𝓛eevanna !

He can’t picture sweet you, even as his tip grows a dark red color, all the blood in his body rushing south.  He won’t let his mind recall the softness of your skin or the way you smiled at him when you shook his hand as you first met.  He doesn’t allow himself to remember the cute little outfits you wear to work—shirts cut low enough to make his heart beat faster, skirts short enough to make his pants tighter. 

He won’t do it. 

Not when you’re possibly the sweetest girl he’s ever seen. 

So pure and so not meant for his fantasies. 

It’s not the first time Clark has encountered this problem. He believes it’s the way he was raised. He is supposed to honor and respect women, not make them the focal point of his dirty daydreams.  Back when he had crushes in high school or college, he’d run into a wall—a wall of celibacy for however long the crush lasted. 

He just couldn’t get off while thinking about the girl of his dreams. 

And that has led him right here. 

Flushed cock straining against the cotton of his underpants, his balls painfully tight. Every bit of friction almost sends him over the edge—just the adjustment of his hips has him thrusting into the air in desperation. 

But he’s blocked. He can’t. He couldn’t possibly. 

When he had come home from work, he immediately went for a run to try and burn off all the energy that was flooding through his body. The distraction hadn’t worked. As soon as sweat began to pearl on his temples, his mind had wandered to you, and in what other situation he might be coated in sweat. 

So he took a shower, warm first, then cold, because the steam had clouded his mind even more. Being naked also didn’t help. 

Then he ate dinner. Tried to watch a show. Tried to read. Tried to think about corn fields and cow manure and his first heartbreak—but it all had led him back to you. 

You’ve occupied his mind like a virus. And his dick just won’t stop throbbing. 

He is close to tears by now. Anxiously, he picks at a loose thread on his pants, then has to remove his hands because they’re too close to where he needs them.

Nothing works. 

And he is about to die. Either from spontaneous combustion (one way or another), or from embarrassment. 

He’s too old to have blue balls because of a girl.  A woman, he means.

Sleep won’t come to him, and part of him thinks it might be for the better. He doesn’t want to wake up to ruined sheets and morning wood. But he’d do anything for some relief. A short break, however momentarily, from his tightly drawn muscles.  His teeth clench hard enough that he hears them grind. 

Temptation, sweet as the devil himself, screams at him. 

He presses his palm over his bulge and instantly groans out loud. Bad idea. 

Clark is a good man, but he keeps having to remind himself of that. As the night creeps by, every second stretching longer, his fingers twitch, his legs begin to shake, but he doesn’t give in.

By morning, he feels like he got crushed by a planet.

His shirt crumpled, his hair messy, and his bulge awkwardly hidden behind his bag, Clark stumbles into the bullpen with his usual lack of grace. He almost takes out Jimmy, who looks at him with a mix of concern and annoyance, then knocks into Lois. She says something to him, but he can’t make it out. 

As he turns back to call out an apology to her, he trips over his own feet and bumps into… you. 

He almost cums in his pants as your bodies connect.

There you are—a bewildered smile on your face as you stagger back a couple of steps and then chuckle. 

“You in a hurry, Kent?” you ask. 

He gulps heavily and has to force his eyes to stick to your face. He can’t look at your outfit, can’t see the way your blouse fits snugly around your chest or the way your pants hug your hips like they were sewn onto you. 

Mission unsuccessful. 

Clark clears his throat twice, then almost chokes on his spit as he shakes his head. 

“Don’t… uh… I don’t wanna be late again,” he explains hastily and receives another strange look from you. 

“You’re early for once,” you inform him after a glance at your watch. 

“Oh, really?” he stutters, then looks anywhere but at you. 

“Yes—“ you laugh softly, “Clark, are you okay? You seem a little… off?”

His hand grips his bag tighter and holds it up—terribly indiscreetly—higher. 

“I’m great,” he squeaks, “Just… didn’t get much sleep last night. How- how are you?”

You take your time with your answer as you inspect him critically, attempting to catch his eyes. He avoids your gaze and instead focuses on the printer behind you. 

“I’m good,” ends up being your reply, but he barely even hears you over the ringing in his ear. He’s sure that every ounce of blood he possesses is currently located in his cock. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” you ask, then take a step towards him. “Are you sick? You look a little flushed.”

Clark sees your hand coming up to his forehead and practically jumps away from you. 

“No! I mean, no, I’m great. Yeah, I’m-I’m, um, better than great. Lots of work to do. See you!”

He rounds the next corner he sees, and just barely misses the disappointed look on your face as he disappears. 

The next few hours are pure torture. His cock won’t go down, no matter how much he immerses himself in checking his grammar in his latest article. Maybe the lack of sleep is getting to him, because he’s sure he’s started hallucinating. 

Twice, he thought he saw you walking behind him in the reflection of his laptop screen. Both times, he whipped his head around just to see his colleagues look at him with concern. 

Your perfume lingers. His sense of smell is already enhanced just by his alien nature, but today, it takes the cake. Clark makes himself a cup of coffee and almost drowns in it as he tilts the cup far up his nose in order to flood his olfactory receptors with something other than you.

The brown liquid spills across his already messy shirt, and he hisses out of reflex. The heat doesn’t really hurt him, but he’s so pent up that every bit of external stimulation has him gasping for air. 

Then he hears you call his name. Worry clings to every syllable, and he sees you stepping closer, your eyebrows drawn tight. 

He short-circuits. 

The cup hits the surface of the kitchen counter so hard that he is surprised it doesn’t shatter. Then he speed walks.  Past Perry’s office door, down the corridor, right into the first coat closet he can find. Darkness envelops him, and for a few seconds, he feels some semblance of peace. 

Until you catch up to him. 

Your knuckles rap against the door in three sharp knocks, then your voice follows. “Clark, my gosh, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He can picture the concern on your face, but he really shouldn’t picture you at all because that makes his pants even tighter. 

When he doesn’t answer, your pitch rises. “Did you burn yourself? Do you need me to get the first aid kit?”

He doesn’t hear anything past the ‘needing you’ part and almost replies with yes. 

As he leans back against the wall, the cooling surface grounds him for a second. The tips of his fingers brush against the cold concrete, and he swears a clear thought surfaces in his head for just a moment. 

It vanishes without a trace once you speak up again.  “Clark, can you please answer me?”

The fool in him yearns for you. He knows he shouldn’t open the door, but the devil on his shoulder whispers that a glimpse of you might make things easier. 

He pushes himself off the wall and wraps his fingers around the door handle, then presses down. 

You’re revealed to him like a new piece of art in a museum, taking away his breath and ability to speak.  The soft frown on your face makes you look even sweeter, you with your lips slightly parted and eyebrows knitted together, and his corrupted mind tells him he could make you look like this again under different circumstances. 

“I…” his voice gives out as he stands before you, his head barely sticking out the door.

“I’m really sorry,” he tries again. 

“What? What are you sorry for?” you ask. 

Clark closes his eyes for a brief moment, then meets your gaze again. 

“I’m… I’m kind of dealing with a- a situation right now, and, um, it’s… It’s private,” he mumbles. Whatever blood not needed to keep his cock erect at the moment finds its way to his cheeks. 

You only look more confused. 

He scrambles for words but doesn’t find any. 

“Can I… can I do something to help?” you question carefully. 

An involuntary smile ghosts across his face as he thinks about all the things you could do to help. He’d very much like to kick himself.  “No, it’s… it’s, uh,…”  Once again, he runs out of words and lets his head fall against the door frame.

“Clark, whatever it is, I’d like to make it better. You seem upset,” you mumble gently.

He can’t take it. Not your kindness, not your sweetness, not the softness of your voice.

“Honey-“ the nickname falls from his lips before he can stop it, “This really isn’t something you should see.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you take a step back. While Clark is actively trying not to look at you, he still sees the way you begin to examine him ever closer, letting your eyes drift over him in search of something to explain his behavior.  Even though he’s barely visible with just his head showing, he shifts uncomfortably—every voice in his head is screaming at him to just hurt your feelings for a second and shut the door in your face instead of scaring you away with his… pant situation. 

As he awkwardly fumbles with the door, he takes a step forward and immediately regrets it, but there’s no way of taking it back. Your eyes keep wandering, and they keep getting lower, and then he hears it—your gasp. 

It’s a sound he catalogues for another day; he really shouldn’t think about it too much right now.

The sharp intake of air turns into something much more horrifying: a giggle. 

You instantly press your hand against your lips, but the sound still reaches his ears, just a little muffled this time. A mixture of mild guilt and amusement twists your face into an expression Clark can’t quite read. 

He wishes he would faint. 

“Clark,” you mumble, a little sheepishly so, “Is that why you won’t come out?” 

The ‘that’ is adorned with a vague gesture to his groin, and even just the most minimal approach of your hand to that specific region makes his skin burn even hotter. 

“It’s… it’s not what it looks like,” Clark stutters, then sighs. It’s exactly what it looks like.  “I mean,” he begins again, “I… I… I’m sorry.”

Your mild laughter follows, but quickly dies down when Clark’s face drops from embarrassed to mortified. “Gosh, Clark, you don’t need to apologize,” you reply, then take a step closer. He whimpers uncomfortably and foolishly leaves his post at the door to retreat further into the coat closet. You follow instantly, and Clark wonders whether he can really hold his breath for an hour because it suddenly seems like there’s no oxygen left in the small room. 

“I mean it,” you say, “There’s no need to be embarrassed. This is… natural, and you know, you just… gotta let things happen.”

He shakes his head vehemently, and the corners of your mouth twitch traitorously.

“Clark…” You say his name like a mother scolding a child. “It’s really not a big deal. You can either just wait for, um, it to go down, or, you know, take care of yourself.”

Clark’s eyes shut involuntarily, and he starts recalling all the mayors of Metropolis in his head—just to block out your voice as you dare to even imply the concept of masturbation as a way out of this. 

The air in the room thickens as you step close enough that he can feel the warmth from your body pulsing against his.  “So?” you ask, “What’s it gonna be?”

He swallows thickly before he opens his eyes. Then stares dumbfounded and counts your individual lashes. You’ve never stood this close to him, and it’s safe to say that you’re even more beautiful like this.  

“I’ve tried—” his voice cracks, so he clears his throat and begins again, “I’ve tried to wait it out. Didn’t work out.”

Your eyebrows scrunch together. “When did this start?” you ask. 

Since the ground doesn’t open beneath him to swallow him whole, Clark has to answer. “Yesterday evening.”

You make a sound that’s half chortle, half pity.  “Then maybe you just need to—” 

“No.” The word comes out equally harsh and desperate. His eyes bore into yours, and you grow quiet. It really doesn’t help that you won’t stop staring at him.

“It’s not something to be ashamed of,” you murmur, “Everyone does it.”

That is arguably the worst thing you could’ve said because now Clark has that image in his head. You. You alone. Your hands slipping down and past the waistline of your panties, right between those soaked folds—

“I can’t do that,” he confesses quietly. 

Your mouth falls open.  “Like… never?”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean… yes, I’ve done it, but I can’t do it at the moment,” he clarifies.

“Why not? You could just… go to the bathroom, or to your car if you’re uncomfortable here or—” you propose, but he holds up a hand.

“It’s not about the place,” Clark says timidly. He knows he’s treading into dangerous territory now. 

“Then what’s it about?” you question.  You’ve hit the jackpot.  This is already the worst day of his life, so he might as well make it even more horrible. 

He takes a deep breath that almost hurts his lungs. Anxiety fills his chest, and he opens his mouth multiple times to say it before he finally manages. 

“Because when I try… I see your face. And I can’t… I can’t do it, not when you’re there,” he explains lowly.  Shame floods his veins, and he drops his head down to stare at the vinyl flooring. 

You squeak in surprise. “You imagine me?” you echo, your voice raising an octave and a half from your usual tone. 

He might not be able to look at you, but he starts apologizing instantly. “Please, you gotta believe me, I don’t do it on purpose, you’re just… very beautiful, and of course very smart, too, and I—” 

This time, you interrupt him.  “Oh, Clark, it’s alright,” you assure him softly, “It’s… it’s really flattering.”

He winces. 

“No, I mean it,” you insist, then reach out. Your fingers press against his chin, lifting it so that he’s forced to meet your eyes, which watch him so tenderly that he might be able to forgive himself. Might. “Does that mean you like me?” you blurt suddenly.

Clark should’ve seen that coming Now’s the time.

He doesn’t feel like the strongest man alive when he nods. “Yeah,” he whispers. 

Next thing he knows, your lips are on his. He gasps into your mouth, every single one of his neurons giving up simultaneously before he groans and kisses you back. 

It takes a moment for the rest of his limbs to catch up, but then he quickly finds himself wrapping his arms around you to pull you closer to his chest.  You taste like that tea you always drink and just… you. He closes his eyes and curls himself down towards you, then tightens his grip around you as your lips move against his. 

Relief, like he’s never felt before, flushes his system, and he moans softly. 

You feel the growing wetness between the two of you first. A faint stain on the front of Clark’s slacks forms as his spent spills.  He registers it half a second after you and almost jumps out of his skin. 

Pink creeps up his neck as he sputters, “Gosh, I… um, I’m so sorry, this doesn’t happen usually…”

You shush him gently, then cup his face. You pull him in for one more kiss before you whisper, “It’s okay.”

Clark drops his forehead against yours and groans softly.

“This is so not how I imagined telling you that I like you,” he mutters. 

“How did you imagine it?” 

“Less claustrophobic and embarrassing,” he replies. 

You chuckle, then glance up at him.  “Let’s get you some tissues and make up some excuse why we both need to do a half day, okay?” you offer.

Clark freezes up slightly, and you tilt your head. 

“I- I can’t go out there yet,” he murmurs.

“We’re gonna be really quick, no one’s gonna see you,” you promise, then try to take his hand, but he stops you. 

“No, I mean…” he gestures down to himself, and you see the problem.  Clark is still hard. 

“Oh,” you say dumbly. 

He nods and exhales heavily. 

“Well, if that’s the case, then let’s do something about it,” you conclude. 

Just as Clark is about to ask what you were planning, your hands fly to his waistband.  He feels the warmth of your fingers through his clothes, even the smooth texture of your skin, as you glance up at him, waiting for him to stop you. 

He doesn’t.

The button pops much quicker than he had expected, and the sound of his fly being undone follows just as instantaneously. He watches you work, taking off his pants and shoving down his boxers with such vigor and gentleness alike. 

His mind starts working again when his cock springs free, blushed and slick with his previous load. You gasp at the size of him.  “Sweetheart,” another nickname he let slip, “You- you can’t do this here, and you also don’t have to.”

“Yes, I can,” you reply, “And I know I don’t have to. But if you want me to, I’ll do it gladly.”

Time freezes for a moment. Clark’s lips part, but no sound escapes. Then he nods. 

Not able to wait any longer, your fingers wrap around the base, and you give him a slight squeeze, which causes Clark to moan out loud. 

“Gosh,” he whines, “Your- your hands are really soft.”

As you begin to work him, Clark finds himself staggering back until his back hits the wall. The feel of your fingers gliding over his slick cock, using his earlier spent as lube, is indescribable. He babbles words and makes sounds he doesn’t remember half a second later, and his hips roll up into your hand like the waves to the moon. 

“Jeez, sweetheart,” he whispers, his eyes rolling back as you grip him tighter and twist your wrist each time you reach his tip, “What did I do to deserve this?”

A mischievous grin settles on your face as you look up at him. The first thing you register about him is the glassy look in his eyes, then the furrow between his brows as he thrusts into your hand. 

“You don’t need to do anything to deserve this,” you mumble softly. 

A groan that originated deep from his chest breaks free when you swipe your thumb through his slit, collecting pre-cum. Clark’s eyes flutter shut, and you use that moment to drop to your knees. 

He’s so lost in the pleasure that Clark doesn’t notice until you replace your fingers with your lips as you pepper soft kisses along the side of his shaft. He meets your eyes, his own shimmering with tears of need. 

“’s that what you want?” he questions timidly. 

When you nod, you feel him pulse against your lips. Your tongue slips out, and with the tip of it, you trace one of the prominent veins on his thick cock. His salty flavor blooms in your mouth.  Your shier kitten licks into something slower, more confident. 

It’s truly over for Clark when your lips part far enough that his cock slips past them. He’s heavy on your tongue, and your jaw already begins to hurt as you open your mouth further to accommodate his size. 

“Oh shoot, honey,” Clark groans, “You’re… you feel so good. So warm and perfect…”

His praise is accompanied by involuntary mini thrusts of his pelvis. His tip hits the back of your throat, and you almost choke on him. Spit collects in one of the corners of your mouth and dribbles down your chin as you relax your muscles to take him in further. 

You wrap your fingers around the rest of his cock that doesn’t fit in your mouth, then begin to bob your head up and down.

“Gosh dang it, you’re- you’re killing me,” Clark grunts. He can’t help the way his hips twitch forward, burying his cock further down your throat every time. You swallow around him, taking in more and more until you’re at Clark’s mercy to decide when you breathe and when you don’t. 

And still, he’s gentle. He watches you from half-lidded eyes, but he’s aware of every inch of him. You can see it in his face that he’s close, but he doesn’t grow aggressive or hasty. He reaches for you, threads his fingers through your hair, but doesn’t yank. Instead, he strokes your cheek as the neatly trimmed hair at his base tickles your nose. 

Tears stream down your face as he throbs in your mouth, and he catches them with his thumb. 

“I’m gonna cum, sweet girl,” he manages to groan, and you nod. But you don’t let him go. 

Clark’s eyes widen. 

“You want me to… here?” he asks, disbelief apparent in his voice.  You nod again, as best as you can. 

Clark’s breathing changes, turning more rapid. He can’t take his eyes off of you, even as his balls tighten. He pulls out enough that he won’t come right down your throat. Instead, he spills in your mouth, where warm and salty headiness leaks across your tongue. You try to swallow every drop he gives you, struggling to keep up with the load he pumps out. 

Clark falls back against the wall, his chest heaving, but he tugs you with him. For a moment, you both simply sit there, his arms wrapped around you, and the flavor of him just dissipating. Then he speaks up. 

“We’re both taking that half day,” he mumbles against your hair, “And the rest of the week.”

what should’ve been a quiet, peaceful sunday—the kind where you do nothing but drink terrible coffee and pretend to meditate, has now devolved into a cleaning day. a full, catastrophic cleanse.

you’d think he’s a hoarder the way they’re treating him, like they’ll open his closet and find a family of raccoons filing taxes in there.

as if!

despite his complaints, bucky’s grateful. they may give each other hell, sure, but when one of them is drowning, the other two will show up with a bucket and a poorly thought-out plan—it’s really the thought that counts.

“damn, buck, i’m surprise you don’t have a rat living in your closet.” steve spoke, snapping bucky out of the internal rant he’s been spiraling into for the past five minutes.

steve’s hands reached to fold the clothes with precision like a retired scout leader that sam mostly kept throwing at him.

“man, he ain’t cinderella.” (get the reference?) sam adds, tossing another shirt at steve’s face.

bucky rolls his eyes as he starts organizing his art materials—but he does it in the most chaotic way possible, aggravating sam’s ocd on purpose. pencils scattered here, sketchbooks stacked crookedly there.

a tiny evil and mischievous grin tugs at his lips when he imagines wilson’s reaction to when he finally notices the “work” bucky had done to clean his own room.

sam’s voice cracks through the room, loud and delighted: “look at this! didn’t know you had a fancy rich-people suit!” he holds the suit up, admiring himself in the mirror near the doorframe like he’s prepping for a low-budget james bond audition.

bucky turns around slowly, unimpressed. he opens his mouth to comment, but steve beats him to it.

“you’d definitely fit right in at this fancy event i’m catering tonight,” steve says. and that’s when—

ding!

a lightbulb goes off in bucky’s head. his smirk stretches, curling at the edges in a way that immediately alarms his roommates.

“let me come with,” bucky announces, voice full of suspicious optimism.

steve shakes his head instantly. “no. absolutely not. you’ll get me fired.”

“come on, steve,” bucky counters. “how many times did i sneak you into the movie theater for free when i worked there?”

something somehow intrigued wilson, because suddenly, he’s on bucky’s side—which is extremely rare.

“look,” sam says, gesturing between himself and bucky, “we’ll be wearing these cheap-ass suits anyway. they won’t even notice us. rich people are too busy arguing about stock portfolios or whatever.”

“i’m just in it for the food…” bucky admits, placing both hands on his stomach as if making a solemn confession. “d’ya know the last time i had fancy sushi? thing filled me up for an entire week.”

sam points at bucky, then at steve, eyes wide and persuasive—borderline cartoonish.

“think about the expensive drinks! unlimited! we’ll sneak you something home. hell, i’ll stuff every spoonful of caviar in bucky’s suit.”

steve gives him a deadpan stare. sam’s hands land dramatically on steve’s shoulders as if he’s pitching the business plan of the century.

“please don’t encourage that.” bucky mutters, but he’s grinning.

steve looks between the two of them with the expression of a man who has already lost but is still pretending he has a choice. bucky recognizes that look instantly—victory is imminent.

and finally, inevitably, steve exhales the sigh of someone reluctantly accepting his fate. “alright. fine. just… just—don’t shove caviar in your pockets, sam. they’ll know.”

sam celebrates and immediately returns to “cleaning,” which now looks as if he has an ulterior motive (and he absolutely does)

steve somehow managed to smuggle two fully grown men into a high-class event without anyone noticing. honestly, it was impressive. borderline criminal, but impressive.

they walked in like they belonged—sam wilson especially, who immediately snagged a champagne flute off a passing waiter with the confidence of a man who absolutely did not pay for the ticket.

“this one yours?” the server asked.

sam shrugged, “it is now,” and kept walking toward the food bar like it was a pilgrimage.

bucky, meanwhile, drifted away from both of them the second they crossed the threshold. the house was… well, calling it a “house” was frankly disrespectful. mansion. estate. manor.

the walls were lined with artwork that looked so expensive, it surely costs more than a year's rent from his living quarters.

his eyes roamed as he wandered. everything screamed wealth: the polished marble floors, the crystal chandeliers, the carefully curated guests.

men in overpriced suits talked business with the kind of intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations, while their wives sipped champagne with delicate fingers adorned with diamond necklaces—gifts, probably, offered to them as apologies for their husbands’ absence.

bucky barely paid attention, one of the paintings caught his eye. the brushwork was beautiful, the kind of thing he could get lost in for hours—until his gaze drifted just slightly to the left and landed on something far more captivating.

you.

you were sitting near the large glass doors that led outside, though “outside” was a generous understatement. the backyard looked like it was connected to a second mansion. maybe even a third. he couldn’t tell.

before he really knew what he was doing, he found himself gravitating toward the door, almost tripping over a decorative plant in the process. very smooth, very mysterious-man-of-intrigue vibes.

he slipped past small clusters of guests and stepped into the garden. the moonlight spilled over everything, but you… you didn’t just glow. you radiated. effortlessly.

you were seated on the patio, elbows on the tea table, palms holding up your head. lost in thought. staring at the meticulously planted flowerbeds like they had whispered an existential crisis directly into your soul.

bucky pushed his hands into his pockets, fishing out a cigarette he didn’t actually plan on smoking. he hesitated when he reached your table, suddenly unsure if interrupting was wise.

eh. too late to retreat without looking weird.

“got a light?” he asked, pulling out the chair across from you and sitting down without waiting for an invitation—legs spreading like he was claiming territory.

you jolted, clearly startled out of whatever deep philosophical spiral you’d been in. his eyes dragged over you—slow and shameless.

the black dress, the subtle diamonds, the perfume that made his brain beserk for a moment. nothing about your outfit screamed for attention, but somehow, you commanded his.

“what’s got you thinking so deeply?” he asked.

you blinked fast, straightening your back. “i don’t have one.”

he leaned in slightly, eyebrow raised in confusion. “what?”

you cleared your throat realizing how stupid you must’ve sound from his point of view. “a lighter,” you clarified, flustered. “i don’t have one.”

“ah.” bucky nodded, placing the cigarette back into his pocket like it was all part of the plan.

that’s when he noticed your untouched champagne. he reached for it without asking and downed the remaining half like he desperately needed it.

you didn’t comment, though your eyes did widen slightly—maybe at the boldness, maybe at the way his lips touched where yours had.

“why aren’t you inside the party?” you asked politely, your finger absentmindedly tracing circles on the tabletop.

“why aren’t you?” he shot back.

you looked away again. you were dodging him and he noticed. ultimately, he decided not to push—not yet.

“gonna be honest with you, doll,” he said, leaning back, “i crashed the party. don’t know anyone. except my two idiot friends.”

that earned a soft giggle from you. he felt it straight in his chest. his smile followed, subtle but undeniably pleased.

“what about you?” he asked. “you crash it, too?” he asks jokingly.

you shook your head, the diamonds at your ears swaying lightly. “party’s about me, actually.”

his brows shot up. as he mutters a small “oh shit.” under his breath before calming his cool and reverting back to his confident demeanor. then the smirk returned, like gravity kept pulling it back to his mouth.

“birthday?”

another shake of your head.

his curiosity flared, bright and ravenous. he’d barely known you five minutes and he was already committed to the excavation of your soul.

but before he could dig deeper, you stood. smoothing imaginary dust off your dress. he watched your hands, eyes darkening just slightly.

“i should go back inside,” you announced quietly. “they’re probably looking for me.”

“alright, i’ll go with you.” he rose immediately, stepping closer than necessary.

his sleeve brushed your bare arm—just barely—and your breath hitched in a way he absolutely noticed. after all, bucky’s mind flourishes on small details, that’s what makes him a good artist.

“i’m james,” he introduces himself but his voice slurs as your mind fades back into the void it was in before he casually interrupted your peace.

you took a subtle step away, not from fear, but from self-preservation. the housewives inside would devour any rumor like wolves waiting for breakfast and you weren’t going to let them prey on you. not this time.

and bucky didn’t know—yet—that the party wasn’t only about you.

it was about your engagement.

your father’s business partner.

an arrangement you’d reluctantly agreed to—more for responsibility than romance.

the date went well enough: polite conversation, basic kindness, acceptable behavior. but the illusion cracked the moment a friend sent you a blurry video of him at a club, kissing a woman like he had no fiancée waiting at home.

you confronted him. he laughed, drunk, and said, “stop being so fucking insecure. loosen up, babe.”

and since then, ironically, you buried yourself in hobbies and events. piano lessons, charity galas, wedding planning, anything to avoid him. anything to keep the bored, nosey housewives from digging too deep.

you didn’t even realize you’d stopped walking until you were standing before the glass door leading to where the party is.

bucky—who had introduced himself as james on the way while you were lost in your own thought—was already holding it open, waiting patiently, watching you think yourself into a maze.

“i really need to get inside that head of yours, sweetheart.” he murmured, offering his hand.

you hesitated, then slipped your fingers into his.

and just like that—warm hand in yours, chandelier light spilling over the marble floors—you let him guide you back.

the moment you stepped back inside, the blast of artificial cold air hit your skin. a full-body shiver crawled up your spine—not entirely from the temperature. the room felt even louder than before, crowded with people you didn’t know, smiling politely at strangers who thought they had a right to your future because their names meant something on paper.

it’s your engagement party, and somehow you felt like the only person not actually engaged in the celebration.

you turned your head toward the man beside you and the fluorescent lights caught him in an unfairly flattering way.

his jawline looked sculpted, like someone carved it out of stubborn marble. the stubble only enhanced it. and those eyes… those stupidly blue eyes. they didn’t just look at you; they examined, unraveled, saw through every surface you desperately kept polished.

he looked like a walking contradiction: someone who shouldn’t belong here yet fit into your chaos more than anyone else in the room.

“i don’t want to be here,” you said quietly but still keeping that fierce tone.

his thumb brushed your knuckles, slow and deliberate. only then did you realize your fingers were still intertwined with his—somehow you’d never let go. he didn’t pull away, and neither did you.

“alright,” he murmured, voice low like he already understood more than you said, “where do you want to go?”

you swallowed. “anywhere.”

he didn’t hesitate—not for a second. he simply tugged your hand gently and led you away from the chandeliers, the orchestra, the congratulations-from-people-you-don’t-know. he guided you down a side hall, toward a service door that obviously wasn’t meant for guests.

he pushed it open, and suddenly you were outside again—the loading area behind the estate. the moonlight bled into the garage space where catering vans were parked, illuminating half-unpacked crates, carts of silverware, and stressed-out banquet staff on smoke breaks.

people stole glances at you, confused. you were dressed like royalty among servers, but there you were, slipping through their world hand-in-hand with a man who didn’t belong in yours.

bucky approached a tall blond guy in a caterer’s uniform—blue button-up, black apron, mildly exhausted expression. before bucky could even open his mouth, the man sighed like he’d aged ten years on sight.

“god—no. not again, bucky.”

again? bucky?

bucky raised a brow. “i haven’t even told you what i need, steve.”

the man—steve—gave you a single glance then flicked his eyes back to james with a look that screamed, i know exactly what you need.

bucky smirked. “just being the knight in shining armor to this princess.”

steve sighed again, heavier this time, the sigh of a man who has given up resisting destiny. he set the tray he was holding onto a nearby table and started refilling it with champagne glasses, muttering something suspiciously close to “you owe me for this.”

you remained confused. deeply confused.

bucky didn’t explain. he simply squeezed your hand. “come on.”

he led you across the garage until you stood in front of a sleek black car that definitely didn’t belong to a caterer. he opened the passenger door for you with an inviting little gesture.

“he called you bucky,” you muttered, more a question than a statement.

he chuckled—amused, a little smug. “my second name. buchanan.” then, as if to clarify without overexplaining, he added, “james buchanan barnes.”

you stared at the open door. your heart thumped uncomfortably against your ribs. was this smart? was it catastrophically stupid? was leaving your own engagement party with a stranger—who openly admitted he wasn’t invited—a terrible idea?

probably.

but he looked at you like he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. like the world outside this estate wasn’t so suffocating. like he saw the real you beneath the diamonds and expectations.

“i’m not going to murder you,” he said, reading your hesitation with an annoyingly accurate grin. “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“that’s what they all say and before you know it, you’re already in his freezer, dead.” you say, sarcastically as bucky chuckles at your statement.

fuck it, why not?

reluctantly, you slid into the seat. his cologne lingered in the car, warm and intoxicating, and your pulse jumped unreasonably.

bucky jogged around to the driver’s side with the casual confidence of a man who had absolutely no permission to take this vehicle but was going to do it anyway.

you exhaled slowly.

what was the worst that could happen?

he drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. you stared out the window, watching unfamiliar streets pass by—shops you’d never seen, neon signs flickering, people lingering outside late-night diners. this part of town felt more alive than the mansion ever did.

“you look like you’re starring in a sad music video,” he said suddenly.

you turned your head, caught off guard, then smiled—genuinely, fully—the first real one you’d managed all week.

“makes me the silver lining,” you muttered as he nodded once, agreeing completely.

“where are we going?” you asked, tucking the stray strand that had rebelliously slipped from your intentionally-messy bun—messy buns only seem effortless; this one took twenty minutes and three breakdowns.

instead of answering, he pulled over beside a narrow sidewalk, switched off the engine, and leaned across the seat. before you could question him, he unbuckled your seatbelt, popped his own off, and jogged out of the car. he swung your door open, extending an arm like a chauffeur with questionable credentials.

“mysterious.” you utter out with a smile.

“always.” he shot back.

he led you toward a cramped apartment building—old brick, peeling paint, a buzzing light above the entrance that was trying its best. the only way up was a set of steep stairs that spiraled to upper floors.

you lifted your foot to start climbing, but he placed a hand on your wrist, stopping you. he pointed at your heels.

“take ’em off, doll.”

you stared at him. “you’re joking.”

his face said he absolutely was not.

“i’m not stepping on the dirty floor,” you say with an unintentional condescending undertone and instantly regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth.

he didn’t look offended. he didn’t even look annoyed. but he definitely didn’t look happy either.

you sounded… well, exactly like the kind of person raised around pearl necklaces and pristine hallways. the kind of person you weren’t trying to be right now.

before you could apologize or rephrase, he bent down—quick and decisive—and scooped you up in his arms, bridal style.

“oh my god, james—put me down!”

he ignored the protest entirely, his grip firm, secure. your arms flew around his neck instinctively, fingers locking behind him just in case he dropped you—though something told you he wouldn’t.

he carried you like you weighed nothing, even though the climb was no joke. his muscles flexed through the fabric of his suit jacket, the seams working overtime.

you were pressed against him, closer than you’d ever been to a stranger in your life, and his cologne clung to the air between you—warm cedar, something smoky, something addictive.

five flights of stairs later, he finally set you down gently. your heels clicked against the hallway floor.

he was breathing heavily—not gasping, just winded—and for good reason: he had literally hauled you up each flight like you were the world’s fanciest sack of flour.

you watched him as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a key. his brows were still drawn in faint concentration, chest rising and falling.

you stepped forward without thinking, hands reaching up. he froze.

your fingers brushed his chest lightly as you undid the crooked bow tie hanging limp at his collar. his gaze locked onto your face, unapologetically intense, drinking in every detail while you focused on the knot.

“the least i could do,” you whispered. “you looked uncomfortable wearing it.”

you stepped back with a soft, almost shy smile.

bucky just stared.

utterly star-struck.

utterly gone.

it took him a moment to recover, inhaling once, deep and steady, like he needed to reset his entire nervous system before moving again.

his pulse was so loud he felt it in his shoulders, in the tips of his fingers, in the space between the two of you.

the click of the lock echoed softly before the door eased open, revealing what you instantly assumed was his home. the scent hit you first: a faint mélange of paint, old paper, and something woody, like dried cedar he probably didn’t even realize was in the room.

it wasn’t a big place, barely enough floor space for two people with personal boundaries, but the walls compensated—every inch was cluttered with framed paintings, some taped sketches, and one or two threatening to fall simply because they looked aggressively handcrafted.

your gaze drifted toward the window, drawn to the halo of lamplight illuminating his canvas. an easel stood guard beside a small table overloaded with pencils, brushes, a cup of murky watercolor residue, and a palette with paint so dried it looked older than your relationship with your fiancé.

so, he was talented, to say the least.

you began to wander, fingertips gliding over a few frames as you moved, mesmerized by the strokes and lines that seemed to breathe emotion.

he followed you closely, not saying a word, just watching with the intensity of someone taking mental polaroids of their muse—which, apparently, was now you.

his untied bow tie had already been tossed to the floor, abandoned.

you reached for another sketch, but before you could truly examine it, his warm hands enveloped yours. his other hand found your chin, guiding your head away from the artwork and toward him. the shift was so gentle you almost allowed it without protest. almost.

the two of you stood there, suspended in a silence more charged than anything that had happened tonight. his eyes flickered down to your lips, slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time to stop him.

and god, for a second, you really considered not stopping him.

but then your brain—annoyingly, inconveniently—remembered the giant sparkling symbol of your impending doom. the engagement party.

your engagement party.

your palms shot to his chest, halting him inches away.

jesus, you were no better than your fiancé right now. one man cheats physically, the other cheats aesthetically. wonderful.

you cleared your throat, mentally blaming every glass of overpriced wine you’d downed prior for the fact that james buchanan barnes—or bucky almost got to kiss you.

he stepped back with a faint smirk, fascinated by your sudden retreat like he’d just stumbled upon his favorite subplot.

“this is a little inappropriate, james.” you muttered, pretending to find the wall art wildly interesting again, even though it was the stubble on his jawline that almost turned you into a homewrecker. of your own home. iconic.

he nodded and looks as if he understood that you weren’t comfortable with his pace.

“y’want a beer?” he asks so casually.

you were perplexed at the casual pivot. still, you nodded because—what else could you do? lecture him about boundaries while he looked like a renaissance painting that stole a leather jacket?

he crossed to a fridge that was… almost entirely filled with beer. almost—because a lone slim jim sat in the corner like it was being punished.

“do you eat anything else? or do you just drink beer until your organs file a complaint?” you asked, trailing after him and perching on the nearest stool.

“this is my studio, doll. got another place with roommates.” he passed you a cold bottle, leaning his elbow on the counter.

“ah,” you said, taking a sip, “so this is where you bring your girls.”

“more or less,” he shrugged, tossing you a wink that sent an involuntary blush racing up your neck. if he noticed, you’d gaslight him into believing you were just warm. or allergic to beer. or something.

“my roommates… they don’t know about this place,” he added, watching your reaction.

“why?” you asked.

he shrugged again. “i don’t know. been renting it for a year. never came up.”

“so what do you even do here except paint? don’t they ever ask where you go?”

“like you said,” he teased, “i bring my girls here.”

you gave him a deadpan stare, and he finally cracked, admitting, “they just assume i’m crashing at someone else’s place.”

the conversation fell into a lazy rhythm, comfortable enough that he felt brave enough to lean closer though the counter sets a boundary between you.

“enough about me. i want to know about you.”

you inhaled deeply, already regretting agreeing to this. “what do you want to know?”

“what you usually do.”

“horseback riding, pottery, musical lessons—”

“shit. you sound fuckin’ rich.” he cuts you off when you start listing off the things you usually do.

“you make it sound like your art is a cheap hobby.”

he pauses, then nodded, agreeing. “paints ain’t cheap, sweetheart.” he says, taking a sip of his beer.

“do you do commissions?”

“yeah. why? you want me to draw you like one of my french girls?” he teased, referencing the titanic. the line far too flirtatious to be casual.

you pretended you didn’t hear the undertone, choosing instead to laugh lightly—partly because of the beer, partly because you genuinely couldn’t process how you ended up in an artist’s studio with a man who crashed your engagement party.

what a night.

“you’re dainty in figure, gorgeous to draw,” he said, brutally straightforward, no hesitation, no shame.

heat crawled up your neck, blooming on your cheeks for the second time tonight—caused by a man you barely knew, which felt like an entirely different crime. pathetic.

maybe it was his charisma, maybe it’s the alcohol. either way, your eyes darted anywhere but him.

“say the words, princess, and i’ll draw you right now.” he winked, and you took another sip just to avoid combusting. god, he was making it painfully difficult to remember you were engaged.

silence fell and bucky felt the need to break it. without a thought, he asks you the first—well, second question he has on his mind. “do you ever enjoy your… hobbies?” he asked suddenly.

your brows knitted. “of course i do. that’s why i do them.”

he gave a shrug paired with a crooked little smile—one of those expressions that screamed, “sure, if you say so,” without actually saying it.

“so you don’t ever have days where you just… chill? especially in that huge fuckin’ house.”

you paused. no. no, you really didn’t. and for the first time tonight, the truth settled heavily on your shoulders. you shook your head, a stray strand of hair slipping down from your carefully curated messy bun.

bucky looked at it, contemplating whether he should lean in and tuck it behind your ear. he didn’t. maybe because you looked ethereal like that—maybe because he knew if he touched you again, he’d lose the last shred of common sense he had left.

“what’s the party about?” he asked quietly. “you said it was about you.” he finally asks the question that’s been lingering on his mind since the moment you uttered your words to him.

you inhaled slowly, mind stuttering even though there was absolutely no reason to hesitate. “engagement party.”

he chuckled at first, assuming you were joking. but your expression didn’t budge. his smile dropped to something small, almost disappointed. “shit—no way. you’re kidding.”

you shook your head. his face shifted—something like desire darkened by guilt, by logic, by the awareness that he shouldn’t want you but very much did.

and yet he couldn’t help himself. you were beautiful, delicate, and for reasons he couldn’t articulate, painfully compelling. a muse wrapped in silk and moral conflict.

he’d worked hard for everything in life—his dream college, his career, the girls he wanted, the places he wanted to see. but the one thing he absolutely shouldn’t want—was now sitting one feet away from him, sipping beer and unintentionally ruining his self-control.

he should’ve driven you back immediately. he should’ve kept his distance. he should’ve done a dozen responsible things.

but he didn’t.

instead, he leaned in closer, studying your features with the slow reverence of a man memorizing the lines of a sculpture. the room quieted under a strange, comfortable tension.

you stared back, equally entranced, equally confused why this man—this complete stranger—felt like gravity in human form.

your thoughts tangled uselessly. you couldn’t pinpoint what made him so enthralling. maybe you didn’t want to.

he wondered the same—what about you made him ignore every internal alarm?

“i think i should go,” you said softly. “my fiancé’s probably looking for me.” you emphasized the word fiancé, trying to remind both him and yourself of reality.

honestly, in his defense, you hadn’t told him earlier. so the guilt was yours to carry. great.

it didn’t matter if your engagement wasn’t romantic or if it was an arrangement. it was still an engagement, and you shouldn’t be sitting in another man’s studio, flirting, drinking, and trying very hard not to melt under his gaze.

“stay for a while.” he didn’t even know why he said it. he should’ve encouraged you to leave—god knows that was the reasonable option.

“i don’t want to intrude.”

“you’re not,” he murmured, eyes steady on yours. “i invited you here.”

your body shivered—not entirely from the cold condensation of your beer bottle.

as if cued by fate (or whatever cosmic entity was watching this disaster unfold), his phone rang. the sound sliced through the haze. he glanced at the caller id, swiped, and lifted it to his ear.

“yeah?” he listened. “yeah, alright.” then hung up.

“guess the universe doesn’t want you here with me, doll.” his voice dipped lower, colored with reluctant resignation. “they’re cleaning up. party’s almost over.”

if the universe had been kinder—or crueler—you’d be bent over the counter by now as his hands are held over by your mouth, stifling your whimpering moans. he didn’t say it, but the thought lingered in the air between you.

he approached anyway, offering his hand with a gentlemanly calm that contradicted the inappropriate images in his head.

you set your half-finished beer on the counter, placed your hand in his, and hopped off the stool. a small smile tugged at your lips.

now, you were sitting in the passenger seat of his car—seatbelt on, window half-down, the kind of breeze that pretends it can fix your life brushing against your cheek.

this was supposed to be a simple unwinding moment. something harmless. something adult and responsible, if you squinted hard enough.

this week had been so overwhelmingly busy that you hadn’t realized how badly you needed this—you needed an absurdly attractive stranger to abduct you (politely) from a party and convince you to drink beer with him as if that were the most logical remedy for burnout.

“i shouldn’t have almost kissed you earlier.” he said suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of the engine.

his eyes flicked from the road to you when the traffic light bled into red. it really was unfair—some men looked ridiculous in traffic light glow; he looked like the cover of a brooding romance novel that would emotionally devastate someone’s aunt.

“it’s okay,” you said, shrugging. “it shouldn’t have taken me that long to pull away.”

“let me make it up to you.”

your brows instinctively furrowed. “i’ll paint you for free.” bucky says, glancing over at you.

you shook your head quickly. as much as the proposition made your brain misfire like a faulty christmas light, you were not delusional.

you were many things, but delusional? not tonight. you knew damn well you wouldn’t be able to sit still in front of a handsome artist while he looked at you like you were a complicated masterpiece and not someone barely holding herself together with caffeine and the fear of disappointing your fiancé.

“that’s… that’s nice of you,” you said. “but, no thank you.”

“how ’bout a drink then?”

absolutely not. you were barely tipsy and you’d already run away with a stranger, nearly kissed said stranger, and were now contemplating whether you’d allow that stranger to immortalize you on canvas like a van gogh fever dream. you could not survive alcohol on top of this.

he must’ve sensed your refusal piling on his attempts because he huffed a tiny laugh.

“ah,” he said, clicking his tongue, “do i have to be on your waiting list and shit to schedule when i can see you again?”

you snorted out a laugh, “yes. yes, you do.” you playfully answered.

the smirk he gave you should’ve been illegal. thank god you were sitting; your knees would’ve submitted to gravity and public humiliation.

“oh, come on, princess,” he teased. “i doubt your husband would mind.”

husband. the way the word lodged in your ribs like a bad cough. it was—or felt more like an insult.

your fiancé felt less like a life partner and more like a complicated… assignment. a commitment with the texture of a contract your father basically strong-armed you into.

the nickname princess didn’t help either—it made you feel like a porcelain doll in a glass case.

“fiancé,” you corrected, though as if it makes anything better.

“fiancé,” he echoed.

silence fell again, but your mind was anything but silent. your fiancé did tell you to loosen up. to have fun. to try spontaneity as if you were some tax-evading duchess who needed a hobby. maybe accepting a drink with james would technically count as personal growth. or a mistake. or both.

“i’ll think about it,” you murmured.

he watched you, like he’s trying to diagnose the exact flavor of emotional constipation you were suffering from. “you’re…” he started, trailing off.

you raised an eyebrow. “i’m what?”

“you’re so uptight.” he joked.

you gasped dramatically, hand on your chest like a melodramatic victorian widow. a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “i’m not uptight!”

he gave you a look that could only be described as: sure, jan. “yeah? what’s on your itinerary for tomorrow?”

rolling your eyes playfully, you leaned back, listing things sarcastically as if to add on to the playful conversation. “piano lessons, charity gala, polo—”

he snorted, cutting you off. “okay, that’s enough.”

“one spontaneous drink, princess,” he said, gently nudging. “just one.”

you should’ve said no. you knew that. every responsible part of you knew that. but your mouth betrayed you. “surprise me.”

his smirk sharpened. “how ‘bout right now?”

you blinked, startled by his lack of hesitation. it took you a second to evaluate his impulsive tendencies versus your rapidly deteriorating self-control.

you tried to claw yourself back into reality. “i have to get back to—”

“the party?” he interrupted, raising a brow. “i know a place with free drinks.”

“the party’s drinks are free.”

he pauses at your defense. defeated, yet somehow more smug. “well, it came out of your pocket.” he says, making up a poor excuse in a mock-defensive tone.

then he simply grinned and turned the wheel, steering you toward a bar like he’d just claimed victory in a fight you didn’t know you were having.

when he parked, you stared out the window for a moment, wondering when exactly you’d lost all critical thinking skills.

he jogged around to your side. again. opened your door. again. and offered his hand—again.

and you took it. again.

inside, the bar was a mix of office workers drowning sorrows, girls on a chaotic girls’ night, and a handful of people who looked like they’d been there since the invention of alcohol. the usual.

he led you to a booth, slid into the seat across from you, and for a moment the music seemed to fade out. it was just the two of you, suspended in this strange, intoxicating almost-moment.

then a friend of his appeared, shattering whatever tension had settled. “you’re paying this time,” the man said, pointing at james like a disappointed landlord.

james only smirked. “come on, tony. just put it on sam’s tab.”

of course. naturally. this was a man who could charm his way out of a federal indictment. and you… god.

your imagination was already misbehaving.

because if james could persuade his friend this easily, what else could he compel you to do? follow him back to that studio of his? let him trace your body like you were a sculpture he’d been dying to draw? let him paint you like some leonardo da vinci masterpiece

two shots in and you were already laughing—loud and careless, the kind of laugh that startled even you. maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way james told stories, or maybe it was just the simple fact that he had lived a life so wildly different from yours.

he told you about sneaking into his high school after hours—because apparently teenage bucky believed he was an elite assassin—and how he’d been escorted home in a cop car while his mother stood outside, face wielding disappointment.

everything about him intrigued you. his life, his humor, the way he held himself like he’d seen the world chew people up but still had the audacity to grin and throw his middle fingers up at it

he felt like a magnetic force, tugging you closer with every new revelation. you couldn’t tell if you were being drawn into his misery or his contentment, but either way, you were spiraling into his orbit.

three shots in, you were the one talking—rambling, really—about what it was like living a very fortunate curated life.

a life where your meals had itineraries and your emotions had to be pre-approved. he listened, genuinely listened, his eyes never leaving your plump lips as you spoke.

it made every word feel too intimate, too exposed, like he was reading secrets right off your lips. exactly what he wanted from you since the moment he saw you.

seven shots in, and the entire dynamic shifted. he moved from across the booth to beside you, closing the distance like it was nothing.

his thigh brushed yours, deliberate and warm. his hand found your palm, tracing slow, lazy circles that felt like incantations. the two of you were leaning in, too close, too touchy, too everything—yet neither of you cared enough to stop.

the alcohol had softened the edges of your restraint, turning your “no, thank you” into something mushy and easily ignored.

and before you could fully register it, you were back in his living quarters—his small, cluttered studio apartment that somehow felt more alive than your entire childhood bedroom.

you didn’t remember how you got there, only that his lips were on yours the second the door shut. he backed you against it, mouth hungry, hands everywhere. the kiss was messy and frantic.

his hands slid along your shoulders, fingers hooking under the thin strap of your dress and pushing it down in one slow glide. the other hand fumbled behind you, unzipping your dress with enough enthusiasm to suggest he had a personal vendetta against zippers.

your head felt heavy from the alcohol you had consumed that night. your limbs were warm, unreliable. you weren’t drunk enough to forget your name, but you were absolutely drunk enough to forget your morals.

your hands found his chest, feeling the heat through his half-buttoned dress shirt. you worked the buttons open one by one, clumsy but determined.

his mouth grazed your lower lip, teeth catching it for just a second before he paused, silently asking. you parted your lips and he didn’t waste a millisecond—his tongue slid into your mouth, deepening the kiss until your knees threatened to liquify.

“we shouldn’t…” you whispered against his mouth when he pulled away for a breath. your words were thin, barely audible.

he nodded, forehead pressed to yours. “i know.” he agreed, but his hand stayed on your waist, thumb slowly stroking your skin.

neither of you moved. neither of you stepped back or loosened your grip on the other. instead, the two of you just stood there, breathing the same small pocket of air, eyes locked in a stare that felt far too potent to be legal.

the world shrank until it was just his blue eyes, the warmth of his breath, and the dangerous gravity pulling you both inward.

your dress hung precariously off one shoulder. his shirt was completely unbuttoned now, pushed open just enough for your fingertips to skim the edges of his collarbones, tracing your fingers downwards where his abs formed.

you could feel him exhale, slow and uneven, like he was fighting the same internal war you were.

“seriously,” you murmured, though you made no effort to move. “we… really shouldn’t.”

“why’s that, sweetheart?” he asks in a low, sultry voice. enough to have you immediately hooked like you don’t have a fiancé at home.

then his hand slid just a little higher on your waist. your fingers curled into his shirt. his lips brushed your cheek. and the two of you stayed trapped exactly like that—caught between restraint and ruin.

“c-can’t…” you try to say, or at least attempt something that resembles a coherent sentence, but your voice fractures the moment his lips touch your skin. he doesn’t kiss you like a man hesitating—he kisses you like he’s starving. like he’s been waiting all night to taste you.

his mouth trails from your lips, to the soft curve of your cheek, then lower, gliding across the delicate line of your jaw until it finds the warm space at your collarbone.

the contrast between his hot breath and the cool air sends your head tipping back against the door. giving him enough space like a blank canvas for him to start painting on, he sucks on the sweet spot of your neck leaving you a moaning, whining mess.

“james…” your breath catches, breaking into something between a gasp and a plea. “fuck.”

you don’t know if you’re telling him to stop or begging him not to. you don’t even think you know the difference anymore.

“that’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low, devastatingly self-assured. “say my name like that.”

he sucks lightly at the side of your neck—not gentle, not rough, but deliberate. purposeful. by the time he pulls back, your skin is flushed and marked.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers, brushing his thumb along your jaw. he’s pleading for his resistance, he knows it’s wrong yet he couldn’t stop. “say the word and i’ll let you go back to your fuckin’ husband and leave you to live that boring fuckin’ white-picket-fence kinda life of yours.”

you shake your head immediately—too quickly, too desperately—before he can even utter out another sentence. you don’t trust your voice, not when your body betrays how badly you want him.

his mouth tilts into a slow, victorious smirk.

he taps your thigh lightly. you understand him without needing words. your legs wrap around him instinctively, and he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you across the room. the world blurs—your heartbeat, his breath, the soft thud of your back meeting the mattress.

you’re slipping out of the expensive fabric your fiancé gifted you like shedding someone else’s expectations, throwing the fabric to god knows where somewhere on his floor.

“fuck it,” you whisper to no one, to him, to yourself.

his gaze darkens, something deep and dangerous flickering behind his eyes as he crawls over you. his hand settles beside your head, grounding. while the other skims your waist, your ribcage, your chest, your breasts—everywhere and nowhere all at once.

his lips find yours again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring the moment he’s not supposed to have. every shiver that runs through you.

he squeezes your left bosom and your breath leaves you in one soft, helpless sound he immediately swallows. the room spins, but not from the alcohol.

from him. just him.

his lips leaves your mouth, descending down to where his right hand was placed he starts to place gentle kisses around your chest, nibbling before sucking on your breasts’ skin, leaving hickeys that will for sure darken as time passes.

his right hand trails lower, tugging on the hem of your panties before discarding them, and throwing them to who knows where, somewhere on his floor.

he pulls away, watching your reaction as his fingers play with your glistening slick folds. you whine, drunk out of your mind to even respond.

“p-please..” you beg for something you aren't even sure of. all you knew was that you needed him.

something awakens inside you, because suddenly, you’re pushing him away. away from you. bucky stares at you in confusion. a questionable look as if he’s trying to figure you out. one moment you’re encouraging him to keep going, the next you’re not.

gently, you push him toward the bed, his head back leans against the headboard as you hoisted yourself up to straddle him. bucky smirks, already knowing how it’s going to go.

you reach down to his belt, unbuckling it while holding steady eye contact with the man before you. with bucky’s help pushing his pants down, you’re then met by his huge cock.

your body dips down, wordlessly asking if you can to which he responded by giving you a simple nod. you wrap your hand around his cock, attaching your plump lips as his fingers find themselves tangling with your hair.

slowly, you suck on his tip before flattening your tongue as your hands move up and down while low groans leaves bucky’s lips. his grip on your hair tightens but not enough to actually hurt you. if anything, it serves you pleasure.

you hollow out your mouth, slowly taking him in inch by inch. trying hard not to gag at his length that’s fucking your throat.

your eyes glance back up at him, watching his expression equal parts pride and hunger. his palms that were placed on the crown of your head, slowly caresses your hair before pushing your head further down, forcing you to take all his length.

placing a hand on your cheek, he admires his muse, making sure to take another mental polaroid of this moment for him to paint.

you pull away with a soft ‘pop’ sound. bucky moves his fist down to his shaft, slowly jerking himself off as he hoists you back up to straddle him.

he licks his lips like a predator hunting its prey. and before you know it, he’s already inside of you, pounding rough and deep.

his hands grip on your wrist like a makeshift handcuff. “bucky, d-dont sto—“ your sentence cut short when he pulls out with a mischievous smirk on his lips.

“come on, beg for me. does your husband—” he pauses, “fiancé, i mean, fucks you like this?” he corrects himself, the tip of his cock just placed on your entrance to tease you.

“please. please, bucky.” grinding your hips onto his cock, desperate for more friction. and with that, bucky pounds back into you. drilling into your insides. “fuck, your tight cunt likes that, huh?”

his words starts to sound indistinct to your ear, closing your eyes tight as you arch your back. your walls swallowing his cock making him let out an audible groan.

you feel your insides pulse, indicating for a sweet release as bucky fastens his pace, chasing for his. “i’m gonna cum inside you, baby.” he says, more of a warning than a statement as you nod your head in agreement.

his thrust moves slow and and deliberate, teasing your climax. “bucky, please.” you whined. he then quickly changes his pace. his thrusts goes from slow to a rough one.

soon, you feel your insides painted with warm white strings as bucky pants above you. his eyes stayed watching your expression, admiring his muse before he pulls away making you moan at the sensitivity.

your eyes flutter shut as sleep swallows you whole. the world goes dark but you feel a hand comb through the tangles of your hair as he whispers incoherent sweet nothings into your ear.

a week had passed since you’d been with james, and the guilt gnawed at you like a persistent, unseen animal. it wasn’t just the act itself—it was the weight of it. the knowledge that you’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

and then came the announcement from your mother. the wedding date. closer than you’d realized. three more days till it felt like a lifetime compressed into moments of panic and dread.

the closer the wedding date came, the more trapped you felt. not the exciting kind of captivated. not the kind that made your heart race with anticipation. not the kind you felt when you were with bucky. no, this was the suffocating kind—bound by obligation and expectation.

you tried to keep your mind away from him, your thoughts away from the man who had been the only thing in the last week capable of making your pulse spike without warning. but it was impossible. every time you looked at your fiancé, you couldn’t see him. all you could see was james—bucky, james-bucky, whatever he insisted on calling himself.

and the worst part? you knew your fiancé’s faults were far worse. but somehow that knowledge didn’t absolve you. it only made the guilt sharper. you should have been better than this. you were better than him. yet here you were, thinking about a man you barely knew.

sleeping with a stranger—a handsome, infuriatingly magnetic stranger—had shattered the carefully constructed version of yourself you had tried to uphold for so long. it was reckless. it was wrong. and yet, every nerve in your body remembered it like it had never stopped.

you needed to set things right. not just for your conscience, but for the fragile life of order you had been maintaining.

so, you made your decision. keys in hand, you left without alerting anyone. just a desperate need to see him, to confront him, to tell him everything was a mistake before your life became a full-on farce.

somehow, after navigating a series of wrong streets, wrong turns, and more than one near collision, you found it: his building, small, yet entirely familiar from memory.

you parked, heart hammering in your chest, your mind wondered if he’d be there considering he told you he lives somewhere with roommates, but you hoped he was.

bucky sits in his dimly lit apartment, pencil in hand, sketching a picture of you—a mental polaroid he’s been carrying since that night. every line on the page is a memory: the way you tilted your head, the subtle curve of your smile, the way the light caught your eyes.

his walls are plastered with drawings, paintings, and sketches, each a silent testament to his obsession, his muse. as your fingers brush lightly over the sketches, he can’t help but watch.

he knows it’s wrong. that you’re promised to another, locked into a life he shouldn’t even dream of interfering with. yet he can’t stop himself. it’s maddening. the way your memory refuses to let him breathe.

and a week ago, even his roommates noticed a change—a certain lightness in his step, a smirk that won’t fade.

“the fuck is wrong with you?” steve asks, breaking the silence, glancing over at sam who’s sprawled lazily on the couch with the same questioning expression.

“what do you mean?” bucky replies, turning just enough to flash a grin at the men, his arms full of a laundry basket of freshly washed clothes.

“i usually do your laundry.” steve flashes him a look as if he’s an interrogator.

“i know. just… got laid, ‘ya know, motivation.” he says with a proud and teasing smirk, his eyes glinting, before heading to his room with a victory strut that screams triumph.

“dude, you’re fuckin’ gross.” sam mutters, throwing a pillow at him, which, unsurprisingly, doesn’t even hit.

the rest of the week passes in the same routine: chores done with a distracted fervor, work punctuated by stolen moments thinking of you, and nights spent alone in his secret apartment, sketching, painting, imagining.

and as he sets his pencil down, leaning back in his chair, he can’t deny it—you’ve taken up residence in every corner of his mind, in every quiet moment, in every heartbeat.

then his mind drifts to somewhere far more less appropriate: how your plump lips are wrapped around his tip, how your tongue feels when you trace the veins of his cock. bucky feels his pants tighten up, reminiscing about the night before.

he tucks in his palms into his pants, promising to soothe himself with the thought of you.

the thought of an engaged woman. it’s fucked up. bucky knows that. yet he couldn’t stop himself getting more and more attracted to you each day despite only knowing you for one night.

“fuck..” he lets out a moan, his thumb brushes over his tip, imagining it’s your tongue that’s doing the work.

he tugs at his jeans, kicking them off. freeing his hardened shaft as he shuts his eyes shut, replaying the same memory over and over again.

both of you, suspended in a moment neither of you were brave enough to end. the memory of bucky kissing your lips as his hips continues to pounce onto you. his mouth leaves trails of wet kisses and hickeys while you try to stifle a moan into a pillow.

another memory replays on his mind: your legs thrown over his shoulder, he grins seductively and takes another mental polaroid to lock inside a box inside his mind only he can access to.

your eyes lock with his as he thrusts inside you, watching you squirm and beg for him.

“p-please… james..” you moan in desperation as he thrust into you. a proud smirk forms at his lips when he hears his name instead of the man you were engaged to. “you like it like this, huh? you like me thrusting into ‘ya like this?”

you managed a nod though his sentence was near incoherent due to the pleasure and ecstasy you feel at the moment. “yeah, take it. tell me, does he fuck ya like this?”

bucky’s head falls back as he replays the memory over and over in his mind, his eyes closed shut as he continues to fist his needy cock. his strokes was smooth and slow as he continues to imagine and re-live the experience he treasures.

how you moan compliments when he connects his lips back to your mouth like: “fuck, bucky, you’re so handsome.” or when you dug your nails down in his back while muttering a few praises which makes his shaft twitch in anticipation for a release.

well, what can he say? he thrives on compliments.

his strokes came to a halt when suddenly, he hears a knock on the door, he starts breathing heavily, panting like he got chased by a wild animal. his mind questions why and how. surely his address didn’t leak to his roommates? right?

irritated, he pulls his pants back up, shoving his hardened cock back into his pants before walking over to give a piece of his mind to the person behind the door. he pulls his hoodie a little down to try and cover his very clear and obvious boner.

bucky, already vexed, opens the door with a frown so deep it could’ve been carved. he clearly doesn’t want to deal with whoever’s on the other side, but duty wins out—and when he finally looks up, he’s met with the last person he expected to see.

you.

the same person who was still on his mind—you, who he was just touching himself to. for a moment, his vocabulary felt invisible in your presence. his heart pounded hard when you offered him your sickly, sweet smile.

he pushes the loose strands of his hair back, inhaling slowly as if composure is something he can physically grab and force into place. he looks calm—annoyingly so—but inside, his chest is doing something far less dignified.

“i… i need to talk to you,” you say, and immediately wish you’d rehearsed it better.

bucky pauses for half a second, just enough to tell you he knows this isn’t small talk. then he steps aside and pushes the door open wider, gesturing you in like this is a normal visit and not an emotional ambush.

“yeah,” he says. “sure.”

you walk in, heels clicking softly against the floor, shrugging off your expensive fuckin’ coat and placing it on the nearest empty table.

the apartment hasn’t changed—still sparse, still intentional in that way that suggests he doesn’t care about furniture but deeply cares about everything else. canvases line the walls. sketches are taped up crookedly, some curling at the edges. it smells faintly of paint, paper, and beer. very him.

bucky closes the door behind you, slower than necessary.

unbeknownst to you, his eyes track you with embarrassing ease. the way you move. the way you stand like you’re bracing yourself. he doesn’t even try to stop himself this time. what’s the point? you’re already here.

“uh… ’cha want a beer?” he asks, voice casual like this isn’t the exact same offer that detonated both your lives last week.

you shake your head immediately.

nope. absolutely not. never again.

“right,” he mutters, nodding as if he respects that, even though he’s already reaching for one himself. he cracks it open, takes a sip, then leans back against the counter, eyes never leaving you. not staring. watching. like he’s waiting for you to pull the pin.

you inhale deeply, shoulders rising and falling. you want this over with. quick. clean. no dramatics. say the words, turn around, leave with whatever dignity you still have clinging to you.

“i’m just gonna— you know what?” you say, straightening your posture, slipping into that polished version of yourself that knows how to survive meetings, expectations, and rooms full of judgmental people. “i’m just gonna get on with it. james, i think you’re a great person—”

“thanks,” he says immediately, grinning like you just complimented his art.

you stop. blink. then shoot him a look sharp enough to make a lesser man flinch.

he lifts both hands in surrender, beer dangling loosely from his fingers. “sorry. keep going.”

you press your lips together, visibly recalibrating.

he’s smiling. not mocking. not dismissive. just… easy. like this conversation is a mild inconvenience instead of the moral reckoning you drove across town to deliver. and somehow, that makes it worse.

because god help you, that smile still works.

“i think you’re a great person,” you repeat, making sure your voice doesn’t waver this time. “i just don’t—what happened between us last week—”

“was a mistake?” bucky finishes for you, his voice softer than you expected, like he’s already prepared himself for the answer.

you nod slowly. not rushed, not dramatic. it’s the same controlled movement you were taught as a child, the kind meant to show grace even when you’re uncomfortable.

your diamond earrings sway with the motion, catching the light as if they have their own opinion about this conversation.

bucky lets out a breath and sets his beer down on the kitchen counter. a thin layer of condensation coats his palm, and he wipes it against his shirt before walking toward you.

his steps are unhurried, but intentional, like he’s choosing to cross the space instead of letting it linger between you.

“ain’t that what everyone says in those forbidden-love movies?” he says, attempting humor, though the seriousness beneath it is impossible to miss.

your body reacts before your mind can catch up. you take a small step backward, heels clicking against the floor, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room.

you avoid his gaze, suddenly fascinated by anything that isn’t his face. “it’s cliché, i know,” you admit quietly, your eyes drifting to the artwork on his walls instead. it feels safer to look at something that doesn’t look back at you with heated intensity.

he stops just short of where you’re standing. close enough that you can feel his presence, close enough that the space between you feels charged rather than empty.

his eyes scan your face, searching—not pressuring, but clearly hoping for something more than what you’re giving him.

“then why are you here right now?” he asks. his tone isn’t sharp, but it is direct. “if it really was a mistake, why come back here at all? you could’ve just moved on with your life. you could’ve pretended it never happened and never thought about this ‘mistake’ again.”

you try to respond, but the words refuse to come. your throat tightens as the question settles in, because he isn’t wrong. you had asked yourself the same thing the entire drive over, and you still didn’t have an answer that felt honest enough to say out loud.

finally, you swallow and meet his eyes.

“i’m getting married in three days.”

the words feel heavier once spoken, like they take up more space than they should.

bucky’s expression changes immediately. his jaw tightens, and something darker settles into his gaze—not anger, but the quiet realization that this was never going to be simple, and that whatever this was between the two of you had already crossed a line neither of you knew how to step back over.

bucky takes another step closer, and for reasons you can’t quite name, your feet refuse to move. your body freezes in place as if distance has suddenly become a foreign concept.

he flashes you a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, insincere but practiced, before bending slightly at the waist to bring himself closer to your height.

the warmth of his breath brushes against your face, familiar in the most dangerous way. just like that night, whatever resolve you managed to gather on the drive here begins to dissolve.

“what?” he murmurs. “you here to invite me or something?”

the question hangs in the air, weighted and loaded. your throat tightens as the tension thickens between you, pressing in from all sides. you clear your throat, hoping the small sound might ground you, might remind you why you came here in the first place.

“no, i just—” you start.

“just what?” he presses, not raising his voice, not backing away either.

“i’m here to…” your words trail off, unraveling the moment he steps closer again, invading what little space you had left. your thoughts scatter, carefully prepared sentences evaporating under the heat of his proximity.

panic wins before reason can catch up.

“you know what?” you say quickly, stepping back at last. “i’ll just come back.”

you turn on your heel and move toward the table where you left your coat, eager for something solid to hold onto, something that isn’t him.

your fingers barely brush the fabric before his hand closes around your arm. his grip is firm but not rough, enough to stop you, enough to pull you gently back toward him.

you turn your head to look at him, breath uneven.

his expression has changed. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something quieter, more guarded. his eyes soften, though you can see the restraint behind them, the careful control of someone watching himself as much as he’s watching you.

he studies your face like he’s trying to read what you’re refusing to say, waiting to see whether you’ll run again—or finally stay.

“has your husband—”

that word felt like an insult. you correct him before he can finish, the word striking something sharp in you. “fiancé.”

he pauses, then nods once. “right. fiancé.” his gaze drops briefly, tracing the curve of your lower lip as if it has a gravity of its own, before lifting again to meet your eyes. “has he ever touched you the way i did?”

your breath stutters despite yourself. you straighten instinctively, clinging to composure like it’s armor.

“this is an inappropriate conversation, james,” you say, forcing calm into your voice even as it threatens to crack. you remind yourself to stay poised. dignified. untouched by the chaos unfolding in your chest.

“oh, to hell it is,” he replies, not raising his voice but hardening it. “you’re the one who drove all the way here just to have it.”

“i came because i thought i wanted to clear things up before my wedding,” you say, lifting your chin, standing taller as if posture alone could defend you from him. from the pull. from the truth you don’t want to say out loud.

“is that really what you want?” he asks, leaning closer again. his tone borders on teasing, but his face doesn’t mirror it. there’s no smile now. only intent.

“you don’t know me,” you snap, the words tumbling out sharper than planned.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t retreat. “maybe,” he says calmly. “but i know you better than your fiancé.”

the statement lands clean and cruel, stealing the air from your lungs. you hate that he’s right. you hate the small, knowing smirk that curves his lips like a victory he didn’t even have to fight for.

silence settles between you. bucky leans in, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that instinct screams louder than reason. for a fleeting moment, your body betrays you, wanting to close the distance, wanting to repeat a mistake that no longer has alcohol to blame.

you don’t let it.

instead, you lean away and press your palm flat against his chest, firm enough to stop him, gentle enough to reveal how badly you wish you didn’t have to.

“don’t,” you say quietly, the word carrying far more weight than it should.

and for the first time since you walked through that door, he listens.

“i’m sorry, james,” you say, the words leaving your mouth before you can second-guess them.

you slip free of his grasp—figuratively first, then literally—untangling yourself from the weight of his presence and the gravity of everything unsaid.

you don’t look back as you cross the room, afraid that if you do, your resolve will fracture completely.

you grab your coat from where you left it, fingers trembling as you put it on, and head straight for the door.

the moment it closes behind you, the air feels colder.

you exhale shakily, the sound catching somewhere between relief and regret. your heart is still racing, your thoughts still tangled, but you keep moving anyway—down the hall, away from him.

outside, reality crashes back in with brutal efficiency.

what were you even thinking?

“so you’re telling me,” sam says slowly, turning his head to look at bucky like he’s trying to solve a riddle he very much does not want the answer to, “that you’re sleeping with a married woman?”

the living room is frozen in time. the football game they were supposed to be yelling at plays forgotten in the background, commentators droning on to absolutely no one. bucky’s confession has effectively murdered the vibe.

“she’s not married,” bucky corrects immediately, as if that’s the most important part of the sentence.

sam squints at him. “you said promised to another.”

“engaged,” bucky amends, waving a hand dismissively. “big difference.”

“is it though?”

steve, who has been silent up until now, just stares at him. not blinking. not impressed. the kind of stare that makes bucky feel like he’s twelve again and just broke something expensive from steve’s mom’s antique collection.

bucky leans back into the couch cushions, stretching his arm along the back like this is some casual, post-dinner anecdote and not a moral dilemma dropped into a boys night. “and i didn’t say i’m sleeping with her. past tense. we slept together.”

“wow,” sam mutters. “that clears everything up.”

“she’s getting married tomorrow,” bucky adds, almost as an afterthought.

that does it.

sam’s head snaps toward steve, both of them sharing the same wide-eyed look of disbelief, silently negotiating whether this calls for a lecture, an intervention, or a long walk away from bucky before they say something regrettable.

“buck,” steve finally says, rubbing a hand over his face, “you do realize that makes her basically married.”

“not really,” bucky replies too quickly, eyes flicking away. the denial is almost impressive in its confidence.

sam lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “man, you are doing some olympic-level mental gymnastics right now.”

“so what?” sam asks, leaning forward on the couch, disbelief etched plainly across his face. “she just comes over here and goes on dates with you without us even knowing anything?”

bucky shrugs, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead of him, like the answer is obvious. “we slept together once.”

sam blinks. once. just once. he lets out a slow breath through his nose. “so… a one-night stand.” he asked, tone almost fed up with bucky’s nonstop bullshit.

“no,” bucky snaps back immediately, posture stiffening as he finally turns to look at him. there’s something defensive in his tone now, something sharper. “it wasn’t like that.”

sam raises an eyebrow. “then what was it?”

“it was something special,” bucky says, a little too firmly.

the way he says it makes sam scoff, half-expecting a grin or a laugh to follow. but it doesn’t. bucky looks serious—annoyingly so—and that’s what makes sam frown instead.

“okay,” sam says slowly, skeptical. “do you even know her last name?”

bucky doesn’t hesitate. “no.”

sam stares at him, unimpressed.

“but she’ll be screaming it once i see her again,” bucky adds, cocky grin finally breaking through.

sam squints. “…you do realize she’d be screaming her own last name, right?”

steve lets out a short huff from the other end of the couch while sam points at bucky like he’s just proven a point in court. “see? this is what i’m talking about.”

the room fills with their usual back-and-forth, the kind of casual arguing that normally means nothing. but this time, there’s tension underneath it, something unresolved.

then bucky straightens slightly, looking over at steve. “hey—steve. you know her last name, right?”

steve pauses. “what?”

“the people you catered for,” bucky says. “like… a week ago.”

steve’s brows knit together as realization slowly dawns.

sam, meanwhile, does the math in his head and whistles low. “a week of wedding planning and an engagement party?” he shakes his head. “damn. they must be loaded.”

steve suddenly gets a break from his own thoughts as he looks at his friend with a concerned look, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“come on, where’s your suit? you got to stop the wedding,” he says, his voice carrying urgency and a hint of disbelief, which immediately makes both sam and bucky glance at each other, confusion written all over their faces.

steve, the good, moral steve, suddenly wants to stop a wedding? bucky thinks, incredulous, his mind racing to understand what could have possibly prompted this sudden moral crusade. there’s got to be more to the story, surely, some piece he’s missing.

“man, what’s gotten into you?” bucky finally blurts out, his tone a mix of appallment and genuine confusion, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies steve’s unusual expression.

“was your ‘girlfriend’ the woman i saw you with the other night?” steve asks, his gaze piercing directly at bucky. in response, bucky nods, feeling a mixture of guilt and anticipation wash over him.

“yeah, you got to stop the wedding,” steve repeats, more firmly this time, as if the urgency in his tone could somehow make bucky see the situation as clearly as he does.

“what’s going on, steve?” sam interjects, leaning forward with curiosity and concern, his eyes flicking between the two, silently asking what bucky is also thinking but too polite to voice.

“don’t be fuckin’ dramatic, man. we’re not in a movie,” bucky mutters, rolling his eyes, but the words come out half-hearted as he senses steve is dead serious. steve rolls his eyes in return, takes a slow breath, and braces himself before finally beginning to explain.

“her fiancé’s the one who hired us,” steve explains, his tone serious, almost grim. “that night, i saw him hit on one of my coworkers. she refused him, and he tried to blackmail her just to get her fired. i stepped in, gave her something to do—obviously to get her out of his slimy fingers. that’s not a man worthy of marrying.”

“so is infidelity, steve.” sam pauses, taking a breath before speaking up again.

“let me get this straight,” sam says, skeptical, voice rising. “you’re saying we have to stop a wedding because her fiancée is a horrible person… but bucky slept with her too? shouldn’t that make this a little… complicated?”

“sure,” steve says with a shrug, like it’s obvious. “but from what i heard, she’s trapped in a business-type relationship with that guy. bucky actually cares. that’s the difference. that’s why this… matters.” steve adds, leaning back slightly, remembering the conversation he overheard between your fiancée and his coworker the night before, the details clear as day in his mind.

sam looks over at bucky, eyebrows raised, “d’you know this?”

bucky shakes his head slowly, completely taken aback by the revelation, his mouth slightly open in surprise. he just sits there, taking it all in, trying to calm the rapid pulse in his chest.

steve leans back, crossing his arms. “look, man. you’ve got one shot. if you don’t stop this, she’s marrying a guy who doesn’t give a damn about her. you know it. i know it. we all know it.” he says as if he’s in a very dramatic movie as he comforts bucky.

sam looks over at steve with an expression that shouts “really, man?” as steve shrugs in response, turning his attention back to his friend who’s in need of comfort.

bucky exhales slowly, running a hand down his face, feeling a mix of frustration, and some stupid, undeniable desire he can’t explain. he glances at sam, who’s shrugging helplessly, then back at steve, who’s giving him the most pointed look of expectation.

“fine,” bucky says finally, standing up in a borderline dramatic, cartoonish way, like this is a movie scene he’s just stepped into. he storms over to steve and plants a quick, victorious kiss on his friend’s head. “steve… you’re a fuckin’ hero. i have to stop the wedding.”

“good thing i cater the wedding too,” steve replies, smirking like he knew exactly what was coming next.

sam groans, throwing his hands up. “wait… hold up. we’re crashing another party—a wedding?” sam asks in disbelief. the first party was nice, but a second one seems tiring. either way, he’s got to support his friend no matter what.

steve just nods, expression dead serious. bucky’s grin widens impossibly. exactly. this is happening. he’s going to get what he wants, no matter how messy, ridiculous, or chaotic it might be. if it means stopping this wedding, then hell yes.

“by the power of love,” bucky announces dramatically, loud enough to sound heroic, but not enough to wake the neighbors.

sam stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “don’t be corny, buck.”

“love doesn’t wait, sammy,” bucky says, stretching his arms back, smirk still plastered on his face. “sometimes you gotta take what’s yours before it’s gone.”

and in that moment, there’s no turning back. wedding, rules, consequences… none of it matters. all that matters is you.

⟡˙˖ ıl. lovie's gossip. i have a very fun and exciting fics to come !! i don’t know when i’ll finish writing it since i am very much a slow writer but oh well

i can’t believe i actually locked in and let the demon writer inside of me posses and write the last part in one sitting just because of what my friend said to me…

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