27🎈

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.

Pissing you off.

You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that  Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.

How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.

You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.

A very shiny fly.

You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t  remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.

It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.

And Barnes.

He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.

But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.

And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.

You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.

“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.

You snorted. “Of course you do.”

“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”

Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.

“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”

“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”

“But- You don’t actually believe that-“

“Yes, I do.”

Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”

That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.

You ignored it.

You were going to get very good at that.

“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.

“You hate everyone-“

“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”

Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”

“You’re still looking at me-“

“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“

“Not like that-“

“Like what?”

“Like you- You don’t believe me.”

He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.

“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.

Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“

“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”

He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“

“It’s not.”

It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.

He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.

After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.

“We work well together-“

“No we don’t.”

“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“

“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”

Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.

It made you want to throttle him more.

“You think I’m pretty?”

He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.

Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.

You had to rip your gaze away.

“Shut up.”

He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.

When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose. 

He always smelled so good.

And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.

He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.

The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.

You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.

The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.  

“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”

You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.

“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.

Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”

You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.

“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.

“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”

“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”

Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.

“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.

When Bucky looked at you, a lot of  coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.

“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”

You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”

“What?”

“The butterfly.”

“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”

“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“

“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.

Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.

“You want this?”

“The-“

“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”

You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.

An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.

“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.

Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

You scoffed. “Please-“

“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”

“I know fun.”

“Uh huh-“

“Stop doing that, I do-“

“Never seen you have it.”

“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”

You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.

“James-“

“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“

He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.

You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.

“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.

But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.

You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.

It’s better, really. Not to think about why.

Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.

All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.

You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.

You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.

“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.

“I can go myself.”

Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”

“I carry pepper spray-“

“That’s not enough.”

You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”

Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”

“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“

“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”

You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.

“What-“

“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“

“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”

That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.

“Fuck you, James-“

“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”

You paused.

Fuck, that was a good point.

You hated it when he made good points.

“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”

Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.

You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.

“No. I’m goin’ with you.”

You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”

“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”

You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.

He knew you.

You hated him.

“Fuck you.”

“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”

You blinked. “Wha-“

“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.

He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.

You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.

Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.

Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.

Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.

They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.

“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”

But you don’t make bad choices.

Ever.

You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.

Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.

“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.

“Hi.”

“You got the homework for public speaking?”

“Yes.”

Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”

“It’s online, James.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.

He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.

“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

You cross your arms. “Did you.”

“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”

“If I wanted… Help?”

Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.

“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”

You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.

“I don’t need your help.”

He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.

You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.

“Maybe I need your help?”

“You always need my help.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“You wanna come over Thursday?”

“No.”

“Alright, I’ll go to you-“

“I’m working Thursday.”

Bucky paused. “You got a job?”

You nodded. He frowned.

“Where?”

“Corner store.”

His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”

You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“

“You’re working late, it’s not-“

“I’ve been fine.”

“But what about when you’re not-“

“But I am-“

“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.

It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.

“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“

“Why do you care.”

Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.

“What corner store.” He grunts.

“Fifth and twenty, why-“

“We’re studying while you work.”

Your mouth fell open. “No-“

“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”

“I can kick you out-“

“You won’t.”

He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.

You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.

You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.

He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.

Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.

You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.

He made you giggle.

You hate him for that, too.

And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.

Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.

Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.

You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.

Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.

You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.

For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.

“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.

Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.

It is not fine.

Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.

But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.

It’s Sam.

You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.

You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.

And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.

“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”

You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.

Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.

“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”

You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.

There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.

“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”

And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.

Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.

“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.

Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”

You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.

“You know, I still got homework.”

You frowned up at him. “Okay.”

Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”

“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.

He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-

“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”

You blinked.

Oh.

“Yeah. I do.”

Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”

And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.

Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.

“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.

“I am tired.”

“You been eating enough?”

“I’m eating right now-“

“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.

It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.

That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.

 “I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.

Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”

Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.

Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.

It felt different now. It felt like it matters. 

You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.

He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.

Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.

You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.

The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.  

“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.

“Where do you think he is- Nat-“

She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.

You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.

Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.

You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.

He finds you first.

“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”

You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.

“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“

“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”

“I-“

“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”

“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.

Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.

“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”

“I needed to drop something off.”

Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.

“You’re not stayin’?”

“I- I don’t-“ 

You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.

“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”

Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.

“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”

“Come- James-“

You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.

Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.

“You’re drunk, be careful-“

“’M not that drunk.”

“You’re slurring-“

“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”

You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.

“You’re here.”

He says it like he can’t believe it.  Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.

You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.

“Yeah. I am.”

Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.

It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.

“James-“

“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.

The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.

“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”

He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”

“I- Um-“

“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”

There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.

“James-“

“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”

Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.

“What?” You squeak.

He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.

“I call your name when I have sex.”

“I- I- Why-“

“’Cause I love you.”

“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.

You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.

But now he’s saying this.

And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.

Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.

You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

“I do.”

“You’re drunk-“

“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”

“James-“

“Hmm.”

He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”

You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“

“I liked workin’ you up.”

“That’s mean.”

“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”

You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”

Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“

“But I mean it.”

“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”

He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”

“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.

“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”

You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.

The challenge.

Why do you care.

Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-

Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.

Your body moves.

Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.

“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“

Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.

Really kissing.

The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.

Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.

This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.

Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.

“Ja- James-“

“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”

“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.

Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.

“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.

And who are you to tell him no?

“Oh- Okay- Oh!”

Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.

“No bra, hm?”

“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“

“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”

He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.

“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”

“N- No-“

Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.

“Wha- What’re you doing-“

“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”

“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.

Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.

“Bucky, please-“

“Please what?”

He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.

“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”

And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.

What you want him to do.

You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.

“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.

Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.

“You didn’t, huh.”

You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.

You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.

Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.

“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”

“You- You don’t know what I need-“

Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.

“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”

God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.

Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.

But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.

“No touching.”

He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.

“You’re touching-“

“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”

He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.

“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“

There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.

“Fuck- James-“

Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.

“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”

You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.

Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.

“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“

You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.

“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”

You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“

“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”

He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.

“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“

You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.

“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”

Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.

Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.

“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”

Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.

“I- I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”

You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.

“Bucky- Fuck-“

Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.

“No touching.”

You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.

And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.

Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.

His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“

“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”

Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.

Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.

“Eyes stay on me.”

He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.

“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”

You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.

“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”

You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.

He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.

“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”

He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.

“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.

You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.

You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.

Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.

“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”

You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.

The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.

“Buh- Bucky-“

“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”

“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.

A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”

“Do it again.”

It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.

But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-

“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”

Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.

“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.

“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”

He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.

“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.

Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.

“And?”

You blink at him through the tears. “And?”

“What are you?”

Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.

“Two fingers.” He reminds you.

And just like that, you cave.

“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“

“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“

“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“

Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.

“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”

You moan. “Yes, oh-  Oh my god- “

Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.

“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”

Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.

You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.

“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”

You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“

“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”

“Nuh- No-“

“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.

“Mmmm-“

“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”

You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.

“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.

Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.

“Flip over.” He grunts.

You frown. “Wha-“

“Over. Just-“

Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.

A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.

“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”

“James-“

“Please.”

His voice cracks.

You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.

You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.

“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”

Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.

“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”

He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.

“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“

Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“

It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.

“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.

He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.

“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”

“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”

“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.

“Yeah. You are.”

And if Bucky says you are, you are.

He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”

“’S- ‘S a lot-“

“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”

He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.

Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.

“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”

You keen, and Bucky laughs.

“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”

You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.

“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”

“I- Jaaames-“

“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”

You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.

“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“

Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.

“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.

“Can’t- Can’t take it-“

“Yeah, you can.”

You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“

Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.

“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“

You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.

“Wh- Where-“

“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“

Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.

You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.

And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.

Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.

“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.

 You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.

“Perfect.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

You giggle. “Yeah.”

Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.

“You’re were perfect too.”

“Thanks.” You breathe.

He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.

“You still want me to take it back?”

And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.

“No, thank you.”

Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“

“I had manners-“

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“

“Don’t hold your breath-“

He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.

“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”

And you wonder.

If it had really been there, the whole time.

“Okay.”

✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.

"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.

A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."

The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.

You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.

"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.

You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.

"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.

The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.

"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."

"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.

James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.

"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."

You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.

His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."

You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.

"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.

James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."

The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?

"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."

"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."

James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.

"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”

His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.

His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.

"As long as I'm your pest."

All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.

You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.

The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.

"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"

James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.

Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.

Fifteen Years Earlier

The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.

You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.

Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.

"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.

Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.

"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"

The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.

"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?

"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.

"I won't forget this, James."

When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.

One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.

It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.

Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.

"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.

"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.

You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.

Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."

"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.

"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."

A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.

Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.

"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.

"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.

She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"

Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.

You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."

Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"

Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?

"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.

Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.

"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.

What the hell was that?

You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.

The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.

"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.

"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.

"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."

"I know."

You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"

He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."

You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."

He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"

"Unwillingly."

He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.

"She was just practice."

Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."

You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."

He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.

He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"

Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.

"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.

"I'm right where I want to be."

His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.

A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.

"Look at the mess you've made, doll."

Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.

His lips are so pink.

He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.

"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.

His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.

James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.

"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."

He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.

The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.

Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?

The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.

Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.

James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.

"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."

"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.

You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.

You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."

"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."

James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.

You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."

He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.

"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.

You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.

"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.

The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.

You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.

"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.

"Again, it's none of your business."

"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.

You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."

He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.

"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.

"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.

His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"

You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."

James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.

You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."

He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."

You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"

Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.

"No, he was boring."

His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.

Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.

"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.

He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.

"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.

You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.

Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.

This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.

You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.

"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."

His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.

He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.

He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.

"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.

You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.

"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.

He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."

You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.

"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.

He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.

You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."

His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"

You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.

James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.

"Keeping you safe."

A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.

He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."

"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?

"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."

A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."

He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."

You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.

"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.

You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.

"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."

His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."

You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."

You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."

"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."

You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.

The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.

Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.

"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.

You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.

"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.

"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."

You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?

He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.

"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.

You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?

He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."

You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"

He shrugged again. "'Cause."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.

You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.

"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.

You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."

"I mean it when I say it to you."

You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.

"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.

You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.

He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."

Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?

He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.

God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.

"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"

There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.

"…What?"

He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."

A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."

He took another small step forward. "I do."

You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."

He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."

You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.

He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.

"Just—listen to me."

You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"

He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.

You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.

"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.

"What?"

"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.

He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.

"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."

Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.

"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.

You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."

"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."

You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.

"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.

His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

"You've never called me that before."

Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.

His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.

He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.

"Kissin' you feels like home."

A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.

"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.

"Taste sweet, too."

Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.

"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.

He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."

He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.

You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.

James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.

"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔)

Your mouth went dry as you cleared your throat. “I…um, well I guess it depends on…what kind of genitals…and what kind of tattoo…”

“Take a guess, princess.”

Normally, you would’ve told him off for that one. But right then you were caught too off-guard to say anything other than a hesitant, “You want me to…tattoo your penis?”

“You’re a real genius, aren’t you?”

“I’m,” you clear your throat and stand up straighter, “That would be expensive.”

He snorts. “You really think that’s the issue? Just tell me if you’d do it or if I should find someone else…I get it if the idea makes you uncomfortable,” he adds with a slight lilt that makes it seem like either a challenge or that he’s mocking you.

Probably both.

“I mean I could try but I feel like I should tell you I’ve never done one before.”

It’s likely a simple design—but still. You don’t think you’ve tattooed anyone’s genitalia before.

“Guess I’m gonna be your first.”

Now you’re here.

The parlor is closed for the rest of the evening; even all of your coworkers have gone home.

Which of course means you’ll be getting paid even more for staying after hours.

Screens drawn over the windows, you stand in front of Sukuna who’s wearing nothing but his dark boxers.

This is still safe territory; parts of his body you’ve already seen—inked before.

But that’s fine—this is fine.

You’re a professional you remind yourself. And a penis is just another part of the body—besides it’ll probably be good for you to practice this area.

“You can go ahead and take those off,” you nod towards his boxers, “I’ll go get the stencil ready.”

Sukuna’s already smirking in that way, and before he can say anything—

“And no inappropriate comments. I’m serious, Sukuna.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out, as you turn away to grab a fresh pair of disposable gloves.

Snapping them on you finally whirl around—to find a very naked Sukuna smirking at you.

Immediate you catch sight of his flaccid penis—uncut, a slightly darker shade of tan than the rest of him, stemming from a thatch of dusty pink hair on his pelvis.

Ears burning, your automatic instinct is to look away—but no, you’re going to be tattooing this penis.

You should just get used to it now, before you start.

So you manually move your eyes in a normal fashion—not skittering away but also not lingering too long.

“Getting shy?”

“Sukuna!” you snap. “No. Inappropriate. Comments.”

“That wasn’t inappropriate.”

“No suggestive commentary either.”

He hums, “Alright,” like he’s going to cooperate—which you know probably means he’s not.

A pause.

“And um…”

The words trail off—this wouldn’t be difficult, honestly, if he wasn’t making it difficult.

If he stayed normal about this that would certainly keep your professionalism entirely intact as well.

“And?” he presses, cocking a brow.

“…I need you to…well it would be a lot easier if you,” you swallow, “maintained an erection…just for the stencil which shouldn’t take long at all,” you hastily add. “And stop that!”

“Didn’t do anything,” he says smugly.

“Yeah but you were looking at me like…”

That wolfish smile curling his lips wider with every word makes you give up on the sentence.

“…Like?”

His grin is all teeth now.

“Do you really want to irritate the person about to put a needle to your dick?” you hiss.

He snickers. “I don’t think irritate is the right word.”

Clenching your eyes shut, you take a long inhale before opening them again.

“I’m going to go prepare the stencil,” you say evenly. “It better be…ready by then.”

By the time you’re back, he is still completely soft.

Your gaze trails from his flaccid dick to give him a pointed look.

“Think I might need a little help,” he says smoothly.

Eyes widening, you shake your head, trying to ignore the heat flushing through your skin.

“You know what, I’ll see if I can just put it on like this.”

Before he can make another comment you get on your knees.

Fuck. You can see everything from here. His cock, his heavy balls, the pubes—

No, no, no—focus.

Still, your face and ears are practically scorching with heat as you gently take his soft dick between two gloved fingers, and stretch it a little to see how much the skin moves.

The answer is: a lot.

“Mh, thought you weren’t gonna help,” he hums.

“I’m not! I’m doing my job—if you’d please just let me.”

He snickers again, but you can feel it—his dick slowly starting to harden as blood begins to flow down and fill the tissues.

“You can make this a lot faster, y’know,” he suggests, voice low. “Don’t have to do much…just kiss the tip.”

You nearly choke on your own saliva. “Are you insane?!”

“Oh c’mon. You’re already down there anyways.”

Eyes lifting, your gaze meets his—amused but also simmering with heat underneath.

“Just one,” he coaxes. “Won’t tell anyone, promise.”

Shit.

“Okay…” You can hardly believe the words coming out of your mouth right now. “But—just this once. For the stencil, because you don’t need to be…erect after that.”

“Right. Go on, then.”

Praying for forgiveness, you lean forward and press your lips against the tip peeking out from under the foreskin in a chaste kiss, before jerking back.

“Thank you so much for your help,” he says sweetly.

You glare but his cock is already growing considerably, especially when he lazily wraps a hand around it to give a few strokes while looking directly at you.

Your mouth opens and closes and opens again. “Are you seriously…”

“You wanted me to get hard didn’t you?”

“Not like this— ugh! Forget it! Just…do your thing I guess.”

“Oh don’t worry I’m already doing my thing,” he purrs. “But you’re welcome to come help some m—“

“Sukuna!!”

You’re already trying not to embarrass from the sight in front of you—him jerking himself off with not even the slightest semblance of shame.

His cock swells and flushes more and more, and soon his lips part and he lets out a breathy little noise—clearly getting more worked up than needed.

“O-Okay, I think that’s, uh, good enough…”

Sukuna laughs low and quiet in his chest, a noise that sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“All yours,” he says, letting go of his cock.

If Sukuna’s cock wasn’t sizable before, it’s certainly evident by now—the man is hung. It’s so big it doesn’t even stand up, weeping downwards under its own weight instead.

And as you pour some alcohol onto a cotton round, tersely holding his stiffened cock steady in one hand—you’re sure he isn’t even fully hard.

But it’s enough to do the stencil, so you lift his penis a bit and swipe the cotton all around the base of his cock, the bite of alcohol and the smell of latex keeping you grounded.

Especially because you hear him exhale just a little too sharp when you hold his length and sanitize the area with cold alcohol.

“Okay,” you mumble to yourself, just to hopefully dissipate the silence thickening between you with tension.

Sukuna stays quiet but when you wipe the thin layer of gel around the base, you swear you feel his dick twitch a little beneath your gloved hand.

“Alright about how far from the base do you want it?” you ask, turning to grab the small slip of paper.

“Whatever you think looks best.”

“Sukuna, please!” you practically beg.

“I meant as the, y’know…tattoo artist.”

A fresh wave of heat floods your face. “Oh.”

“What’d you think I meant?” he presses, with a slow smirk.

“I don’t kn—“

“What looks best on my dick?” he laughs. “Well if you’re so eager to offer your opinion,” he lifts his cock slightly, fingers grazing the underside where the foreskin connects to the crown, “I was thinking of getting a piercing here. What do you think?”

Mind blanking, you give him the first objective thought that occurs to you.

“…it would probably be finicky to heal.”

“Yeah, but do you like that?”

“I,” you swallow and mumble, “probably wouldn’t mind…Can we please get on with this now or do you have to keep being difficult.”

“I have to be difficult actually.”

“And why is that?” you mutter flatly. “Oh, and hold it straight so I can put the stencil.”

He grins. “Because you look adorable when you're miserable, and it’s helping me stay hard.”

You give him a pained look, thinking about how this will probably be the longest tattoo of your life.

“Exactly, just like that.”

“Stop being gross,” you hiss, eyes darting back to the skin, trying to decide how far from the base to put it.

Maybe the exact same width as the band so it looks put together? Yeah, that should be good.

“Hold still and stay hard,” you murmur, carefully lowering the stencil with steady hands.

For once — thank god — he stays silent and cooperative as you press the thin paper into the gel and wrap it around the girth, checking from all angles to make sure it’s completely even.

Holding it onto the skin for a few seconds, you’re satisfied when you peel the paper away to reveal the straight purple lines.

“Look goo—Sukuna!”

Your eyes catch his tip….and its leaking.

It’s actually leaking from you putting the damn stencil on him: a clear drop beading at the slit, another already trailing its way down the frenulum.

“Yeah?”

“You’re…”

“What did you think was going to happen, touching all up on me like that?” he scoffs.

“I barely touched you. I barely touched you and this is how you’re reacting?!”

“Thought you weren’t supposed to comment on how a client’s body…reacts,” he shoots back.

No you’re not but your client also isn’t supposed to ask you to kiss their tip.

“Just—shut up and tell me if it looks alright.”

He hums in approval as you grab a paper towel and wipe the clear fluids off, before getting back to your feet.

“Let it dry, don’t touch it. Just give it a few minutes.”

Sighing, you take these few minutes as reprieve, checking and disinfecting the station, filling a new ink cap with black ink, and testing the machine to make sure it’s running smoothly.

Until his voice casually calls out, “…so what if I can’t get it down when you actually start tattooing?”

“In a perfect world,” you answer honestly, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, “it would be fine if you could keep it up the entire time, since the skin needs to be stretched anyways. But…I doubt anyone would be able to keep it up for over an hour straight of getting their dick stabbed.”

“Is that a challenge?”

You hear the smirk in his voice before you even turn to him.

“I have a challenge for you and it’s to keep quiet for as long as possible,” you say dryly. “How about that?”

His cock is half hard by the time you roll out your stool. “You can go ahead and lie down.”

And you pretend like you don’t his see his balls jostling as he sprawls across the plastic-covered leather, smirking like you’re about to suck his dick or something.

“And what’s my reward if I complete your challenge?”

“A tattoo on your penis that isn’t fucked up.”

He scoffs. “You wouldn’t mess me up anyways.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” you mutter as you lean in, probing at his cock to check again how much the skin moves.

He lets out a breath, penis starting to stiffen again.

“Seriously?”

He shrugs, unconcerned by his extremely evident arousal. “Got a pretty girl getting all up close and personal with my dick…if it’s such a problem maybe you should relieve me, princess.”

“I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

Since he’s going to get hard anyways, you might as well start working while the skin is stretched out by itself.

You grab the tub of Vaseline, opening it to smear a thin layer all over the skin, lifting his cock back to get the underside as well.

And of course his dick is only getting harder and redder.

“Gonna start getting messy again?” you ask.

“Probably.”

You sigh again, picking up the needle and turning it on with a buzz.

Leaning in close, you hold his cock down against his muscled thigh with one hand.

“Ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

It sinks to the skin—the first sharp bite. Like expected, he inhales sharply with a small shudder.

“All good?”

“Keep going.”

You hum and continue inking the purple line.

The first few minutes are fine.

He breathes heavily, sporadic little spasms of his muscles under you, but that’s to be expected—getting such a sensitive place tattooed wouldn’t be painless even for someone like him.

Until his cock twitches under your hand, the heat of it bleeding through the latex.

You ignore it, holding it down a little tighter, noting that blood continues to fill his length.

Another twitch.

He breathes hard again and this time you look at his tip—flushed and once again glistening with droplets of pre-spend.

And finally you dare to look up at his eyes—and his gaze is slightly lidded, heated.

No.

Needle lifting away as your pulse thuds again, you give him an incredulous look. “Are you…” The words die in your throat, before you try again. “Are you getting off on this?!”

“Would it be a problem even if I was?” he murmurs. “It’s better if I stay hard, isn’t it?”

“It’s just…can you at least wipe up the…precum with a tissue while I work?” you mumble nervously, voice a little high. “Can’t have it dripping down here.”

He laughs but does wipe it up—kind of. He actually just smears it on his skin with his fingers.

“I said with a tissue!” you snap.

“Does it matter?”

Grumbling under your breath, you get back to tattooing.

By the time it’s been a little over half and hour, he’s breathing hard, tip shining with the amount of precum dripping down—so much he actually did have to start using a tissue at some point.

You try your best to ignore it, ignore his cock jerking under your hand and the breaths that border on something of a moan at times—but it only becomes harder and harder.

Still, you push through—until you actually feel him tensing under you, with a strained breath.

“So, uh, what happens if I cum—“

Immediately you freeze, gaze flicking up to find his jaw clenched, brows slightly pinched.

“No!” You yank the pen away. “No cumming, are you serious right now?!”

Then you take a breath to collect yourself and deal with this in a more…professional manner.

“How about we just…take a short break?”

It’s not a question such as it is you simply informing him, as you slide your stool away and peel off your stained gloves to toss them in the trash.

“I think you’re the one who needs the break,” he comments. “I feel perfectly fine.”

“Yes, you know what, you’re right Sukuna,” you snap, exasperated. “I’m the one who needs this break to make sure you don’t cum on me.”

He snickers at your evident distress. “Well, it’s definitely nice to think about.”

With a weary sigh you open the mini-fridge to get your drink, taking a seat a good few feet away from him to sip through your straw.

“Gonna share?” He looks pointedly at the drink in hand.

“No. We have water or apple juice in the fridge if you want some.”

He frowns, almost like he’s been offended. “Apple juice? What am I, nine?”

“It’s between that or water.”

Five minutes later, you toss your empty cup in the trash and turn to pull out a fresh pair of gloves, slipping them on. “You good to go now?”

Sukuna hums from across the room, and letting your eyes drift down, you find his dick doesn’t look as hard as it was before—which should mean you’re in the clear.

“No cumming. I’m serious,” you warn, when he tries to bite in his laugh. “If any gets in the fresh tattoo, you’re setting yourself up for an infection.”

“Whatever you say, doc.”

You shoot him another glare as you take a seat, testing the machine.

The next few minutes go the same as before—you repeatedly telling him to behave while he provides his unnecessary commentary…and of course gets hard again.

You ignore it.

Until he groans softly, eyes rolling. “Go a little harder.”

“No. I’m not catering to your kink.”

Sukuna doesn’t respond, and relieved that he doesn’t press it further, you don’t realize his cock suddenly twitching, balls tightening before—

He cums.

Just like that

You shriek, jerking away and lifting the needle, flicking the machine off as he breathes out a, “Shit—”

“SUKUNA!”

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to that time, I swear—”

It was short and not too much, but his orgasm erupted with enough force that cum paints his thigh and the table, the leftover dribbling down his tip.

With a low curse you grab a tissue and wipe it up before it reaches anywhere near the base.

“…at least I didn’t get any on you,” he tries.

“It’s not that, I just don’t want you to get an infection,” you snap, quickly getting some more paper towels and handing them to him. “Clean up as much as you can. I’m gonna go find the green soap.”

For a little, he actually stays silent and lets you gently wipe the skin clean, before picking up the needle again, checking the delicate, raw skin.

“Okay it seems fine. We’re more than halfway done anyways,” you murmur, turning the machine on again and lowering the point.

Two minutes pass, then—

“So you wouldn’t have minded if I came on you?”

You swallow, irritated and warm and embarrassingly wet in your panties where you’ve been dampening the fabric for the last hour.

“Obviously I would have, but I’m more worried about this not healing right because you got semen in it.”

Sukuna grins. “See? I knew you’d never mess up. I’d only ever be able to trust you with my dick…Taking such good care of it,” he adds.

The glare you attempt to shoot him feels silly and pointless with how he’s looking at you—like this only amuses him and stokes his arousal.

And yes, somehow, he is getting hard again.

You don’t know how, but he is, and you’ve simply accepted your fate by now.

“You’re welcome,” you grumble.

“No seriously, you deserve a generous tip considering how nervous this all makes you.”

Blinking, you try to conceal your swallow this time. “Nervous? I’m not nervous.”

“You act like my dick’s gonna bite you. And you’re never this quiet in our sessions,” he points out.

Shit.

“I’m focusing—”

The words cut off when he takes another deep breath, hips shifting up a little, and looking at his tip…fresh precum has started to seep out, this time tinged a cloudy white from the remaining semen in the tract.

“Again?!”

“Why’re you acting surprised?”

His chest rises with another deep breath, muscles tightening.

“Shit, it’s dripping Sukuna—” you say, eyeing the transluscent droplets. “Can you wipe it up please?”

Before you can comprehend the movement, he’s scooping up the sticky fluid with his fingers and reaching over to swipe them across your lips.

Startled, you gasp softly, pausing your inking to peek up and find him peering down at you with blown out pupils, all the corded muscle of his body rising and falling with his pants.

He’s exhausted you to your limits—because this session hasn’t felt like being edged just for him.

This time you don’t snap or yell at him; you actually poke your tongue out to sample the stickiness coating your lower lip, before extending it to lick the rest off his fingers.

It tastes like cum but a little milder and sweeter, like a preview of what he really tastes like.

“See? Not too bad,” he murmurs. The red of his eyes glints, the look of knowing that you’ve finally given in. “Just the tip—I’m almost there anyways.”

You hesitate, looking between the nearly complete band, the tattoo needle still in hand, and him.

“…Won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

Another moment, then you break, setting the pen down.

“Shit, Sukuna. You’re gonna be the death of me,” you mutter, already leaning forward and bracing yourself with one gloved hand on his abs, the other wrapping tightly around his mid-shaft so nothing manages to drip down to the base. “This is going to be quick—just to…relieve you so I don’t have to worry about you cumming again while I work.”

“Whatever you say, princess,” he hums smugly as you lean in, jerking a little when your lips brush the sensitive tip. “Fuck—”

The word collapses into a full groan when you finally take the aching crown into your warm mouth, swirling your tongue over it and sucking gently, bobbing your head in small motions.

He curses again, and suddenly your hair is being gripped—not tight enough to hurt, but certainly firm as he lifts it away from your face to get full view of the sight.

“Mnh, just like that—” he breathes, shuddering when you hum around him, pelvis pushing up. “God, I’m gonna…empty my balls into your fucking mouth—”

He barely gets the words out before cum is splashing against the back of your palate, hot, viscous and salty.

Your throat works, swallowing down the spurts of cum as they slide down the back of your tongue, leaving trails of a slight bitter aftertaste behind.

When there’s no more and his grip on your hair loosens, you pull him out from your mouth, rubbing your tongue against the roof of your mouth a little to get rid of the last traces of semen.

The tip is wet and sticky but its not dripping, and feeling certain that nothing will drip down, you let go of his cock.

“Are you good now?” you finally ask, brushing some strands of hair away from your face and peeking up to find the most satisfied smirk on his face.

“Oh, I’m great. Ten out of ten service.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t professional—at all—but at the very least, the rest of the session does go by much easier without as much tension and the threat of him cumming again.

Soon you’re disinfecting the raw skin and the fresh black band, wrapping it in a clear layer of second-skin bandage.

“Need an aftercare instruction card?”

“Shut up.”

You bite your cheek, peeling off your gloves and cleaning up as he stands to get dressed again. “Well…we’ve done this enough times that I’m sure you don’t have to come back for a follow-up—in case you think something’s wrong, of course.”

“I think I should come back for a follow-up…just in case.” He hands you the cash, letting you count it—and sure enough that’s a forty percent tip. “Or I could just…send you a picture of course. Y’know, for your portfolio or whatever.”

“Do not send me a dick pic.”

His laugh echoes behind him as he steps out into the cold night. “See you next time, princess.”

The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.

There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.

It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.

You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.

“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”

Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.

“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”

“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”

“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”

Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”

In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.

You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.

Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.

Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.

The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.

“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”

Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.

Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”

You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.

Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”

The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.

When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.

Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.

“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”

Bucky does not answer the herald.

You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.

“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”

A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.

“This one.”

You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.

Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.

The herald stands confused beside him.

“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”

The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.

Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.

“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”

Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.

“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.

“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”

“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”

The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.

“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”

But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.

“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.

You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”

Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.

“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”

Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.

Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.

Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.

You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.

He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.

“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”

Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.

As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.

“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”

Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.

“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”

Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.

“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”

With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.

Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.

Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.

But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.

“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”

This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.

Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.

He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.

He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.

“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.

The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.

He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.

“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.

You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”

Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.

The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.

“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Now, you are just as confused as he is.

You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.

“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”

Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.

You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.

“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”

Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.

That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”

You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.

“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”

You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.

“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”

Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”

“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.

You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.

Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.

“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”

He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.

He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.

He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.

“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.

“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”

Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.

A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.

You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.

He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.

You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.

“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”

At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.

You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.

“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”

You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.

“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”

Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.

“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”

He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.

“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.

Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.

One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.

“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”

The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.

Control.

Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.

“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”

A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.

“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”

He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.

“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.

Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.

“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.

He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.

“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”

Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.

He pauses at the sound.

“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”

His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.

One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.

You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.

“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”

You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.

“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”

So, you do.

You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.

“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.

Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.

He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.

For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.

“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”

His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.

“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.

“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.

After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”

And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.

With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.

“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”

He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.

“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”

“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.

“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”

Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.

His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.

“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.

Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.

He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.

His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.

Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.

“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”

Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.

You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.

“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.

His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.

Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…

“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”

He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.

The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.

“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”

His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.

“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”

“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”

You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.

The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.

Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.

With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.

Finally, you grant him permission.

Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.

He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”

You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.

His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.

“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”

The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.

“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”

You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.

His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”

The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.

“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”

The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.

“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”

Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.

His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.

He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.

You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.

Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.

You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.

“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.

He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.

“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”

You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.

Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?

He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.

“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”

You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.

As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.

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Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“That’s not right,” you mutter, erasing the error.

Field work requires hands and hard tools. Paper and pencil are tangible, holds you present, keeps you focused. They’re also the only tools you have, the rest confiscated when you landed on Yautja Prime, greeted by a Yautja clan that weren’t even the tiniest bit amused to see you.

You weren’t armed. Not a threat. Unworthy prey.

They were rightly pissed you arrived on their homeworld, but thought it better to keep you when you opened your mouth and Yautja followed. Your fluency in Yautja only went so far. They were curious but also suspicious, made worse by the Weyland-Yutani ship you arrived on.

Studying Xenoanthropology in school opened the door to employment with the Weyland-Yutani Corporation. They admired your observations about different alien species, offered you a job, sent you off-world to a colonized star system, on a planet that never saw the sun because of industrial pollution caused by Weyland-Yutani mining operations.

Your job landed you in the research labs, in front of Yautja technology. The Company told you all they wanted was to expand their cultural knowledge on the species, but when you were shown the Yautja ship, asking you to decode and translate the information contained within, you knew then that they didn’t care about Yautja culture. They wanted information. They wanted to find their homeworld.

And being the spontaneous idiot that you are, you did the exact opposite. Destroyed the labs, destroyed their research, destroyed the ship. Erased it all and fled, stealing the coordinates for yourself.

You can’t go home. You can’t return to any world or star system that’s been colonized by humans. Weyland-Yutani is looking for you.

A gentle blow, a rounding of the lips, and the grit of graphite disappears from the page. Angling the notebook toward the light, you glance between it and your point of study.

“Could be worse,” you sigh, returning the notebook to your lap. “Could be better.”

On the page are two sketches, each of a Yautja torso. One female and the other male. Anatomy was never your subject, but it’s still important to document, and here, witnessing this cultural ritual, gives you a clear view of their naked bodies. Trust, built over months, is the only reason you’re currently perched on a tree stump with notebook in hand.

A clan matriarch is in heat, ready to mate, but more than one male has caught her eye. Eight yards away from where you sit are a group of male Yautja, five in total. They’re naked except for a stripe of paint on their arms, each a different color designating what subset of the clan they’re from. Females spearhead each clan, typically the strongest amongst their number. When a female Yautja is in heat, her choice must come from a different clan. Like humans, they do not inbreed, the practice causing unfavored genetic traits.

The female Yautja in question, Ahra, is separated from the males, surrounded by other females, their tendrils gray. They are elders, deeply respected and cared for. You focus on her muscled limbs, returning to your sketch, erasing lines and redrawing for emphasis. Tongue between your teeth, you concentrate on the transition from torso to chest to shoulder.

A soft crunch of grass comes from behind you. You quickly turn, finding no one. Frowning, you slowly return to your notebook, only for large hands to yank it from your grasp.

“Bhatul! What are you doing?”

Bhatul, the only Yautja you’ve formed a true connection with, holds your notebook in front of him with both hands, head cocked, black quills falling over one shoulder, several decorated with gold rings. He’s a mix of dusty red, tan, and black spots, common for the members of his clan that live in the warmer, drier regions of Yautja Prime with a healthy amount of smaller quills on his arms and chest.

Using one hand, he turns the notebook around. “Me?” he asks, indicating the half-complete male diagram.

“And what if it is?” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest.

He chuffs. “You show truth. I am strong. Virile.”

The back of your neck grows hot. With you sitting on the tree stump, and him standing in front of you, naked, you have a clear view of his penis. It’s directly in front of your face.

“That’s not—” you begin.

“Do you think she will mate with me?” asks Bhatul.

“Ahra?” Bhatul inclines his head. “Isn’t it a contest?”

“Yes,” nods Bhatul. “We chase. Subdue. Mount.”

“All of you?”

Bhatul huffs, affronted. “A female Yautja has only one—”

You throw up your hands. “Yes. I know. I can see that.” You turn your head in Ahra’s direction. “Quite clearly.”

Bhatul tosses the notebook back to you. You catch it, nearly falling off the stump from the force behind the throw. “You will not enter the forest.”

“Excuse me?”

He steps forward and kneels, bringing him eye-level. “I know you. Too curious.” Bhatul lifts his hand, imitating a head opening and closing its mouth. “Talking.” He changes to two fingers that walk along an invisible surface. “Following.”

You roll your eyes. “You tell me to follow. And I have to.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Makes other Yautja jealous.”

“Jealous?” you deadpan.

“You are…pet. Other Yautja want pet.”

Unbelievable. You’d pull on one of his mandibles but that would only rile him up more than he already is. Bhatul enjoys pushing your buttons, but it’s never mean. He was the first to approach you without an ulterior motive, to ask questions and answer yours in return. A friend, you suppose.

“So, what?” you laugh. “I’m your dog?”

Bhatul snorts, his mandibles flexing. “Dog?” he repeats slowly, the human word sounding odd in his mouth.

Since arriving, you’ve only spoken Yautja, but write your research in your native language. There are no mandibles for you to use, and the mouth structures are different, but they understand, even when you butcher their words.

“It’s an animal,” you say, switching back to Yautja. “A common pet for humans. Fluffy. Friendly. Cuddles with you. Follows you around.”

Bhatul nods. “You are dog.”

You punch Bhatul in the arm. He makes a rattling, chuffing sound you’ve come to know as the closest thing the Yautja have to laughter.

The first time you heard it, you had asked Bhatul if Yautja only see in infrared as research suggests.

“No,” he had said, tapping a finger close to his eye. “We have a gland. Links to our eyes. Helps us see body heat. Good for hunting.”

“And what if you’re not hunting?”

“The gland isn’t active.” He had leaned in, gaze observing your entire body in a slow perusal. “I can see you clearly.”

You punch Bhatul again. “Are you serious?”

“You follow me around.”

You keep hitting him. “You ask me to. Why do I have to repeat myself?”

Bhatul grabs your wrist, drawing your hand away from his massive bicep. Instead of releasing your wrist, he continues to hold it, staring into your eyes with an intensity that makes your stomach drop. It’s been happening more and more this look.

“I like your company,” he says, his already gruff, guttural voice deepening. “You ask questions.”

“I ask too many.”

“You do.” He drops your hand but doesn’t stand. “Don’t enter the forest.” And then he’s up, heading toward the male Yautja clustered nearby.

Technically, you’re supposed to listen and obey. You are human, not Yautja. You were not given the same rights or privileges. While in most circumstances, you’d listen to Bhatul, this might be your only opportunity.

With his back to you, you pack up your notebook and grab your satchel, easing into the tree line until the large leaves provide enough coverage to hide you. These are not hunting grounds, and the only predators are the Yautja.

Kneeling behind a tree, you carefully observe Ahra dashing into the trees, the males fanning out, the same amount of distance between each. You count the seconds from when Ahra enters the forest until the males takes off. Not all of them follow in her footsteps. Several branch off, splitting away from the main group, adding distance as they pass the tree line. One of the larger males charges in your direction, his speed immeasurably fast, almost a blur to your eye.

You throw yourself to the ground as he leaps. Above you, the tree violently shakes as he lands and pushes off, jumping to another. Hand over mouth, you wait until you cannot see him and the trees come to rest.

Slowly, you ease onto your knees, grabbing the tree to help haul you up to your feet. One step. Two. There is no rush, no need to run after them. It’ll only draw attention, and the point is to observe, not get in the way. You’ll keep back, follow at a distance, observe what you can, and record it all in your notebook. Bhatul will fill in the blanks.

Keeping to a crouch, you shift between the trees, listening for unusual sounds, watching for any movement. There is the wind, the occasional snapping of a twig, the buzz of insects, or a call of a bird. You’re not entirely sure what you’re listening for except the guttural grunts of mating.

You come to a stop. “What the fuck am I doing?” you groan, rubbing at your temples.

Observing a ritual of a secretive alien species that no one outside the species has seen? An amazing opportunity. Stumbling onto Yautja having sex? Less cool. In fact, not ideal.

Turning around, you take a step, intending to return the way you came. You’re mid-stride, determined, and then you’re flying, scooped off your feet by a large, powerful force. The impact is sudden and hard, temporarily pushing the air from your lungs, shoving you into a bout of dizziness.

Everything spins as you cling to whatever’s grabbed you, attempting to breathe through every jolt and jerk, yanked along like a children’s doll. Your captor lands, the impact shaking your bones. The hold around you loosens until you roll out of their embrace and onto the ground.

“I told you not to enter the forest.”

You turn onto your back, inhaling deeply through your nose, and exhaling through your mouth. You repeat the process until your hands stop shaking and there is no threat of falling if you stand.

You crack open your eyelids, staring up into Bhatul’s grim expression. “I’m observing. That’s what I do.”

He chuffs, mandibles flexing in agitation. “You do not understand.”

You prop yourself on your elbows. “Explain then.” Groaning, you sit up fully, rubbing at your neck and lower back. “Not like you said anything to begin with,” you mutter.

Bhatul releases a guttural snarl, quills swishing as he starts to pace. “This is a mating ritual. You are female.”

No shit you big idiot.

Slowly, you ease onto your knees, placing your palm against a nearby slab of rock to help ease the ascent. “I’m not Yautja. It doesn’t matter.”

Bhatul whirls on you, approaching with such ferocity you hit the rock in your attempt to back away. “It does matter. You are human but you are female.” He reaches out, one finger lightly tracing the side of your throat. “You give off a scent. Different from female Yautja. But we know it all the same.”

“You—you know—”

Bhatul leans in. “I smell it all the time.”

Female Yautja produce a specific pheromone when in heat, a signal to the males that she’s in her fertile window. Males don’t become senseless beasts. The instinct to reproduce heightens, and their behavior changes. They want to impress, to show the female their strength, that they are good providers and protectors, the fiercest hunter.

Humans don’t produce sex pheromones, but body odor can change, especially for people with female reproductive organs. Body odor can shift during different cycle stages because of hormone changes, but those changing odors don’t trigger sudden behavioral changes in other humans.

But Bhatul isn’t human. Yautja sense of smell is far stronger. What might be a mild shift in odor to you could be a beacon to him. You hadn’t considered it.

“What do you smell?” you ask tentatively.

Bhatul remains where he is. The space between your bodies is nonexistent. You are small and fragile compared to Bhatul’s height and broadness. He easily stands at two and a half meters. You have to bend your neck at a hard angle to look up at him.

“Sweet. Musky. Earthy.” He steps back. “You’re fertile.”

The urge to slap Bhatul increases by the second. You’d do it, too, if only you could reach his stupid face.

“But we can’t. Yautja and humans aren’t compatible.” Bhatul’s silence rings in your ears. He only stares, which makes it worse. “Bhatul.”

“We can. It’s happened before.”

“It’s happened before?” you guffaw, feeling delirious. “That’s impossible. You’re lying.”

As much as Yautja look like monsters, their eyes are deep pools of expression. Bhatul’s gaze cuts through you, twisting your stomach with staunch clarity.

“Humans are worthy prey. They have killed many of our kind. They have skills we lack,” says Bhatul calmly.

You lick your lips, swallowing hard. “Bridge the gap.”

“What gap needs a bridge?” he huffs, glancing around as if one will appear.

“No,” you laugh, some of the anxiety ebbing. “It’s a human expression. It means closing a divide or reducing differences.” You bring your hands together, interlocking your fingers. “Adding the advantages to your species makes you better predators.”

Bhatul nods. “This is why you cannot enter the forest.”

“If I knew—”

“When Ahra is subdued and mating, the other males will follow your scent. Hunt you down. Fight each other for the chance to breed you.” You place your hands below his chest. It’s the easiest spot you can reach. Pushing against Bhatul does nothing to move him or shift you away, not with the slab of rock at your back.

“You walked in willingly.” Bhatul grasps your wrists, drawing your attention to his face. “That is consent. That you want to mate.”

“Take me back. Out of the forest.”

Bhatul shakes his head, his quills swaying. “Leaving will not change things.”

Prior anxiety returns, overwhelming and overloading. Your hands shake. “I don’t want this. I—” Bhatul’s head whips to the right, mandibles flexing, his forked tongue extending slightly to taste the air. “What?” you prompt. “What is it?”

“They’re approaching.” Bhatul’s attention returns to you. “Remove your clothes.”

“No!”

His next words come with a snarl. “It is me or them.”

Maybe if you close your eyes and curl up into a ball, this will all go away. You’ll backtrack, exit the forest, remain on your stump until the whole ceremony is over.

Bhatul, as if sensing your distress, relaxes a fraction. “Do you think I’ll harm you?”

No. I’m just scared.

You shake your head. “No. Not you.”

“I will fight them,” he reassures, “but it’s better to mate.”

A sad smile crosses your lips. “Accepting the mating means I’ve chosen.”

“Yes.”

“Will it stop them from fighting you?”

Bhatul shrugs. “There is always one male that fights.”

“Okay,” you sigh, shuddering. “Okay.”

You’re barely out of your clothes before Bhatul flattens you onto your back on the rock slab. Stretching out, his large frame covers the majority of your body, his weight balanced to keep you in place but not crush. Bhatul’s thick arms cocoon your head, his chin and the bottom of his mandibles brushing lightly against your scalp as he shifts.

Glancing down between your bodies, your heart drops into your stomach. At the tree stump, you received an up front and personal view of Yautja dick from Bhatul and the other males strutting around, chests puffed up as they flaunted for Ahra. What rests against your thigh isn’t some appendage swinging between their legs. This is supposed to go inside you.

Gulping, you press your face into Bhatul’s chest, hands grasping for a hold as he shifts his hips, his cock pressing against your pussy. Looking is impossible. You refuse. All you need to do is stay still for him and it will all be over sooner than you think. Bhatul will protect you from the other males. He won’t hurt you. He said so, but it’s his actions that yell over his words, the lack of aggression over these long months. Bhatul is fearsome. You’ve seen him spar with the other males, but there is none of that with you. Never.

Reaching down, Bhatul fists the base of his cock. As he pumps, large beads of opalescent semen emerge from the slit. Bhatul pumps and shakes, rubbing it all over your pussy. Every time the head of his cock brushes your clit, you bite back a moan.

Does he even know it’s there? Do female Yautja have one, perhaps something similar, or nothing at all?

“Makes penetration easier,” he says, voice low and gruff. The words come from his mouth, but even you understand the primal switch. Yautja males are not much different from human men.

Nuzzling his neck, you inhale deeply, counting down slowly to relax your muscles in anticipation. Bhatul’s response is rolling clicks that remind you of purring. It’s then that the head of him penetrates, a tight stretch that yanks a gasp from you. He thrusts deeper, and this time you crack, choking on a sob as the ribbed shaft rubs deliciously inside you.

Bhatul’s mandibles flex, that pleased clicking returning. “You are different,” he manages, before a loud crunch of breaking wood fills the air.

You freeze, a sudden chill seizing your limbs as Bhatul shifts into the predator he is. The position he takes is defensive but it is also a threat, bleeding aggression at the Yautja looking on. This male is the largest of the group, Ob-Adtoth, if you recall correctly. His skin is pale and yellowish with sections of dark mottling on the sides of his arms and legs. One mandible fang is missing. In its place is a metallic, artificial replacement. Behind him, you notice two other males, approaching slowly, keeping to the trees.

Go away. Go away.

You repeat it internally, pressing as much as yourself as you can to Bhatul’s chest. His embrace tightens, and while you cannot see his face, you can hear him.

There were times when you sat and watched some of the warriors in the practice rings, sparring for the sake of training. On observation, you took their roars for battle cries. They didn’t scare you, only amused you.

Bhatul’s roar in response to Ob-Adtoth’s does not amuse you. Almost otherworldly, the sound that emerges from him silences the forest, shakes the rock beneath you, ignites that innate flight response. It is a bloodied knife. Lethal force. A violent fist. Bhatul is marking his territory, warning the other males away.

Ob-Adtoth steps forward. Bhatul grasps the back of your head, forcing it back, exposing your neck. This is where you fight of flee, to escape danger though the threat is impossible to run from. Ob-Adoth’s mandibles flare wide but so do Bhatul’s.

Not with a roar. Not with anger.

Resting between his mandibles is your exposed neck. His teeth, each one a sharpened needle, touch your skin but do not break the barrier. The coppery tang of human blood is absent. It does not pool in Bhatul’s mouth or clog your throat. Nothing for him to swallow, and nothing for you to choke on.

Ob-Adoth’s chest puffs, shoulders squaring like he’s ready to charge. Bhatul lowers himself over your body, creating a protective shell. His hips shift back, his thick cock drawing out. It’s the thrust forward that has your eyes rolling, your little human teeth biting into Bhatul’s rough skin as he ruts.

Pain is absent. All you know is pleasure. It builds in thunderous waves, crashing against your skull, drowning. The forest is a distant thing, absent from your current reality. Between your legs is wetness, a fullness that borders on bursting, each thrust echoing in your stomach, until it feels like Bhatul is in your throat.

The orgasm is a severing. A snapped twig. The building pressure peaks, and then expands outward, temporarily stealing your breath and voice. Your body shudders, heart hammering, and then you’re moaning, bordering on screaming, the sound muffled as you bite harder into Bhatul’s skin. You vaguely notice bright green as your head falls back; Bhatul’s mandibles still locked around your throat.

Bhatul’s pace increases, and you ragdoll, unable to do much else. You don’t know if the other males still linger in the trees, or if they’re watching, waiting for him to finish, to strike out when they think he’s most vulnerable.

His arms, which were once a protective cocoon, lift you off the rock, bringing your bodies flush. Bhatul is no longer thrusting, only panting, his cock inside you but still. His mandibles flex, releasing your throat.

You turn your head, survey the forest. “They’re gone.”

Bhatul slowly withdraws his cock, and with it comes a rush of cum. He gently flips you onto your stomach, taking position again, easing his cock into your cunt until your toes curl and you whimper.

He moves lazily, taking his time. Each step measured, heavy with quiet intent.

He closes the distance without hurry.

And then his hands land on your hips.

His bandaged fingers settle just below your hip bones before dragging higher.

His groin presses against you from behind for just a second too long.

Sukuna leans down, nearly burying his face in your neck, his breath, warm and faintly metallic, brushing your skin and making the fine hairs at your nape stand on end.

“So touching, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, making your shoulders tense before you can stop it.

His lips almost graze the bare curve of your shoulder.

You flinch so hard your teeth click.

Instinct beats thought. Your elbows slam back, your hands shove his arms away.

Sukuna lets you push him off, only to step right back in, a quiet chuckle slipping past his teeth.

“Hands off,” you hiss without even looking at him.

Your eyes stay glued to Satoru, who just forced his opponent into a tight defense.

Sukuna bares his teeth, rubbing the spot where your elbow hit him. The ache pulses pleasantly under his skin.

It only excites him more.

He steps up beside you, looming on your left, and you grimace, already knowing he’s wearing that insufferable grin.

“Worried about your boyfriend?” Sukuna’s voice drips mockery.

He’s not even looking at the ring. Just you. The way your lashes tremble. The way you bite your lip.

You don’t quite get why he decided Gojo is your boyfriend — except that it gives him something to hate.

“None of your business,” you snap, not sparing him a glance.

Sukuna doesn’t move, but the air between you heats. His jaw tightens hard enough for the muscle to jump.

The fact that you didn’t deny it leaves his jaw tight.

That smug bastard.

He steps closer. His chest almost brushes your shoulder now. He leans toward your ear, and this time you don’t pull away.

Something shifts inside the cage.

“Gojo’s defense is clean.” Sukuna whispers against your ear.

“I know,” you mutter, distracted.

He leans even closer, practically resting his chin on your shoulder, hunching slightly because of his height. Big. Taking up all your space.

“But your buddy gets distracted,” Sukuna continues. “Too confident. Too proud. Which means…”

You turn sharply toward him, nearly colliding foreheads.

“What the hell are you telling me this for?” you hiss, staring into his narrowed, dangerous eyes.

Sukuna smirks wider.

“Looks like we’re fighting on Saturday,” he says calmly.

The words don’t land right away.

Your fingers tighten on the cage.

Satoru and Sukuna. Same cage.

“So what?” you scoff, the words coming out with a sharp smirk, though the confidence you had a minute ago is gone.

Sukuna frowns, clicking his tongue in irritation.

He bumps his forehead against yours — not hard, but heavy enough to make you tilt your head back — then pulls away just enough to see your face properly.

“You could help your buddy,” he says flatly. “I don’t want to cripple him.”

He bares his teeth in a faint, dangerous grin, and a chill runs down your spine.

You snort, rolling your eyes.

Help Satoru? He could take anyone apart. Unless…

You’ve seen Sukuna in the ring.

You know how he fights.

Dirty. Brutal. Bloody.

Breaking through strikes with everything he’s got.

“Satoru will definitely beat you,” you say with a smirk, though he catches the softness behind it. “He’ll smear you across the cage.”

Something in Sukuna snaps. You see it in the way his pupils widen, the twitch of his jaw, the way he bares his teeth — exposing his fangs.

He steps in suddenly, bumping you back from the cage with his chest, forcing you to take a couple of steps to keep from falling.

He follows immediately, irritation sharpening his expression.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says sharply, cutting through your thoughts.

“What?” you frown, confused, trying to put some space between you again — but Sukuna closes it just as fast.

He licks his lips slowly, thoughtfully.

Stepping in close, he leans forward, looming over you in a way that makes you feel far too fragile next to him.

His chin comes to hover just above your shoulder as his whisper brushes your ear, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, past you.

“Make a bet with me,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly to catch your anxious expression from the corner of his eye. “If Gojo wins, I’ll grant you one wish.”

You inhale sharply as his heavy exhale burns across your neck. Sukuna does it on purpose. He stills for a moment, watching your reaction, holding himself back from pressing even closer.

You let out a bitter huff, trying to sound brave.

“And if you win?” your voice comes out slightly strained, edged with unease.

“When,” Sukuna corrects roughly. “When I win, you grant me one wish.”

You scoff, trying to step away, but he catches your wrists. His fingers close around them, the roughness of the hand wraps scraping against your skin. He yanks you back, pulling you into him until your shoulder bumps against his bare chest.

“That’s not fair,” you hiss, bracing your free hands against him, your fingers stinging from the heat of his skin. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“All the more interesting,” he whispers against your neck, the chuckle that follows making you flinch in his grip.

Your heart pounds somewhere in your throat.

“And what would your wish be?” you ask, already knowing the answer won’t be good.

Sukuna pauses. You feel his lips almost brush the shell of your ear, his breath heavy against your neck, a low hum vibrating through his chest and into your back.

“You’ll let me fuck you.”

You jerk your head aside, staring into his narrowed eyes in shock.

“That will never happen,” you mutter, still stunned, trying to shake off the strange tremor his stare leaves behind.

Sukuna lifts the corner of his mouth, tilting his head playfully.

“I’ll fuck you however I want,” he growls through barely parted teeth. “As much as I want. And wherever I want.”

You press your fingers into his chest, angry at the way your hands tremble.

You try to push him away — useless.

“Like hell that’s happening,” you hiss, glaring at him. “Satoru will win.”

Sukuna grins, triumphant.

“So you agree to the deal.”

You freeze, not even realizing how he cornered you — and then the anger hits.

“Fuck. Fine.” you snap through clenched teeth. “But when I tell you to change fight gyms and teams, you’ll do it.” You bare your teeth in return. “High stakes, asshole.”

Sukuna smirks in satisfaction, and for some reason you start to feel uneasy — maybe you’ve been a little too bold, because his smile is far too confident in his victory, full of anticipation… and hunger.

Like he already knows he’s won.

Like he already knows what he’ll do to you.

Fuck… what did you just agree to?

You frown, then step back sharply, circling around him to return to the cage…

Satoru has just finished the fight — with a win, of course — and is climbing out. But as you take a step, a heavy hand lands on your elbow, turning you halfway back.

Your back presses into Sukuna’s chest.

You don’t see his face — only feel the heat of him and his whisper at your temple.

“Let’s see if you even remember your boyfriend’s name after I’ve fucked that tight little pussy of yours...”

Your eyes fly wide open. With a low, confused sound, you stumble forward and quickly move away from the cage.

Satoru is already by the water table, flushed and heated from the fight. The moment you reach him, his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against his damp torso. He says something, flashing that blinding smile, but you don’t hear a word.

You turn your head, glancing back over your shoulder to where Sukuna still stands.

His arms are crossed now, massive biceps shifting beneath tattooed skin. His face is blank.

Just that dark look.

And when he notices you staring, he slowly drags his tongue along the corner of his mouth.

If Satoru loses… you’re completely fucked.

Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!)

Sukuna is an MMA fighter here, not a boxer — that was a mistake in the description 😭

——

You remember being laid across your bed, phone in hand as you yapped away to a new friend of yours. Now, you and this friend got along because he was the complete opposite of Sukuna. He didn’t threaten you over petty things, didn’t curse you out and call you mean nicknames, and most importantly, he wasn’t batshit crazy.

While you were busy half-listening to your friend’s voice on the line, you began to smell the faint scent of something acrid. The smell made your face scrunch up, nose crinkling as your brows furrowed and you glanced around your room. You thought that maybe you could’ve left the stove or oven on somehow, even though you don’t remember turning either of those things on..

The scent reminded you of burnt toast if it was intensified to the third degree so, clearly something was burning.

“Are you even listening to me…?” The man on your phone grumps. You could practically picture the pout on his lips, “Hellooo?”

Shaking out of what’s got your expression shifting, “Yeah-, yes, I’m here,” You replied hurriedly, “Sorry, Satoru, gimme a second.” You end up telling him as that smell from the first floor of your home began to grow stronger.

The whole thing was making you very uneasy and it didn’t take much for you to feel the panic seeping up into your veins as you slipped out of your bed and went rushing towards your door. As soon as you opened it, you were smacked in the face with clouds of thick, black smoke that made you cough, bringing one hand up to cover your nose as you ducked and walked out into the wall of heat coating your home’s air.

“You alright over there?” Gojo had asked you, having heard your coughs and even catching a faint crackling as the phone picked it up into the call.

Between another cough, “Yeah, m’fine,” You say jokingly, “My house is just on fire.”

“What??” He gasps, taking in the full severity of the situation, “Shouldn’t you be calling the cops or something?”

You’re leisurely making your way down the hall with your nose still covered and your body slightly hunched over so you don’t inhale too much smoke. This isn’t the first time a certain someone has set something of yours on fire so you suppose that’s why you’re more annoyed than you are scared as you make your way to the edge of your staircase.

Standing there, you lean into the phone a little more. “Yeah, I’m getting to it…” You tell Gojo, easing your way down the steps to peak around the corner and see that the fire is much bigger than what you were expecting.

Again, this isn’t the first time that “best friend” of yours went setting shit on fire in your house. But, this is the first time he set your actual house aflame. Your eyes widen and all that casualty you previously had died inside you as big, wild flames pop and crackle with heat from your living room.

“Oh shit,” You gasped, “S-Satoru, I’ll call you back.”

“Are you oka—“ Before he could even finish, you were hanging up and moving with shaky fingers to dial the police.

And somewhere under all those flames, you swore you heard laughing. Sick, maniacal, and twisted laughter—a sound of which you’d come to recognize anywhere.

Everything that happens after that is one big ugly blur of events. Such an innocent night had turned into something foul all because you’d called Gojo one of your best friends earlier in the day. You don’t even know how the fuck Sukuna got wind of that comment but low and behold, he was the one who set your living room on fire.

The cops were called shortly after you’d discovered the flames and you remember having to be transported out safely in the arms of one hulky blonde fireman, who Sukuna then tried to attack before he was swiftly arrested and pinned to the ground by policemen.

Outside of your home, the two of you had argued back and forth from a distance while they worked cuffs over his wrists. You don’t remember the details of what you’d shouted at him as most of what you spewed was in anger but you do still picture the crazed smile the man had on his face every time you said something especially vicious to him. That was exactly why he liked you so much–, or rather, liked being your friend so much.

Sukuna always adored how you never let him walk all over you, even after he’d literally burnt a part of your house down. 

Somewhere between him getting arrested and that sweet blonde fireman—who’s name you noted as Nanami—Sukuna happened to see a gently clothed hand cleanse your face from the few ashes that’d covered your features. The only thing you heard was a snap as he’d broken out of the cuffs and launched himself forward.

It was an even bigger mess from then on.

You barely remember seeing that poor fireman get punched in the face, to which you jumped up, went swinging at Sukuna and… yeah, it was bad. Really bad.

It took multiple police officers and firefighters to pry the two of you off of one another. Well, more like to pry you off of him. You’d landed multiple blows to his face and quickly caused his nose to bleed but, the thing about that entire altercation that had you livid was the fact that he was smiling throughout each second of it.

This was another thing that wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to do. You’d done almost everything under the sun towards one another within the past ten years that you were acquainted—which yes, includes fighting one another. Though, the fighting in question mostly consisted of you hitting him and Sukuna just taking it.

He may have been crazy in every other field imaginable but he'd, surprisingly, never hit a woman. Especially not you.

While you'd been beating up on the man and just before the officers had pulled you two apart, you do remember one more little detail that still manages to cling to your mind to this day.

It was just as an officer had shouted something along the lines of, "Stop right there!" that you recall the glint in Sukuna's eyes dimming and the way his smug smirk flickered. It seemed like reality had finally settled back into his head for a moment and even though you still had a partially bloodied fist hoisted up, ready to land on his face again, you swear that second stretched out longer than it should've before his voice came out ever so softly.

"Fun's over, huh?" Sukuna had whispered to you, as if he somehow knew and fully expected this to be his last moment seeing you. He understood that he was going to jail for all this but that wasn't exactly his biggest concern.

His main thing here was that he had to accept the fact that you probably hate him now—

"Fuck you." You spat, finally, before he could even finish his thought.

If the pill wasn't a tough one to swallow previously, it damn sure was then.

You were pulled off of him seconds later and he was dragged away—this time towards the back of a police car—and although there was something distant and somber about the way his eyes still lingered on you and that same fireman who came to help you, he kept those two words of yours in the forefront of his mind.

After all, it was the last thing you'd said to him.

“Are you okay?” Nanami ended up asking you as he stepped impossibly closer and was quick to tend to you as if his condition wasn't worse off. Concern was etched all into his features but, even though you heard him, your eyes were busy fixed onto Sukuna.

You managed a nod and felt the man's hands reach for yours to clean the blood off of them. You should've been able to take your eyes off of the same guy who literally just set your house on fire and then proceeded to attack someone just for helping you.

And yet, there you were, letting Nanami's smooth suggestion of, "Let’s get you checked out,” flow through one ear and out the other.

Even as he gently pulled you away from the scene, your mind was one big mess of confliction. You're supposed to hate Sukuna now, obviously. He was insane!

But... he's always been that way and somehow, you've always forgiven him for it. Maybe it was because there was more good with him than there was bad. Or perhaps it was because he was the only man you knew could match your crazy.

Part of you wanted to go and fight for Sukuna's freedom after the whole ordeal, y'know, that really delusional and stupid part of you. And the other half of you knew that the sensible thing to do here was to leave him where he was. Maybe a couple years in jail would do him some good.

Right?

——

That was five years ago from now, where your home has since been repaired and free of the violent crimes of which your ex-best friend committed against you.

Luckily, you listened to the logical half of your brain and went against fighting for his freedom or contacting him at all, no matter how many times you found yourself missing him.

These days you try to convince yourself that you don't even think about him as much but, every time you bring a new guy into your life it just feels weird or, something feels like as though it were crawling up your spine. Especially if you tried to talk to someone romantically.

You'd always experience this odd lump of guilt eating away at you and it made you feel strange considering the fact that you should feel free of Sukuna's control over you and who you date. You'd been in relationships before he was locked up, after all.

Even though most of them ended in the weirdest ways...

You remember how one guy told you how he didn't want to die just for dating you. At the time you laughed it off, thinking he was being dramatic, but looking back on it now... perhaps Sukuna had something to do with it?

There was also the time a guy completely ghosted you just a few days after you'd both admitted you were in love with one another. You don't know what that was all about but, again, looking back on it now...

To take your mind off of the man you're not supposed to be thinking about, you end up fishing for your remote after plopping down on your living room couch. The TV soon flicks on and you shove all thoughts of your ex-best friend into the very back of your mind where he belongs.

He's exactly where he's supposed to be now anyway; rotting in a cell somewhere.

On a brighter note, for the past five years straight you've been living your best life. For the most part, anyway.

You and that nice blond fireman got closer through the years and he often comes over to your house to give you some company after you'd explained how Sukuna was your closest friend years ago. You know Nanami visits you out of pity but, you never exactly reject him.

The only unfortunate thing about that situation is the fact that every time he flirts with you, you can't find it in yourself to reciprocate. There's nothing wrong with him and he'd be a good fit for you, truly. The issue here is that you can't ignore how wrong you feel when you're with him.

He could be doing nothing more than sitting on your couch watching TV with you and yet you felt as though you had Sukuna's eyes burning into the very back of your skull—watching, judging, daring. There was even a time you and Nanami tried kissing. He wasn't bad at it and neither were you, something was just wrong about it and you didn't know what it was.

Perhaps Sukuna had unconsciously conditioned you into some sort of deep rejection towards anyone that wasn't him and you hadn't realized it.

Things only became clear for you when the same thing happened with Gojo. Who you tried going on dates with, tried to let spoil you, and even tried sleeping with. All of which failed miserably, especially that last little act. You'd felt off the entire time, so much so that you don't even think you were turned on.

Which was crazy to think about considering he's Gojo Satoru! It's not like you weren't into him.

He'd treated and touched you better than any guy ever had before—as did Nanami—but maybe that was the problem. Maybe you didn't want something that was smooth and gentle with you. Maybe you needed the craziness you only knew to come with the asshole sitting in prison right now.

Or at least... the asshole that was sitting in prison.

The moment your TV finally turns on, there's a news report playing that instantly snatches up your attention and makes every vein in your body run cold. The report ahead explains how a man who'd been convicted for arson had recently escaped prison and has been on the run for at least three days now.

You swallow thickly and your eyes quickly flock around to various corners of your house. Three days? Logically speaking—and not like you looked this up before or anything but—that's about the same amount of time it would take for him to get to your house on foot...

You turn back to your TV and sink further into your couch, turning the volume up to listen intently to the rest of the report before you drive yourself insane. The fugitive could be anyone after all. Arson is a pretty common crime to commit, isn't it?

"—The man is said to be at least six feet tall with pink hair, dark red eyes, and tattoos all over his face," The woman on your screen adds on suddenly before a mugshot pops up just a few inches away from her.

Aaaand fuck, it's him.

You immediately shoot up from your seat and start rushing around your house to make sure all the doors are locked and that every window is shut tightly. Hell, you even consider bordering up all exits and entryways.

The sound of your heart racing in your chest thumps all the way up against your eardrums as you fight with the increasing sensation of paranoia rising within you. You move all throughout your home, slamming doors shut and double-checking each lock with slightly trembling hands.

You hate how all it took was one little report to have you all anxious and thinking about him again. It's been five years. Maybe you saw the report wrong, maybe it was about that younger, identical nephew of his...

No, no, that doesn't even make sense. He was just a kid the last time you saw him and from what you remember, he wants to be nothing like his crazy ass uncle.

Fuck.

Over six feet tall, pink hair, dark red eyes, tattoos all over his face... Only one person fits that description and you know it.

Fuck.

You saw his face too, you can't just ignore that and try to convince yourself it isn't him.

The news is still playing off in the background, echoing throughout the walls of your house almost hauntingly now as you struggle to ignore the punctuating reality of Sukuna no longer being behind bars.

"He's not coming here," You mutter to yourself, despite the suddenly pounding memories of him flooding right back into the forefront of your mind.

Fuck.

It's been five years, there's no way he's going to escape from prison just to come torment you again. Or worse, to come get revenge from you not coming to see him all this time...

Then again, if you still can't help but think about him in moments where you really shouldn't be, he's probably been doing the same thing. Hell, you're probably the only thing on his mind right now.

Something in your chest throbs at the mere idea. You don't know why that invoked such a physical reaction from you, it's not like you've ever liked the guy or anything like that.

Aside from the first few years of your friendship when you had the biggest crush on him.

But that was fifteen years ago, feelings like that don't linger this long. Feelings like that shouldn't linger for this long, not after he's burned down a quarter of your house and has been sent off to jail for it.

For a moment you consider dialing the police but, what exactly would they do aside from send an officer or two out to your house for the night? Your phone is in your hands now and all you're doing is staring at the screen with a million thoughts in your head.

You can't call the police, that'd just end in another big brawl between you and Sukuna before he's arrested again and, unfortunately, the last thing you feel like doing is fighting anymore. You don't think you have the energy for that, especially not this late into the night. So, you end up pocketing your phone and instead head back to your living room.

Up until you hear a sudden thud from somewhere behind your house.

Your heart sinks into your ass and you freeze. Straining your ears to catch more sounds, you slowly turn on your heels and creep back towards your kitchen. The floorboards beneath your steps creak softly but you swear you hear a distance set of steps creeping around as well.

Yet, when you stop, the sound stops as well.

So perhaps you were just driving yourself insane?

Yeah, that's probably it. It's been five whole years, Sukuna would not spend all that time thinking about you and then turn around and come back to the same woman who got him thrown into jail. He's crazy but he's not that crazy.

Taking one more stretchy moment to let the silence linger on, you release a long sigh and pace into your kitchen. Just in case, you still want to have a weapon on you in the event that your delusions turn out to be true.

Right before you reach the knives, the sound of your house phone ringing like something out of a cliche slasher movie cuts through the air and easily scares the shit out of you.

Flinching, you hurry over to it and scramble about to get the phone into your hands properly, quickly lifting it up to your ear. "Hello?" You call out with a slightly shaky voice.

At first there's no sound, just static. Which, of course makes you want to hang up.

You've never been a fan of scary shit and the only person who knows that about you is Sukuna. So if the creepy silence was telling you anything, it's that it was definitely him—

"Hey, have you seen the news?" Gojo's voice rings out to you after one too many deafening seconds of eerie silence.

With a heavy sigh of relief, you almost smile into the phone. Thank God it's just him. "Yeah," You reply half-breathily, "Of course I saw it."

There's a slight sound of shuffling over the phone and you think you hear keys for a moment, "Do you want me to come over? Y'know, just in case that maniac shows up?"

You're shaking your head before speaking, "No, no, you don't have to do all that, Satoru. I'm fine-, it's fine."

"You don't sound fine..." He points out.

You roll your eyes for a moment, hating how well he's gotten to know you over the past few years. Leaning against your kitchen counter a little, you glance over at the knives just a few inches away from you, "How do I sound then?"

Gojo scoffs harmlessly, "Shaken up."

You're quiet for a moment and within it, it's almost like your breathing is echoing around you. Ignoring the intensified sound, you shake your head and shut your eyes for a second to ground yourself, "I'm fine, really."

The man over the phone lets out a long hum and you could almost hear the skeptical look on his face, "I'd be over in fifteen minutes top, y'know... I just-"

"Satoru," You cut off gently, "Seriously, I'm okay. I... I know how to handle myself and I doubt he's even coming here. It's been three whole days after all. He's probably on the other side of the country by now."

"Right..." Gojo trails off for a moment before shrugging, even though you can't see it. "Well, if you're sure. Just uh," He clicks his tongue slightly and leans into the phone, voice getting a little louder against your ear, "Call me if you need anything."

"I will, I will." You promise, "Goodnight, Satoru. A-And don't call my house phone anymore, you scared the shit out of me."

He chuckles, "Sorry, you weren't picking up your cell so I got a little worried. But, yeah, goodnight, sweetheart."

You place the house phone back into its original place and the call ends there. Your hand lingers on top of the phone for a bit before you slowly slide your touch away and let your shoulders relax.

All the tension that'd been there just a moment ago has died down a little and you feel calmer now.

See? Everything is perfectly fine.

But, it wouldn't hurt to grab one of those knives just in case...

Fishing through the knife holder, you eventually pluck one up and bring it closer to you for inspection. You let the blade's end tap against your finger softly to make sure it's sharp, not exactly cutting yourself but just checking it out. Then, you breathe out another sigh as if to steady yourself again.

You had a weapon and you could call up Gojo if anything else went sideways so, everything was okay.

Just as you turn around, that last little thought of yours is practically fucked out of your head violently. There's a tall, brooding frame of a man standing a few feet away from you inside of your kitchen, the sight of him enough to make your entire body flinch with a physical force strong enough for you to drop the knife you just picked up.

You shoot down for the weapon you dropped and scramble it back up into your hands before rising up to your feet again, seeing that the man who'd just scared you hasn't moved an inch.

As your breath remains uneven and weighted with fear, the male inside your house is standing there with that signature smile of wickedness plastered all over his face. Cocking a thick pink brow, which you notice has two slits in one them, "'Sweetheart', huh?" He drawls, voice all dense with a baritone that fills every inch of the space between you both.

Your eyes are wide and frantic, running over every bit of your ex-best friend standing before you, trying to figure out whether or not this is real or just some fucked up nightmare. His hair, that same bright pink you know it to be, is all unkempt and wild atop his head as his eyes, low-lidded and dark, steadied onto yours.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You hiss out slowly, sounding unsure in your own tone given the abundant sense of unease inside you.

You watch his lower, rose-toned lip get pulled in between his teeth at the mere sound of your voice before his head angles to the side in slow motion. Then he lets his crimson eyes drag up and down the expanse of your frightened frame and swallows up every inch of you with his gaze alone. It's only been a few seconds and you felt as though you were shrinking under him already, despite the distance between you.

Sukuna's voice carries out with the same rasp that never fails to drive you insane, "Awh, come now," He coos with a pout of mocking smearing across his face for a moment, "Is this any way to greet your best friend? Pointing a knife at me as if it hasn't been years since we've last seen one another."

Your eye twitches in annoyance, "You set my fucking house on fire!"

He visibly reacts to the elevation in your tone with a rise of his brows and a slight adjustment backwards as if you'd pushed at him. "Surely you're not still mad about that," He purrs lowly before taking a small step forwards and ignoring the blade you have aimed his way.

You shift backwards but you merely meet the counter and realize you'd have to run left or right if you wanted to escape him. That, and most of the exits are somewhere behind him.

"You need to leave," You breathe hotly, "Get out before I call the cops again or I swear to—"

"Call the cops again?" Sukuna scoffs loudly and his next step closer makes the floor groan distantly under his bulky frame, "You think they can keep me locked up forever? I escaped once, I can do it again." Now he's only a few more steps away from you and you've yet to pry yourself away from your spot.

You hate how you can hardly move under his gaze, as if you'd been put under some type of spell or something, your body condemned to stay in place.

"And do you know where I'll come once I do?" He adds on slowly, sneaking nearer until he's only one step away from your personal space. "Right," The distance lessens as he takes that final step, "Back," Sukuna extends an arm out and you feel it brush against your side as he places his hand on the counter behind you, his lips grazing your ear now, "To you." he finishes off in a chilling whisper.

You fall impossibly quieter and he pulls away from your ear just to meet eyes with you, leaving you there to stare up at him with years of and years of emotions floating around your gaze. You wanted to say something, anything, but the only thing you could manage was a subtle twitch of your lips. To which he took as an opportunity to fill the silence.

Tone almost vulnerable if you listened hard enough, "I just wanted to see you," Sukuna admits, almost like he'd missed you or something.

Your grip on that rather useless knife of yours tightens, as does the feeling in your chest. You're standing face to face with him now, halfway trapped between his large body and the counter behind you.

And as if to unintentionally ruin the moment, his eyes sink further along your frame, drinking in your lack of a response to him and instead letting his expression color itself in amusement as he leans down to you and whispers, “You look good.”

The heated, “Fuck you.” that pours past your lips is instantaneous. You didn't even have to think about the words before uttering them, nor do you regret saying them to him in such a distasteful tone.

Sukuna hums somewhere deeply in his throat and draws himself back just a bit, “That’s what I’m here for, brat.”

You blink, “What?”

“Don’t you remember?" He continues, eyes studying every curve and twitch in your face as if he'd forgotten how expressive you could be. "All those years ago, that’s what you asked me to do, isn’t it?”

Your lashes are batting with perplexity now, “I didn’t ask you to do shit-”

“Well, that is the last thing you said to me.” He cuts off quickly. Then his hand moves off of the counter behind you and you instinctively draw your knife up, the tip of the blade tickling his chin and causing his head to tip back some. There's a faint hitch in his breath as he's caught off guard ever so faintly.

Testingly, your eyes remain vexing and pointing upwards on his, “So?”

His hand carefully reaches your wrist and his fingers curl around it, his touch a sense of gentleness you've never felt from him before. Sukuna was touching you as if you were made of some kind of porcelain—liable to break at any given moment. Which, naturally, had you even more pissed off. It lets you know that five years away from you did nothing but make him think he'd left you all fragile and on the edge of breaking or something.

“Are you really gonna sit there and act like you didn’t miss me all this time?" The fugitive questions further, voice an annoying cadence of softness. It was so out of character for him that it made you feel even more uneasy standing in front of him.

Something wasn't right here.

“I didn’t," You claim as if you hadn't spent over half of those five years doing exactly that.

“Mh," Sukuna hums again and this time his lips twitch back up into that usually smug smile, voice dropping, "Yeah? Is that what helps you sleep at night?”

To combat with his never ending smugness, you try to appear as nonchalant about it as you can and drag out your little white lie some more, “Yup.”

“Tch.” He's quickly irritated by that one word threading past your lips with such indifference, “So I set your house on fire one time and now all of a sudden ten years of friendship don’t mean shit to you?” He asks.

The statement itself was almost more concerning than the fact that he'd done that to you. You'd think five years in confinement would help a person think over their actions and actually consider the wrong in their crimes but apparently Sukuna Ryomen wasn't prone to such a thing.

“You tried to kill me, asshole.” You remind him for the nth time.

He talks half a step away from you and chuckles, “I’d never do something like that and you know it. If that fire had hurt you that day, I’d never forgive myself for it.” Sukuna claims in a weirdly endearing way.

You hate how that makes your chest do that weird clenching thing again, as if his words still had an honest affect on you after all this time. Somewhere distantly in your mind, you were screaming at yourself about how you should've called the police on him again when you had the chance, while you were still somewhat in your right mind. But now it was too late, you were already wrapped around his finger tightly with no desire to unravel yourself from him.

Before you can manage out another jab, he ends up bringing one of those large hands of his up to his sharpened jawline and then runs his palm over it carefully, gaze drooling out an emotion you don't care to acknowledge right now, “And I meant what I said,” He whirs, “You look good.”

Finally rolling your eyes elsewhere, “You shouldn’t be here.” You deflect.

Sukuna obviously doesn't move, “You’re not telling me to leave.”

“You need to.”

“Do you want me to?” He retorts, taking the following long second of silence as a decent enough response from you, “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

After which you allow yourself a moment to finally take the sight of him in. He's not as close as he was before which is somewhat helpful to your buzzing nerves but... fuck, he got even hotter within the time he's been gone.

Sukuna's always been tall but you swear he's grown a few more inches. All his features are sharper and more defined as if he hadn't let a day go by without properly taking care of himself, despite being locked away for so long. His body is staggering more so now than ever before as he stands in front of you clad in nothing more than a crisp white T-shirt and the rest of his prison jumper sitting low on his hips.

Now, this shouldn't be as distracting as it is but, as soon as you look down you can't help the way your eyes widen at the sight of the slightest sliver of smooth skin peeking out from the space between his lower abdomen and his pelvis. That bright orange fabric was way too low on his hips and you're sure he was aware of it too.

The toned V-line of his was adorned with trails of teasing veins that led to something you swore yourself up and down you didn't want to think about at all. But of course, it's hard not to think about it when you see that heavy tent in his crotch. You always knew Sukuna was... packing but, most times when you'd acknowledged it, you tried to shove the thought away just as quickly as it came.

It's a little hard to do that now when he's standing right in front of you watching you watch him. You don't even realize the way your eyes all but linger there as your lips part and a soft breath ghosts past them.

Then you're speaking your mind without thinking first, “You got… bigger.”

Your eyes are still glued to that outline of something bulky in his pants just before you hear him scoff at your shamelessness and force yourself to look up again. Sukuna's eyes look hungrier now. Shit, that wasn't your intention at all. You're should be kicking him out of your house right now-

“That’s what five years in a cell does to someone, woman," The man drawls, voice a pitch lower already.

One little moment of taking in his appearance and he was already feeling the effect you had on him. Moving your gaze away from his starved one, you resort to studying his now folded arms and how hefty they are tucked over his even broader chest. The tattoos across his skin still seemed as fresh as ever, almost as if not a day had ever gone by.

Clearing your throat and ignoring how hot you start to feel when your mind flashes an image of those same arms around you, “F-Five years in that cell and you still can’t even address me by my-” You're cut off when he looms closer all of a sudden, causing your stammered words to die out in your throat somewhere. He's mute as he draws close and then cranes his head down to your neck, inhaling you sharply. “...What are you doing?” You ask slowly, heart beginning to do that loud thumping thing again.

“You smell like another guy,” Sukuna utters a few inches away from your skin. It was almost as though he could see the scent of someone else on you before he even leaned in like that.

It gave you chills.

Trying to laugh his actions off again, you end up reaching a free hand up to his chest to try and lightly push him away, “What are you, a dog?”

“Woof," wisps out of his lips in a half-joking manner but with the way it slathers against your skin before the tip of his nose replaces the sensation as he zeros in on your neck, you're left struggling with a million and one emotions.

“The fuck…?” You whisper to yourself.

He only chuckles at your reaction, finding it rather cute, “Is that what I have to be to get in your good graces again?" Sukuna asks as his face adjusts to your neck and his teeth graze you, "Some kind of mutt?"

"No," You scoff, "Y-You're never getting in my good graces again." Your hand pushes at him again but even he could tell you don't mean anything by the gesture. Especially considering how you finally place your knife down somewhere behind you.

To which he smiles knowingly, "Oh yeah?"

"...Yeah," You manage out softly, turning your head to try and see what exactly he's doing.

"You don't sound so confident," Sukuna utters into your skin as if to let his words tattoo themselves into the area.

And hey, maybe you didn't sound confident because you weren't. So instead of searching for something new to say to him in response, you fall back on the same thing you've been saying to him for as long as you can remember. Angling your head elsewhere as you scoff a neatly said, "Fuck you."

"You keep saying that," He replies quickly while steadily gliding his head away from your neck and lifting. It's then that you're made well aware of how close he is to you now. Such little distance remains from his face to yours and all it would take is a short lean downwards for his lips to be against yours if either of you wished it so, "And I'm starting to think you want me to." He finishes off bluntly.

You blink out of your temporary daze just then, "What?"

"Fuck you," Your ex-best friend half-way clarifies, "It seems like you want me to fuck you."

"You-," Your words pause whilst your lashes flutter over one another, mind troubling itself trying to wrap around the audacity he seemed to carry after all this time. "You can't set my house on fire, go to jail for it, and then come back to me years later and try to sleep with me," You remind the man as you carry your stern gaze back up onto his, "Time does not equate to an apology, asshole."

Sukuna cocks a brow and bites back a laugh at the sound of that, "Is that what you need from me? A measly little apology?"

You scoff, "No, I don't need one from you but it would be nice-"

"I'm sorry." He says frankly, "Now, what else can I do to make up for it, hm?" His other hand presses behind you and you're trapped between both of his bulky arms before you even realize it, his voice dropping a tone and making the moment all the more intimate, "One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty nine days in which I have not seen nor heard from you and yet," You watch as his head tilts slowly and his eyes cascade down to the curve of yours lips, "You expect me to pry myself away from you?"

"Sukuna," You whisper, feeling almost suffocated in the lack of space between the two of you. Every fiber of his being was swallowing you up by the second and yet no matter how consuming it all felt, you couldn't find it in yourself to want to pull away.

You're unsure why his name even tiptoes past your lips like that when you carry no sort of argument against him any more. Sure, you should hate him now-, you think you still do but, it's hard to consider those emotions when he's so close.

Then his voice sinks another octave and your knees are feeling weak as his words exit him with something sinfully heated behind them, "I have missed you, achingly, for years," Sukuna claims, leaving you intoxicated in everything that pertains to him all over again. The tip of his finger meets your chin and forces your head further up, both of you now looking at the same thing now. "Yet you deny me. Why?" He questions.

You swallow thickly, as if that would lessen your nonexistent will to escape him, "You tried to kill me..." Your voice is meek and you hate every second of it, "Y-You set my house on fire."

The man fights with the smile that nearly broadens itself across his lips, "You remain unharmed."

"What about my home, Sukuna?" You ask in return, seeing as that is the most important thing here second to your well-being. Your tone is a little more sturdy now and he catches onto it, the sound making that undesirable glint in his irises return.

"It has been repaired, I see," He points out comically. After which his hand shifts and he holds the entirety of your jaw in his palm, thumb caressing your skin whilst he leans in and stops juuuust before his lips are on yours, "What more do you want from me?"

Your mouth trembles with the words that ached to leave them, unconsciously longing for the finality that is him kissing you at some point. You hated how in all the time he's been gone you'd done everything but move on and instead worked yourself up to a point so low in being touch-starved that you wanted to whine from the sheer closeness you shared with him alone.

"...Tell me why you did it." You eventually manage to demand from him.

He sighs but his answer is immediate, "You tried to replace me."

"What?" Your brows meet and your eyes shoot up to his, "No I didn't. I-I'd never-,"

"Gojo," Sukuna starts off interruptingly, allowing himself to meet those gorgeous pupils of pure vexing distaste he'd missed oh-so-graciously, "The fireman..."

"You can't be serious," You spat as you barely made an attempt to tug your chin out of his hold.

The effort you make is completely in vain since he only tightens his grip and this time tugs you impossibly closer, your breaths intertwining with one another now. "Forgive me," He demands, lips grazing the skin of yours as he does so.

Your mind halts every thought for a moment. The way he was looking at you alone was enough for you to have forgiven him a long time ago. Hell, you almost forget you were ever even mad with him to begin with. Sputtering, "I-I can't just-"

"Then let me apologize properly," Sukuna cuts off smoothly, words practically seeping out directly into your mouth now.

And all you could do was swallow down each one, completely entrapped in every thread of seductive manipulation he'd woven into you over the years. Your statement is airy as it strings out of you slowly, "You shouldn't even be here."

"I'm here because you need me to be," He protests.

You detest how true that may be but, you lie anyway, "No, I don't."

"Your body betrays your claims," The fugitive points out in the same way he always had whenever he saw directly through you, "Just look at the way you've leaned into my every touch as if you crave it—long for it, even," Sukuna continues on as his lips being to part over your own, ready to capture them in the sweetest, long overdue kiss. "Let me make my amends to you, woman." He requests of you kindly, shortly adding a borderline desperate, "Please."

——

You should never have given to that, really.

You were supposed to keep up with your act of stubbornness and not go back to your old ways of forgiving him no matter how wrong he did you. Yet, like any toxic relationship, you can't seem to find it in yourself to do that at all.

So here you are now, debauched and ruined in front of your own bedroom mirror. Having been put on display by the same man you were supposed to kick out of your home hours ago, you're busy bouncing up and down a looong expanse of his thick inches as he did nothing more than talk you to filth.

“Y’see this? See what’s all mine?” Sukuna rasps hotly against the sensitive shell of your ear, having one of his thick hands settled neatly onto the curve of your hips as he guides you up and down his swollen shaft with no sense of gentleness whatsoever. His other hand busies itself away with your jaw to keep your head facing the mirror just a few inches away from the edge of the bed where the two of you are sat, “Yeahhh, look how pretty she is taking all that cock. Taking all my cock. Uhuh..”

Your pussy is left swallowing up everything he stuffs up into you, singing out sloppy glistens of wetness and slick every time he hits that spot inside you no one else ever has or could before. All whilst your mouth dangles open, gorgeous strings of moans 'n whimpers gliding out of your throat and filling the air of your bedroom—the same bedroom he'd previously heard you talking to so many other guys in.

You never knew it of course; never knew that he had your entire home bugged from top to bottom, always listening to who you talked to and how you spoke to them. So five years ago, that might've been how he'd heard you call Gojo your best friend but, none of that matters much now. You're exactly where Sukuna has wanted you to be all this time.

“Fucked so stupid on it already,” He grunts at the way you're struggling to keep up your rhythm on top of him. “How cute,” Sukuna adds on cooingly, to which your cunt flexes ever so deliciously around his slobbering length.

Everything's a literal mess now.

You've got your neck plastered in spit and bite marks, all from the man who just swore he had to make sure you and anyone else who dare set their eyes on you after this knew you belonged to someone. The two of you have been at it for hours now and at this point you're hoping the police have long since forgotten about searching for him.

At some point you think you should've gone numb from the pleasure he'd given you but instead it was the exact opposite; you just couldn't get enough!

With the way your walls hugged the fat of his cock so snuggly every time he spoke, he couldn't help but carry out his teasing, “No one else has been in here, huh?” He asked, despite already being quite sure of the answer.

From drooly lips, “N-No, Sukuna,” You hardly manage out, especially with the way the wide crown of his cock is just thrashing up against your cervix, leaving the nastiest of kisses all against it so that you'll never forget the feeling, “Jus’ you.."

He smiles proudly at the sound of that and something in his chest swells dangerously. Hips bucking up faster-, harder to rudely knock up against the same place that's been gushing all over every inch of him for fuck knows how long now, "Really? So you were saving this pussy just for me, hm?”

“No,” You try huffing out. Instead, the short word comes out as more of a moan than anything but, all your syllables had been leaving you like that.

Just a few minutes ago he'd had you spread out over your bed and mumbled apologies into your cunt with nasty swirls of his tongue, inscribing every "sorry" into your walls with searing licks and lathers. It was the only time in all this that he'd gone somewhat quiet and instead let your pussy do the talking.

You hardly grasped what transpired from that to now since you're struggling to take everything he's giving you. Hell, you can barely get yourself to sink all the way down to that dark ink he's got wrapped around his cock, having told you that the tattoo there is—apparently—what you're supposed to be reaching with every thrust.

“Feels like you were,” He husks out thickly in between ragged breaths, grin only enlarging itself out across his slicked face, “Look at how sloppy she is around me,” And just as he says that, you're doing nothing more than watching the way your pussy lips drool so stupidly against the angry veins of his dick. To which he snickers into your ear just to tease you some more, “Such a wet lil' thing.”

You can't even control the way your head flops back somewhere against him, hips growing fatigued by the minute and throat hoarse from your pathetic mewls of pleasure, “Hnngh, S-Sukunaa."

The man only tuts before shaking his head a little to get the sweat-soaked pink locks of hair sticking to his forehead to move a bit, taking in the sight of how slovenly the both of you look right now.

With his lips sticking to the sensitive crest of your ear, he whispers ever so tentatively, “Made s’perfect for me,” A praise that only has you drenching the stretching girth that's tucked heavenly inside you, “Aren’t you?”

“M-Mhmm,” You agree instantly, of course. You think you've forgotten how to and the overall desire to deny him a long time ago from now.

Just then you feel a certain twitch spasming against your honeyed walls, causing a lewd squelch to ring out. Sukuna's breath gets even more breathier as his heavy balls ache for the release he's been saving just for you. “Slut,” He calls, almost as if that were your birth given name. “Look at me,” The same strong hand on your jaw forces your head to turn and your eyes meet his dilated pupils, “Can you feel that? Feel what you do to me? What you’ve been doing to me? Hm?”

Just as he asks you all those dirty questions, you feel him rolling the rest of his cock deeper inside you, trying to make that slathered tattoo disappear all the way past your puffy folds already.

“Yes,” You croak pliantly, earning a mocked pout of his kiss-bitten lips.

“Yeah? How do I feel inside there, huh?” He asks, just to earn a soft whine out of your throat instead of proper response. Then he cocks his brow up, “S’good you can’t answer me properly? Poor thing—here," All. of your breath is ripped out of your lungs as he then moves both of his arms down to swoop under your thighs and lift them up and out. Followed by which is him finding the nerve to stand with you in his hold.

You quickly find yourself in a full nelson before you have the time to break out of your cockdrunken state. The drool from your lips drips out onto the floor with soft, nasty splatters that match what's currently leaking all off of his balls and onto the floor.

Oh, the sight is nothing short of pure filth.

But—naturally—Sukuna's not phased by the change of positions in the slightest, "Tell me if this is better for you.” He taunts.

Better for you? As if. You could feel a tingling sensation thrumming all throughout your legs as they reduced to utter mush in his arms, especially as he starts moving. His thick cock dives in and out of your leaking hole, creating the prettiest sounds of nastiness that reverberate throughout the space around you.

Sukuna spreads you out impossibly wider with his rugged, tattooed arms secured too neatly under the plush of your thighs, having you take him fully now. Your hips feel wobbly whilst he hauls you up and down his cock, leaving you to do nothing but sop up everything he slid so thoroughly into you.

You're gasping when his wiiiide cock lodges so suddenly against your sweetest spot, “Kuna’, c-can’t—mmgh! Fuck! M’gonna cum,” You pant heavily, adding on a cute whine of, “S'too much!”

He's kissing somewhere near your neck now but you're too focused on the feel of his weepy head against where you needed him most to realize. Not until he starts that raspy purring against your hot skin, “Again? You like my cock that much?”

“N-No,” You manage to argue playfully, “I just-, mmnh! I-I like the way you fuck me.”

“Oh really?” He scoffs instantaneously, as if offended for a second. “And yet look at this messy pussy," Sukuna directs, causing your attention to shift down at the way you've left the creamiest mess of release all around that dark ink of his. "Crying alll around the same cock she hates.”

“Ohfuck,” You gape, eyes watering up again when he bites down hard at your neck. Something deep in the pit of your stomach felt as though you were bursting and fuck did it feel good.

So good that you're driven straight into overstimulation for the nth time of the night, all while sobbing and pleading for something—though you're not quite sure what for. It's not like you wanted a break by this point, no, no, you were much more interested in him breaking you.

So why does your body start squirming in his arms all over the place as if to escape him? You've no idea.

“Don’t do that,” Sukuna starts scolding you the moment he catches onto it, arms bulging around your folded body and locking you in place, “Take it, since you like the way I fuck. Take it, every fuckin’ inch—none of these-," His head angles up to lick the streaming teardrops off of your cheeks, "Mmh… sweet-, tears. Awh, look at you trying to run from it. S'this too much for my slutty girl?” He sears into you.

“Sukuna, please,” You beg. For what? You're still unsure but by this point you're unsure about everything. The only thing you can think about is the way he feels inside you.

He's still breaking out that smug smile of his, taunting, “Please what?”

“I-I can’t—“ You don’t even know what you were trying to say with the way your mind blanks and you cream around the thick of his cock yet again.

“Shh, shh, listen to her," Sukuna instructs, letting your gasps and cunt become the loudest things in the room. “Y'Hear that? That’s what good sluts sound like when they get fucked right.” He explains to you, talking into your ear once more just to have you spasming all around him for the millionth time. The baritone in his voice gets impossibly heavier in the next second, “Hah, ready to hear how they get bred?”

In response, all you can do is clench around him and manage a lazy, fucked-out nod of your head.

“Ohhh, you are, huh?” He coos.

“Uhuhh,” You babble, “Please ‘Kuna... N-Need it."

A scratchy grunt tumbles up from his throat, “Need what? Say it for me.”

“Cum inside me,” You say fully and almost perfectly for the first time in hours, “Fuck me full.”

He almost does at the sound alone but for some reason, he feels as though he needed to hold out just a little longer. "S'that what you need?" Sukuna huffs, thrusts entirely uneven now with the way his pearly 'n dawdling cockhead thwacked around your insides with no more direct focus, just feral need. "You need my cum inside you?"

"Yes," You weep delightfully.

Your best friend can only manage another, "Fuck, I've missed you so much." at the sound of that. Then he's spilling every globbing rope of cum inside you. His thrusts punctuating to make sure it takes, "Thought about you every. single. day."

"Sukuna," Your head is turning elsewhere again and for some reason he hates that.

So he's rasping a needy, "Look at me," all over again, swallowing down the terribly plead that nearly jumped out of his throat. Masking the near level of patheticness he'd reached, "Now tell me you love me." he demands instead.

Your mind may be a mush of cockdrunk and fucked-stupid but you still carry that same strength to push his buttons one more time, "F-Fuck you,"

Sukuna groans harshly and turns around with you. One second you're held tightly in his hands and the next he's laying you down on the bed flat with a rough grab on your head just to push it against your bedsheets. The next few moans that leave your throat are broken and muffled as he plows into you in yet another new position—prone bone—and driving his fat cock into every quivering crevice of your cunt.

His free hand presses down against the newfound arch in your spine and his dick feels even thicker inside you somehow. Eyes fluttering, you end up giving in without him having to say anything else, "F-Fuck! I love you, 'Kuna..." You sob into the bed.

He tugs your head up by your hair with a sharp pull, "One more time f'me?"

"Hnngh, I l-love you," You whimper.

He chuckles as if he's aware of something you're not, "Oh, I know you do, sweetheart, I know." Then he's leaning down, wide, muscular body caging yours as he speaks carefully, "You're never gonna send me off like that again, right?"

"Never," You're choking now, his hard tip kissing that spot of yours yet again.

"So obedient," Sukuna comments whilst practically spelling his name out into your cunt, "All I have to do is give you some cock for you to obey my every word, huh?"

You're nodding like some idiotic whore now, "Mhmm.."

"What a slut." He scoffs—as if he isn't into it or something—and then lets his eyes glide down your gorgeously ruined body, "My slut though, isn't that right?"

You don't even try to think before speaking. The words easy fall past your lips in a wispy puff, "All yours S'kuna."

"Juuust as I fuckin' thought," He breathes out in return. And then with one last little snicker, his voice dips to something so quiet that you nearly miss the way he finishes off with a softened, "'Love you too, woman."

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