it to your little file of everything that's wrong with me?"

"That's not—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard through his nose. "I've never wanted to use anything against you. From day one, I've been trying to help you succeed."

"By threatening to kick me out?"

"By giving you clear expectations and boundaries! Which, apparently, no one else in your academic career has bothered to do!"

"Don't pretend you know anything about my academic career!"

"I know you've been coasting on raw talent without even learning how to work with people! I know you alienate everyone around you because it's easier than being vulnerable! I know—"

He stops abruptly, like he's said too much. The silence is suffocating.

"You know what?" Your voice shakes, and you hate it. Hate that he's gotten under your skin like this. "I've done everything you asked. I've been to every seminar, every meeting. I've smiled and nodded and played the part of the good little student and it's still not enough for you."

"That's not true."

"Then what do you want from me?" The question comes out raw, almost desperate. "Just tell me what you want, and I'll do it, so we can both stop pretending these meetings are anything other than you reminding me how much of a disappointment I am!"

You're standing now—when did you stand?—and so is he, and the desk between you feels like both a barrier and the only thing keeping this situation from spiraling completely out of control.

"You're not a disappointment," he says, and his voice has gone quiet in a way that's more affecting than any of his anger. "You're brilliant and passionate and you care so deeply about your work that it scares you, so you hide behind sarcasm and antagonism, because if you don't care, you can't fail. But you do care. I see it every time you argue about methodology or challenge outdated thinking. You care so much it's destroying you."

The accuracy of it steals your breath.

"You don't know me," you whisper, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

"Don't I?" He's moved around the desk—when did he do that?—and suddenly he's close, closer than he's been since that first argument. "You think I haven't noticed? The way you're first to arrive at seminars now but you sit in the back and never speak up? The way you flinch every time I ask if you have anything to report? It's like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. You're miserable, and I—"

He stops, something warring in his expression.

"You what?" The challenge is automatic, but your voice is barely above a whisper.

"I hate that I did that to you." You weren't expecting that. "I thought I was helping," he continues, and he sounds tired. "I thought structure and discipline were what you needed, but I've been taking out my own frustrations on you. Every time you pushed back, it reminded me of myself before the army beat it out of me… all that fire and certainty and refusal to back down.."

His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you haven't seen before. The confession hangs between you.

"I'm sorry," he continues. "I'm sorry for calling you a brat and making you feel like you had to change who you are. For not seeing until now that I've been the problem just as much as—"

"Stop." Your hand comes up, almost touching his chest before you catch yourself. "Don't apologize. I've been… god, I've been awful. To you, to the faculty. You were right about me coasting on talent. You were right about a lot of things.""

You don't know who moves first.

Maybe it's simultaneous, gravity and inevitability pulling you together. But suddenly there's no space between you at all, and you can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes.

"This is a bad idea," he says, but he doesn't move away.

"Terrible idea," you agree, and then his mouth is on yours.

It's not gentle. There's too much pent-up frustration, too many weeks of tension for it to be anything but desperate and consuming. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, and you grab fistfuls of his sweater. When he breaks away, you're both breathing hard.

"We can't—" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Your door is locked."

"That is not the point."

"Then what's the point?" You're using his words from earlier, and from the way his eyes darken, he knows it.

"You're my student."

"I'm a graduate student. An adult." Your hands slide up his chest. "And you're not my professor or my advisor. You're an administrator who's been making my life hell for six weeks."

"Making your life hell," he repeats, and there's something dangerous in his voice now. "Is that what I've been doing?"

"Yes..."

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "You've been making mine hell too. Do you have any idea how hard it's been, sitting across from you every Monday, watching you perform this perfect student act when all I can think about is—"

He stops himself, but you see the want in his eyes, the same want that's been eating you alive.

"Say it," you challenge.

Instead of answering, he kisses you again, harder this time, backing you up until your legs hit his desk. His hands span your waist, lifting you onto it with an ease that makes something hot coil in your stomach.

"You've been driving me crazy," he says against your mouth. "Every argument, every time you pushed back, every time you looked at me like you wanted to either kill me or—"

"Or what?"

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. "Or this."

You should stop this, you should think about the consequences, the professional boundaries, the fact that you're literally on academic probation. But when his fingers trace a way through your inner thigh, all rational thought evaporates.

"James," you breathe, using his first name for the first time.

"Bucky," he corrects, and the intimacy of it makes your heart stutter. "Call me Bucky."

"Bucky," you try out, and he makes a sound low in his throat that goes straight through you.

His fingers move higher, teasing, and when he brushes against your underwear, his eyes go wide. "Fuck, you're soaked."

The embarrassment is immediate and scorching, but before you can form a defense, he's kissing your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point.

"All those arguments," he murmurs against your skin. "All that fighting… and this whole time?" His fingers press more firmly, and you gasp. "Oh, sweetheart, who would've thought being such a brat make you this wet?"

"I'm not—" you start, but he slides your underwear to the side and touches properly, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a moan.

"Not what? Not a brat?" His thumb finds your clit and he circles it. "That's all you've been, baby. Running that smart mouth, pushing every button, getting yourself all worked up." He slides one finger inside you, and your head falls back. "Getting me all worked up, is this what you wanted? Every time you argued with me?"

"No," you lie, but your body betrays you, your hips roll against his hand.

"No?" He adds another finger, and the stretch makes you whimper. "Because you're gripping my fingers like you've been thinking about this. Like maybe every Monday morning, you sat in that chair and wondered what it would take to make me snap."

"You're so arrogant," you manage, but it comes out breathy and weak.

He laughs, dark and low. "Says the woman who's about to come all over my desk during her probation meeting."

The worlds should be humiliating, instead, they make everything tighter, hotter. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur.

"That's it," he encourages, his other hand coming up to wrap loosely around your throat. "Let go, stop performing for once and just feel."

You come while his fingers are still working inside you, he kisses you through it, swallowing your moans. When you finally come down, you find him looking at you with something that might be awe.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers slowly.

You watch dazed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you. The sight makes you clench around nothing.

"We're not done," you tell him, reaching for his belt.

His hand catches your wrist. "Are you sure?"

"Dean, if you don't fuck me on this desk right now, I swear to god—"

He kisses you hard. "There she is, there's my stubborn girl."

He makes quick work of his belt, and when he frees himself, you can't help but stare. He's big—bigger than you expected— and the intimidation must show on your face because his expressions softens slightly.

"We don't have to—"

"I want to," you cut him off. "I want you."

Something in his expression changes, and then he's pulling you to the edge of the desk, lining himself up. "Last chance to be sensible," he offers, but he's already pushing forward, just the tip.

"When have I ever been sensible?"

He laughs, breathless and pushes in slowly. The stretch is intense, almost too much, and you grab his shoulders for leverage.

"Breathe," he instructs, stilling. "Just breathe, baby."

You do, and he slides in further, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. For a moment, neither of you moves, just adjusting to the overwhelming intimacy of it.

"Okay?" He asks, and the gentleness in his voice nearly undoes you.

"More than okay," you roll your hips experimentally, and his grip on your waist tightens.

He groans, and then he's moving, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, settling a rhythm that's deep and deliberate. Each thrust hits something inside you and you can't keep quiet.

"That's it," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to cover your mouth. "As much as I love hearing you, we need to be quiet, can you do that for me?"

You nod against his palm, and he rewards you by picking up the pace. The desk rattles with each thrust, papers scattering to the floor, but neither of you care.

"All semester," he says. "I've been trying to figure out how to handle you… turns out what you needed was this needed someone to put you in place."

You bite is palm in retaliation, and he actually laughs.

"Still got that mouth on you, even now" He pulls out suddenly, and you whimper at the loss. "Turn around"

You obey without thinking, and he bends you over is desk, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other hiking your skirt up around your waist.

"Much better," he says, running his hand over the curve of your ass. " Now I don't have to watch you try to be defiant while I'm fucking you senseless."

He pushes back in with one smooth thrust, and the new angle makes you cry out into your folded arms. It's overwhelming—the fullness, the angle, the sound of skin against skin, his words washing over you. You're helpless to do anything but hold on as he drives into you again and again.

"Touch yourself," he orders. "Make yourself come on my cock."

One of your hand slides between your legs, finding your clit and the additional stimulation makes everything tighten impossibly.

"That's my good girl," he praises, and his words combined with his relentless pace push you over the edge. You come hard, muffling your cries in your arms, and he follows moments later with a choked groan, spilling inside you.

For a moment, there's only the sound of harsh breathing. Then slowly, he pulls out and helps you stand, stepping back like you've burned him.

"Fuck," he says, running his hands through his disheveled hair. "Fuck."

You slide off the desk on shaky legs, pulling your skirt down. Your heart is still racing, but the way he's avoiding to look at you, makes dread pool in your stomach.

"Bucky—"

"This can't happen," he says, finally meeting your eyes. And god, the regret in his gaze nearly breaks you. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but this— we can't."

"I know it's complicated, but—"

"It's not complicated, it's wrong." He's already tucking his shirt back in, rebuilding is armor. "You're my student, I put you on academic probation, I have direct oversight of your academic career… this is exactly the kind of ethics violation that ends careers."

"Then we'll figure it out," you say, hating how desperate you sound. "We can't disclose it, or—"

"No." The word is final. "Your probation is over, effective immediately. You've met all the requirements, but that's— that's all this can be."

You feel like you've been slapped. "All this can be? Are you serious right now?"

He won't look at you. "I need you to leave."

"Bucky—"

"Dean Barnes," he corrects and the formality is cruel. "Please, just go."

You grab your bag with shaking hands, blinking back the tears burning your eyes. "Right, okay. Got it."

"Wait," his voice stops you at the door. When you turn, there's something in his expression you can't quite name, but he just says, "This stays between us, no one can know."

"Don't worry," you say, voice brittle. "I'm very good at keeping secrets for men who regret me."

You don't wait for his response.

Six weeks later

The remaining weeks of the semester are torture.

You see Bucky exactly three times: once across the quad (he changed direction), once at a departmental meeting (he didn't make eye contact), and once in the administrative building when you had to drop off paperwork (he disappeared into his office before you reached the desk).

The message is clear, whatever happened in his office was a mistake he wants to forget, and you're a problem he's solved by simply avoiding.

Fine. You can take a hint.

You throw yourself into finals, spending sixteen-hour days in the library. Your research proposal gets accepted for publication, Dr. Morrison nominates you for a prestigious summer fellowship. You're thriving academically.

But you're also miserable.

You finish your last exam on a Tuesday afternoon, exhausted and emotionally drained.

One more paper to submit tomorrow and you'll be done and free for the summer. Free to leave the campus and not think about Bucky Barnes and his blue eyes and the way he'd made you feel before calling it all a mistake.

Dr. Morrison finds you packing up your carrel in the library.

"Heading out for the summer?"

"Yeah, got that fellowship in Boston. I'll be leaving next week."

"Boston's far."

Something in his tone makes you look up. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no. I'm happy for you, just… you're gonna be missed, that's all."

You're too tired to reply or try to deepen in his words, so you just nod and go back to packing.

You submit your final paper at 3 PM. It's done. The semester from hell is officially over.

You're heading to your car, already mentally planning your escape from this campus and all its memories, when you see him.

Dean Barnes, leaning against your car in the parking lot, and he's holding flowers. Peonies, specifically, though you can't remember ever telling him that. He straightens when he sees you, and even from a distance, you can see how nervous he is.

"What are you doing here?" You ask, stopping a few feet away.

"Waiting for you," he holds out the flowers. "These are for you."

You don't take them. "Mr. Barnes, what—"

"The semester's over," he says quickly. "Grades were submitted this morning, you're no longer under my administrative oversight—I transferred that six weeks ago to Dean Bell, which means I can finally tell you what I should have said that day in my office."

Your heart is pounding hard against your chest. "Which is?"

"That calling it a mistake was the real mistake, that I've spent six weeks working behind the scenes to remove every professional barrier between us because I couldn't stop thinking about you. That I'm sorry I hurt you, sorry I made you think I regretted you, when the truth is—" He takes a breath. "The truth is I've been falling for you since the day you walked into my office late and challenged everything I thought I knew about myself."

You can't breathe. "Six weeks? You've been planning this for six weeks?"

"I couldn't approach you before, it wouldn't have been ethical. But I've been getting my ducks in a row—transferring oversight, drafting new policies, making sure that when I did this, I could do it right." He steps closer, still holding the peonies. "I know I have no right to ask,but I'm asking anyway. Can we start over? For real this time?"

"I don't know… you kind of broke my heart," you whisper.

"I know, and if you tell me to leave right now, I'll accept that I fucked this up beyond repair." His voice drops. "But if there's any chance you feel even a fraction of what I feel for you, I'm asking for one more shot. To do this properly, take you on actual dates and tell everyone who'll listen that you're the most brilliant woman I've ever met and stop hiding how I feel about you."

You look at him. The dark circles under his eyes suggest he's slept as poorly as you have. The flowers in his hands are perfect, your favorite, a detail you don't even remember telling him. And the vulnerability in his eyes is so raw it makes your chest ache.

"You got me peonies," you say finally.

"I asked Dr. Morrison," he admits and manages a small smile. "He said you mentioned once they reminded you of your grandmother."

"You were doing research about my favorite flower?"

"I was doing research on everything about you." He takes another step closer. "And taking notes, paying attention to your coffee order, the way you tap your pen when you're thinking, which professor makes you roll your eyes, how you light up about your research. I've been memorizing you for months and trying to pretend it wasn't."

Tears prick your eyes. "I thought you regretted me."

"Never, not a single second." He finally closes the distance, his free hand coming up to cup your face. "I regretted how it happened, I regretted that I couldn't do it right the first time, but you? Never you."

"This is insane," you say, but you're leaning into his touch.

"Completely." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Is that a no?"

You take the flowers from his hand, bringing them to your nose. "Take me to dinner, somewhere nice."

The smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But Bucky? If you ever shut me out like that again—"

"I won't, I swear to god I won't." He pulls you closer. "From now on, complete honesty."

"Good," you fist your hand in his shirt. "Now kiss me, we've wasted six weeks already."

He does, and it's different from your first kiss. This time is soft and sweet. When you break apart, you're both smiling. "So, there's this Italian place downtown. How does 7PM sound?"

"Like you've been planning this."

"For six weeks," he admits. "I have the whole evening mapped out. Dinner, then a walk by the river, then maybe coffee if you're not sick of me yet."

"You made an itinerary for our first date?"

"I'm a planner, you know this about me."

You laugh, and it feels like breathing for the first time in weeks. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're brilliant and infuriating and I'm gone for you." He kisses you again. "So, 7PM?"

"Pick me up at 6:45, and Bucky?" You smile against his mouth. "Wear the henley, the blue one."

"The one you kept staring at during meetings?"

"I was not staring—"

"You absolutely were,but don't worry." His grin turns wicked. "I was staring too, those skirts you wear should be illegal."

"Dean Barnes," you mock-gasp. "How inappropriate."

"I'm not your dean anymore," he reminds you. "Which means I can finally tell you that you've been driving me crazy since day one."

"Good," you say and kiss him again.

The date was perfect, because of course it was—Bucky had spent six weeks planning it.

The Italian restaurant was intimate and elegant, the kind of place with cloth napkins and wine lists that didn't make you feel judged. Over pasta and wine, he laid out everything he'd done in those six weeks: the ethics board meetings, transferring your academic oversight to Dean Bell, consulting lawyers, drafting new university policies.

The food was incredible, but you barely tasted it. You were too focused on him—how he listened, how he remembered details from months ago, how this felt like your old arguments but without the anger. All that intensity, channeled into something that made your skin warm.

After dinner, he took you on the promised walk along the river. The sunset painted everything golden, his hand warm in yours, and for a few minutes neither of you spoke.

"Boston," he said finally.

Your stomach dropped. "You heard about that?"

"Dr. Morrison mentioned it, the MIT fellowship." He stopped walking, turning to face you. "You're going to go, you're going to take that fellowship and be brilliant, and I'm going to be incredibly proud of you."

"But?"

"But nothing, that's it." He squeezed your hand. "I'm not going to ask you to stay, you've worked too hard for this opportunity."

"It's three months," you said quietly. "I leave next week."

"I know."

"And you're okay with that? We just got our shit together and now I'm leaving for the entire summer?"

"Am I okay with it? No." His laugh was hollow. "I hate it, actually. But that's my problem to deal with, not yours."

You searched his face for resentment, pressure, anything that would make this complicated, but you only found sincerity.

"You're serious."

"Completely." He cupped your face. "I waited six weeks to do this right, I can wait three months to keep doing it right. Boston's only four hours away, I can visit you on weekends, you can come back when you have breaks… we'll figure it out."

"You'd drive four hours to see me?"

"Sweetheart, I'd drive a lot further than that." He kissed you softly. "Besides, by August I'll have planned approximately twelve more perfect dates."

"You're ridiculous."

"And you're brilliant and leaving for an incredible opportunity, and I'm not going to be the guy who makes you feel guilty about it." His voice turned fierce. "I fucked up once by pushing you away, I'm not going to fuck up again by holding you back."

You kissed him then, there on the river walk with the sunset painting everything golden. This one was different than the others, it felt like a promise.

"Three months," you whispered against his lips.

"Three months, and then you come back to me."

"What if MIT tries to recruit me for their PhD program?"

"Then I guess I'm moving to Boston."

"You'd leave your job?"

"For you? In a heartbeat."

You walked for another hour, drinking a coffee he bought from the a street place, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about his time in the military, the injury that led to his discharge, the way the academia had saved him. You told him about your family, the pressure to be perfect, the fear that you were all potential and no follow-through.

"You know what I thought when you walked into my office that first day?" he asked as you circled back toward the parking lot.

"That I was a nightmare?"

"That you were magnificent," his smile was soft. "Completely infuriating and magnificent, twenty minutes late, coffee in hand, looking at me like I was the inconvenience. I knew right then you were going to be trouble."

"Good trouble?"

"The best kind." He opened your car door again. "Can I take you home? Or is it too presumptuous to assume the date should end?"

Your heart kicked. "Take me home… but Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"You're coming upstairs."

The drive back to your apartment was charged with a different kind of tension. His hand found your thigh, resting there casually, and you couldn't stop thinking about his office, his desk, the way he'd called you his good girl.

"You're thinking very loudly," he observed.

"I'm thinking about your desk. Specifically, how you bent me over it."

He cursed under his breath. "You're going to kill me."

"Promises, promises."

He pulled into a spot near your building with slightly more speed than necessary. When you reached for your door handle, his hand shot out to stop you.

"Wait."

"For what?"

"I need a second." He was gripping the steering wheel with his other hand, knuckles white. "You can't just say things like that and expect me to function normally."

"Who said anything about normal?" You leaned across the console, lips brushing his ear. "I've been very well-behaved all night, Dean Barnes. Don't you think I deserve a reward?"

The sound he made was almost a growl. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?"

"Being a brat."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." You bit his earlobe gently. "I'm being perfectly sweet."

You didn't make it past the entryway.

As soon as the door closed behind you, Bucky had you pressed against it, his mouth on yours with six weeks of pent-up hunger. Your hands went to his hair, his found your waist, and for a moment, there was just kissing and breathing and the relief of finally being able to touch him.

"Where's your bedroom?" he managed between kisses.

"End of the hall."

He lifted you easily and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you down the hallway. You were kissing his neck, probably leaving marks, definitely not caring.

Your bedroom was a mess of final papers and half-packed boxes for Boston, but Bucky didn't seem to notice. He set you down by the bed, hands going to the zipper of your dress.

"Can I?" he asked, and the courtesy of it made your heart clench.

"Yes, please, yes."

He unzipped you slowly, pushing the dress off your shoulders and letting it pool at your feet. His eyes went dark as he took you in—matching navy lingerie that you'd definitely chosen with this possibility in mind.

"You wore this for me," he said, not a question.

"Maybe I just like matching sets."

"Liar," his hands skimmed up your sides. "You wore this hoping I'd get to see it."

"Presumptuous—"

He kissed you hard, cutting off the word. "Stop being difficult."

"Make me."

Something shifted in his expression. "Careful what you wish for, sweetheart."

"I'm not scared of you."

"No," he agreed, backing you toward the bed. "You never have been, that's the problem."

"Problem?"

"Yes," he confirmed, and suddenly you were on your back and he was over you, fully clothed while you were nearly naked. "You walk around with that smart mouth, challenging everything, pushing every button—"

"You love it."

"I do," he admitted, lips brushing your collarbone. "Drives me absolutely insane, but I love it."

His mouth traveled lower, between your breasts, across your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your underwear, he paused.

"These are pretty," he observed. "Would be a shame to ruin them."

"Then don't—"

The sound of fabric tearing cut you off. You gasped as he literally ripped your underwear off and tossed the ruined lace aside.

"Bucky!"

"I'll buy you new ones." He was already moving lower, spreading your thighs, then his mouth was on you and coherent thought became impossible.

He took his time, building you up with long, slow strokes of his tongue, pulling back whenever you got close. It was methodical, deliberate, designed to drive you crazy.

"Stop teasing," you demanded, rolling your hips against his face.

He pulled back, and the sight of him between your thighs, lips wet, eyes dark with want, almost finished you off right there.

"What was that?" he asked, voice dangerous and smooth. "Did you just give me an order?"

"I—no, I just—"

"Because it sounded like you were being bratty again." His thumb pressed against your clit, circling too lightly. "And we both know what happens to brats."

"Bucky, please—"

"Please what?" He slid one finger inside you, and you clenched around it. "Use your words, you're usually so good with that mouth."

"Please make me come," you gasped out.

"Better," he added a second finger. "But I don't know if you've earned it yet. You've been so difficult all night. Testing me, pushing boundaries…"

"I'm sorry," you tried, but it came out too breathless to be sincere.

"No, you're not." He curled his fingers, finding that spot that made you see stars. "You love making me work for it, love seeing how far you can push before I snap."

It was true, god help you, it was true.

"So here's what's going to happen," he continued. "You're going to come on my fingers like a good girl, and you're going to get on your knees and show me how sorry you are for being such a brat. Think you can do that?"

You nodded frantically.

"Words."

"Yes, yes I can—"

"Good girl."

He worked you with his fingers, fast and relentless, while his other hand held your hip down to stop you from bucking up. The praise combined with the rough handling pushed you over the edge embarrassingly fast, and you came with his name on your lips.

Before you'd fully recovered, he was pulling his fingers out and standing up, working his belt buckle.

"On your knees," he instructed. "Now."

You scrambled to obey, still shaky from your orgasm, and knelt in front of him. He freed himself from his jeans, and your mouth watered at the sight.

"Open," he commanded, and you did.

He pushed into your mouth slowly, giving you time to adjust, but his hand tangled in your hair with clear intent. This wasn't going to be gentle.

"That's it," he praised as you took him deeper. "Such a good girl when you want to be, why can't you be this obedient all the time?"

You hummed around him in response, and his grip in your hair tightened.

"Don't get mouthy now," he warned, but there was amusement in his voice. "Just take it."

He set a rhythm, not quite rough but definitely demanding, and you focused on breathing through your nose and relaxing your throat. When you looked up at him through your lashes—a move that was absolutely calculated— he groaned.

"Fuck, look at you. So pretty with your mouth full." His thumb traced your stretched lips. "Been thinking about this since that day in my office, wanted to bend you over my desk and then have you on your knees, show you what happens to bratty girls who talk back."

The degradation should have been humiliating, instead, it made you moan around him and his hips stuttered.

"You like that, don't you? Like being called out for being difficult." He pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping. "On the bed, hands and knees."

You moved quickly, assuming the position, hyper aware of how exposed you were. You heard him stripping off his clothes, the rustle of a condom wrapper—when had he gotten that?—and then he was behind you, hands running over your ass appreciatively.

"Look at you, so eager now." One finger traced through your wetness. "After all that attitude, all that pushing back, this is what you wanted all along, isn't it? Someone to put you in your place."

"Yes, sir," you said, past the point of pride.

"Sir?" he repeated, his voice rough with arousal. "That's new."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Don't apologize," he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

He pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully seated. You dropped your head to the pillow, overwhelmed by the fullness.

"You okay?" he asked, the care cutting through the scene.

"So okay."

"Good girl," he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, making you cry out. "Because I'm not going to be gentle. You've been asking for this all night, and I'm going to give you exactly what you've been begging for.

He set a punishing pace, each thrust deep and hard, the sound of skin against skin obscene in the quiet apartment. One hand stayed on your hips, controlling the rhythm, while the other reached around to find your clit.

"You're going to come again," he told you, circling that bundle of nerves with practiced precision. "Going to come all over my cock while I fuck this attitude out of you."

"Can't," you gasped, even as you felt yourself building toward another orgasm.

"Yes, you can." His voice was firm. "Come for me. Now."

His relentless pace combined with his fingers on your clit pushed you over, and you came with a muffled scream into the pillow. He followed moments later, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out and disposed of the condom before collapsing beside you on the bed. You lay there in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder, your leg thrown over his. This was new too—the aftercare, the intimacy beyond the physical. With Bucky, everything came with attention and care.

"I'm going to miss you," he said quietly. "These three months."

"I'm going to miss you too." You propped yourself up on your elbow to look at him. "But we'll figure it out. Weekends, video calls, way too many texts…"

"I'm going to text you constantly. Fair warning."

"Good, I expect detailed reports on campus gossip."

"I'll send you care packages. What do grad students need? Coffee? Stress balls?"

"Your worn t-shirts," you admitted, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "If we're being honest."

His expression softened impossibly. "You want my shirts?"

"Shut up, it's not weird."

"It's not weird, it's adorable." He kissed you softly. "I'll pack you a whole suitcase of them, you can build a fort."

"Now you're making fun of me."

"Never," he pulled you back down against his chest. "I'm serious about this, you know. About us, I know it's fast and probably complicated, but—"

"It's not that complicated," you interrupted. "We like each other, we're both adults, we're going to make it work."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." You kissed him. "Unless you're already having second thoughts?"

"Absolutely not." His arms tightened around you. "You're stuck with me now, even when you're being bratty."

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “I did.”

“Mm.” Your fingers walked up his sternum. “Twenty years old and you just happened to be first in line at the bookstore the day it hit the shelves? ‘One brand-new Tolkien, please, and make it snappy, I’ve got a whole depression-era future to get back to.’”

“It had a little green book with a dragon on the cover. I thought it might have illustrations.”

Snorting with laughter, you shifted higher, bracing your forearm against the mattress so you could look at him properly. Your hair slipped over one shoulder, brushing his collarbone. “And then what? You just… kept reading? Through everything that came after?”

“Tried to.” His metal hand found the small of your back again, the cool plates shifting in a low hum as his thumb stroked your skin in slow circles. “Some books stayed with me longer than people did. Easier that way. You could close a cover. People didn’t always give you that choice.”

You studied him for a long moment before your smile returned, softer this time, but still wicked around the edges.

“Okay. So you’ve read The Hobbit. What about the rest? Fellowship? Two Towers? Don’t tell me you stopped at the party scene and decided the rest was too long?”

His eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, though the warmth never left them. “You’re fishing.”

“Obviously.” You leaned in until your noses brushed, the quiet exhale of his breath against your lips. “Come on, Barnes. Spill. What else did the great James Buchanan Barnes smuggle into his life between odd jobs and looking after Steve?”

He pretended to think about it, gaze drifting to the ceiling. You could almost see the memories surface. You waited patiently for an answer because you knew he would give them to you if you asked the right way.

“Pride and Prejudice,” he admitted. “1942. Steve found it first in some abandoned house outside of Lyon. Wouldn’t stop talking about Darcy. I read it to shut him up but I liked it more than I expected.”

Your grin was pure triumph. “Elizabeth Bennet. Of course you liked her.”

“She had a spine.” His metal hand slid up your back, fingers weaving carefully into your hair, cradling the base of your skull with a gentleness that still surprised you sometimes. “Reminds me of someone.”

“Flatterer.”

“Truth.” He tugged you closer until your mouth was a breath from his, until the space between you felt charged and deliberate. “Your turn. What are you reading that I haven’t? Or are you going to keep collecting my secrets without offering any of your own?”

You pretended to consider it, lips brushing his with every careful word. The contact was feather-light, the kind of almost-kiss that made his breath catch just enough for you to notice. “I’ll tell you… if you admit you cried at the end of Return of the King.”

Bucky’s laugh vibrated through both of you. In one smooth motion he rolled, taking you with him, the world tilting until your back met the mattress and his weight settled carefully over you. His flesh arm braced on one side of your head, the metal one on the other, caging you in without trapping you.

“Maybe I did,” he murmured against your mouth. “The part where they say goodbye at the Grey Havens gets me every time. You gonna tease me about that too?”

Your answer was a soft kiss, and you threaded your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, holding him there, letting the moment stretch. When you finally pulled back, your voice was barely more than a whisper against his lips.

“Every chance I get, my love,” you promised.

It was just as well, too, as she'd had a certain look in her eye that always spelled trouble. For whom, you couldn't say at first. Surely, it would've been Steve as she hadn't given up hope of setting him up with someone. Or maybe even Bucky. Though, he'd made it clear that he wasn't looking for a relationship with anyone. He didn't want to put his baggage on someone else's shoulders.

You soon, however, learned neither Steve nor Bucky were her target.

No, it was you.

"Nat, come on. It's not a big deal," you whined as she trapped you in the common kitchen. All you'd been looking forward to was a snack, not a third degree from the Black Widow herself. "I'm not even sure I'm even interested in dating right now."

"Maybe you're not interested in just anyone. After all, I've seen the way you perk up whenever he comes into the room."

The warning look you shot her only made her smirk deepen.

"Ah, so I was right. You've got it bad for a certain super soldier."

You quickly surveilled your surroundings before you hissed, "Please, stop. We're friends, and I'm not going to rock that boat if I don't need to."

"But you want to," Nat said, so assured in her belief. She even went so far as to lean against the counter and study you. "And what if I said I knew he felt the same?"

"Doubtful. I've heard him say otherwise long enough to know you're messing with me."

"Maybe he wants the same as you. Maybe he's afraid to rock the same boat. Ever think of that? Maybe all you two need is a little push," Nat leaned into your space then even as she remained against the counter, "and I can be the one to help if you're interested."

Knowing she would go away faster if you indulged her and not because you wanted to know, you exhaled before asking, "And what kind of help could I expect?"

"Well, since I planted the mistletoe, then I could maybe send you in the right direction. Should you find it, then maybe, just maybe, you could finally kick things off between you with a kiss under said mistletoe."

And that was how you found yourself seeking out the pesky bough not even an hour later.

How Nat had convinced you, you could never truly say.

All you knew was that that plant was going to be yours, kiss or no kiss.

"Looking for something?" a familiar, deep voice asked behind you.

It took everything in you not to squeak with fright, knowing you'd never live it down.

"One shouldn't sneak, Bucky," you admonished, whirling around to face him.

"I wasn't. Not my fault you were too caught up in whatever you're looking for."

He had the nerve to cock a brow at you in challenge. Almost as if he had some clue to what it was you sought, and that thought couldn't be born.

"I thought I left…" you searched around and picked up the first thing you could find, "my lamp."

His brow rose further. "I thought that belonged here in the common room. Didn't Tony brag about it not a week ago for winning it out from some other billionaire collector?"

Blast it, he was right, you realized and set the lamp back down.

"Wanna try again?"

You shook your head.

Silence descended upon you both, but it wasn't necessarily uncomfortable.

In fact, you were almost certain you'd temporarily shocked Bucky. He'd grown quite use to your fighting nature, even in silly arguments. It simply wasn't like you to not try and get yourself out of a situation, especially a possibly embarrassing one like this.

That had to be why he eventually took pity on you.

"Sure, you weren't looking for this?" he asked, holding the mistletoe bough out for you to see.

"How did you find it?"

He shrugged. "Nat gave me a small hint earlier. Didn't take much looking from there."

"And why would she give you a hint?"

A glint came into his eyes as he watched you. While you couldn't quite pinpoint that look, it did have you a bit more at attention, curiosity coursing through you.

"It's for kissing under, right? Maybe I'm thinking about kissing someone."

The way he said it, you couldn't help believing he had someone in mind. As good friends as you were, you felt woefully unprepared for this moment. Up until this moment, you'd really thought he wasn't interested in a relationship or in kissing anyone. To hear otherwise almost threatened to buckle your knees and send you to the floor.

"Oh," you said finally, unable to come up with anything else.

"It's been a while though. Not sure I won't disappoint."

You shook your head. "You'll do great, Bucky. You've always been good at reading signals, and I'm sure whoever the person is, you won't disappoint them. They'll be lucky to get a first kiss from you."

"Yeah?"

You nodded and even managed a small smile. "Yeah."

After a beat, Bucky closed the bit of space between you. His free hand came up and ran his fingertips along your cheek. They didn't stray or stop when you sucked in a shallow breath. No, they continued to traced along your cheek and down to your jaw, warming your skin under their ministrations.

"Been thinking about this for a while now, but I wasn't sure you'd be interested. I have a lot of baggage, more than most. I could understand if you're not interested," he spoke softly, his gaze meeting yours.

While you could see the hint of hope in his eyes, you could also see the uncertainty. His words weren't spoken without reason, you knew, but you also knew that you could handle his baggage if he ever asked you to.

Letting your smile grow a bit more, you leaned into his hand. It soon covered the expanse of your cheek. Your hand came up to grip his wrist to keep him there.

"I'm interested," you whispered, your lips not far from his, "I'm so, so interested."

If you giggled into the kiss after he belatedly recalled the mistletoe bough in his hand, you couldn't be blamed for it. The bough did eventually go above your heads for a proper mistletoe kiss, but you would never forget that first one.

It was, after all, the beginning of your happily ever after.

You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.

Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.

Bucky.

The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.

But you.

You’d been a fucking goner.

Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.

Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.

You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.

“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.

“Think so. Just maintenance?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”

You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.

But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.

Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.

“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.

Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-

He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.

“What?”

His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.

“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.

You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.

You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.

“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.

God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.

“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”

You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”

“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”

“I don’t know things from the 80s.”

You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.

You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.

“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-

“You want me to go?”

Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“

Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.

God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.

“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.

“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”

“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”

“Too much time with Sam.”

“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”

“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”

You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.

And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.

“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.

“Do you like cowboys?”

“I’m neutral.”

“Do you like space?”

“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”

You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”

Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”

“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.

“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.

“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.

He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.

“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.

It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.

“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.

You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”

He nods. “Just like you told me to.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.

“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”

“Sam’s right.”

Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”

You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.

It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.

“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”

“That is my favorite kind of thing.”

“I know.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”

You shrug. “The grocery store?”

Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.

The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and  you let it take over.

How much you want him. How much you need him.

You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.

“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”

And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.

“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.

This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.

“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.

“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”

You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.

“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.

Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.

You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.

But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.

That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.

It’s all just a fantasy.

You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.

He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.

You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.

You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.

That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.

“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.

You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.

“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.

“Nope.”

“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”

“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch.

The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.

“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Good for you.”

“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”

You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”

“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”

Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.

“Ah. So it’s something.”

“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“

“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”

You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.

“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.

You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.

But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.

“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.

He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”

You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.

“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.

Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.

You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“

“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.

“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.

His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.

His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.

When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.

There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.

Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white  knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.

“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.

“Yeah.”

“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.

You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.

“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

“Princess Bride.”

“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”

Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”

You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”

“Stark says you get invited.”

You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.

“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.

Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.

But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.

“Oh- Okay.”

Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.

He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.

“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.

You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.

You get messy. He has no idea.

That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.

You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.

He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.

“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.

“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”

Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.

“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”

You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.

When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.

“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.

You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.

But your hand finds nothing.

Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.

Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.

You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.

“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.

There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.

Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.

“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”

“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.

“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“

“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.

“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”

Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.

You last ten minutes.

The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.

You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.

Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.

The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.

Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.

You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.

And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.

You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.

You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.

Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.

He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.

The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.

Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.

“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.

He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.

“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”

Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.

He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile. 

When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.

You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.

“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.

Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”

You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”

Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.

You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.

“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“

You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.

“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“

You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.

He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.

Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-

“Something on my face, doll?”

You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.

Bucky looks worried. He said something.

“Hm?”

“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.

You’re so, so fucked.

It only gets worse.

Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.

“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.

“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.

For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.

You last about a week, with that one.  Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.

“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.

“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.

Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.

You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.

His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-

Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.

“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.

Always so kind.

“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.

“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.

“Anything I can help with?”

You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-

“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”

“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.

You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.

“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”

And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.

You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.

First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.

Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.

You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.

“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”

And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.

Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.

“Bucky, I can’t-“

“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”

You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“

“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”

You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.

“Bucky- Get off-“

He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.

He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘

“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.

“I- I don’t know-“

“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”

You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.

He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”

You shrug. “You wanted me to.”

Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.

“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.

You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.

It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.

Then something shifts.

He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.

He’s hard.

Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.

You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.

And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.

Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.

“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”

He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.

Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.

What the fuck just happened.

Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.

“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”

You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”

You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.

Bucky hisses, hips jerking forward. “Careful,” he grunts. “Gonna strangle me.”

“S- Sorry-“

“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”

You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.  

“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”

You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.

But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.

Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.

You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.

He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.

He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.

It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.

And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.

It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.

And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.

But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.

But only ever in his head.

✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

"It's just... I know you want things. I'm not going to give you those things." His hands are now gripping your waist.

"I don't want other things."

"Yes, you do," he says, taking your hands off his shoulders.

You groan and start pacing.

"You know, I don't understand men. When we want something more, you're all so quick to try to make us forget about it, but when we want something we know we'll never get, so we just accept whatever it is you're willing to give, apparently that's still not good enough," you sigh, crossing your arms and leaning against the wall. "Neither of us is in the mood anymore, so you should go."

You start walking toward your bed and feel his hand catch your wrist.

"Please..." he says, almost a whisper.

"I'm giving you an out, Bucky. Take it," you say, lifting his hand off your wrist and placing it on his shoulder as you press a kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight." You give him a small smile and go sit on your bed, pretending to busy yourself with the clasp of your heels.

He walks toward the door and pauses for a second as his hand reaches the handle. Soon enough, he walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.

As soon as you hear it click shut, you throw yourself onto your bed. Your eyes close as you feel a tear rising.

If this were a book or a movie, he would turn around, press his lips to yours, and tell you he'd never need an out, that he only needed you. But this isn't one of the many fantasies in your head, and he warned you about that. Hell, you knew it before he ever said a word, you thought.

But it's just easier to pretend to forget something until you actually do, and fall for it anyway.

And it had been so easy, falling for him.

The next morning came slow and grey, the kind of morning that seemed to match exactly how you felt.

You didn't cry the whole night, not really. You'd stopped yourself somewhere around midnight, telling yourself you were being dramatic over a man who had never once promised you forever. He warned you. He always warned you. That was supposed to make it hurt less, somehow, knowing it was coming. It didn't.

You went through your day like you always did. Coffee first, though not at the new place down the block, because that felt like a joke you weren't ready to laugh at yet. Then training, because Natasha didn't care about broken hearts when there was a schedule to keep, and honestly, you were grateful for that. It gave you somewhere to put all the frustration sitting heavy in your chest.

"You're hitting harder than usual," Natasha said, catching your wrist mid swing before you drove your fist straight into the mat where her head had just been. "Something happen?"

"Nothing happened," you said, stepping back and shaking out your hand. "That's kind of the problem."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't push. That was one of the things you liked about her. She knew when to let something sit.

Bucky wasn't at breakfast. He wasn't at lunch either. You told yourself you weren't looking for him, even as your eyes kept drifting toward the door every time it opened.

Steve found you in the kitchen around dinner time, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea you weren't really drinking.

"He's been in the gym since six this morning," Steve said, not quite looking at you, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to bring it up at all.

"Good for him," you said, and even you could hear how flat it sounded.

Steve sighed and sat down across from you. "He told me a little. Not much. You know how he is."

"Yeah, I know how he is." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "He's the guy who kisses me like I'm the only thing keeping him steady, and then reminds me he can't give me anything more the second I mention breakfast."

"That's not fair," Steve said gently. "Not to him."

"I'm not trying to be fair, Steve. I'm trying to survive a Tuesday."

He gave you a small, sad smile at that. "For what it's worth, he's not doing much better than you are. He's just better at hiding it behind a punching bag."

You didn't say anything to that. You didn't know what there was to say.

Three days passed like that. Careful hallway nods. Empty seats at the same long table. A silence between you that felt louder than anything either of you had ever said out loud.

On the fourth night, you couldn't sleep. You found yourself on the common floor balcony, the city lights spread out below you, the air cool enough to make you wrap your arms around yourself. You didn't hear him come out until his voice broke the quiet.

"Can't sleep either?"

You turned, and there he was, hands in his pockets, hair a little messy like he'd been running his fingers through it all night. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with missions.

"Guess not," you said, turning back to the view so you wouldn't have to look at him too long.

He walked over and stood beside you, close but not touching, like he wasn't sure he had the right to be close anymore.

"I've been thinking," he said finally.

"That's dangerous," you said, and it came out softer than you meant it to, almost fond despite yourself.

He huffed out something close to a laugh. "Yeah. Probably."

Silence again, but different this time. Not empty. Waiting.

"I told you I couldn't give you certain things," he said, staring straight ahead at the skyline. "And I meant it, when I said it. I've spent so long telling myself I don't get to have the normal stuff. Breakfast dates. Someone waiting for me. A life that looks like anything other than surviving. I told myself that was gone for me a long time ago, and I got real good at believing it."

You stayed quiet, letting him get there in his own time.

"But I've been sitting with that punching bag for three days telling myself I did the right thing, and it still feels like the worst decision I've ever made. And I've made some genuinely terrible decisions in my life, so that's saying something."

That pulled a small, surprised laugh out of you, one you didn't quite mean to let go of.

He finally turned to look at you. "I'm not scared of not being enough for you. I think I'm scared of finding out I could be, and losing it anyway. It felt safer to walk away first."

"Bucky."

"I know it's not fair to you. I know I don't get to almost lose you and then show up on a balcony asking for another chance like it's that simple."

"So why are you here?"

He stepped closer, close enough now that you had to tilt your head up to look at him. "Because you said something about a coffee place a block from here. And I have spent three days thinking about breakfast with you more than I've thought about anything in the last several years combined."

Your chest tightened, that same fragile hope from the other night creeping back in despite every warning you'd given yourself.

"I don't need an out," he said quietly, echoing the words you'd handed him days ago, like he'd carried them around this whole time. "I never did. I think I just needed to remember that I'm allowed to want something good. And I want you. All of it. Breakfast, and mornings, and whatever else comes after that."

For a second you just stood there, searching his face for any trace of doubt, and finding none.

"You're sure?" you asked, quiet, careful, because you'd learned the hard way not to hand your heart over without asking first.

"I've never been more sure of anything," he said, and then he was reaching for you, one hand coming up to cup your face the way he did when he wanted you to know he meant every word.

He pressed his lips to yours, slow and certain, nothing like the rushed, heated kisses from the other night. This one felt like an apology and a promise all at once.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little unsteady.

"For the record," you whispered, a smile finally breaking through, "that coffee place opens at eight."

He laughed, the real kind, the kind that reached his eyes. "Then I guess I better not be late."

Since Brock and his lawyer were, eliminated, you went back to your EA job, now working with Bucky. 

He doesn't say much when he's at Hydra Enterprises, keeping to Brock's office he had freshly painted and loaded with new furniture. 

The staff was somewhat concerned a new CEO was suddenly there, but everyone stayed on working and no one quit or was fired. The information Bucky provided to the staff about Brock was, he left and went to Europe to 'find' himself and left his company in good hands to his close friend Bucky. 

You snorted thinking the two men were not friends nor did they associate amicably with one another, but people seemed to buy it. The office kept on as it did under new direction and you were grateful to have a job and still be alive.

Since being 'kidnapped' and brought to live at the Barnes Mansion, your life was still the same as before, just in a new environment with new people, and a grumpy mafia leader as a boss and...landlord? Roommate? 

You rarely saw Bucky at the mansion and if you did, you were in his office going over files, contracts, and old correspondence from Brock. You're certain Bucky thinks your knowledge has been valuable and you were just as determined to stop the trafficking as he was once you learned a little more of what was happening. 

You just wanted your old life back, but somehow, you knew it would never be the same again.

"I think I'm going to make cookies." You announced. 

Steve and Sam looked at each other before they smiled, voicing their opinions. 

"Chocolate chip." 

"Oatmeal, no wait, peanut butter." 

The two men bickered about flavours while you got the ingredients out. 

Sometimes it was like living with college-aged racoons. 

"I can do peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip." 

"What's going on here?" Bucky walked into the kitchen, glaring at Sam and Steve. 

"Y/n's making cookies." Sam pointed to you. 

Bucky looked over and said, "Is that so?" 

"Was bored." You shrugged. 

Whenever you were bored, which was a lot, you either baked or made food to pass the time and Sam and Steve were all too excited to sample. 

Bucky looked around and sighed. "Meeting in 10, my office." He pointed at Sam then Steve. He took one last glance at you before he left and headed to his office. 

You were about to say, 'have fun' to them when Bucky poked his head back into the kitchen and said, "Double chocolate chip please." Making the two men groan and you snort.

 "I'll see what I can do."

 You rolled your eyes at the supposed big scary mafia man. 

You were slowly learning that Bucky was more bark than bite towards his men and more importantly you, but if he was crossed, it was like a switch was turned and he would instantly turn cold and cruel. You don't want that wrath turned on you, so you vow to stay on his good side. 

Sam and Steve grabbed some water before they left for the office. 

"See you later." They left you alone to create in the gourmet kitchen.

🔫👨🏻

"Last shipment Brock had set up is scheduled for tonight." 

Bucky sat at his desk and leaned back in his chair. Sam and Steve sat across from him tense, waiting to hear the plan. 

"And I plan on being there."

"We can go instead; you can stay here." Steve added.

 "No. I need to see for myself."

 This was the last 'shipment' Brock had set up while he was still alive, and Bucky wanted to make sure it was intercepted and finished once and for all. Since the pier was now in his control, they've busted and intercepted two 'shipments', eliminated the men behind them and saved countless women, but he knows Brock's connections are onto them for breaking up the operations. 

Retaliation may come, and Bucky's prepared if it does.

Bucky's prepared for tonight with extra men, and his tech people have intercepted money transfers and dismantled accounts and according to his sources, this should be the final one scheduled to the Pier he now owns. 

"It's going to be dangerous. We're expecting a lot of resistance but I'm confident this will end." 

Sam and Steve nodded. 

They could hear you in the background, making your cookies while listening to some music when Sam's voice cleared. 

"So, what's going to happen to Y/n?" 

Bucky's eyes flashed but he cleared his throat.

 "She's free to go." 

He said, leaning forward in his chair.

 "She can leave, just like that?" Steve's eyebrows rose at his boss. 

"We've paid her apartment rent and her other bills, so she can go home when I say she can. And it looks like that will be soon." 

Bucky wasn't ready to admit he liked having you live at the mansion. 

"Her job?" Sam asked. 

"She can stay on as my assistant, as normal." 

"Do you think she will?" Steve asked. 

Bucky had thought there was a possibility you may quit altogether, but he was taking a gamble and is assuming you will stay working alongside him at Hydra Enterprises. 

"So, she's not going to be eliminated?" 

"No. Now get out." Bucky pointed to the door as the two men rose and left the office.

🔫👨🏻

"So, you guys are leaving tonight on a what, a mission of sorts?" You asked, sitting on the staircase eating a cookie. 

"Yup." 

Watching the men load their weapons was something you got used to. They tended to always carry their loaded guns in their holsters, but seeing the other things like knives, brass knuckles, and various other weapons being shoved into pockets and hidden pockets always mesmerized you. 

Footsteps were heard down the marble floor and when you looked up, you saw Bucky in his signature black suit and white shirt. 

"You're going to?" You were confused as Bucky usually stays behind and lets his men do the hard jobs. 

"What, will you miss me doll?" He snorted, double checking his holster. 

"Yes." You bluntly said making his head snap to you.

 Lately, Bucky had been making comments to you, and dare you say, flirting a little? The man was frustrating as he was charming and it annoyed you, but you also played along. He turned and faced Sam and Steve, not replying to your admission. 

"Ready?" They nodded. 

"SUVs and teams are in place." Sam announced. 

He and Steve left, leaving Bucky standing in the foyer looking at you. 

"Be careful." 

Bucky stopped what he was doing and watched you closely before he turned and placed his hand on the door. 

"I'll try." Then he headed out the front door, with Clint quickly locking it up.

🔫👨🏻

You were in bed reading, seeing as how you couldn't sleep knowing the guys were out. For some reason, you cared about them and worried something bad was going to happen. You know something was going down tonight, and you were certain it had something to do with the fact that the pier was being heavily monitored, so you figured there would be a shipment coming in. Would this be the last one? 

You had no idea but tonight felt different so perhaps it was. More final from the snippets of hushed conversations you caught in the hallways and at the office. This may be the end of the shipments, but something's telling you there may be more things coming from the backlash when you heard commotion in the house. 

You got out of bed and headed downstairs to see what was happening.

🔫👨🏻

"I can't believe they did that!" Growled Steve. 

He was holding an ice pack to his jaw while Sam was nursing what looked to be a broken nose. 

"What's going on?" You asked, coming down the stairs. 

"Shit went south." Sam muttered, sniffing and wiping a tissue over his nose. 

"Oh?" Before you could ask, Bucky walked in. 

"Holy shit." You gasped, looking at the mafia leader. 

His usual pristine black suit was wrinkled, dusty, and rumpled and his white shirt had blood stains on it and was cut up so bad, it looked like he survived being put through a shredder. He held his arm and was breathing heavy. 

"All good?" He glanced at Sam then Steve who both nodded. 

"Good." Before he turned and was headed to what looked to be in the direction of his office. 

"Hang on, wait." You said, running after Bucky leaving Sam and Steve behind. 

He didn't stop, so you followed him in. 

"Bucky!" You said, following him to where he stopped and poured himself a whisky. 

"What?" He swallowed the dark liquid, pouring himself another. 

"Let me see that." You pointed to his left heavily inked arm that was bleeding. 

He scoffed, but relented seeing your glare, finally giving you, his arm. 

"It's fine." He insisted. 

You pulled the fabric back and gasped. 

"You've been shot?" 

You reached out and placed your hand on his warm, soft skin. You swallowed, feeling his muscles contract as you inspected the gash.

 "It's a graze, nothing more. Been nicked before dollface, this is nothin'." 

Your stomach fluttered at his words, but you ignored it. 

You looked at his arm and saw the blood dripping down it, onto the plush carpet.

 "Let me fix it." You said, walking him to the couch. 

"Don't got a first aid kit in here." Bucky shrugged. 

You glared at him and said, "Don't lie to me. I know there's a first aid kit here, I saw Sam use it when you punched Steve in the face last week." You muttered, opening a drawer in the side table. 

You didn't see the smirk Bucky flashed you. 

Low and behold, a kit was there, so you grabbed it and rummaged around, looking for what you needed.

Bucky huffed but let you fuss over him. He watched your steady hands move over his skin, sending tingles throughout his body. He watched you close as you took what you needed, placing the gauze and suture kit on the table. 

"I can stitch you up." 

How were you going to match up his skin and ink that was on it? 

"No stitches. Just a butterfly bandage, nothing more."

 You took the disinfecting wipes out and placed them on the wound, delicately cleaning it. The blood wasn't stopping, so you looked up at Bucky who huffed. 

"It'll be fine. Butterfly bandage, nothing else needed." 

You rolled your eyes at him but got the white strips of the bandages out, ready to place them. You were slightly relieved because if you messed up his ink, you're not sure how he would react. 

"Fine but let me clean this well for you since I know you're not going to do it yourself." 

You got the ointment out and wiped the wound down, making sure to clean it well. You heard Bucky inhale sharply as your hands were on him, dabbing at the wound.

"So, did you manage to complete what you set out to do?" You knew he wasn't going to divulge his mafia secrets to you, but you were curious to see if he was successful. 

You gently blew on the open wound to dry the ointment making Bucky shudder. You saw goosebumps appear on his skin making you smirk to yourself.

 "Yeah." He quietly said as you got one of the bandages out, placing it on the wound to hold it together. 

"Good." Was all you said, as you got the other one placed. 

"There we are, good as new...well...almost. It'll probably scar a little but...you're used to it." You sighed, putting the garbage away. 

"Go and get yourself a cookie, you've earned it." You chuckled, getting up from the couch. 

Bucky stood with you, inspecting your patch job on him when he stopped you. He reached out and turned you to face him. He cupped your neck, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb. You noticed the details of the skull and rose tattoo on his hand. Before you could sink into his touch, he dropped his hand. 

Your eyes were level with his throat, seeing him swallow before he said, "Thanks." In his deep voice. 

"You're welcome." You patted his good arm and turned to leave, heading back to your room.

You closed the door to your room and slumped against it, breathing heavy. Woah, that was the closest you've even gotten to him, and that sent shivers throughout your body. Bucky was hot as hell with his dark looks, impeccable clothes, and confidence, it was hard not to have a little crush on the scary mafia leader, but you know your time in his world is going to end soon. 

In your mind, you, frankly, didn't belong with the mafia or anywhere near the mafia. You sighed and went to clean yourself up, before you got back into bed and slept a little better knowing everyone was safe. Was it weird you had started thinking of these men as friends and not scary mafia men?

🔫👨🏻

"We're celebrating tonight gentlemen." Came the voice of Bucky. 

The following morning, you sat in the kitchen off to the side with some empty breakfast plates in front of you. You desperately wanted to get out of the mansion, having only been out once in the past few days to get some groceries with Clint, but you didn't push it. 

You hadn't gone into the office since Bucky had told the employees he was 'out of the country', so you didn't need to be there. He advised them he would be back the following week, so you had some time to yourself. You were honestly fine living how you were, but you were feeling nervous seeing as how the 'shipping' situation was coming to an end.

What is going to happen to you now? 

You also found out Bucky recently had Pierce eliminated as well as a few of Brock's old associates since they didn't stick to their word and comply with Bucky's new terms of the Pier deal. After last night, the pier would return to 'normal' operations, or as normal as they could be for a mafia, but Pierce wanted more. He was greedy and had plans to expand to another pier, but Bucky stopped that. No one went above him. 

Trafficking women was not allowed on his turf, and he made it known to everyone, that if they were involved with that, instant elimination. 

Pierce's death was described in the media as an 'unfortunate car accident' and everyone bought it. 

"The club?" Steve asked. His face was a little swollen and Sam had a shiner, but they didn't seem to mind. 

"We leave at 9." Bucky looked over at you, then left the kitchen. 

You got up and loaded your breakfast dishes in the dishwasher when Sam asked, "Are you coming?" making you snort. 

"Wasn't invited, so nope." 

"Bossman invited you." 

"Bossman was only looking at you two when he said that, not me. So, have fun tonight at your 'club', whatever that is." You left the kitchen and headed to the library.

🔫👨🏻

"What the hell are you doing here?" Bucky's voice sounded from the doorway to the library. 

"It's a library, so, reading?" You were confused at him barging in and running his mouth since you haven't seen him all day since the morning. 

"We're all waiting in the foyer for you." 

You placed your book down and looked at him funny. 

"I'm sorry?" You looked around, thinking someone else was hidden in the room with you. 

"I said earlier, we're celebrating tonight, that means you too." 

"Correction, you said, 'we're celebrating tonight gentlemen'. I was not aware you lumped me into the 'gentlemen' category since I am not a gentleman myself last time I checked, and I personally have nothing to celebrate seeing as how I have not done anything lately to warrant a celebration unless you count making cookies so if it's for that, I will gladly celebrate my baking competence." 

Bucky's jaw ticked in annoyance, and he stepped into the room, walking to you then he stopped. 

"We're headed to the club now. I'll send Clint back to pick you up. You have 45 minutes," 

Then, he turned and left, leaving you staring at his retreating back. 

You huffed, looking around the cozy library and scowled in annoyance of being interrupted. "Stop scowling at my books." Bucky's voice sounded down the hall. "And get yourself ready. You now have 40 minutes." 

Then you heard his footsteps leave. 

"Fine, jerk." You muttered, leaving the room and heading to yours to change.

🔫👨🏻

You got to the 'club' Clint drove you to and stood outside, gawking at the massive line up to get in. In large silver lettering, the sign on the building said, "Vibranium" with backlit orange and yellow lights making it look like the name was showing in flames.

 "Holy hell." You muttered. 

A man by the name of Loki met you at the entrance to escort you in, and he was all to pleased to be doing it. 

"This way, madame." He offered you his arm and a side of charm. 

"Right."

 You took it and headed to the VIP entry which bypassed the line. Many of the people in line were glaring and scoffing at you, but you didn't care. You had a small panic attack thinking you weren't dressed appropriately but shrugged. 

You only had a few items of clothing to choose from you deemed 'club' appropriate, so you went with this. Loki seemed pleased with your low-cut burgundy dress and black heels seeing as how he was eyeing you up like a hungry wolf.

"There's the VIP area." Loki pointed to a darkened staircase that led to an upper level. 

Two large men adorned either side of the staircase who were watching you and Loki. You looked up and saw people standing by a railing which made it look like they were looking down upon their subjects. 

"Ok..." You looked at Loki who smirked. 

"You can go on up love." He winked at you before he disappeared into the crowd. 

You didn't really want to head upstairs to a VIP level, but seeing as how you were now completely alone, you figured why the hell not. The two men let you by without asking who you were, but you figured they saw you with Loki who is with Bucky, so you were in. 

"Hello, and thank you." You said to the two men, climbing the stairs. 

You got to the top and turned the corner, taking in the darkened couches and vibe of the upper level. People wandered the area with their drinks; talking and laughing with each other. A large bar sat at the back of the club that had a few people standing by it. 

The faint thump of the music was heard from below as you made your way further into the crowd.

"Y/n!" Sam's voice sounded over the music. He sat and was chatting with a pretty blonde woman who wore a short pink dress. 

"Hi." You gave him an awkward wave. You looked next to him and Steve was sitting on a black leather couch with a red head on his lap who wore a forest green bustier and black leather pants. 

You quickly averted your eyes as they were making out with each other, and you didn't need to be seen gawking at them. 

You looked away and saw Bucky sitting on a chair with a blonde woman draped all over him, but he was watching you close, not paying her any attention. 

A weird feeling came over you seeing a woman all over Bucky. Not like you were 'with him', that would be silly you internally chuffed at yourself but seeing him with someone else put a sour taste in your mouth. You and Bucky had been getting along recently, talking more and dare you say, joking around with each other.

 It was quite the turn around from when you were first brought to his home. You suddenly felt a little self-conscious not knowing anyone else, so you stepped away, choosing to turn away from them.

"Get yourself a drink and come on back and join us. Put it on the big guy's tab." Sam winked at you and pointed to the bar. 

"Sure..."

 You weren't a big drinker of any kind, usually choosing a glass of white wine or something light like a seltzer, so you wandered over to the bar to order something. The quicker you could down this drink, the quicker you could get back to finishing your book. 

"What can I get you miss?" The cute bartender asked, with a wink. 

"Umm, how about a white wine?" 

He chuckled and said, "That sounded like a question. So, are you sure about the white wine, or did you want something else?" 

He leaned towards you and placed his hands on the bar top. 

"I'm quite good with my hands and can make anything you want." He added with a wink of his right eye. 

"I'm sure you are, but just a white wine please." 

He proceeded to get a glass for you. He finished pouring and placed the glass down, sliding it to you. 

"Umm, that man, Sam, said to 'put it on the big guy's tab'?" 

You took the glass and the bartender swallowed hard and nodded, entering some things in a machine. 

"All set, enjoy." He nodded and quicky moved onto another patron.

You sipped your wine, taking in the VIP level. You could go back to where the guys were, but you didn't want to feel like a fourth wheel while women grinded all over them. 

You looked around and wondered what kind of jobs these people did to warrant themselves a spot in the VIP level. 

Did they even know they were at a mafia leaders bar? 

You walked over to the railing to overlook the crowd on the main level, trying desperately to look like you know what you're doing when someone joined you. 

"Hello." A deep voice sounded. 

The man stood in front of you wearing a grey suit and white dress shirt. 

"Hi." 

"I'm Thor." 

You raised a right eyebrow up to him making him chuckle. 

"I know right? My dad's a big fan of Norse mythology..." 

"Right." 

"So, I've never seen you here before." Thor sipped his drink while you studied him. 

He was handsome in a surfer Norse god kind of way. His blonde hair was long and tied back while his blue eyes focused on you. 

"It's my first time here." 

His eyebrows rose and said, "Is that so? Well, welcome to my club." 

You snorted knowing damn well he was lying. You decided to have a little fun with him. 

"So, you own this place?" 

Thor seemed amused and nodded, finishing his drink. He placed the empty glass on a table. 

"Yup." 

"Wow." 

"Yeah?" He seemed amused you were buying it. 

This should be fun. 

"So, how long have you owned it?" 

"Few years." Thor shrugged. 

"Really?" 

Thor stepped closer and reached out to hold your hand in his, stroking your knuckles with his thumb. 

You tried to pull away but he held firm. 

"Yup. I own another on the other side of town." He boasted, sticking his chest out a little. 

"That's so awesome of you." You lamely replied, looking down at his hand that still held yours. 

"Yeah, made a few investments here and there which paid off so I figured why not? I'm kind of good with numbers."

 You thought Thor's name should be Brad or Chad with the bragging he was doing. 

"As I was saying, I made some investments and decided to buy this place. I'm thinking of giving it a facelift. New lighting, flooring, furniture, you know, a complete remodel. As it is now, it's kind of old." 

"Wow, I'm impressed." 

"Yeah?" He smiled at you. 

He was handsome, but not your type when an arm came in front of you and carefully moved you back from Thor. 

"Doll, why don't you come and join me?" 

You saw Bucky's eyes narrow on your hand which was still being held by Thor. Bucky gently pulled you away from Thor, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

You looked over at Thor who's face looked like he saw a ghost. He was white as a sheet and stood blinking at Bucky, then at you like an owl. 

"Uh, sorry, I'm sorry." Thor kept apologizing to Bucky. 

"Why don't you go on to that couch over there, and I'll be right there." Bucky whispered to you. You nodded and headed to the couch while Bucky stayed with Thor.

Bucky watched you safely walk to the couch and sit, smoothing your dress on your thighs. Bucky smiled to himself and turned to face Thor who also watched you with a smile on his face that quickly fell. 

Thor looked over at Bucky and his eyes widened at the hardened demeanor and glare Bucky was sending him.

 "Sorry. I didn't know she was your girl...I swear...I would never have approached her...I swear...please don't hurt me..." 

Bucky watched Thor have a meltdown before he replied. 

"You touched her." Bucky calmly said, picking a stray piece of lint from the sleeve on his suit. 

He didn't give a shit about what Thor was lying to you about, but the fact that he touched you which made you uncomfortable made Bucky see red.

 "I-I...what? I'm sorry...really...it was crowded, I have a nervous twitch that acts up sometimes, and well..." 

"I don't take kindly to people who touch my things. Makes things...difficult..." 

Thor put his hands up in surrender. 

"I swear I didn't know..." 

"Tell me, Thor. Do you often touch things that don't belong to you?" 

"No." Thor instantly replied. 

"Good that's what I like to hear, because you know that's wrong, right?" 

Thor vigorously nodded. 

"Good." 

Bucky's eyes moved to one of his men who walked over and discreetly grabbed Thor's arm and held it tight. 

Bucky leaned in close and said, "If I so much as hear you've touched something that isn't yours again, I will cut your arm off and feed it to my pigs." 

Thor's eyes widened in shock, but Bucky wasn't done yet. 

"If I ever see you or get word you have stepped into my club again, I. Will. End. You. Got it?" 

Thor nodded like his head was going to come loose. 

"Get him out of my sight, Scott. You know what to do with people who fuck with my shit."

 Scott nodded and wrestled Thor to the back of the VIP level, through an unmarked black door and that was that.

🔫👨🏻

"Did you want another refill?" Asked Bucky while he walked up to you. 

You looked down at your empty glass, then over at the bar. The bartender from earlier was missing and was replaced by a woman with blue hair. 

"Uh, no thanks, I'm good." 

Bucky sat next to you, his companion from earlier was nowhere to be found. You didn't see Sam or Steve either. 

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Bucky asked, turning to face you. 

He placed his arm on the back of the sofa, so it felt like he was surrounding you. 

"I guess." 

The area you were in was quiet where you could have a conversation with the perfect moody lighting where it made everyone look good. 

"Why didn't you come over earlier?" Bucky asked. 

You looked at him funny. 

"What, and be in the middle of all your...women? No thanks." You scoffed. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you then sipped his drink. 

"Jealous?" 

Your head snapped to his and you scoffed. 

"Please." 

You primly adjusted the hem of your dress. 

Bucky leaned in close to you. 

"I have no idea who she was; she just came over to me." 

"Good to know you let randoms grind all over you." You said sarcastically. 

You looked over at him. "Why are you telling me this Bucky?"

His face was close to yours making you lean back a little so you could see his eyes. His piercing blue eyes were searched yours and he said, "Just thought I needed to explain myself." 

"Right. The big bad mafia leader needs to explain to me, his lowly assistant and captive for that matter, that the beautiful woman who was sitting in his lap earlier was a nobody who just happened to sit herself down to which you did nothing to get rid of her. She looked awfully familiar with you. Tell me, if she is a no one, why didn't you shove her off and tell her to hit the road? Did you enjoy her sitting on your lap? Do you need the attention that bad?" You asked, glaring into his eyes. 

You saw his jaw tick with annoyance, but he didn't reply. You are certain steam would be coming out of his ears. 

"You bring me here, and for what? To show off? To show me you can have whatever woman you want fall all over you while I sit back and watch you three entertain yourselves? Tell me Bucky, where did the bartender go? Or Thor for that matter? I know you had them replaced and removed, and for what? And why?"

 He leaned back, not replying. It was like he was re-booting or something. The normal scary, confident, and powerful mafia leader was having an internal debate with himself and didn't reply. 

"You can have your fun, but somehow I can't. Why is that?"

He looked down at his shoes but didn't answer.

"I'm done my wine, so I'll be heading back now." You announced, getting up from the couch. 

You hesitated briefly to see if Bucky would do anything, but he didn't. 

He watched you leave as you headed down the stairs. You're certain Clint was hovering around the doors, and sure enough, he was, so you had him take you back to the mansion.

🔫👨🏻

"Fuck!" Bucky yelled, throwing an empty glass against a bookcase that exploded everywhere. 

He ran a hand through his shortened hair in frustration and was muttering to himself. 

"You ok boss?" Sam asked as Steve looked on. 

They stood in Bucky's office at the club. Bucky scowled at Sam but didn't reply. 

"I'm guessing you didn't have a nice night?" Steve asked, sitting himself down on a chair. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and flopped down in his black leather chair. 

"Would this have anything to do with Y/n?" Sam asked. 

Bucky glared at him. 

"Got to tell you man, it wasn't a good look to have Yelena all over you when Y/n got here, especially if you're trying to 'woo' her." Sam shrugged.

 "I'm not 'wooing' anyone. There was no 'wooing'. I don't 'woo'." Bucky scoffed and shook his head in disgust. 

"You didn't exactly tell Yelena to leave when Y/n came up to us." Steve shrugged. 

"How the fuck did you see? You were practically inhaling Nat's face..." 

"Pfft, I can multitask." Steve shrugged a shoulder. 

"So, you're into Y/n now?" Sam asked. 

Bucky sent him a death glare. 

"Cool, cool, just checking." Sam held up his hands. 

"So, what was your plan with Y/n for tonight?" Steve asked. 

Bucky folded his arms across his chest which made him seem like he was pouting. Steve sighed, looking over at Sam who nodded. 

They had enough of their moody boss who was too busy avoiding his feelings about you.

"So let me get this all straight." Steve leaned forward. 

"We kidnap the poor girl after she witnessed her boss being murdered, drag her with us to meet you only for you to be an absolute dick to her, hold her prisoner and make her give us everything she knows about Hydra. Force her to work alongside your sorry ass at a job you don't even want and continue to keep her at the mansion. You flirt with her and don't try to deny it we have eyes, drag her here under false pretenses of a 'celebration' but what you really wanted was to spend time with her only for her to see another woman all over you which you did nothing about. You then had the bartender fired for just doing his job, and a random douche thrown out and banned for what, talking to Y/n? Then Y/n leaves and you melt down because you refuse to tell her how you feel or tell her she's starting to mean something to you?" Steve recounted. 

Both him and Sam sat back and waited for Bucky to reply.

"He touched her." Bucky grumbled, not addressing anything else Steve pointed out. 

"I thought you had better game than this." Sam clicked his tongue. 

Bucky quickly pulled a knife on him making him chuckle. 

"Easy man, we're just trying to understand..." 

Bucky put the knife down but left it on the desk, glaring at it. 

"So, to confirm, you're into her?" Steve looked at the mafia leader and oldest friend. 

Bucky gave him a slow nod but didn't say anything. 

"We knew it." Sam shrugged. 

"Well, we have to do something about that." Steve looked over at Sam who nodded. 

"The gala dinner is next week when you're back from your supposed 'vacation.' You know the one your new company is having? Y/n finalized the details for it last week." Sam said, scrolling through his phone. 

"Y/n is supposed to receive a dress tomorrow for it since she's going as your assistant. Sam helped her order it last week after she made your sorry ass dinner." 

Bucky remembered the food you dropped off for him when you saw he was working late in his office. 

"How did you manage that?" Bucky finally asked. 

"We pay attention to her." Steve easily said. 

"You know things have been busy..." 

"We know. That's why we can help you with her." 

"You two?" Bucky snorted. 

Sam and Steve weren't known for being helpful in a personal sort of way. One liked to fire his gun and the other was too nosy and liked to gossip. God, why did he have these two as his main men? 

"Fine." 

"I need you to ask us nicely..." Sam smirked. 

Bucky inhaled sharply then exhaled like an angry bull. 

"Can you help me with Y/n? I'm into her and don't know what to do."

 "That's better." Sam said with Steve nodding.

 "We'll have Y/n falling for you in no time..." Steve assured his boss.

🔫👨🏻

You had gotten to the office early Monday morning since Bucky had an early meeting to attend. It's with a city official you're certain Bucky will more than likely pay off for him to 'look the other way' at the new warehouse build at the pier but you didn't say anything as you got the conference room ready.

 You hadn't seen Bucky at the mansion since the 'celebration at the club' night as Sam and Steve told you he was away and dealing with some other issues, so this would be the first day you've seen him since. You were nervous to see him, and you cursed yourself for having that feeling. You left the club with a weird vibe, and you were hoping it wouldn't continue to your work when you saw Bucky walk into the office. 

He stopped by your desk and placed a coffee on it. 

"Here." Then he walked into his office and closed the door. Your eyes went wide at the gesture seeing as how the mafia leader had never given you anything before other than a place to live and some clothes, so this was weird.

After Bucky's meeting, he called you into his office. It still felt weird standing in it, but the new paint and furniture helped.

 "The gala...it's Thursday?" 

"Yes. Brock thought it would look good for the company to host a charity gala, so he had set this up almost a year ago." 

Where is he going with this?

"You'll come with me."

 "Uh, that was the plan since I can't go anywhere without a chaperone you approve of..." 

"...As my date." 

You stood gawking at him as he stood and rounded his desk, standing in front of you. 

"But...I'm working it..." 

"No, you're not. I've got it handled. You'll come as my date and that's that." He said before he grabbed his phone and tucked it into his pocket. 

"I'm leaving for the rest of the day to deal with an issue on the new warehouse site. Clint will drive you home whenever you want." 

You didn't have time for a response since Bucky left you standing in the office. 

"Home? What the hell?" This was the first time he's mentioned the mansion as your home. You ran a hand over your face before you headed to your desk to over-analyze what he just said.

🔫👨🏻

"Where is she?" Bucky grumbled, looking at his watch.

 He stood in the foyer of the mansion in his all-black tuxedo while Sam and Steve looked on. The gala was something he would get through as many people were curious and wanted to meet the mysterious new leader of Hydra Enterprises.

 Bucky has plans to make Hydra Enterprises one of his legit businesses and over the weeks, he's restructured it with the help of Steve, so it's profitable. He's having a meeting that will remove the corruption and fraud from the books with his IT people and hopefully that will remove any trace of Brock's wrongdoings. 

He figures, if you're associated to it, he wants to keep your name as far away from that part of his world as possible, but he knows there's going to be some things you're associated to if he has any say. 

Footsteps were heard coming down the stairs as Bucky turned, only to freeze as he watched you descend.

"Hi." You said to the three men who were all gawking at you.

 You saw Bucky look over at Sam and Steve who quickly averted their eyes and seemed more interested in the flooring than you. Bucky openly stared as he took in your dress.

 "Is this, ok?" You asked, turning in a circle to show him. 

Your black dress clung to your body, revealing a high slit on your left side. The strapless bodice beautifully showed off your chest as you watched Bucky swallow. 

"It's fine." Bucky gruffly said. 

Bucky turned and glared at Steve and Sam who were still shuffling their feet. He's going to have a word for them helping you pick out such a revealing dress. 

He's not sure where his eyes should focus; on your face, chest, or that fucking slit revealing your legs in their high heels. He nodded to Sam and Steve who proceeded to leave with you following. Bucky's hand was on your lower back as he guided you to the waiting SUV.

🔫👨🏻

"Stop fidgeting." Bucky's voice cut through the quiet of the SUV. 

"I'm not." You scoffed at him. 

"You are."

 "Whatever. I'm hungry." You said to no one in particular.

 "We'll be there soon so you can have some food."

 You weren't thrilled at the idea of eating small appetizers, but at least you know what is being served since you signed off on the caterer's menu last week.

 "Fine." 

Your leg was bouncing up and down, so Bucky leaned over and placed his palm on your thigh to stop you, sending shivers throughout your body. His warm calloused hand squeezed your bare thigh to settle you. 

"Relax." He whispered, making your eyelids flutter and leg stop moving. 

You cleared your throat and shifted slightly. Sam and Steve smirked to each other. Bucky didn't remove his hand until the SUV came to a stop.

🔫👨🏻

You walked into the ballroom and looked around in awe. 

"Wow." 

The ballroom was decorated like an enchanted forest with fairy lights, large flower bouquets, candle centrepieces, and pops of colour. You knew there would be extra security at the gala, with Bucky doubling his men since he himself was attending and you noticed them right away with their dark suits, stoic demeaners, and earpieces you know lead to the tech team back at the office. 

Bucky watched you take in your surroundings and had to hide a smile on his normally stoic face. 

"Let's go." He said, once again placing his large hand at your back to guide you through the crowd. 

Sam and Steve walked on either side of you, making it look like all of you were untouchable. You looked around and took in the attendees, their tuxes, gowns, and jewellery shimmering in the light. For how beautiful the room was, you had a weird feeling something was going to happen.

You stood close to Bucky's side all night, sipping a glass of champagne while he chatted with people. Many women side-eyed you as you walked the room, but you didn't care, often sending them glares until they looked away. Whatever. Bucky made it clear you were his date, and you were going to enjoy it for the night. You're certain the blonde from the club was busy and that's why he asked you, but you don't want to think about it when you stepped out of Bucky's arms. 

"What are you doing?" 

You placed your empty glass on a table. 

"I'm headed to the ladies room." You said, feeling weird you had to announce that to them but whatever. Before you turned to leave, Bucky leaned in and said, "We're dancing when you get back." You looked at him in surprise but nodded when you turned and headed to the ladies' room.

🔫👨🏻

You finished and cleaned yourself up, re-applying some lipstick in the mirror when you heard the door open then close. You glanced over to see who entered, but you didn't see anyone. 

"Weird." You muttered, tucking your lipstick back in your clutch. 

You checked your hair one last time and took a step from the mirror when a pair of arms surrounded you and covered your mouth. 

"Don't scream." 

The male voice sounded in your ear. You couldn't fight them seeing as how your dress was awkward, they were strong as hell, and you were surrounded, seeing two large men walk out of the stalls, holding you at gunpoint. OMG - Did they listen to me pee? Why was that the thing you were thinking about at a time like this!

"Who..." You were about to ask, but a damp cloth was placed over your nose, knocking you out cold.

🔫👨🏻

"Go and check on her." Bucky told Steve who nodded, leaving the ballroom. He headed to the ladies' room, only to find it empty and what looked like a storage room was open revealing a hidden hallway. He quickly ran up and down the hall, shoving past people. He checked in with security to be certain what he was thinking, but no one had seen you.

"Fuck!" Steve yelled, talking into his hidden microphone. "Y/n is missing." 

When Bucky heard that, his eyes widened before he took off, fleeing from the ballroom. Many people looked over and gasped slightly but didn't react as he ran down the hall. He owns the hotel the gala was at, and ran to one of the offices, finding Steve already set up. 

"Where?" 

"We've got Parker tracing the cameras. We'll find her." Steve confidentially said, but Bucky only yelled in frustration, kicking the chair over. 

He ran a hand over his hair which fluffed it up making him look frantic. He breathed heavy, trusting his tech guys they would have an answer soon.

🔫👨🏻

You woke in a darkened room, lying on what felt like a dirty cement floor. 

"Shit." You muttered, trying to focus your eyes, but it was useless, the room was pitch black. 

"Where am I?" Your head pounded, feeling like you just left a 24-hour heavy metal concert. 

You were still in your gala dress, so you were somewhat glad no one had stripped you when you heard footsteps. A door opened causing light to filter in. 

You turned and squinted holding up your hand to block the brightness when a creepy male voice said, "Ah, you're awake. He'll want to see you now." 

The footsteps came closer and helped you up, causing you to stumble.

 "Wait, who the hell are you?" You tensed as the man grabbed your arm. 

"You don't need to know that right now. Come, he wants to meet you." 

"No!" 

The man smirked and pulled out what looked to be a long stick of some kind. He held it up, then immediately hit you with it, striking your side, causing you to scream in pain.

 "What the hell you sick fuck!" 

He reared back again and hit you across your back, knocking you to the ground. You winced when he hit you once more, hearing a crunch as you screamed. You're certain your arm was now broken. 

"Get up." 

He ushered you out of the room. You stumbled down a hallway and entered a large office when the man walked you to a desk. The walls and accent colours were red making your eyes fuzzy at the bold colour choice. 

"He'll be right with you." Then the man stepped back, leaving you alone holding your injured arm.

A side door opened and an older man stepped out wearing a black suit.

"Miss Y/l/n. Make sure you tell them you were injured before you got here. I wouldn't want that reflecting badly on us now would we." 

He walked towards you and inspected your arm. You felt his beady eyes roam you, making you want to hurl. 

"I'm Johann Shmidt. An...acquaintance of Mr. Rumlow's." He sat himself down at a large black desk. Your mouth popped open in shock. 

"Please, have a seat." He gestured to a chair. 

"No thanks." You replied in a raspy voice. 

"What am I doing here?" You asked. 

The man smirked, placing his hands on his desk. 

"You've been selected as part of the next shipment." 

Your stomach plummeted. You had thought Bucky's men dismantled that. 

"Me? What shipment?" 

"Scheduled to leave tomorrow. You'll board the ship and travel with the others..." 

"Others?" 

"Yes, others. You'll score a pretty penny for me now that you're Barnes' girl." 

"What?" 

"James Barnes, mafia leader and new CEO of Hydra Enterprises? You're his girl, so I expect you to fetch the most from my buyers." 

Oh hell no. 

You turned to leave but were stopped by this Zola guy who was now holding a gun at you. You turned and said, "Why are you telling me this?" 

The man shrugged a shoulder and leaned back in his chair.

 "Rumlow was a decent guy but no longer matched with our...priorities. I told him you would fetch a good dollar, but he always insisted you not be included in his dealings. He valued your brains too much over your body..." His eyes raked you up and down and said, "Although I agree on the body front, your connection to Barnes will overrule your physical...shortcomings..." 

He snickered at you making you scowl. 

"Fuck you." 

"I admire your feistiness although your buyer will more than likely want you submissive...so you better get used to it now."

 You almost heaved at his comment. There was no way that was going to happen. 

"Take her away." He waved, standing from his desk. 

Zola grabbed you and wrestled you out the door, but you stopped him by stomping your heel on the top of his foot causing him to yelp. You faced Shmidt. 

"Bucky will come for you, and when he does, you and your little minion will die a painful death!" 

"I count on it. Because when he does come, we'll be waiting." 

Both men chuckled ominously as another man grabbed you and walked you back to your cell as the door to the office slammed shut.

🔫👨🏻

"Who?" Bucky asked. 

"Johann Shmidt and Arnim Zola. Part of the newly formed science division at Hydra Enterprises." Sam said, placing a file on the desk. 

"Fucking hell! How many divisions does Hydra Enterprises have!" Bucky yelled. 

"I swear to God when I get her back, I am dismantling Hydra Enterprises." His plans for making it legit were thrown out the window.

Bucky read over the small intel sheet Parker provided him. 

"We tracked her here." Steve said, pointing to a map.

 Bucky would find a way to tell you later he had his men put small trackers in all your clothes and hoped you would forgive him. Bucky looked over the map and knew exactly where it was. 

"Let's go." He grabbed his gun and checked the ammunition. 

"Woah woah, Buck. I want to get Y/n just as much as you do, but we need a plan. We can't just storm in guns blazing. Besides, Parker is dismantling the bombs as we speak." Steve said, blocking Bucky from leaving. Bucky growled at Steve knowing he was right. 

"Ok, so what do we know..." Sam said, re-focusing his boss to come up with a plan of attack...

🔫👨🏻

You don't know how long you were in the darkened cell. You were on the floor, curled into a ball protecting your arm, when you heard footsteps then the door was opened. 

"Let's go." Arnin Zola grabbed you and ushered you out. 

"Where?" You muttered, fumbling down a hallway.

 "Stop shoving me along..." 

"Then walk nicely..."

 "I'm trying to..." 

You fought with him a little, but he stopped and faced you. 

"Shut up." He slapped you across your face causing you to wince. 

"Let's go. The ship is here but we have to finish getting it ready." 

Fuck. 

You figured you were in a warehouse by the pier but weren't sure where, or if you were even in the same city when he opened a door and threw you in, locking it behind you. You noticed there was six cots that looked like they were recently used. In another corner were six women who were huddled together. Bile rose in your throat but you swallowed it down. 

You walked over and they flinched slightly. 

"It's going to be ok, someone will come..." 

"No one will." A brunette woman interrupted you.

"We've been here for a month, waiting..." She shrugged. 

"We've all been waiting..." Another one said, hugging her knees to her chest. 

"My arm is broken..." You blurted out. 

The first women got up and looked it over, then she walked to a cot and cut a piece of cloth to make a makeshift sling. 

"There, that should hold. It's not much but it should feel better." 

"Thank you." You could cry because not only did it help with the pain, but she was so kind even though you were surrounded by fear and uncertainty.

"Where did they find you?" The first woman asked looking at your tattered black gown.

 "Gala dinner." 

She snorted. "Lucky. They grabbed me from my house in the early morning. I was about to leave for my shift at the er. My name is Peggy." 

"Y/n." 

No one else introduced themselves, probably too scared to speak. 

"I promise, someone is coming." You assured them. 

You sat by them and brought your legs up, hugging them to your chest and sent a small prayer up to anyone who would listen that Bucky was going to save you. You just had to hold on a little longer.

🔫👨🏻

Bucky rode with Sam and Steve in an SUV, along with 20 other SUV's full of his men and loaded weapons. A long line of them travelled to the abandoned pier, his gut twisting when he saw a waiting ship at the dock. 

"We just made it." Sam said. 

His men stalked out of the SUVs with another 50 who were already there his tech team dispatched. He's going to have to give Parker a hefty raise and some time off from the info he found. Parker was currently dismantling the newly formed science leg of Hydra Investments by blowing up the leader's homes, businesses, and acquaintances, along with dismantling their bank accounts, investments, and holding companies. 

Bucky didn't give a shit if this started World War three, his goal was to get you back in his arms, safe and sound and if that meant destroying half of the city, he was going to do it.

🔫👨🏻

You heard commotion outside the locked door as you and the rest of the women stood, inching your way to the door. 

"What the hell?" One of them said. 

You looked over at Peggy who was watching with a curious expression on her face. Your heart was racing knowing it was more than likely Bucky and his men that were causing the noise, so you waited.

🔫👨🏻

Bucky, Sam, and Steve walked into an office that made their eyes buggy from the colour. 

"Someone likes the colour red." Sam said, walking the perimeter. 

"Barnes, nice of you to check on your newest division at Hydra Enterprises." A man walked in from a side door. 

"Fuck off Shmidt." Bucky growled.

 "I'm surprised you know who I am."

 "You're the piece of shit in charge." Bucky said, leaning against a table. 

"Perhaps." Another man walked into the office and stood at Schmidt's side. 

"Zola." Bucky grumbled making the short man nod at him. 

Steve walked over to Bucky's side as did Sam. 

"You've brought the whole cavalry." 

Gunfire and blasts were heard from other parts of the warehouse. 

"It's over, Shmidt." Bucky said. 

"Is it?" 

Parker had assured Bucky the science division was dismantled, leaving no trace of it by the time Bucky got to the office. All the men in the warehouse were destroyed, along with the ships and the warehouses. This was the last one, but Bucky wasn't going to announce that...yet. 

"I don't take kindly to people who creep in on my turf, especially with trafficking." 

"Brock..."

 "Brock was murdered." Bucky snapped at him. 

Shmidt and Zola shrugged like they didn't care one bit. 

"He was murdered and I took over, plain and simple, and now, I'm going to murder you." 

Loki walked in and stood behind Bucky. Shmidt seemed to know who he was and shifted appearing slightly nervous. 

"The bombs on site have been dismantled, your men have all been killed, and your little ship has been grounded." 

"You work fast." Zola stated.

 "Now, all you have to do is tell me where Y/n is." 

Shmidt's face lit up for the first time. 

"She's here." He casually shrugged, lighting a cigar, turning to face Zola.

 "Where did you put her after you broke her arm?" Zola shrugged.

 In one swift move, Bucky took out his gun and shot Zola in the forehead, torture be damned. Zola crumped in a heap while Shmidt watched.

 "Your time has come to an end. Rumlow is dead, Hydra Enterprises is no more. You're going to die too." Steve said. 

Shmidt shrugged, not seeming to care as both Sam and Steve held their guns at him. Loki stood by and watched, waiting for the signal to take over so he could torture him, something he was the best at. 

"Very well." Shmidt shrugged, turning to face Sam and Steve. 

"Take your best shot." 

"Wait." Bucky watched close. 

"Ah, having second thoughts?"

 "Something isn't right."

 "You're good." Shmidt shrugged. 

"There's an explosive device set to the room Y/n is in. It may or may not have been triggered when you first walked in here and it may or may not have a kill switch, and it may or may not have gone off already." 

A few explosions were heard in the distance. Bucky's eyes flashed with concern. 

"He's lying." Sam scoffed. 

"Am I?" 

Another explosion sounded. 

"If you find her and open the door, it may end up badly for you both." Shmidt said. 

"Fuck!" Bucky growled, lowering his gun. 

He ran a hand over his face but held the gun up and cocked it. He took a shot, hitting Schmidt in the shoulder. 

"He's lying like Sam said. We've located Y/n." Parker's voice sounded in the earpieces. 

Bucky wanted to fall to his knees in relief, but he stayed composed as did his men. 

"We're going to torture you, you sick fuck." Bucky smirked, giving Loki the signal to start. 

"Wait, Y/n...she may..." 

"Shut up you fuck! I'm done with your games!" Bucky shot him in the other shoulder causing Loki to roll his eyes at his trigger-happy boss. 

"He's all yours." Bucky said, leaving the office. 

"Where is she?" He said into the earpiece. Loki smirked and swooped in, pulling out his bag of tricks making Shmidt's eyes widen in fear for the first time. 

"When you see Brock in hell, tell him I said hi." Bucky said, gesturing for Loki to take over before he left the office.

🔫👨🏻

A loud blast sounded, rattling the door to the room you were in. You stood by it, trying to listen since the gunfire had eased when you heard footsteps. 

"Someone's coming!" You announced. 

Many of the women tensed, some hung onto each other when the door to your room burst open. 

"Steve!!!" You yelled, seeing a tired yet relieved expression on his face. You ran to him and hugged him tight before you released him. 

"Where's Bucky? Sam?" 

"Here." Sam peeked into the room but was bowled over when Bucky stormed in shoving him aside.

 "Move." He bolted over to you, his blue eyes seemed electric as he quickly looked at you, then he immediately wrapped you up in his arms, holding you tight. 

"Fuck! Baby..." He sighed, melting into you. 

He was rubbing your back and hair trying to soothe you. Tears formed in your eyes as you let him hold you. 

"I'm ok..." You winced slightly when he let you go. 

He looked at your arm in a makeshift sling and his nostrils flared. 

"I think it's broken..." You whispered. 

"Fucking Hydra." Bucky's voice was low and sounded lethal. 

"Let's go." He announced as Sam and Steve ushered out the other women. 

"Wait!" You stopped. 

You walked over to Peggy who was on the arm of Steve and gave her a side hug.

 "Thank you, for helping me." 

Then you let her go and walked back to Bucky.

 "Fuck this." Bucky said, placing his gun in his holster. 

He reached down and scooped you up, so he was carrying you. 

 "Let's get the hell out of here." He said, his men following. 

When you got outside, the warehouse you were in was completely levelled along with the pier. 

"Holy shit." You said, looking around. A black SUV was waiting so you boarded it alone, with Bucky. 

The rest boarded the other SUV's who were waiting.

Bucky got in and slid to your side, bringing you to sit on his lap for the ride back. You winced slightly from your arm, pain starting to return as your adrenaline was wearing off. 

"I need a hospital..." 

Bucky's hand roamed up and down your back, soothing you as much as it soothed him with the rhythmic motion. 

"I'll need a cast...probably x-rays, pain killers..." 

"Baby..." 

You looked up at Bucky. 

"Shut up and let me hold you." He sighed, squeezing you close. 

"I've already got a doctor lined up and is waiting at home for you." 

You snuggled into his chest while he held you.

"M'kay." You said, closing your eyes feeling safe for the first time in 24-hours.

🔫👨🏻

You woke to a calm and quiet room, groggily looking around. You had a mini-panic attack thinking you were never rescued and still at the hell on earth warehouse, but you weren't. Your eyes focused on a darkened room, and you were surrounded by clean, soft bedding. 

You stretched and winced slightly at the slight pain in your arm, looking down to scowl at what was preventing you from moving. 

"Oh, right, it's broken." 

You scowled at the cast that was being held with a black sling. 

"Feeling better?" A voice sounded from your right side. 

You looked over to find Bucky sitting there. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up his arms, showing off his tattoos with the top button undone. His usual black suit jacket was nowhere to be found. 

"What are you doing here?" 

He smirked at you and said, "You're the one in my bed baby..." 

Your eyes went wide as you looked around again. 

Frig, this is not my room.

"Oh, well, let me up..." 

You shuffled around trying but failing as you flopped from side to side making Bucky chuckle. He stood and sat on the edge of the bed, settling you. 

"It's ok. I was the one who put you here after the doctor fixed your arm." He pointed to your cast. 

"Right..."

 You must have passed out and slept through it since you don't remember a thing. 

"You've been asleep for 72-hours." 

Your eyes widened in shock. 

"Really?" 

You looked around in wonder. 

"No doll, I'm just joking. More like 8-hours." You glared at him making him chuckle even more. 

"You're hilarious..." You muttered.

The bedroom door opened a crack and Sam and Steve stuck their heads in. 

"Is she awake?" Sam whispered. 

Bucky sighed and said, "yes." Then the two men barged in, walking up to the bed.

"Hey." You said, giving them a lame wave. You were propped up slightly, feeling better. 

"Glad you're ok." 

"Yeah, that was crazy." They said, chattering like a bunch of excited kids.

 You learned Steve was in contact with Peggy from the warehouse, who he has been communicating with. He told you she was a nurse and he's planning on stalking the er department when she returns to work, so you're certain that's going over well like a lead balloon. 

Sam told you he went to a bakery today to get some cookies, but he said they aren't the same as the ones you make and has asked if he can help you bake when you're feeling better. 

"Would you two get out of my fucking bedroom?" Bucky sighed, running a hand over his face. 

You giggled and looked over at Bucky. He had light stubble on his face and he looked exhausted. 

"Fine, we're going." Sam raised his hands up with Steve mimicking. 

"We just wanted to check on Y/n."

 "Get out." Bucky pointed to the door while the two men shuffled away. 

"It was good to see you guys. Thanks for rescuing me." 

They both turned and seemed to blush slightly at your words before they left the room, closing the door.

"You need rest." You said, looking at Bucky. 

"I'll rest later. I've got food coming for you. You need to eat." 

"I need a shower." You muttered. 

You went to get up but were stopped. 

"Bucky!" 

"Stay here, eat, then you can shower."

 "I'll eat but then leave, and head back to my room." 

"Are we negotiating then?" He teased.

 "No." You huffed. 

"Good. You'll stay here, in my bed and that's that." 

"Oh really?"

 You went to cross your arms over your chest but winced at the pain...again. 

Right, my arm is broken. 

You were in a standoff with the mafia leader when food was brought in. 

"Eat." Bucky pointed to the tray before he got up and left the room, leaving you with your food. 

"Fine bossy pants." You muttered, taking a sip of water.

🔫👨🏻

"Hydra Enterprises has been completely dismantled, the employees have been given severance pay and references to find other jobs, the offices has been cleaned out, leaving no trace of the former company." Bucky said to Steve and Sam. 

"So, what's going to happen to Y/n?" Sam asked. 

"She's mine." Bucky glared at him. 

"Ok, but like, is she going to live here? Forever?" Steve asked. 

"Yes." 

"Cool, cool. So, when are you going to tell her?" 

"Tell me what?" You asked, poking your head into the office.

 "You're supposed to be resting. Don't make me call Dr. Strange back..." Bucky shot up from his desk and marched towards you. 

"I'm fine. I was just getting some clothes to change into after my shower." You rolled your eyes at him. 

"What did you have to tell me?" 

"Would you look at the time?" Steve announced looking at his bare wrist.

 "Gotta head out." Sam added, with the two men darting from the office like it was on fire.

"What's going on?"

 Something was up. 

Bucky walked you to the large couch and eased you down, sitting right beside you. 

"Close enough?" You snorted to which Bucky said, "Never." Making your eyes widen. 

"I was saying earlier, Hydra Enterprises is no more. It's gone. I closed the company and office..." 

"Wait, what about my job? My rent? Where will I work, wait, what will I do?" Your mind was spinning as Bucky placed his hand on your thigh to settle you.

 "You're going to stay here." 

"Oh?" 

"With me." 

"Right..." You scoffed, but he didn't flinch.

 "Wait, you're serious? What will I do?" 

"Do whatever you want, I don't care. Pick a hobby, do nothing, do it all, but whatever you do, you do it by my side." 

Your mind raced with possibilities. 

"What if I want to join the circus?" 

"I'll buy a big top tent for you." 

"What if I want to lie around all day and eat snacks like a rabid racoon?" 

"Then I'll get new couches that are more comfortable. You may have to fight Sam off, but I'll make sure the snacks never stop coming." 

"What if I want to travel the world?" 

There, that'll stump him. 

"When do we leave? I've got properties in most major cities, just say when and we'll leave." 

You gaped at him. 

"Wait, the employees..." 

"Taken care of." Your eyes widened and he sighed.

 "Not like that. I knew you'd be concerned, so they've all been paid out and given reference letters." 

"Oh, ok." You fidgeted with your broken arm.

 "Stop fidgeting."

 "I'm not." You pouted. 

"Wait, my apartment..."

 "Already cleaned out." 

"That's presumptuous of you..." 

"I know you'll say yes, just admit it." 

"What if I don't want to live here?" 

Bucky had to stop his eye from wanting to twitch at your questions, but that was one of the things he's come to adore about you. 

"You want to remodel a room or the house? I don't give a shit, do whatever you want. Baby, I have all the money in the world for you to spend. If you find the house good enough? We'll move. In case you need it spelled out to you, you're mine Y/n. You live here, with me and I will do anything to keep you happy." He squeezed your thigh. 

"Hmm..." You thought about it. 

"Ok." 

You saw the corner of Bucky's mouth twitch. 

"Ok? Just like that?" 

"Yeah..." 

He eyed you.

 "Oh wait, there is one thing..." 

"Of course there is..." He muttered.

 "No more club. No more going to the club, doing things at the club, escaping to the club, you stay here. With me."

 "Done." He simply said without issue. 

Well, that was easy enough. 

"Ok then." 

That's done. 

"Your things are currently being moved to my bedroom." Your eyes widened slightly. 

"Oh, are they now?" 

"Yup." 

He leaned down, his lips practically brushing yours as his eyes flashed. 

"I hope you're ready to be my queen." 

You swallowed and nodded, unable to say anything else. He ran his hand up and down your thigh sending shivers throughout yours. 

"Good, because you're about to enter my world and I'm all too excited to show you everything there is about the darker side of it." Then he leaned in and placed his lips on yours, making you melt into him.

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔)

Cocky to the marrow of his bones, sharp-tongued and arrogant as Lucifer himself, Bucky lived as though the world owed him pleasure, coin and willing flesh. By day he sold his sword to the highest bidder. By night he sold his body to any woman bold enough to meet his gaze. Tavern wenches with loud laughs and rough hands, blushing noble daughters sneaking out after curfew, widowed merchants’ wives starved for a man’s touch and painted whores in the stews, he fucked them all. Often two or three in the same night, sometimes all at once.

He never stayed till morning. Never asked their surnames. Never cared.

One humid summer night in a crowded Southwark tavern, he had a fiery red-haired barmaid bent over a stack of ale barrels out back. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist and he was pounding into her so hard the barrels creaked and shifted beneath them. He gripped her hips with calloused hands, lips brushing her ear as he growled low and filthy,

“That’s it, ye greedy little slut… take every thick inch of my cock. Moan louder, lass- let the whole fucking street hear how well I’m ruining this tight, dripping cunt of yers.”

She came with a shaking cry, knees buckling. Bucky laughed darkly, low and wicked and pulled out only to spin her around and shove her to her knees in the dirt.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, fisting his thick cock. “I’m going to spend down yer throat like the good little cocksucker ye are.”

She obeyed eagerly and he fucked her mouth until he spilled with a satisfied groan.

Two nights later, he found himself in a lavish merchant’s townhouse with twin noble daughters whose father was away on business. The sisters knelt before him in their fine shifts, taking turns sucking his cock while he sat like a king upon their father’s velvet chair. He tangled his fingers in their soft hair, voice low and dripping with filth:

“Look at you two proper little ladies… choking on a lowly mercenary’s cock like common whores in the stews. Share it nicely now- lick my balls while yer sister swallows me down. Good girls. I’m going to fuck both yer tight cunts senseless until ye can’t walk straight on the morrow.”

He took them one after the other on their father’s fine bed, then together, whispering the most depraved things between deep thrusts:

“Does it feel good, feeling yer sister’s slick all over my cock while I’m buried inside ye? Ye like being fucked like cheap sluts, don’t ye?”

The girls moaned and begged for more, and Bucky gave it to them until they were trembling and spent.

Later that same month, he fucked a widowed countess in her own marriage bed, her late husband’s portrait glaring down at them from the wall while he railed her hard from behind. He slapped her ass sharply, leaving a red handprint, and snarled against her ear,

“Bet that cold old bastard never fucked ye like this, did he? Say it, my lady- tell me how much better my thick cock feels stretching this neglected, dripping noble cunt of yers.”

“Better,” she gasped, pushing back against him shamelessly. “So much better- please, harder!”

He laughed, dark and triumphant, and gave her exactly what she begged for.

He never asked. He simply took, with that devastating smirk, those piercing steel-blue eyes and that rough, velvet voice dripping pure sin. Women dropped to their knees the second he crooked a finger and flashed that wicked grin. Word of him spread through the taverns and great houses alike: if you wanted a night you’d never forget, you sought out James Barnes.

To him, life was cheap and fleeting, especially with the dark rumors of a terrible sickness creeping ever closer from the continent. So why not wring every last drop of pleasure from it while he still could? Death was for the weak, the unlucky, the overly cautious. James Buchanan Barnes was none of those things. He felt invincible, already half-immortal in his own mind, a king of fleeting nights and stolen pleasures.

Until the night the plague finally found him in that filthy alley behind the tavern.

James had just finished with a laughing barmaid behind the tavern, still tucking his cock back into his breeches with that signature cocky smirk when the nightmare lunged out of the shadows.

The man was a nobleman once, fine clothes now stained and torn but the plague had rotted him from the inside. Black buboes swelled grotesquely on his neck and groin, his skin slick with fever-sweat and pus. His eyes, however, burned with something far worse than the pestilence. They were mad. Hungry. And his mouth was open, revealing long, sharp fangs glistening with saliva and fresh blood.

Bucky tried to fight.

Even half-drunk and sated, the young mercenary was no easy prey. He swung a heavy fist and caught the creature square in the jaw with a solid crack.

“Get the fuck off me, ye sick bastard!” he snarled, terror spiking through the haze of ale.

The nobleman’s strength was unnatural. He slammed Bucky against the slimy brick wall of the alley with bone-jarring force. The stench of death, decay and rotting flesh filled Bucky’s lungs, making him gag. He kicked wildly, cursed, and clawed at the creature’s rotting face, drawing blood and pus beneath his nails.

“Unhand me, you foul whoreson!”

But the dying vampire was too far gone. With a guttural, inhuman hiss, he struck.

Fangs sank deep into Bucky’s throat.

The pain was immediate and blinding.

James screamed, a raw broken sound that echoed off the narrow alley walls. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured straight into his veins. Every nerve in his body ignited at once. His back arched violently as the venom spread like acid through muscle and bone. He dropped to his knees in the filth and shit of the alley, clawing desperately at his own neck. Hot blood poured between his fingers, soaking his tunic.

“What… what the fuck have ye done to me?!” he gasped, voice cracking with raw terror. “Get off- get off me, ye devil!”

The nobleman collapsed beside him with a grotesque, satisfied smile still twisting his rotting face, finally dead.

Bucky’s vision blurred and doubled. His gums burned as though someone had shoved hot coals into his mouth. New fangs pushed through with agonizing slowness, splitting the flesh, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of his own blood. His eyes felt like they were boiling in his skull, bloodshot crimson, pupils blown wide with unbearable pain. Every heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a war drum, each one slower, heavier, more labored than the last.

He vomited bile and blood onto the filthy cobblestones, curling into a tight ball as wave after wave of excruciating pain ripped him apart from the inside out. Nothing in his life, no sword wound, no tavern brawl, no brutal fuck had ever come close to this torment.

“I’m dying,” he gasped between screams. “Christ save me… I’m dying…”

Then his heart stopped.

For one terrifying, endless moment there was only silence.

And then a new, monstrous strength flooded his limbs.

The pain crested like a breaking wave and shattered. The fire in his veins cooled into something cold, sharp, and impossibly clear. His senses exploded. He could hear rats skittering through the gutters three streets away. He could smell the fear-sweat and ale on every patron still inside the tavern. He could taste the copper of his own blood like the finest wine he’d ever stolen.

James Buchanan Barnes rose slowly from the filth of the alley a different man.

No longer the cocky mortal who believed himself invincible.

Now he was invincible.

The arrogance did not vanish overnight. It simply twisted into something far colder, darker and infinitely more dangerous. A ravenous hunger gnawed at his insides like a living beast. He staggered out of the alley on unsteady legs, eyes glowing faintly red in the darkness, new fangs aching in his gums. The whole world smelled of blood and opportunity.

For the next three centuries he drifted across Europe like a handsome plague all his own, still devastatingly beautiful, now paired with an immortal predator’s lethal grace. He took lovers by the dozen and left ruin in his wake.

He fucked them hard and mercilessly.

In silk-draped beds of French chateaus, he would take haughty countesses from behind while their husbands slept in the next room. He’d grip their hips hard enough to bruise, pounding into them until they sobbed with pleasure, then sink his fangs into their offered throats as they came. Many begged for it, baring their necks willingly, whispering “Take me, my lord… drink” as he drained them just enough to leave them dizzy and addicted.

In moonlit forests of Germany, he seduced witches who offered their wrists and throats in dark rituals. He’d fuck them against ancient trees or on moss-covered altars, their bare breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust while they chanted his name like a god. He drank from them mid-climax, their blood mixing with their screams of ecstasy as he filled their cunts with his spend.

In the secret royal chambers of Spain and Italy, queens and duchesses summoned him under cover of night. They offered their royal throats like sacred gifts, spreading their legs and begging the beautiful monster to ruin them. He would fuck them on their own thrones or royal beds, merciless and unrelenting, leaving bite marks that they would hide beneath high collars and jewels for weeks.

Even peasant girls in haylofts and smoky inns were not spared. They offered themselves eagerly, wrists, throats, thighs, drawn to his dangerous beauty like moths to flame. He took them roughly against barn walls or on piles of straw, growling filthy promises in their ears as he drove into them:

“That’s it, lass… bare that pretty throat for me. Let me drink while I fuck this tight cunt raw.”

He was never gentle. He fucked like the predator he had become, deep, brutal and possessive. Many women left his bed limping, marked and forever changed, craving the bite of the beautiful devil who had ruined them for mortal men.

And when the hunger demanded more than just sex, he fed.

He drank from wrists held out like offerings, from elegant throats bared in candlelight, from soft inner thighs spread wide beneath him. He never killed them, not unless they deserved it. He left them alive, dazed and addicted, whispering his name in their dreams for years afterward.

Then he vanished before dawn.

No attachments. No feelings. No mercy.

Just blood and pleasure.

He moved from city to city, country to country, leaving a trail of broken hearts, bitten throats and ruined reputations in his wake.

Until the second wave of plague swept through London in 1665… and brought him Dolores.

It was a rain-soaked evening when James first met Dolores.

He was walking the narrow, muddy streets of Cheapside, hood pulled low against the downpour, when a young woman hurried around the corner with a heavy basket of herbs clutched to her chest. She collided directly with him.

She stumbled, nearly dropping her basket. He caught her elbow with gentle, steady hands.

“Forgive me, mistress,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I was not watching where I-”

Their eyes met.

And she knew.

She saw the faint red glow in his eyes, the unnatural stillness of his body, the way the rain seemed to slide off him differently. She smelled the old death that clung to him like a shadow. Most mortals would have screamed or run.

Dolores only smiled, soft, unafraid, almost tender.

“You’re him,” she whispered, so quietly only he could hear. “The one the shadows speak of. The immortal with the devil’s hunger.”

James froze. For the first time in centuries, he was the one caught off guard.

“And yet ye do not run,” he said, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing. “Most women throw themselves at me for the thrill of the monster. They bare their throats and beg to be ruined. Why do you not scream?”

She looked up at him with calm, intelligent eyes, rain dripping from her lashes.

“Because I see more than the monster,” she replied softly. “I see a man who is tired. Lonely. Carrying centuries of sorrow in those beautiful eyes. Tell me, stranger… does the hunger ever let you rest?”

James stared at her, stunned into silence. No one had ever spoken to him like this.

That night, after she invited him into the back room of her father’s apothecary shop under the pretense of selling him a tonic, she offered him something far more precious.

“I know what you are,” she said softly, standing close enough that he could hear her steady heartbeat. “And I am not afraid. If you wish to drink… you may. But only if it brings me pleasure, not pain. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted by something eternal.”

James stared at her, stunned. No one had ever offered themselves to him like this, without fear or mindless lust.

“Dolores,” he breathed, tasting the name like a prayer. “Are you certain? I am no gentle lover. I have ruined women far braver than you.”

She cupped his face with gentle hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Then be gentle with me, my James. Show me the man behind the hunger. Kiss me first.”

He kissed her slowly, reverently, as if she were the most fragile thing in existence. When she moaned softly into his mouth, he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against hers while his hands explored her body with aching care.

That same night, in the small room above the shop with rain pattering against the window, he took her virginity.

He laid her down on the narrow bed like she was made of Venetian glass. He kissed every inch of her, slow worshipful kisses down her throat, across her collarbones, over the soft swell of her breasts. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he worshipped her with his mouth until she was trembling and whimpering.

“Easy, my sweet Dot,” he murmured against her slick folds, voice low and tender. “Breathe for me. Let me make it good for you. I want to hear every sound you make.”

He licked her slowly, reverently, sucking gently on her clit until she came with a soft cry, fingers tangled in his hair.

When he finally pushed inside her, he did it so slowly, so carefully, whispering sweet, filthy praises the entire time.

“That’s it, love… breathe. You feel so perfect. So warm and tight around my cock. Such a brave, beautiful girl, taking me so well. Does it hurt?”

“A little,” she gasped, legs wrapping around him. “But don’t stop. I want all of you, James. Please.”

He moved with aching gentleness, rocking into her in slow, deep strokes, one hand cradling her face while the other stroked between her legs.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered against her lips. “My perfect Dot. Look at you, opening up for a monster like me. I’ve never felt anything like this. Never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

As she neared her peak, he kissed her throat and asked softly, “May I taste you, love? It will feel like pleasure… I swear it on whatever soul I have left.”

“Yes,” she breathed, tilting her head. “Take what you need. I want to feel you.”

He sank his fangs gently into her throat at the exact moment she came. She cried out in ecstasy, not pain, as his venom flooded her veins with liquid pleasure. He drank only a little, just enough to bind her to him while she clenched around his cock, sobbing his name.

“My James… oh God, James… it feels… so good…”

For the first time in three hundred years, the cold, womanizing predator fell in love. Real, terrifying, all-consuming love. Dot became his anchor, his light in an endless night. She made the hunger feel like home. They moved into a small cottage on the edge of the city, hidden behind overgrown gardens. He watched her work by lamplight, head bent over dried herbs and for stolen months he felt almost human again.

He was gentle with her in ways he had never been with anyone. He would fuck her slow and deep on their modest bed, whispering filthy devotion between tender kisses:

“My sweet Dot… so tight, so perfect for me. Look how beautifully you take my cock. I’d burn kingdoms for this cunt, for you.”

She would moan his name like a prayer, fingers buried in his hair, gasping “My James… my James…” as she came apart beneath him, safe in the arms of the monster who had chosen to be gentle for her.

But the plague found her anyway.

It started with a mild fever and a small swelling under her arm. Bucky begged her to stay inside. She insisted on helping the sick in the city “I cannot sit idle while people die, James.” Within days she was burning with fever, black buboes blooming across her neck and groin, coughing up blood.

He took her to the only hospital-like place that would accept plague victims, a filthy overcrowded pesthouse run by overworked physicians and nuns. The air reeked of vinegar, smoke, and rotting flesh. They bled her, applied useless poultices, and prayed over her while she grew weaker. Bucky waited outside in the shadows like an animal, listening to her faint cries through the walls.

When the doctors finally told him there was nothing more they could do “She is in God’s hands now” he snapped. He stole her from the pesthouse that same night, carrying her home in his arms while she shivered and whimpered.

“I’ve got you, Dot. I’m not letting them touch you again.”

Back in their cottage, he took matters into his own hands. Desperate and terrified, he forced his ancient vampire blood down her throat by the cupful. He reopened the bites on his wrists again and again, mixing his blood with herbal tonics she once made, performing every forbidden rite he had learned across three centuries. He even tried to turn her prematurely, sinking his fangs into her throat while she was still semi-conscious, pumping venom and blood into her failing body in a frantic attempt to save her.

It only made everything worse.

His powerful blood clashed violently with the plague already devouring her. The buboes swelled larger and burst. Her fever spiked into delirium. She screamed in agony as her body tore itself apart from the inside, convulsing so hard she bit through her own lip. The vampire venom accelerated the plague’s destruction, turning her gentle decline into a nightmare of pain.

In her final hours she was barely lucid. Bucky climbed into bed with her, cradling her burning body against his chest, rocking her as she gasped for air.

“Stay with me, Dot… please, my love. I can’t do this without you.”

Her eyes fluttered open one last time, bloodshot, fading but full of love. She reached up with a trembling, fever-hot hand and cupped his tear-streaked face.

“My James…” she breathed, voice cracking like glass. “I love you… even the monster. Don’t… don’t blame yourself.”

Then she screamed.

A horrible, soul-shattering scream as another wave of pain ripped through her. She clawed at her own chest and neck, eyes wide with terror and agony, whispering his name like a broken litany until her voice failed. Bucky held her through every convulsion, sobbing blood tears into her sweat-soaked hair, begging, praying, cursing God and himself.

She died just before dawn, limp and cold in the arms of the immortal who had tried everything and only hastened her suffering.

The silence afterward was worse than any scream.

Completely shattered, Bucky remained on the bed where they had been lying together.

Dot was still in his arms, limp and cold against his chest, exactly where she had drawn her last painful breath. He held her tighter, rocking her gently as if that could somehow bring her back. The silence in the small cottage was deafening, broken only by the distant rumble of plague carts outside and the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.

Tears of blood streamed down his face as he pressed his lips to her forehead one final time.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. Forgive me, Dot… forgive your monster.”

With trembling hands, he gently laid her back against the pillows, arranging her hair and pulling the quilt up to her chin like she was only sleeping.

Then he rose.

He moved through the cottage like a man in a nightmare, pouring oil from every lamp and bottle he could find. He soaked the floorboards, the rugs, the curtains, the herbs and dried flowers she had so lovingly collected. He drenched the wooden beams and the table where she used to mix tonics.

When the entire home was saturated in oil, he returned to the bed.

He stood over her for a long moment, memorizing her peaceful face one last time. Then he struck the match.

The flames roared to life with terrifying speed, greedy and hungry, racing across the floor and climbing the walls. Bucky stayed right there beside the bed as the fire reached them, the heat blistering his immortal skin. He watched the flames lick at the quilt, at her hair, at the body of the only woman who had ever truly loved him.

He didn’t move.

He stood in the flames’ glow, the inferno painting the small cottage in violent orange and red, until the roof began to collapse and the entire structure became nothing but a roaring pyre.

The last remnants of the man he used to be, the cocky mercenary, the arrogant lover, the creature who still believed he could be redeemed, died with her in that fire.

When the cottage finally collapsed in on itself with a thunderous crash, Bucky walked out of the burning ruins and into the night.

He never looked back.

After Dolores burned, Bucky wandered the world like a ghost for nearly two hundred and fifty years, feeding in the slums of Paris, hunting through the fog of Victorian London, drifting across continents with no purpose except to dull the ache in his chest.

Then the wars found him.

In 1914, when the world descended into madness, he enlisted under a false name and threw himself into the trenches of World War I. He fought like a shadow, slipping through No Man’s Land at night, ripping out German throats with his bare fangs while artillery shells screamed overhead. The mud, the blood, the endless screams… they felt like penance. He told himself the carnage was justice for every innocent life he’d taken, for failing Dot. He rarely fed on soldiers, only the cruelest officers and rapists among the ranks. The rest of the time he simply endured, letting bullets tear through him, healing slowly, welcoming the pain.

When the war ended in 1918, the emptiness followed him back across the Atlantic.

He moved to Brooklyn in the early 1920s.

New York felt different, loud, restless, alive in a way Europe no longer was. Brooklyn, with its brick row houses, bustling docks and working-class grit, reminded him faintly of the London he once knew. He bought an old warehouse near the waterfront under yet another alias and made it his lair. For a few quiet decades he tried to disappear into the rhythm of the city: working nights on the docks, boxing in smoky gyms, fucking nameless women in speakeasies just to feel something close to warmth.

But peace never lasted.

World War II dragged him back in.

By 1942 he was operating as a covert Allied operative, a ghost soldier who could walk through enemy lines and leave nothing but corpses. In the brutal winter of 1944, during the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes Forest, everything shattered. A German artillery shell landed too close. The explosion tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder in a spray of blood and bone. Vampire healing tried desperately to close the wound but the shrapnel was too deep, the damage too severe. He lay bleeding in the snow for hours before a secret HYDRA-linked unit found him.

They dragged him to a makeshift lab hidden in the frozen woods. There, while he was half-conscious and roaring in agony, they fused a prototype metal prosthetic to the raw stump, cold steel wired directly into his immortal nervous system. The pain was worse than the turning in that London alley. He screamed until his voice gave out as they bolted the arm into place.

When he finally woke, the arm was part of him, unbreakable, unnaturally strong and freezing to the touch. A permanent scar on the body that had once made women drop to their knees.

After the war ended in 1945, Bucky vanished again.

He returned to Brooklyn, the only place that still felt halfway like home. He kept the same warehouse, later converting it into a hidden penthouse high above the city as the decades passed. The metal arm stayed hidden beneath long sleeves and gloves. He fed only on the worst of humanity, mobsters, rapists, corrupt politicians and fucked to forget, never staying longer than one night.

As the years went on, the world changed… and so did the way people fucked.

In the roaring 1920s, flappers threw themselves at him in smoky speakeasies, lipstick-stained mouths whispering filthy promises while they rode him in dark corners. In the 1950s and 60s, women grew bolder, secretaries, housewives, beatnik girls who wanted danger. They offered their throats and wrists in motel rooms, begging him to bite while they came on his cock. By the 1970s and 80s, the sexual revolution turned everything dirtier. Women took him home and asked him to choke them, slap them, fuck them until they cried, sometimes filthier than he had ever been in his mortal days.

He gave them what they wanted. He fucked them hard and merciless in alleyways, penthouse suites and the backs of cars. He drank from them while they screamed in pleasure, leaving bite marks they would hide under turtlenecks and makeup. But it was never love. Never connection. Just bodies and blood to numb the emptiness.

He was the shift.

Many, many years ago, people fucked mostly for love, for marriage, for heirs. Now they fucked for fun, for thrill, for the sheer dirty pleasure of it and Bucky became their favorite sin. They threw themselves at the tall, silent man with the metal arm and the dangerous eyes, never knowing they were offering themselves to something ancient and monstrous.

Yet no matter how many women he took, how many throats he drank from, how many nights he spent buried in warm, willing bodies… the loneliness never left.

Four hundred more years of numbness stretched ahead of him.

A ghost with fangs, a metal arm that never truly felt like his own, and a heart that hadn’t truly beaten since Dolores died screaming his name.

Until one rainy night in 2026, outside a quiet Brooklyn library, a warm-blooded girl with a sunlight smile literally crashed into him… and everything changed.

You’re running on fumes, a broke stubborn waitress working chaotic double shifts at a loud hipster café by day and a quiet night-shift librarian at an old branch library by night. Your Gothic literature thesis is the only thing that still excites you: tragic monsters, obsessive love and beautiful creatures of the night that always end up destroying what they crave most. You laugh at how dramatic it all sounds.

It’s a brutal, pouring rainy night when fate decides to be cruel.

You’re leaving the library well past midnight, arms overloaded with books and thesis notes, your cheap umbrella doing almost nothing against the downpour. Head down, coffee in hand, you hurry down the slick stone steps and slam directly into a solid wall of muscle.

Your coffee cup flies out of your hand, splashing across his dark coat. Your umbrella spins wildly into the street. You stumble backward, nearly slipping on the wet pavement.

“Shit- I’m so sorry!” you blurt, face burning with embarrassment. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, I-”

Before you can finish, a large, surprisingly gentle hand catches your elbow, steadying you with effortless strength.

“Easy there, doll,” a low, rough voice murmurs, laced with an old-fashioned accent that doesn’t belong in modern Brooklyn. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”

You finally look up.

Holy fuck.

He’s stunning. Tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-blue eyes that seem to cut straight through you, sharp jawline and dark hair dripping from the rain. Danger rolls off him in waves, but his touch is careful, almost reverent.

He releases your elbow only to bend down and retrieve your soaked umbrella from the gutter, shaking the water off before handing it back to you.

You’re still flustered. “No, really, it was me. I’m such a klutz when I’m tired. Here- let me get you some napkins or something-”

He’s already shrugging off his long, clearly expensive black coat. Before you can protest, he drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm from his body and smells like aged leather, rain and something darkly rich, like old wine and copper.

Your eyes go wide in panic.

“Wait- no, no, no! I can’t take this!” You immediately start shrugging it off. “This looks really expensive. How am I supposed to give it back to you? I don’t even know your name. I can’t just walk off with your coat like some weirdo-”

He places a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder, stopping you from removing it. His eyes soften, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest crooked smirk.

“Keep it,” he says, voice low and smooth. “You’re soaked to the bone, doll. You’ll catch your death walking home like that. I insist.”

“But it’s yours,” you insist, cheeks burning hotter. “What if I ruin it? Or lose it? Seriously, I feel terrible. At least let me get your number or something so I can return it properly-”

He shakes his head, that ghost of a smirk deepening. “It’s just a coat. I have others. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve had a long night. Keep it. Wear it home. I’ll survive.”

You clutch the coat tighter despite yourself, the fabric heavy and comforting against the chill. No one in this city is ever this… chivalrous. Guys your age would’ve already grumbled and walked away. This man is looking at you like your comfort actually matters to him.

“You’re really sure?” you ask softly, still hesitant.

“Positive,” he replies, eyes never leaving yours. “Besides… it looks better on you anyway.”

Your stomach flips. The way he says it, quiet, sincere, a little rough, makes heat creep up your neck.

You manage a flustered, stubborn little smile. “Thank you… really. Most people in this city would’ve just cursed me out and kept walking. You’re… surprisingly nice.”

Something flickers across his face, pain, surprise, hunger but it’s gone in a heartbeat. He hasn’t been called nice in over four hundred years. He hasn’t been looked at like a person since Dolores whispered “my James” with her last breath.

“You stay safe getting home,” he says quietly, almost like a command wrapped in velvet. “And maybe… watch your step next time, doll.”

You nod, cheeks still warm. “Yeah… I will. Goodnight.”

You give him one last awkward little wave and start walking, his coat wrapped around you like a shield against the rain. You can feel his eyes on your back the entire way down the block.

Bucky stands motionless in the downpour, fists clenched at his sides, metal arm whirring quietly under his Henley. Your scent, warm vanilla, rain and that sweet, pulsing blood underneath has already burrowed into his lungs like a drug. His fangs throb painfully behind his lips. He has to fight every instinct not to follow you right now and drag you into the nearest alley.

He waits until you’ve turned the corner.

Then he moves.

Silent as death, he follows you home.

Every step. Every turn. Close enough to protect you from anyone who might look at you too long. Far enough that you never notice the shadow trailing behind you.

By the time you reach your apartment building, he’s already memorized which window is yours.

He stands across the street in the rain, eyes glowing faintly red in the dark, heart dead for centuries cracking wide open with dangerous, all-consuming obsession.

He already knows one simple truth:

He’s never letting you go.

Bucky waited in the shadows across the street like a predator who had already decided his prey belonged to him.

He stood motionless in the pouring rain for nearly two hours, eyes fixed on your apartment window on the third floor. When the last light finally clicked off at 2:47 am, something dark and hungry uncoiled inside his chest.

But he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he stayed where he was, hidden in the darkness between two buildings and watched.

You had left the curtains open.

Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw you clearly. You were still wearing his long black coat. You shrugged it off your shoulders and held it up to your face, pressing your nose into the collar. Your eyes closed as you breathed in deeply, then again, slower, savoring his scent. A soft, almost dreamy expression crossed your face.

Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His cock hardened instantly.

You muttered to yourself, voice quiet but perfectly clear to his enhanced hearing:

“God… why does this smell so good?”

Bucky’s lips curled into a dark, predatory smile. He murmured under his breath, voice low and rough with dark amusement,

“People really don’t close their curtains anymore, do they? They have no idea who could be watching them…”

You laughed softly at yourself, shaking your head, then started changing. You peeled off your damp clothes, letting them drop to the floor without a care. For a moment you stood there in just your panties, stretching, completely unaware of the ancient predator standing in the rain across the street, staring at every inch of your body with black, starving eyes.

Bucky’s metal hand clenched at his side, plates whirring. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth. He watched the way your breasts moved when you raised your arms, the curve of your hips, the soft sway of your ass as you turned. His breathing grew ragged.

“Beautiful,” he whispered to the night. “So fucking beautiful… and so unaware.”

Only when you finally pulled on an oversized t-shirt and climbed into bed, turning off the last light, did he move.

Silent as death, Bucky crossed the street, climbed the stairs to your building’s front entrance, and picked the cheap lock on your apartment door in less than eight seconds. He slipped inside like smoke, closed the door behind him, and locked it again with the same unnatural precision, so perfectly that no one would ever know he’d been there.

The apartment was small, cluttered and alive with you.

Your scent was everywhere, warm vanilla lotion, faint coffee from your shift, the sweet copper undertone of your blood pulsing just beneath your skin. It filled the cramped space like perfume made specifically to torment him.

Bucky’s boots were silent on the worn hardwood as he walked through your living room. Books and thesis notes were scattered across the coffee table. A half-empty mug of tea sat cold beside them. A worn blanket was crumpled on the couch. The mess should have annoyed the centuries-old soldier in him… but it only made the obsession sink deeper. This was your chaos. Your life. Your little mortal world he was about to invade.

His gaze fell on the open notebook lying on top of the pile. Your neat handwriting filled the page, underlined and circled in places:

Vampires in Gothic Literature

Eternal life vs. eternal loneliness?

Do they feel love or only hunger?

Real or metaphor for forbidden desire? Witches – power, seduction, danger… real?

Bucky read the notes slowly, a low, dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. The sound was soft, almost affectionate, but laced with something ancient and dangerous.

“Only if you knew, doll,” he whispered to the empty room, the corners of his mouth twitching into a predatory smirk. “Only if you knew.”

He lingered there for a moment longer, tracing one finger over your handwriting, before continuing toward the bedroom.

Your bedroom door was ajar.

He pushed it open slowly, the hinges giving a tiny protesting creak that made him freeze. You didn’t stir.

There you were.

Curled up in bed under a messy pile of blankets, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton panties. Your breathing was deep and even, lips slightly parted, one leg kicked out from under the covers. So vulnerable. So warm.

Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His metal hand flexed at his side, plates whirring quietly.

He stepped closer.

Your scent was strongest here, concentrated, intimate, intoxicating. He could hear every heartbeat, every soft inhale and exhale. His cock hardened instantly, thick and aching against the front of his jeans. He hadn’t felt this kind of raw, physical need in decades.

On the floor near the foot of your bed lay a pair of discarded black lace panties, the ones you’d clearly worn earlier that day. Slightly damp from the rain and your long shift. The scent rolling off them made his mouth flood with venom.

He crouched down, metal fingers hovering just above the delicate fabric. The urge to snatch them was almost painful. He wanted to press them to his face, inhale you until he drowned in it. He wanted to wrap them around his cock the second he got home and fuck his fist while imagining burying himself inside you.

But he stopped.

His hand trembled. The metal plates clicked softly.

“Not yet,” he whispered to himself, voice barely a breath. “Don’t scare her. Not yet.”

With a low, tortured growl, he forced himself to stand. He backed away from the panties like they were burning him.

He allowed himself one last indulgence.

He leaned over your sleeping form, careful not to touch you and breathed you in deeply, dragging your scent into his lungs like a dying man taking his final breath. His lips hovered an inch above your neck, right where your pulse fluttered so invitingly. He could hear the blood rushing beneath your skin. His cock throbbed harder, leaking against his thigh.

He stayed there for a long minute, eyes closed, fangs fully extended, fighting every instinct screaming at him to bite, to claim, to take.

Finally, with a ragged exhale, he pulled back.

On his way out, he noticed his coat draped over the back of your couch where you must have taken it off before bed. The fabric still carried traces of both your scent and his. For a moment he considered taking it back… but he left it exactly where it was.

He didn’t want to take anything from you tonight.

Not yet.

By the time he reached his penthouse, he was shaking with raw, barely contained need.

The second the door shut, Bucky shoved his jeans down, freed his painfully hard cock and stroked himself with brutal, desperate strokes. He buried his face in the collar of his shirt, the one that still carried the faintest trace of your scent from when he’d stood so close to you and fucked his fist like a man possessed.

He came hard within minutes, spilling over his hand with a broken, guttural groan.

Even after the release, the hunger didn’t fade.

It only grew sharper.

He didn’t even know your name yet.

And he already knew he’d be back tomorrow night.

And the night after that.

Until simply watching you sleep was no longer enough.

The next morning, Bucky was already waiting in the shadows outside your building when you left just after 6:30 am, yawning, hair messy, clutching a travel mug of cheap instant coffee.

He followed you at a distance, ten blocks through the waking city, never close enough for you to notice. He memorized every little habit: the way you adjusted your bag strap, how you checked your phone at stoplights, the slight slump in your shoulders from exhaustion. When you finally stopped in front of a small, cozy café called “The Midnight Brew,” he lingered across the street for nearly forty minutes, watching through the large windows as you tied on your black apron and started your shift.

Only when the morning rush began to build did he cross the street and step inside.

The bell above the door jingled. You looked up from behind the counter and your breath hitched.

It was him.

Bucky chose the small table by the window, the one with the perfect view of you. A few minutes later you approached, notepad in hand, trying (and failing) to look professional.

“Hi… you again,” you said, a shy, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. What can I get started for you today?”

Bucky looked up slowly, his steel-blue eyes dragging over your face like he wanted to commit every detail to memory. His gaze flicked briefly to your name tag.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he murmured, voice low and rough with that old-fashioned accent. “Suits you perfectly.”

Your cheeks instantly burned hot. You weren’t used to compliments delivered like that, slow, sincere and a little dangerous.

“Th-thank you,” you stammered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s… really sweet of you to say. Um, what would you like?”

“Black coffee. No sugar,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And whatever your favorite pastry is this morning. Surprise me, doll. I trust your taste.”

You nodded quickly, scribbling on your pad to hide how flustered you felt. “One black coffee and a chocolate croissant coming right up.”

When you returned with his order, your fingers brushed against his right hand as you set the mug down. His skin was cool, almost unnaturally so, and the brief contact sent a shiver racing up your arm. You couldn’t help but notice that his left hand remained gloved in black leather, resting quietly on the table, the same glove he’d worn outside. You wondered about it for a split second but said nothing, simply offering him a small smile instead.

“Here you go,” you said softly, still pink-cheeked. “The croissant is still warm. Let me know if you need a refill or anything else.”

You hesitated for a second, then added, “Oh- I actually brought your coat with me. It’s hanging on the rack in the back. I was going to take it to the dry cleaners on my break because it got soaked last night. I can drop it off at the library tonight if you want, or… I don’t know, maybe you could pick it up later?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, something possessive flickering behind them. He shook his head slowly.

“Keep it,” he said, voice low and firm but gentle. “It looks better on you than it ever did on me. I have more coats than I know what to do with. I insist.”

“But it’s such a nice coat,” you protested, cheeks burning hotter. “I’d feel terrible if something happened to it. At least let me get it cleaned for you-”

“No arguments, doll,” he interrupted, the faintest crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wear it when you need it. Stay warm. That’s all I want from you right now.”

You blinked, completely thrown by how gently but stubbornly he was refusing. No guy had ever spoken to you like this.

“…Okay,” you said softly, biting your lip. “If you’re really sure. Thank you again. Seriously. Most people wouldn’t have even offered their coat in that rain.”

Bucky’s gaze softened for just a moment. “Most people aren’t me.”

You gave him a shy little smile and hurried back to the counter, heart racing. For the rest of your shift you could feel his eyes on you, steady, dark and unwavering. He barely touched the coffee or the croissant. He just watched you move behind the counter like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire world.

When the rush finally slowed, he stood up, left a very generous tip folded neatly under the mug, and paused at the counter on his way out.

“See you soon,” he murmured, saying your name like it was something sacred and secret. “Have a good rest of your shift, doll. Don’t work too hard.”

You could only manage a flustered nod, cheeks still warm long after he’d walked out the door.

That night, when he picked the lock on your front door and slipped silently into your apartment while you slept, he stood over your bed for a long time, breathing you in.

He leaned down, lips hovering just above the soft skin of your neck and whispered your name into the darkness like a vow.

It sounded like both a prayer… and a promise.

Over the next several nights, Bucky’s restraint completely shattered.

He came back every few nights, slipping through your front door like a ghost, locking it behind him with that soft, familiar click. At first he only watched you sleep. But the hunger quickly grew teeth.

The third night he touched you.

He leaned over your bed, cool lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. He nipped at your skin, fangs grazing but never breaking it, sucking lightly until you whimpered in your sleep.

“Fuck… such a pretty neck,” he growled quietly against your pulse. “Bet you’d look so good with my marks all over it.”

He pushed your nightshirt up, exposing your breasts and buried his face between them with a low, filthy groan. His tongue dragged over your nipples in slow, wet circles before he sucked one into his mouth, moaning like he was tasting something divine.

“So fucking sweet… these tits are perfect, doll. Made for my mouth.”

His metal hand ghosted over your hips, fingertips barely brushing your skin as he fought not to grip hard enough to bruise. You arched unconsciously toward him, thighs pressing together.

The fourth night he went lower.

He eased your panties down your legs and spread your thighs wide, kneeling between them like he was worshipping at an altar. He dragged his tongue through your soaked folds in one long, obscene lick and groaned deeply.

“Jesus Christ… your pussy is dripping for me even when you’re asleep,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “Such a needy little cunt. You taste so fucking good, baby. I could eat this pretty pussy for hours.”

He licked you like a man starved, slow, filthy strokes of his tongue circling your clit before pushing inside you, fucking you with it. He sucked on your swollen clit with wet, obscene sounds, metal fingers gently holding your thighs open.

“That’s it… grind against my tongue even in your sleep like a good little slut,” he murmured against your slick flesh. “This pussy belongs to me now. You hear me? Mine.”

You came hard on his tongue, thighs shaking, a broken moan slipping from your lips. He licked you through every pulse, drinking down every drop like it was sacred.

The visits only got dirtier.

Night after night he returned. He’d bury his face between your thighs for what felt like hours, tongue-fucking you, sucking your clit, growling filthy praise against your soaked cunt.

“Fuck, you’re so wet… creaming all over my tongue like you were made for this. That’s my girl. Let me taste how much you need me.”

Sometimes he’d slide two cool fingers inside you while sucking on your clit, curling them just right, whispering, “Tight little pussy sucking my fingers in even when you’re dreaming. Gonna ruin this cunt one day. Gonna fill you up and make you scream my name for real.”

You always woke drenched in sweat, thighs slick and trembling, panties pushed to the side or completely off. Fragments of sensation haunted you, cold tongue licking deep, a rough voice groaning filthy things, the faint scent of old leather and blood on your skin. You told yourself they were just extremely vivid, filthy dreams caused by stress and loneliness.

Your body knew the truth.

Every morning you woke up aching and empty, clit throbbing, sheets ruined. And every few nights the dreams returned, darker, wetter, more intense.

Bucky, meanwhile, was unraveling.

He left your apartment every time with your taste coating his tongue and his cock so hard it hurt. Back in his penthouse he would stroke himself raw, snarling your name as he came but it was never enough.

He needed to hear you moan his name for real.

He needed to sink his fangs into your thigh while buried balls-deep inside you.

And he was getting dangerously close to losing the last shred of control he had left.

A few days later, the universe seemed determined to keep pushing you together.

You were halfway through your post-shift grocery run, still wearing Bucky’s oversized black coat because the autumn air had turned crisp. It swallowed your frame, the hem brushing your thighs and you secretly loved how warm and safe it made you feel. Your basket was overloaded with pasta, fresh vegetables, a cheap bottle of red wine, and a pint of ice cream you were definitely stress-eating later.

You turned the corner into the pasta aisle and walked straight into a solid wall of muscle.

“Oh- I’m so sorry!” you gasped, nearly dropping your basket.

Gentle but strong hands immediately steadied you, catching your elbows with careful precision so you wouldn’t fall.

“Easy there, doll,” a low, familiar voice murmured. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”

You looked up and your heart skipped hard.

It was him, the mysterious, devastatingly handsome man from the rainy night and the café. He was wearing a red Henley under a leather jacket, his metal hand tucked discreetly into his pocket like always. His steel-blue eyes softened the second they met yours.

You blushed instantly. “I swear I’m not this clumsy all the time. I was trying to decide between spaghetti and linguine like my life depended on it.”

Bucky’s mouth curved into that faint, crooked smile that made your stomach flutter. His gaze drifted down, noticing you were still wearing his coat.

“Looks far better on you than it ever did on me,” he said softly, almost reverent. “I’m glad you kept it.”

Before you could respond, he smoothly took the heavy basket from your hands as if it weighed nothing.

“Please, allow me,” he said, already heading toward the checkout. “A lady shouldn’t have to carry all this herself.”

You tried to protest. “You really don’t have to-”

“I insist,” he replied gently but firmly, that old-world chivalry radiating off him. He held the basket in one arm and used the other to open the door for an elderly woman leaving the store, nodding politely to her. “After you, ma’am.”

You watched him, completely charmed and a little dazed. No guy your age ever acted like this.

At checkout, he politely waited while you paid, then immediately took all the bags before you could reach for them. Outside, he positioned himself on the street side of the sidewalk, shielding you from traffic like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The walk back to your apartment was short but felt electric. He carried every bag effortlessly, making easy conversation the whole way.

“Long shift today?” he asked, glancing at you with genuine concern.

“Yeah… double again. I’m exhausted but the thesis won’t write itself.”

“You work too hard,” he said quietly. “A girl like you deserves to be taken care of sometimes.”

When you reached your building, he didn’t hesitate.

“Mind if I help you up with these?” he asked, voice warm and sincere. “I’d feel better knowing they made it safely upstairs.”

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Yeah… sure. That would be really nice, actually. Thank you.”

You let him follow you up the narrow stairs to your third-floor apartment. Bucky carried all the bags effortlessly in one arm, walking just behind you like a perfect gentleman.

Inside your small, cluttered apartment, he set the bags on the counter and looked around with quiet appreciation, taking in the fairy lights, the overflowing bookshelves, and the half-dead plants on the windowsill.

“It’s lovely in here,” he said sincerely, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Warm. Lived-in. Feels like a real home.”

He rolled up the sleeve on his right arm and started helping you unpack without being asked, putting milk and eggs in the fridge, pasta in the cupboard, vegetables in the crisper, moving with surprising familiarity and care.

You noticed immediately that he only rolled up one sleeve. The left arm stayed fully covered, the black leather glove still firmly in place.

You tilted your head, curious. “Why do you keep that glove on? And you only rolled up one sleeve.”

Bucky paused for half a second, then gave a small, easy smile.

“Poor circulation,” he said smoothly. “Old injury from years ago. The left arm gets cold easily, especially in weather like this, so I keep it covered. Doctor’s orders.”

You nodded, accepting the answer. “That makes sense. Must be annoying, especially in winter.”

“Sometimes,” he replied, voice gentle. “But I’m used to it now. Doesn’t slow me down much.”

When everything was put away, you leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling chatty and comfortable in his presence.

“I still don’t even know your name…” you said with a shy smile.

He gave you a small, almost shy smile of his own and rubbed the back of his neck.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “But everyone just calls me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated, liking the way it sounded. “Nice to finally meet you properly, Bucky.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, doll.”

You kept talking, gesturing with your hands. “So… what do you do, Bucky? You seem like you have your life pretty together. Do you work around here?”

He chuckled softly, leaning on the opposite counter. “I do some consulting work. Private security, mostly. Nothing too exciting.”

“Private security at your age?” You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “How old are you, anyway?”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. “Twenty-four.”

You blinked. “Wait, really? You seem… older. Not in a bad way! Just… more mature. Like you’ve seen some stuff.”

He gave a low, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve been told that before. Guess I grew up fast.”

You kept talking, comfortable now. “I’m twenty-three. Still feel like a kid half the time. Working two jobs, trying to finish my thesis on Gothic literature. Vampires, monsters, tragic love stories… the usual dramatic stuff.” You laughed lightly. “Do you believe any of that is real? Like, vampires and witches and all that? Or is it just fun fiction?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second before he smiled. “I think there’s more to the world than most people realize,” he said carefully. “Some legends have roots in truth. What do you think?”

“I go back and forth,” you admitted, leaning closer. “Sometimes I think vampires are just metaphors for forbidden desire or immortality anxiety. Other times… I don’t know. The idea of someone living for centuries, watching everyone they love die… that feels too real. Too sad.”

Bucky’s expression softened, something pained flickering behind his eyes. “It is sad,” he murmured. “Very sad.”

You kept going, excited to talk about your thesis. “Exactly! And witches- the way they’re portrayed as powerful but dangerous. Do you have any favorite books or movies about that stuff?”

He listened with genuine interest, answering carefully and making up plausible details while keeping his ancient truth hidden. He asked you questions in return, drawing you out, letting you talk about your terrible boss at the café, your fear of never finishing your degree and how overwhelmed you felt sometimes.

“Do you have Instagram or anything?” you asked, then quickly added with an awkward little laugh, “I’m not trying to stalk you, don’t worry. Just… if you maybe wanted to hang out sometime, or so I could reach out?”

Bucky let out a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m terribly old-fashioned. No social media at all. But I do have a phone number.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful but suspicious smile tugging at your lips. “No social media? At twenty-four? That’s… suspicious. Are you secretly a spy or something?”

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Nothing that exciting, I promise. Just prefer real life over screens.”

You saved his number and sent him a quick text. When his phone buzzed, his smile deepened.

“There,” you said, grinning. “Now you can’t vanish on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, eyes dark and intense for just a moment before he softened again. “You get some rest now. You’ve earned it.”

He walked to the door, then paused and turned back.

“Goodnight, doll,” he said softly. “Lock the door behind me.”

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He waited outside until he heard the lock click, then disappeared down the hallway with a small, satisfied smile.

But the second he was out of sight, his expression darkened with raw hunger.

Hearing you say his name in that sweet voice had nearly made him snap.

The gentleman act was becoming harder to maintain… and the monster beneath it was growing impatient.

Bucky’s obsession had grown teeth.

After the night he helped you with your groceries something inside him finally snapped. Knowing your name wasn’t enough. Hearing you laugh wasn’t enough. Standing so close to you and still not being able to claim you wasn’t enough.

He needed pieces of you. Tangible. Permanent. His.

So the stealing began.

The first time was the night after the grocery store. While you slept, he moved through your apartment like a shadow. He took your favorite perfume from the dresser, the one that smelled like warm vanilla and something sweet and uniquely you. He sprayed a little on his wrist before slipping the bottle into his coat.

Two nights later, he took the soft cream-colored scarf you’d been wearing the rainy night you first met him. It still carried the faint scent of rain, coffee and you. He buried his face in it the second he got home and didn’t let go for nearly an hour.

The nights had become his sanctuary and his torment.

For the first time, Bucky began invading your dreams like an incubus, silent, hungry, and unstoppable. He would wait until you fell into deep sleep in your own apartment, then slip into your mind with the ease of centuries of practice. You never remembered the full details in the morning, only waking with damp thighs, aching nipples, and a strange, lingering bite of exhaustion.

In the dream he appeared behind you, naked, massive, his metal arm cold against your fevered skin as he pinned you down in a bed that wasn’t quite yours. His fangs grazed your throat while his thick cock rubbed between your slick folds, teasing, never quite entering.

“Shhh, doll,” he whispered into your sleeping mind, voice low and velvet-dark. “Just a taste. I need you so fucking badly.”

He started with your wrist. In the dream he lifted your arm, licked a slow, reverent stripe over your pulse, then sank his fangs in deep. The pull was slow and obscene, wet sucking sounds filling the dream as he drank in long, greedy swallows. Your dream-self moaned and writhed, hips grinding against nothing while he fed.

When he was done, he sealed the punctures with long, filthy licks of his tongue, savoring the last drops. Then he moved lower.

He spread your thighs wide in the dreamscape, burying his face between them like a starving man. His tongue dragged up your inner thigh before his fangs pierced the soft flesh there too. Hot blood flooded his mouth, richer, headier, while his nose pressed against your dripping cunt, inhaling the scent of your arousal. He drank deeply, groaning against your skin, cock leaking steadily onto the dream sheets.

“Fuck… your blood tastes like sin,” he growled into your thigh. “Sweeter when you’re wet for me.”

He sealed that bite too, licking lazily over the twin holes, his cool saliva tingling as it closed the wounds. Only then did he allow himself to grind his massive cock against your soaked pussy, never pushing inside, just rutting until your dream-body came with a broken cry. He spilled across your thighs in thick ropes, marking you even in sleep, then vanished before you could wake.

You always woke up with faint, fading marks on your wrist and inner thigh that you blamed on restless sleep.

But the real collection had only just begun.

Then came the panties.

He started small. The black lace pair he’d seen on your floor the very first night, the sexy ones you wore when you wanted to feel powerful and desired. He took them while you showered, pressing the crotch to his face the second he was back in his penthouse. The scent of your pussy was still faintly there, musky and sweet. He inhaled so deeply his fangs throbbed.

A few nights later he stole the soft silk ones from your laundry basket, still slightly damp. He sucked the fabric into his mouth, tasting the faint traces of your arousal and detergent, groaning like a beast as he fisted his aching cock.

But what truly broke something inside him were the cute ones.

He found them one night while you slept, an entire drawer of soft cotton panties with little embroidered days of the week. Innocent. Everyday. Mortal. The kind of thing that made his ancient, dead heart twist with dark fondness and cruel hunger.

He picked up the pair marked “Thursday” and ran his thumb over the tiny lettering, a low, predatory chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Mortals,” he whispered into the dark of your bedroom, voice rough with twisted amusement. “Still pretending time matters. Still marking your little days like you won’t eventually be mine forever. How fucking endearing.”

He stole the Wednesday pair that night, along with the Thursday ones for good measure.

His obsession only grew darker.

He discovered the small trash can in your bathroom. Inside were a few used tampons wrapped in toilet paper. The metallic, coppery scent of your period blood hit him like pure heroin. Centuries of memories flooded him, women on their cycles spreading their thighs for him, begging him to drink while their cunts were heaviest, bloodiest, most potent.

He stood there in your bathroom for a long minute, breathing deeply, cock straining painfully against his pants.

“Even your waste calls to me,” he murmured reverently, almost lovingly. “Your blood… every drop of it belongs to me.”

He took one of the wrapped tampons, brought it back to his penthouse, and spent hours with it pressed to his nose and mouth while he stroked himself raw.

Every few nights he added something new to his growing collection: a hair tie with strands of your hair still caught in it, the half-used lip balm from your bag that still carried the faint taste of your mouth, a well-worn hoodie that smelled like your shampoo, your sweat, and the warmth of your skin. More panties, both the slutty lace ones that made his cock leak and the innocent cotton ones with their childish little days.

He kept them all in a locked drawer in his penthouse like a sacred, filthy shrine.

When the emptiness clawed at him too viciously, when Dolores’s screams echoed too loudly in his skull, he would sit alone in the dark, open the drawer, and surround himself with you. He’d press your stolen panties to his face, inhaling the scent of your cunt like oxygen. Sometimes he wrapped the Thursday pair around his thick, leaking cock and fucked his fist with slow, filthy strokes, groaning your name like a broken prayer.

“Fuck… smell so good,” he rasped into the cotton, voice wrecked and desperate. “This little mortal pussy is going to be mine. I’m going to drink from it while you’re bleeding. I’m going to fuck it until you scream. Until you beg.”

Other nights he pressed the blood-stained cotton directly to his mouth and nose, sucking on the fabric while he jerked himself brutally, imagining it was your bloody cunt riding his face. Thick ropes of cum would splatter across his abs and chest as he came with a guttural snarl, over and over, until the drawer was sticky with his spend and the scent of you was mixed with his own.

“You’re already mine,” he whispered hoarsely into the silk and cotton, fangs fully extended, eyes glowing crimson in the dark. “Every pair. Every drop of blood. Every dream. Every breath you take. All fucking mine. Even if you don’t know it yet… you will. Soon.”

He was patient.

He was starving.

And the monster inside him was done waiting.

You, meanwhile, were spiraling.

At first you thought you were simply losing your mind from exhaustion and stress. The perfume? Maybe you’d moved it and forgotten. The scarf? You probably left it at the library. But when your favorite pair of silk panties vanished from the laundry basket and then the soft cotton ones with the little embroidered days of the week started disappearing too, real unease settled deep in your stomach.

Then more things disappeared.

A hoodie you loved. Your favorite lip balm. A hair clip you’d worn the day Bucky helped with your groceries. Even one of your thesis notebooks went missing for two days before mysteriously reappearing on your nightstand.

You tore your apartment apart looking for them. You started keeping a paranoid little list on your phone. You even wondered if you had a stalker… or if the stress was finally making you crack.

Then one evening you came home from a brutally long double shift at the café, feet aching, hair smelling like coffee and grease. You flipped on the light in your bedroom and froze.

His coat was still hanging on the back of your bedroom door where you’d left it days ago.

But something was different.

A single, perfect red rose was tucked neatly into the breast pocket.

No note. No card. No explanation.

Just one flawless, blood-red bloom with a long, elegant stem and sharp thorns that caught the lamplight like tiny blades. The rose was impossibly perfect, not a single petal out of place, fresh dew still clinging to the edges like droplets of blood.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.

You stood frozen in the doorway, grocery bag slipping from your fingers onto the floor. The faint scent of the rose mixed with the lingering smell of old leather from the coat, creating something intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

You knew.

You knew it was him.

Bucky.

The gentleman who had carried all your groceries without being asked. The man who opened doors, insisted you keep his coat, and looked at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered. The one with the old-fashioned manners, the low velvet voice and those intense steel-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through you, into places you hadn’t let anyone see in years.

He had been in your apartment again.

He had taken things.

And now… he was leaving gifts in his own coat, the one still hanging in your room like a claim.

You walked over on shaky legs and carefully pulled the rose from the pocket. A thorn pricked your thumb. A tiny bead of blood welled up instantly. You stared at it, then brought the rose to your nose and inhaled. The scent was rich, sweet, and heavy.

Your mind raced.

How long has he been coming in here? How many nights has he stood beside my bed while I slept? What else has he taken? What has he seen while I was unconscious?

Part of you was terrified. The logical, rational part screamed that this was insane. Dangerous. That you should change the locks right now, call the police, run as far as you could.

But another part, darker, quieter and growing louder every day, felt a rush of shameful heat low in your belly. The thought of him moving silently through your space, touching your things, watching you sleep… it made your thighs press together.

You sat down heavily on the edge of your bed, still holding the rose, and whispered into the quiet apartment:

“…Bucky?”

The silence that answered felt alive.

Like he was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The game had truly begun.

And neither of you were ready for how deep, how dark and how consuming it would become.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

It was 2:13 am and you were sitting on the edge of your bed in the dark, phone clutched so tightly in your shaking hands that your knuckles had gone white. Another thing had vanished today, your favorite silver necklace. But that wasn’t what broke you. It was the rose tucked into the pocket of his coat. The pattern. The way everything pointed straight to him.

Your thumb hovered over his contact for a long, trembling minute. Part of you wanted to throw the phone across the room and change the locks. Another part, the terrified, exhausted, furious part, needed answers. You pressed call.

It rang only once before he picked up.

“Hey” His voice was low, smooth, perfectly calm. “Is everything okay? It’s late.”

You didn’t even try to sound normal. Your voice came out raw, trembling with a volatile mix of terror, fury, and betrayal.

“It’s you,” you said, barely above a whisper at first, then louder. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Bucky. The perfume, the scarf, my panties, the necklace, it’s all you. You’ve been in my apartment. You’ve been watching me sleep. You left that fucking rose in your own coat. I know it’s you.”

Silence stretched on the other end.

On the fire escape right outside your bedroom window, Bucky stood completely still in the pouring rain, glowing red eyes fixed on you through the gap in the curtains. His metal hand tightened on the railing, slowly denting the metal.

He tried anyway.

“Baby, slow down,” he said, voice dripping with concern. “You sound really scared. Maybe you’re just stressed from work and your thesis. You’ve been so tired lately. I would never-”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked, but it was sharp with raw fury. Tears burned in your eyes as you stood up from the bed, pacing. “Don’t you dare lie to me right now. I’m terrified, Bucky. I’ve been checking my locks ten times a night. I wake up feeling like someone’s been touching me. And it’s you. You’ve been breaking into my home. Stealing my fucking underwear. What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Bucky’s jaw clenched hard. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he watched you curl tighter into yourself on the bed, tears streaming down your face. His free hand flexed at his side, metal plates whirring.

“I was trying to protect you,” he said, voice low and careful, almost pleading. “I just wanted to be close to you. I’ve been alone for so long and you-”

“Close to me?” you snapped, voice rising in a hysterical, broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’ve been sneaking into my room while I sleep! That’s not protecting me, that’s stalking me! I trusted you. You carried my groceries. You were sweet and gentle and now I find out you’ve been stealing my panties and watching me change? What kind of sick fuck does that?!”

Bucky’s red eyes flashed brighter. His metal fingers dug into the windowsill, cracking the frame with a quiet groan.

“I know it looks bad,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady but you could hear the strain. “But I’m not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you. I just… I need you. I’ve been alone for so long and you’re the only thing that makes me feel alive again. Please, doll. Let me explain-”

“Explain what?” you shouted, no longer caring if your neighbors heard. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. “How you’ve been breaking in? How you left a rose like some twisted gift? I’m scared to even close my eyes now because I don’t know if you’re standing there watching me!”

You were crying hard now, terrified and furious and completely overwhelmed. Your voice cracked as you whispered the last part.

“I thought you were different… I thought you were safe.”

Bucky pressed his forehead against the cold glass, breathing heavily, fangs fully extended. For a long moment he was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was raw, almost broken, with very little hope left in it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m messed up. I know I went too far. But I can’t stop. I won’t lose you. I won’t. Please… just come to my penthouse tomorrow night. Let me explain everything in person. No more lies. No more hiding. I’ll tell you everything. Just… please don’t shut me out. I need to see you. I need to make this right.”

His voice dropped, almost desperate.

“I know I don’t deserve it… but please. Tomorrow at 8. My penthouse. I’ll send a car. If you still want nothing to do with me after that, I’ll leave you alone. I swear it.”

You were silent for a long, heavy moment, shaking with fear and anger.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed, voice rising again. “You want me to come to your place? After everything you just admitted? After you’ve been breaking into my home and stealing from me? You have the nerve to ask me to walk into your penthouse like it’s some normal date? Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

Bucky’s breath hitched on the other end. His voice was quieter now, almost pleading, with almost no hope left.

“I know how it sounds,” he said, the words heavy. “I know I don’t deserve your trust. But I can’t explain this over the phone. I need you to see me. To see that I’m not going to hurt you. Please, doll… just one chance. I’m begging you. Tomorrow at 8. I’ll send a car. If you walk out after I explain, I won’t stop you. I swear on whatever’s left of me.”

You were silent for a long, heavy moment, shaking with fear and anger.

“…Fine,” you finally whispered, voice trembling. “Tomorrow at 8. But if you lie to me again, Bucky, I’m done. I mean it.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, relief and dark hunger mixing in his tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, doll. I’ll be thinking about you.”

You hung up without another word.

Bucky stayed on the fire escape for a long moment, staring at your shaking form through the window. Rain mixed with the blood tears sliding down his face.

He whispered into the night, voice dark and possessive:

“You don’t have to be scared of me, doll. I’ll make sure of that… one way or another.”

He vanished into the shadows, already planning exactly what he would say and what he would do when you came to him tomorrow.

The next day, Bucky moved through the city like a man on a mission.

He hadn’t slept. He doesn’t anymore.

Vampires don’t need sleep the way humans do. The closest he ever came was a kind of cold, motionless trance but even that had abandoned him since you entered his life. Instead, he had spent the entire night on the rooftop of his penthouse, standing motionless in the wind and rain, staring out at the glittering lights of Brooklyn below. Your terrified, furious voice played on repeat in his head like a broken record.

The way you had cried.

The way you had called him a sick fuck.

The way you had still agreed to come tonight even if it was only because you were angry and scared.

Every word cut deeper than the last.

He was going to tell you everything.

No more lies. No more half-truths. Tonight, in his penthouse, he would confess what he really was. And he was going to make it as… human as possible. As normal as a seven-hundred-year-old vampire could manage.

So he went grocery shopping.

He walked into the upscale organic market near the waterfront in the late afternoon, black coat on, sunglasses hiding his eyes, metal arm tucked into his sleeve. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, the chatter of normal people too loud. But he pushed a cart through the aisles with focused determination.

He started with breakfast ingredients for tomorrow, just in case you stayed. Eggs, fresh herbs, thick-cut bacon, ripe avocados, sourdough bread. Then he moved to dinner. He wanted something comforting, something that said “I care.” He picked out ingredients for homemade lasagna, fresh pasta sheets, rich tomato sauce, ground beef, ricotta, mozzarella and basil. He added things for a salad and garlic bread.

His mind kept drifting to you as he shopped.

She’s coming tonight. She’s terrified of me. She has every right to be.

He stopped in the baking aisle and stared at the rows of flour, sugar, chocolate and vanilla. He remembered you mentioning once that you loved chocolate cake when you were stressed. So he grabbed everything he needed, dark cocoa powder, heavy cream, eggs, butter and added a bottle of expensive vanilla extract.

An older woman beside him smiled kindly as she reached for a bag of sugar.

“Baking for someone special?” she asked.

Bucky gave her a small, tired smile. “Yeah… something like that.”

He hoped you would still want anything from him after tonight.

By the time he got back to the penthouse, his arms were full of bags. He spent the next several hours in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up. He prepped the lasagna, made the chocolate cake from scratch, even baked fresh bread. The entire penthouse filled with warm, comforting smells, tomato sauce simmering, cake baking, garlic and herbs.

As he worked, he practiced what he would say.

“I’m a vampire.” “I’ve been watching you sleep.” “I stole your things because I’m obsessed with you.” “I would kill for you.” “I want to turn you so I never lose you.”

Every version sounded insane. Every version made him feel sick with fear that you would finally run.

He set the dining table beautifully, candles, wine, flowers. He even picked out soft music. When everything was ready, he stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the feast he had made, and whispered to the empty room:

“Please don’t leave me, doll. Please… just listen.”

He checked the clock.

8:00 pm was approaching.

And for the first time in centuries, the ancient predator felt genuinely nervous.

He was about to confess everything.

And he had no idea if you would still be his when the night was over.

You arrived at his penthouse at exactly 8:00 pm, fury burning hotter than fear. The car he sent had been silent and luxurious but you spent the entire ride clenching your fists, rehearsing every accusation. When the private elevator doors opened directly into his home, you stepped out with your chin high, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

Bucky stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering city sprawled behind him like a dark jewel. The lights were low, candles flickering on the dining table. He looked almost… human. Nervous. Shoulders tense, hands shoved into his pockets.

You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tightly.

“Start talking,” you snapped, voice trembling with rage. “No more ‘protecting me’ bullshit. I want the truth. All of it. Right now.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know where to begin.”

“Begin with why you’ve been lying to me.”

He took a slow step closer, then stopped when you flinched. “I’m not who you think I am. Not… not completely.”

Your heart hammered. Something in his voice, the raw edge, the hesitation made the air feel heavier. “Bucky. What are you?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his shoulders slumped.

“I’m not human,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. “Not anymore. Not for a very long time.”

The lights in the penthouse seemed to dim further. A chill crawled up your spine.

“What the hell does that mean?” you whispered.

His eyes, those beautiful blue eyes you’d trusted, began to change. The color bled away from the edges inward, flooding with a violent, glowing red. Not just red. Blood-red. Like twin embers pulled straight from hell, pulsing with unnatural hunger.

You stumbled back a step. “Bucky-”

His lips parted. There was a soft, wet click as his canines elongated into fangs, long, razor-sharp, gleaming under the candlelight. They looked strong enough to tear through flesh without effort. A low, involuntary growl rumbled in his chest, deep and animalistic.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, breath shallow. “Oh my God…”

He slowly raised his left hand. The plates of the metal arm shifted with a mechanical whirr-click-grind, like a machine waking up. The steel caught the red glow from his eyes, reflecting it back in cold, deadly shards.

“Bucky, what are you?” You asked again, fear finally overtaking the anger.

He took one more step forward, voice dropping into something ancient and broken. “This is what I am.”

The full transformation hit like a nightmare unfolding in real time. His skin seemed to pale further, veins standing out dark beneath it. The red in his eyes brightened, casting eerie shadows across his face. Those fangs, fully extended now, made his mouth look wrong, predatory. When he spoke again, his voice was layered with something inhuman, a resonance that vibrated in your bones.

“A vampire,” he said. “Turned in 1349 during the Black Death. I died in an alley with a nobleman’s teeth in my throat… and I woke up like this.”

You backed up until your legs hit the edge of the couch. “No. No, that’s not- this isn’t real.”

He rolled up his sleeve with deliberate slowness, revealing the brutal fusion where metal met scarred flesh. The seam looked raw, like it had been cauterized with fire and rage. The arm flexed, plates shifting with a menacing hum.

You stared, heart slamming against your ribs. “The glove… the circulation story…”

“All lies,” he admitted, voice raw. “I didn’t want you to see the monster. I thought if I could be James for a little while longer, you might not run screaming.”

He reached out slowly but you jerked away.

“Does it hurt?” you whispered, despite everything.

“Every day.” His red eyes never left yours. “It’s not mine. They tore the real one off and bolted this thing onto me while I was screaming. HYDRA made sure I felt every second of it.”

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Only the distant city hum and the frantic beat of your own heart filled the room.

Bucky’s shoulders shook as he continued, the words pouring out like he’d held them back for centuries. “I was arrogant. Handsome. Thought the world was mine. Then the plague came and a dying man made me eternal. I’ve spent nearly seven hundred years alone. Fucking. Feeding. Leaving bodies behind before dawn because nothing ever filled the emptiness.”

His voice cracked completely. Blood-red tears slid down his cheeks, actual blood, dark and glistening.

“Until Dolores. Dot. She called me ‘my James.’ She knew what I was and still loved me. When the plague took her in 1665, I tried to turn her. Forced my blood down her throat while she was still breathing. She screamed my name as she died in my arms. I burned the cottage with her body inside because I couldn’t bear to look at what I’d done.”

He dropped to his knees right there on the marble floor, arms wrapping around your waist like you were his last anchor.

“I’ve carried her screams for four hundred years,” he choked out against your stomach, blood tears soaking your shirt. “The wars. The mud. The explosion that took my arm. Waking up with this thing fused to me, roaring while they wiped my mind over and over. I came back to Brooklyn. Fed only on the worst people so I wouldn’t have to feel. Until that rainy night outside the library… when you smiled at me like I wasn’t damned.”

You stood frozen, sobbing, one hand hovering over his dark hair.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing like fresh blood, fangs fully bared, metal arm clenched so hard the plates screamed in protest. “I’ve been breaking into your apartment. Stealing your things. Tasting you while you slept. Listening to your heartbeat and praying I wouldn’t ruin you too.”

You shook your head, tears streaming. “You… you drank from me? While I was sleeping? You touched me, took my things like some kind of sick collector-”

“I know,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m a monster. A killer. I understand if you run. I won’t stop you. But please… I’m so fucking tired of being alone. You’re the only light I’ve had in centuries. Don’t take it away.”

The penthouse was silent except for your ragged breathing and his quiet, desperate sobs against you.

You were terrified.

You were furious.

You stood there, trembling, with Bucky’s arms locked around your waist and his face pressed against your stomach. The glow of his red eyes lit the floor beneath you like dying embers. His fangs were still fully extended, brushing against the fabric every time he breathed.

Your hand finally lowered. Fingers sank into his dark hair.

“I should run,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Any sane person would.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed, waiting for the blow.

“But I’m still here,” you continued, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I’m terrified… but I’m not leaving. Not tonight. Not yet. You’re a monster, Bucky. A real one. But you’re my monster. And I hate how much that matters to me right now.”

A broken sound escaped him, half sob, half relief. He tightened his hold for one heartbeat, then slowly loosened it, as if afraid you’d vanish.

“Thank you,” he breathed against you. “God, thank you.”

He stayed on his knees a moment longer, forehead pressed to your hip like a penitent at confession. When he finally rose, the red in his eyes had dimmed slightly but the fangs still peeked past his lips and the metal arm still hummed with tension. He looked raw. Exposed. Almost boyish in his uncertainty.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a shy human gesture that felt strangely out of place on a centuries-old vampire.

“I… prepared dinner for you,” he said softly, a faint flush coloring his pale cheeks. “I’ve been cooking since the afternoon. I wanted tonight to feel… normal. Before everything else.”

You blinked, surprised, still wiping tears from your face. “You cooked? For me?”

He gave a small, almost shy nod. “I haven’t cooked for anyone in… a very long time. I wanted it to be perfect.”

He led you further into the penthouse with gentle care, one hand hovering near the small of your back without quite touching. The long dining table was set beautifully for one, fine china, crystal glasses, silverware polished to a mirror shine. Tall candles flickered in elegant holders, casting warm golden light across the room. A bottle of deep red wine breathed in a decanter. Soft, old jazz played from hidden speakers, something slow and smoky from the 1940s.