Welcome To My Bucky Barnes Obsession.

You nodded frantically, heart hammering. The team had been dropping hints for weeks, Tony’s smirks, Nat’s knowing eyebrow raises, Sam’s not-so-subtle “get a room… or don’t, we all know you won’t” comments. But Bucky loved the risk. Loved dragging you into elevators between floors, fucking you stupid in supply closets, bending you over in the gym at dawn before anyone woke up. It all made him feral.

His metal fingers flexed on your hip as he freed himself from his sweatpants. God, he was huge, thick, heavy, the flushed head already leaking as it nudged against your soaked folds. Every time he pushed in, it felt like he was splitting you open in the best way.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed, sinking the first few inches in slow. Your eyes rolled back, a muffled whimper vibrating against his palm. “That’s it… take it. Take every fucking inch like you were made for me.”

You were dripping down your thighs already, legs shaking as he worked deeper. He bottomed out with a grunt, hips flush against your ass, stretching you so full you could barely breathe.

Bucky’s voice dropped even lower, filthy right against your ear. “Gonna fill this pretty pussy up. Breed you right here where anyone could walk in. You want that? Want me to pump you so full it leaks out for days? Want my baby growing in you while you try to act normal around the team?”

You clenched hard around him at his words, nodding desperately. The breeding talk always destroyed you. He knew it. He lived for it.

He started moving, deep punishing thrusts that made your toes curl. The wet slap of skin was obscenely loud in the stairwell, but he didn’t care. One hand stayed over your mouth, the other slid down to press on your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock moving inside you.

“Feel that? That’s me, doll. Ruining you for anyone else. Gonna breed you so deep you’ll be swollen with it. Walking around with my cum dripping down your legs while Steve asks you about mission reports.”

A door opened somewhere above you. Footsteps. Voices. Sam and Clint, arguing about pizza toppings. Bucky froze balls-deep, grinding slow and dirty, his hand tightening over your mouth as your eyes widened in panic.

“Shhh,” he breathed, lips brushing your neck. He rolled his hips in tiny circles, pressing right against that spot that made you see stars. “Don’t you dare make a sound while they’re right there.”

The footsteps faded. As soon as the door clicked shut again, Bucky lost it. He fucked you hard, fast, brutal strokes, metal arm wrapped around your waist to hold you up as your knees gave out.

“Such a good little slut for me,” he panted. “Taking my cock while the team’s wandering around. Gonna cum so deep in you. Knock you up right here.”

You came first, biting his palm to stay quiet, pussy fluttering and squeezing around his massive length. Bucky followed with a choked groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded you, rope after rope until you felt impossibly full, some already leaking out around where he stretched you.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, rocking gently, pushing his release deeper.

“Mine,” he whispered, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple. “All fucking mine.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was pulling your leggings back up, smirking at the way you wobbled.

“Better fix your face before we go back out there, doll. Can’t have them knowing I just bred my girl in the stairwell… again.”

As you stepped out onto the floor together, trying to look casual, Tony’s voice drifted from the couch without even looking up.

“Stairwell this time? Bold choice, Barnes. The vents are getting jealous.”

Bucky just grinned, metal hand possessively on your lower back, already thinking about round two in the elevator.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

Every time you roll over and smack the pillow in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, your mind replays memories of the night like images flashing across the silver screen. The crooked, excited smile on his face. His hand tugging yours to the dance floor. The gentle way he held you when the music slowed, his arm wrapping more securely around you. The look in his eyes when he pecked your cheek, like he wanted more but wasn't going to take it.

Your heart stutters.

Bucky wanted more.

The man who is—was?—like a brother to you, who listened to you complain about the way men treat you like you're something to claim, who never actually gave the advice you asked for and offered reassurance instead. He wanted more. But he didn't take it. He didn't even ask for it.

Because despite all the stories people have told about him since his freshman year of high school, despite all the women who have chased him, James Buchanan Barnes is, first and foremost, a gentleman.

Your gaze flicks to the vase your mother set near your windowsill. The flowers he brought specifically for you stand proudly under the soft glow of the streetlights outside, each petal a delicate display of something dangerously close to affection. Knowing he somehow knew exactly what flowers you prefer has something warm settling in your chest.

Years of being around the Barnes siblings, of being Rebecca's best friend. Years of looking at him like he's just Bucky. Now? The world has shifted, tilted on its axis before you could even think to brace yourself for the flood of realizations and subsequent emotions that can only mean one thing: you have feelings for him.

The thought makes your heart race and cheeks burn like a nervous schoolgirl.

Flipping your pillow over for the cool side, you shove your face into it hoping if it doesn't help you fall asleep, maybe it'll smother the thoughts running rampant in your brain.

Because Bucky Barnes is suddenly no longer just anyone.

And Rebecca is going to kill you.

The sun is just beginning to light the sky when sleep finally claims you, only waking at the incessant ring of the telephone down the hall. You're already pulling yourself out of bed and rubbing sleep from your eyes when the warm sound of your mother's voice answers the call. She smiles when you poke your head out the door.

"Phone's for you, dear." She holds out the receiver.

Mind still foggy with sleep and remnants of a dream you can barely recall, you head to the phone.

"Hello—"

"Come over, we're going to Rockaway," Becca's voice comes over the receiver, quick and impatient.

"No greeting?" you tease, leaning against the wall and fighting back a yawn. The house smells of lemon and sugar, making your stomach growl.

She sighs and you swear you hear her eyes rolling. "Hi, hope you're well. Bucky and Steve both have the afternoon off and if we leave soon we might still see daylight. Get over here."

— — —

The door to the Barnes residence swings open almost as soon as your knuckles touch it. A wild-eyed Becca beams the second her eyes land on you, the scent of Winnifred's fresh baked bread wafting out into the street.

"It's about time! That train is going to take us forever," Becca turns, calling to who you can only assume is Steve and Bucky in the living room. "She's here! Let's go!"

Steve's the first to come around the corner, a couple strands of his blond hair falling to the middle of his forehead. He offers a polite smile and a nod in greeting before Bucky rounds the corner, tossing an arm around his best friend's shoulders and meeting your gaze.

He looks unfairly handsome today; dark hair perfectly mussed, a grease smudge lingering near his temple from working at the garage this morning. The easy smile forming on his lips makes your stomach flip.

"Nice of you to finally show up," he says coolly. His gaze trails over your face, like he's searching for something. Or maybe he sees right through you.

Before you can even think to stop yourself, your mouth opens. "Miss me that bad?"

Bucky's eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly, his eyes flashing with something too quick to interpret.

"Maybe I did."

Becca, who is pretending not to watch the interaction and failing miserably, smirks and clears her throat. "Hey, Romeo, can we go now?"

Your eyes widen. Steve bites back a laugh while silently mouthing "Romeo?" and Bucky chuckles, already stepping forward and dragging Steve along with him out the door. Becca grins, clearly proud of herself, the loose curls of her hair bouncing as she falls into step beside you.

The day is bright and warm, bordering on uncomfortably hot as the mid-afternoon sun beats down on the sidewalks of Brooklyn. By the time you step off the train in Rockaway, mild relief comes in the form of a salty ocean breeze as the group walks down the boardwalk.

People sprawl out in all directions along the beach and across the street to Rockaways' Playland, earning a displeased grumble from Becca before leading the way through the crowd. She slips through easily, Steve following quickly behind her. Bucky falls in step behind you. Despite all the people, you can't help but be aware of exactly where he is, the sound of his shoes on the pavement, the low "excuse me" as he brushes past someone to keep up with you.

The crowd inside the park is only slightly less crowded as the beach itself. A line for the park's specialty wooden coaster snakes around in a neat line before ending near the carousel. The scent of fried funnel cakes and popcorn mixes with the salty air. It brings back memories of all the times this same group went to Coney Island growing up, when everything felt effortless for four kids in Brooklyn.

Your gaze lands on Bucky. He's laughing with Steve as they approach the line for the ticket booth ahead, carefree and happy as the afternoon sun highlights his sharp features.

Becca catches you looking and hooks her arm in yours. She leans over and whispers conspiritorially, "How was the date last night?"

Your eyes snap to hers, heart racing. Bucky glances over across the midway.

"Date?" you ask a little too quickly. As if Rebecca Barnes hasn't been able to read you like a book for most of your lives. You hadn't told her yet. You hadn't mentioned any Friday night plans to her, let alone that said plans had involved her older brother.

She gives you a look, all but rolling her eyes as the corners of her lips pull into a knowing smile.

"With my idiot brother, obviously."

Years of friendship, of shared laughter, tears, secrets and jokes have made you as close as any two people can possibly be. Things have changed overnight. You know it. She knows it. Yet she doesn't seem angry. If anything, she sounds relieved, like she's been waiting for the day Bucky finally stepped up.

"You're not mad?"

"Of course not," she scoffs before pressing further, giving you a little shake. "Details, girl, come on."

You swallow and huff a nervous laugh, suddenly finding a nearby pigeon incredibly interesting. "It was fine." Understatement of the century.

"Just fine?" she asks, leaning closer, voice raising in utter disbelief. "He came home practically floating on cloud nine last night. I've seen him go on a lot of dates over the last ten years, but there's only one person I've seen make him smile like—"

"Atom Smasher, ladies, let's go!" Bucky calls, his voice booming louder than necessary and pointing to the coaster rumbling by. People nearby glance at him sideways. Someone spills popcorn. He's staring at Becca with the look of an older brother knowing exactly what's about to be said and silently begging her not to continue.

She looks at you but doesn't finish her statement, turning on her heel and leaving you standing near a hot dog cart processing her words. You follow slowly, stomach flipping from more than just the thought of the roller coaster.

The afternoon moves in a blur of laughter, adrenaline, and too much sunlight for anyone's own good. Bucky attempts to play ring toss, insisting his aim is perfect, before wildly missing two of the three shots.

"What was that?" Becca snorts, doubling over in laughter and wiping non-existent tears from her eyes.

"Distracted, Buck?" Steve asks. His lips twitch with a knowing smile.

"What? No," he says quickly. The tips of his ears turn pink. "My arm's tired from the shop, shut up."

You bite back a smile from the sudden realization that James Barnes isn't always as suave as he appears and is, in fact, human—nerves and all.

He catches your eye before he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. "Anyone up for the shooting gallery? A quarter says I can hit the bullseye on the first try."

Steve and Becca glance at each other sideways.

The gallery sits toward the middle of the park, tucked between concessions and skill games against the roller coaster, with scooter cars across the midway. Lights flicker on, the sun beginning to set and casting an orange glow across the various structures. Bucky doesn't hesitate the moment the gallery comes into view. He rushes over and hands a dime to the attendant, wearing a grin that is far more confident than it probably should be.

The moment the gun touches his hand, his demeanor changes. He lifts it with all the seriousness in the world—intense focus and smooth movements that speak of a man who's done this more times than he can count. He pulls back the forend and fires a shot before you even blink. A bulb flashes immediately.

"Bullseye!" The attendant calls, grabbing the photo that just printed and setting it on the counter next to Bucky.

"Lucky shot," Steve scoffs.

"Jealous, Rogers?" he asks, lowering the gun.

"How—" you start.

Bucky glances over at you, his grin back. He grabs the picture and shoves it in his pocket unceremoniously. He shrugs, but the look on his face betrays just how confident he is. "Easier than it looks."

"Liar," Steve and Becca mumble simultaneously.

Bucky ignores them, his focus solely on you. "I'll prove it. Give it a try." He gestures with his head for you to come closer, the gun securely in his hands.

As you step towards him, interest piqued yet moving slower than strictly necessary, you barely register Steve clear his throat. "We're gonna go find something to drink," he announces before dragging Rebecca off somewhere.

"I'm going to embarrass myself," you mutter when you finally reach him.

Bucky's lips curl into a smirk that would be almost infuriating if it didn't make your pulse spike. "Not a chance, I'll help you. Do you trust me?"

"After ring toss? No."

He blinks, looking offended for a moment before a smile spreads across his face. "Oh come on, did I not just prove myself right here?" he laughs. "I'm better with a gun, I promise."

"Fine." With a resigned sigh and a roll of your eyes, you take the gun from him and step up to the counter. It's heavier than expected, the metal cool against the summer air, the wood polished just enough to be smooth in your palms.

Bucky waits for you to nod before he steps behind you. His hands are warm and careful as they guide your form; firm grip on the forend, butt plate braced against your shoulder, elbow just so.

His hands move to your shoulders, fingers squeezing gently. "Relax. Too stiff in the shoulders and you'll definitely feel it tomorrow."

"Easier said than done," you mutter, all too aware of how close he's standing and how heat is radiating from him.

He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he just watches, waiting. Your eyes are locked on the center of the target, finger on the trigger guard, breath coming out a little too quick.

You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, making your heart beat quicken. Then he leans down slightly.

"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" His breath is hot against your ear. You shiver. You don't even have to look at him to know his lips are curved into that familiar Barnes grin that means trouble.

"Shut up," you huff, the gun still aimed at the target. Heat warms your cheeks, and the way your heart beats against your chest makes it hard to focus on the target in front of you.

He chuckles and takes a half step back, giving you space to focus.

"Rest your cheek against the wood. Line up both sights and take a breath. You can do it."

You take a deep breath, grateful for the space. The coaster roars by, rattling the ground beneath your feet. Then, with relaxed shoulders and a slow release of breath, you pump the forend and squeeze the trigger.

A bulb flashes.

"Bullseye!"

You stare at the target in disbelief. A beat passes. Two. A low whistle sounds from behind you.

"Would you look at that," Bucky murmurs, tone full of pride. "Careful. With a shot like that, they might send you to Camp McCoy."

A laugh slips from your lips and you shake your head, lowering the gun and handing it back to the attendant who hands you the souvenir photo.

You glance at the picture in your hands and everything stops.

Centered in the image is you, hair slightly ruffled from the afternoon's activities, face focused. Behind you is Bucky. Standing just beneath the Shoot-A-Photo sign, he stands tall. Proud. His eyes aren't on the target; they're on you, with a look on his face you've never noticed before—a soft smile, softer eyes. It makes your breath catch.

Bucky peeks over your shoulder at the picture, your silence making him curious. His gaze lingers on the photo for a moment before flicking up to your face, watching your expression.

"You're overthinking again," Bucky teases softly, pulling you from your thoughts. He nudges you with his elbow for good measure, chuckling when you attempt to swat him away.

"I'm not."

"Your eyebrows say otherwise."

You huff and turn to look at him. He grins before you speak again. "I'm just…trying to make sense of some things."

"Yeah," he sighs, his expression softening with an understanding nod. "I know the feeling."

His gaze drifts down the midway, finding Steve and Becca near the carousel. Steve suddenly finds something interesting in the sky, but Becca doesn't back down from watching the scene unfold.

"Walk with me?" Bucky asks, his eyes finding yours again.

You hesitate for a moment before nodding, the grip on the photo in your hands tightening slightly.

As the two of you walk through the park, each step slow, Bucky lets the silence stretch, allowing the amusement park's general chaos and tinny music fill the space instead. It's comfortable in a way you hadn't expected. Years of friendship now teetering on the edge between possibilities that could make or break everything you've ever known.

Bucky breaks the silence first, his hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders are tense. "Remember how we used to spend essentially entire summers at Coney Island?"

The reminder makes you smile. "We spent far too much time there. Too much sun."

Bucky laughs. "And too much cotton candy. Becca used to badger me to not eat so much sugar."

"You never did listen. Those poor employees."

"Hey,"—he throws his hands up in surrender—"it's not my fault they offer pure sugar for so cheap and then have the best coaster in Brooklyn directly opposite the stand. It's like they encouraged it."

You both laugh, the nostalgia a welcome distraction for a moment before your thoughts comes crawling back. Bucky gives you a moment before speaking again, his voice low.

"Anything I can help you make sense of?"

You shake your head, unsure where to even begin or how honest to be. Your mind replays the past twenty-four hours and Rebecca's words. The photograph in your hand is physical proof that you aren't crazy.

"I don't even know how to explain it."

"Try."

"I'll sound ridiculous."

"Impossible."

You sigh, shoulders raising with a deep breath to brace yourself. "I thought you asked me out because you pitied me."

He stops in his tracks. His brows pinch in confusion as he looks at you.

"Pity?" The word leaves him like he's not sure he heard right. He says your name with a short huff of disbelief. "Why on earth would you think that?"

You shrug, not quite meeting his gaze. "Because my love life is hopeless. Because you're Rebecca's brother. Because I've watched women throw themselves at you for years. Take your pick."

His mouth opens and closes a couple times, processing your words. When he doesn't answer right away, you finally look at him, and for a moment, he looks torn between being honest or making a joke to ease the tension thickening the air. He picks the former.

"Last night was the furthest thing from pity. That was me finally doing something I should've done several years ago."

That admission hits hard, making your heart skip. "What?"

Bucky hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, voice low and steady.

"Every smile aimed in my direction makes me feel like I can take on the world. Every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes…" he chuckles and shakes his head, his gaze falling to the concrete where the toe of his shoe scuffs the concrete. "Then you came over after another bad date asking me for advice with men that don't deserve you, and I had no idea what to say. Because to me, those men are just too blind to see how incredible you are."

The silence stretches between you, your mind and heart racing. His eyes lift to find yours again.

"Every time I look at you, I have to fight not to reach for you, to hold you. I took you out last night because I wanted you to know how I'd treat you if you gave me the chance."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" you whisper, voice barely audible among the noise.

He sighs. "I was scared—I still am. The last thing I want is to ruin what we have. You mean a lot to me."

The air stills.

"You really mean that?" Your feet move a half step closer.

Bucky looks at you, hoping flickering in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders ease.

"Every word," he murmurs. His hand lifts, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch is soft, barely there and different than last night—tentative and full of silent questions.

You find yourself leaning into his touch, warm and familiar in the best way. His eyes glance at your lips before searching your face for any signs of hesitation. His thumb brushes your cheekbone.

Then, slowly, he leans in.

The kiss is short but sweet. A simple press of lips, uncertain, yet enough to forget the noise and people around you as his hand moves to fully cup your cheek.

It ends too soon.

Bucky pulls away just enough to rest his forehead on yours. Opening your eyes, you find his still closed, lips parted with breaths that fan across your face in light puffs, brows drawn together just enough to cause a crease between them. He slowly pulls back again. A muscle in his jaw twitches when he finally opens his eyes, immediately flicking to your lips like he's committing how they feel to memory.

You smile before you can stop yourself, feeling lighter than you have in a long time. He licks his lip and grins back, a soft laugh escaping him.

"That was…" he starts.

"Terrible?" you offer. Bucky laughs again, his free hand lightly touching your waist like he wants to pull you closer.

"Better than I'd hoped, actually."

The admission is soft and makes your heart flutter.

"So…what happens after this?" you ask.

He nods thoughtfully, taking a half step back like he just remembered you're in public, Rockaways' Playland hardly being a place for privacy. His touch lingers for a moment before dropping back to his side.

"I'd like to give us a real chance. If you're open to it."

You don't let him finish before your answer comes tumbling out. "I'd like that, too."

Bucky's blue eyes sparkle under the midway lights. He doesn't say a word as he reaches for the hand not holding the photograph, fingers intertwining with yours like it's second nature.

"Perfect," he says softly. "Come on, I think fireworks are starting soon."

The walk back down the midway feels shorter than it did before. Maybe it's the weight of everything now lifted off your shoulders, or maybe it's the feeling of his hand in yours. Maybe it's the lingering memory of his kiss—an answer to the million questions you asked yourself over the last day. Whatever it is, the crowds heading towards the beach barely register.

Steve spots you first, smiling to himself at the sight of your joined hands before gently nudging Becca's side. Her eyes go wide. Her grin goes wider. No one says a word as the four of you follow the crowd to the beach across the street.

The sand is still warm from the day when you sit down, placing the picture on your lap. Bucky doesn't let go of your hand, his shoulder brushing yours as he joins you, his long legs stretching in front of him.

It's a short wait before the first firework bursts, red lighting the sky and reflecting across the water. Golds and blues join quickly and fill the air with a dazzling display.

You glance at Bucky. He's not looking at the fireworks. He's watching you, lips curving into a soft smile when your eyes meet.

His fingers tighten around yours, and you scoot a little closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He lets out a quiet sigh and gently leans his cheek against your head before finally looking at the fireworks overhead.

A/N: If you’ve made it this far, I just want to extend a massive thank you for reading and supporting this story. It’s been almost a year in the making, which blows my mind when it wasn’t meant to go this far. You’ve also seen me grow significantly as a writer and it genuinely makes me emotional. Anywho…as of now, I’m tentatively calling this the end—but you never know what inspiration might hit me and maybe there will be a sequel someday. Lots of love 💜

⤷ Everything S. Stan: @steelandvibranium @/phoenix-in-writing @syd-vixious @sebastians-love @overwintering-soldier @wintersgirllost @wint3rbarnes @miraclediviner @barnes-babydoll @buckytakethewheel @bucksbby @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @dei-dreamz @ladymiseryy @ornateglass @galactict3a @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @blue-eyes-in-august @/juniebjonesin @erina00

⤷ Bucky Barnes only: @phantom-wolf-girl @bartonsparrow25 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @highhopes1008 @hagridshaircare @jamesbbcrnes

⤷ Everything Taglist: @sunday-bug @tw1sters @/castielscaplan

⤷ Barnes Knows Best Taglist: @lost-girly-014 @dreamiierose

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

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

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

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

"I know, I know. Traffic sucks."

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

"You're late."

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

Great. An overachiever with something to prove.

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

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

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

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

Oh, this is going to be fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wait. Let him say it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

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

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

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

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

"Yes, you're dismissed."

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

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

Outside, the administrative assistant gives you a knowing look.

"How'd it go?"

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

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

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

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

Two weeks. He'd given you two weeks.

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

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

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

Publicly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And that's accurate feedback!"

"In front of sixty people!"

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that follows is deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

"You think I don't know that?"

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

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

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

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

"That's not—"

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

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

"You don't know anything about me."

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

He stops abruptly, jaw clenching.

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

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

The words settle between you like stones.

"I never asked for your help."

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

Your mouth goes dry. "You can't—"

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

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

"Fine," you bite out.

"Fine," he echoes.

"Is that all?"

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

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

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

You should be terrified.

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

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

The Monday meetings become a special kind of torture.

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

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

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

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

You hate every second of it.

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

"As required."

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

"Is there a problem?"

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

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

"No problem," you say instead.

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

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

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

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

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

His expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his features.

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

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

"That's not fair."

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

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

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

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

"By threatening to kick me out?"

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not true."

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

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

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

The accuracy of it steals your breath.

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

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

He stops, something warring in his expression.

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

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

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

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

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

You don't know who moves first.

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

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

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

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

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

"Your door is locked."

"That is not the point."

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

"You're my student."

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

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

"Yes..."

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

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

"Say it," you challenge.

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

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

"Or what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We don't have to—"

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

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

"When have I ever been sensible?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bucky—"

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

"I know it's complicated, but—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Bucky—"

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

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

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

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

You don't wait for his response.

Six weeks later

The remaining weeks of the semester are torture.

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

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

Fine. You can take a hint.

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

But you're also miserable.

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

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

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

"Heading out for the summer?"

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

"Boston's far."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got me peonies," you say finally.

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

"You were doing research about my favorite flower?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like you've been planning this."

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

"You made an itinerary for our first date?"

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

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

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

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

"The one you kept staring at during meetings?"

"I was not staring—"

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

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

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

"Good," you say and kiss him again.

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

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

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

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

"Boston," he said finally.

Your stomach dropped. "You heard about that?"

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

"But?"

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

"You're serious."

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

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

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

"You're ridiculous."

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

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

"Three months," you whispered against his lips.

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

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

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

"You'd leave your job?"

"For you? In a heartbeat."

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

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

"That I was a nightmare?"

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

"Good trouble?"

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

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

"Yeah?"

"You're coming upstairs."

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

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

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

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

"Promises, promises."

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

"Wait."

"For what?"

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

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

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

"Doing what?"

"Being a brat."

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

You didn't make it past the entryway.

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

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

"End of the hall."

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

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

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

"Yes, please, yes."

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

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

"Maybe I just like matching sets."

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

"Presumptuous—"

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

"Make me."

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

"I'm not scared of you."

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

"Problem?"

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

"You love it."

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

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

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

"Then don't—"

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

"Bucky!"

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

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

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

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

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

"I—no, I just—"

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

"Bucky, please—"

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

"Please make me come," you gasped out.

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded frantically.

"Words."

"Yes, yes I can—"

"Good girl."

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

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

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

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

"Open," he commanded, and you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

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

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

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

"So okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up, it's not weird."

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

"Now you're making fun of me."

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

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

"Just like that?"

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

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

He followed a half-step behind, close enough to catch her scent again, that same soap-and-flower warmth, and made himself stop noticing it. That particular exercise was becoming a full-time occupation, it seemed.

"Tell me something," he said, before he could think better of it. "The kitchen. That water, arriving without a hand to draw it." He kept his voice even, no longer troubling himself to hide his curiosity. "Does the bath work by the same principle?"

She glanced back at him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

"You catch on fast."

"I am not an imbecile," he said again, for the second time that day. "Merely unfamiliar with how things work here."

"I know that." Something in her tone had softened since the kitchen episode. "Pipes. A boiler somewhere in the building does the heating. You turn the handle, water shows up already knowing what temperature you want it. Fancy, right?"

The room she led him into was smaller than the kitchen, tiled floor and walls both, pale and seamless in a way that made him think of the inside of an eggshell.

A white porcelain basin sat against one wall, not unlike the one in the kitchen but smaller, mounted at waist height with the same two-handled fixture. Beside it, something else entirely.

A low, white, seated thing. Porcelain, like the basin. A bowl set into a pedestal, water sitting still and clear at the bottom of it, and above the water, on the wall behind, a small metal lever.

He knew a garderobe when he saw one, a plank with a hole cut through it, seated over a shaft dropping into a pit somewhere below. He simply couldn't reconcile that knowledge with something built to sit inside a lady's own home rather than tucked into a stone alcove.

"A garderobe?" he said, testing the word against what he was looking at.

"If that means what I think it means… yeah, sure. Close enough." She crossed to it, unbothered by the topic, and pressed the small lever down.

Water rushed loudly with violence in the bowl that swallowed the still water whole and refilled the basin clean and clear a moment later, the sound tapering off into a soft hiss and then nothing at all.

He stared at it.

"The water… where does it go?"

"Pipes again. Out to the sewer line under the street." She shrugged, hands already moving toward the towels, like the miracle she'd just performed wasn't worth a second look.

"No pit," he said. "No need to empty it. No smell."

"None. I’m sure you’ll get used to it fast. Give it a day, and you'll forget people ever lived any other way."

He looked at the thing with something bordering on genuine reverence, and thought, distantly, that whoever had built this century had made something very close to a small miracle and simply hadn't noticed.

"C'mon," she said. "The good part's over here."

The tub sat at the far end of the room, white and deep, longer than most he'd bathed in, with a single faucet mounted at one end and three handles above it, identical in principle to the ones he'd already seen. Above all of it, a metal bar was suspended between two walls, and from it, a curtain of some pale, slick fabric, drawn back against the wall.

He studied the faucet.

"Same deal as the kitchen," she said, following his gaze. "Turn the handles, water comes out. Hot's on the left, cold's on the right, and don't ask me why, because I didn't design the plumbing."

He nodded slowly, filing it beside everything else he'd learned today. Simple enough. He could manage that much on his own.

"And that." He gestured at the metal ring overhead, the pale curtain hanging still, waiting for some purpose he hadn't yet worked out. "What is its function?"

"That's for the shower. Watch." She reached past him and turned one of the handles.

Water erupted from directly above the tub, not from the faucet at all, but from a wide metal disc fixed to the underside of that hanging ring, a sudden violent hiss of spray striking down into the bathtub below it, loud and fast and entirely without warning.

He was against the wall before he'd decided to move, one hand thrown up, the other reaching for a blade that wasn't there, hadn't been there in hours. He stood well clear of the tub, untouched; every part of him had gone tense and ready to fight.

He stared at the water driving down into the bathtub, chest heaving, and felt something in his face go hot that had nothing to do with the steam now rising off the spray.

She shut it off fast, both hands up, already talking. "Okay- sorry, sorry. Should've warned you first, I forgot that's not a normal thing to walk into."

"No." His voice came out rough, lower than he meant it to, and he didn't look at her directly. "You could not have known to warn me. I would not have thought to ask."

Then, unwillingly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

"A rain," he said, "that a man commands from a wall."

"That's the general idea, yeah. Very fancy. I promise it won't try to kill you."

She then crossed to a narrow cabinet built into the wall and pulled out a folded towel, thick and white, along with a smaller one, and set them both on the edge of the tub.

"Towels. Big one's for after, little one's for scrubbing." She reached to a shelf above the basin, plucking down a bottle and a bar wrapped in shiny paper. "This is soap. This is shampoo, for your hair, not the rest of you, no matter how good it smells. Work it in, rinse it out, don't overthink it."

He turned the bar over once in his hand, testing its weight, the uniform white of it, no grit or tallow-yellow to it anywhere.

"This is fine soap," he said. It wasn't quite a question.

"It's forty cents at the drugstore. Nothing fancy, I promise; they just make everything smooth now."

He had no notion what a cent was worth, but something in how easily she'd said it told him enough.

"Everyone bathes like this, then. Not only the wealthy."

"Pretty much everyone. Rich people just get bigger tubs."

She set both items beside the towels, and for a moment neither of them moved, the small room feeling smaller than it had a minute ago, the two of them standing over a bathtub with nothing left to explain.

She was close enough that he became abruptly aware of how filthy he must look, all the dried blood, dirt, the accumulated grime of a day that had started on a tournament ground and ended in a century that hadn't existed yet, all of it pressed close to skin that smelled of nothing but soap and something clean and feminine.

His eyes dropped, without his permission, to the bare skin above the neckline of her blouse.

He thought, with a clarity he immediately resented, of how his own hands would look against skin like that. Rough. Scarred across the knuckles, calloused from sword grip.

He wondered, briefly and with considerable self-loathing, how her hands would feel instead, all soapy against his chest, or rubbing the muscle in his shoulders that hadn't unknotted itself once since he'd woken on her stockroom floor…

He dragged his eyes back up before she could catch where they'd been, jaw clenching, furious at himself.

"Thank you for the soap," he managed.

Then, because his mouth had apparently decided to finish the thoughts his mind had been having without consulting him first:

"I know how to bathe myself."

He heard the words leave his lips and winced internally.

Why in God's name had he said that?

Her brows drew together, confusion plain on her face. "...Okay?"

Heat crawled up the back of his neck before he could stop it, fast and traitorous, and landed in his face a moment later, worse for knowing she could see it now.

"I meant only," he said, and heard how stiff it came out, "that you needn't trouble yourself further. On my account. I am capable."

"I wasn't going to offer scrubbing your back, Mr- Bucky." A beat. "Unless that's a service you're expecting. In which case, I have some very bad news about this century."

Christ.

The heat in his face redoubled, and he was abruptly, furiously aware of it: of being a knight who had stared down drawn steel without so much as a change in his breathing, currently losing a battle against his own blood rising to his cheeks over a bath.

"I am aware," he said, with as much dignity as a man could summon while visibly turning the color of a ripe plum. "I only meant to say-"

"You've said it. Three times now, actually, I've been counting." There was something at the corner of her mouth now, almost a smile. "I'll be right outside. Yell if the shower jumps you again."

She was already moving toward the door, and he let himself watch her go, then caught himself doing it and, with great determination, looked instead at the tiled wall.

The latch clicked a moment later.

He stood alone in the strange white room, his own reflection scowling back at him from the mirror -bruised, filthy, and blushing like a virgin bride over nothing at all- and decided, with grim finality, that he would not be examining that particular lapse in judgment any further that day.

He was, mostly, lying to himself about that already.

----

He looked at the tub a long moment, tempted. It would have been simple enough, in theory: fill it, sink into hot water until the ache in his ribs dissolved into something more bearable.

But he knew how filthy he was, layers of sweat and tournament dust and dried blood, and a full tub would foul itself before he'd even reached his second arm. He'd need two, perhaps three changes of water to come out decent, and he had no real certainty about how generous the water supply was.

The rain, then.

The metal disc overhead came alive with the same sudden violence as before, but this time he was braced for it and did not flinch back.

He undressed slowly, each piece of clothing its own separate exercise in pain, until there was nothing left but skin and the accumulated wreckage of the day. Then he stepped over the lip of the tub, drew the curtain closed behind him with a rattle of metal rings, and let the water find him.

He groaned before he could stop himself.

It came up from somewhere low in his chest, unbidden, entirely without his permission. He had spent the day being struck, thrown, nearly killed by a horseless carriage, and marched up three flights of stairs on cracked ribs, finally allowed to stand still and simply feel something that didn't hurt.

The water ran over his shoulders, down the ladder of his spine, hot enough to loosen muscle he hadn't realized he'd been holding rigid since the tournament grounds. He tipped his head back into it and let it beat against his face, his throat, and for one long, indecent moment thought of absolutely nothing at all.

It was, without exaggeration, the finest thing that had happened to him since he'd woken on her stockroom floor. Since way before that, if he was honest with himself.

He stood there longer than was strictly necessary before he reached for the soap.

It lathered easily, some pale film building between his palms with none of the gritty resistance of the soap he knew, and he worked it over his chest, his shoulders, the plane of his stomach where a fresh bruise was already purpling beneath older, yellowing ones.

Then he reached his left arm, and his hands slowed down.

He didn't need to look at it. He knew the raised, rope-like ridges running along it, pale against the rest of him even after a summer of tournaments spent half-armored under the sun.

But the water was sliding over it now, catching the lamplight in a way that made the old scarring stand out starker than usual, and some part of him looked anyway.

Traced one particular line with his thumb, the one that ran deepest, the one that still pulled tight when he reached a certain angle.

He'd spent two years in a cell. Give or take. He'd ceased the counting somewhere in the second winter, when the days had stopped meaning anything beyond dark and less dark, and had never quite bothered to pick the count back up once he was free of it.

He remembered the field, at least. Remembered that much clearly enough: the mud, the horse going down beneath him, a blade finding the meat of his upper arm somewhere in the chaos of falling. Remembered darkness swallowing the noise of it whole.

What came after, he remembered in pieces. A stone floor. A stone wall. The arm, swollen and wrong, heat radiating off it that had nothing to do with any fire in the room, because there had been no fire in the room. Ever.

There had been a rot-smell he associated with fever more than memory, and somewhere in there -hazy, unreliable, a thing he'd never been certain enough of to say aloud- the impression of a friar's hands.

Cool fingers against a forehead too hot to bear its own weight. A voice praying in Latin, or perhaps just muttering, he'd never been sure which. He didn't know if the man had been real, or a fever's mercy, some kindness his mind had invented because the alternative was believing no one had come at all.

He didn't know how he hadn't died of it. He genuinely didn't. The arm had swollen fat and tight as a wineskin, the skin splitting in places from the pressure of it, and by every rule he understood about the body, that should have been the end of him.

It wasn't.

He'd kept the arm. Kept his life, such as it was, for another eighteen months of the same stone wall, the same shackles.

The arm wasn't the worst of it. He thought that plainly, without drama.

Two years chained to a wall, and guards with too much idle time and inventive enough minds about how a man might be made to suffer without being killed outright, had seen to the rest, before whatever ransom or exchange had finally been arranged came through and put him back on a horse heading home.

He didn't examine that further. Never did. There was a door in his mind he'd built precisely for that particular room, and he'd learned long ago that opening it accomplished nothing beyond making the following days considerably harder to get through.

The water had gone from scalding to merely warm while he stood there. He noticed, distantly, and reached to adjust the handle before it could turn cold entirely.

Enough.

He finished with the soap, quick and thorough now, some old discipline reasserting itself over the part of him that wanted to keep standing there a while longer, arm bared to the water, letting himself remember things better left where he'd put them.

He thought of her, briefly, on the other side of the door. Of the stockroom that morning, and the dozen easier choices she could have made instead of the one she'd made. He didn't know yet what to do with that thought, so he set it down beside the door in his mind and finished rinsing.

----

She'd put the pot on for two and couldn't remember the last time she'd done that.Even with her friend Marion occupying the spare room, they ate mostly separately since their shifts were very different. She ate alone most days, the radio doing the talking.

It occurred to her, grating the last of the cheese into the pot, that she hadn't cooked for a man since her father passed.

Now, she was cooking for one who wasn't family, which was a different thing entirely, and she knew exactly what the neighbors would call it if they ever got wind of a strange man living in a single woman's apartment.

Oh well, they had their own dirty laundry to take care of, mind them.

She decided on mac and cheese. Something hot, something that would actually fill him, and God knew, after the morning he'd had, he needed more than another sandwich.

She had a box of the noodles in the cupboard and just enough cheese left in the icebox to make it worth the trouble. She was grating the last of it into the pot when she heard the bathroom door open down the hall, then his footsteps.

She didn't turn around right away.

"Almost ready," she said, still facing the stove. "Figured you could use something hot after the morning you-"

She turned around, and the rest of the sentence simply left her brain.

He'd managed the trousers. Managed the shirt too, mostly, buttons in the right holes, tucked in at the waist, and the belt in place. But the collar… instead of folding down the way collars did, he'd left it standing straight up around his throat, the points reaching almost to his ears, like something out of an old painting.

Filthy and bruised and half out of his mind that morning, he'd been undeniably good-looking in the inconvenient way of men in magazine ads.

Clean, in actual clothes -even worn wrong- he was something closer to a problem.

"Okay, hang on," she said, already crossing the kitchen, reaching up before he could react, reaching for the stiff edge of the collar. "You've got- here, let me just-"

He went rigid under her hands.

Utterly still, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder like the wall behind her had suddenly become very interesting.

Her fingers were still on his collar. She was, she realized with something close to horror, standing close enough to feel the warmth still coming off his skin from the shower, close enough that this was… well. Too intimate.

This was invading his space, and she'd done it without even asking.

She dropped her hands and took half a step back.

"Sorry- is that- am I in your space?"

"No," he said, too fast.

He still wasn't looking at her.

"You sure? Because you went kind of statue on me."

"I said no." His voice had gone a little rough. He cleared his throat, gaze fixed somewhere near the icebox now. "Thank you."

She looked at him a moment longer than she probably should have, at the careful way he was very deliberately not meeting her eyes. His collar was still wrong, but she let it pass.

"Sit down," she said instead, turning back to the stove. "This should be ready in a few minutes."

He lowered himself into the chair, watching her stir the pot with open, unguarded curiosity. The same look he'd given the icebox, the same look he'd given the shower.

"What is it," he asked, "that you're making?"

"Pasta with a cheese sauce. Kids love it. Grown men who've had the day you've had love it even more, trust me, I've fed a few."

He said nothing to that, but she caught him leaning very slightly toward the stove when she wasn't looking.

She plated it a few minutes later and set the bowl in front of him -thick, golden, still steaming- and watched him study it the way he'd studied the sandwich that morning, turning the spoon over once in his hand before committing to it.

The first bite did something to his face that she was going to be thinking about for longer than was strictly wise.

His eyes actually closed.

"This," he said, very seriously, "is a very fine plate."

She pulled out the second chair and sat down across from him with her own bowl, because there was no version of this where she stood at the counter and watched a grown man have a religious experience over macaroni without joining in.

He didn't seem to notice her sitting, not at first, too occupied with the bowl in front of him, and she let herself watch him for a moment without the excuse of doing anything else.

The bruise along his cheekbone had darkened further since the morning, blooming into a deep, ugly purple that made her wince faintly on his behalf. The cut above his brow had scabbed over clean, at least, no longer weeping at the edges the way it had in the stockroom.

Clean, fed, dressed in clothes that fit reasonably well even if he'd worn the collar wrong, he looked, she thought, almost ordinary. Almost like a man she might have passed on Camden Street without a second glance. She wondered if that was easier or harder than the alternative -a man who was clearly, unmistakably not of this world-.

He ate like someone reacquainting himself with the basic mechanics of pleasure. He had manners, clearly, real ones. Every bite got his full attention.

She found herself, against her better judgment, charmed by it.

Stop that, she told herself, and looked down at her own bowl instead.

"It's really that good?" she asked, mostly to have something to say.

He looked up, spoon still in hand, and there was something almost sheepish in his expression, like he'd been caught at something.

"I have had feasts," he said slowly, "with roasted boar and spiced wine."

He looked back down at the bowl.

"I would trade some of them for this."

She huffed a short laugh, surprised into it. "It's a two-dollar box of noodles."

"Then this century has done something extraordinary with two dollars, whatever that means."

"I'll pass the compliment along to Kraft."

He didn't ask who Kraft was. She got the sense he'd decided to stop asking about every single thing, and was simply letting some of it wash over him instead.

She let the quiet settle after that, comfortable enough now that neither of them seemed to feel the need to fill it, and watched him eat while her mind, unhelpfully, went back to work on the question she hadn't managed to put down since the stockroom.

Who are you, really?

She thought again of the war. Of the men at St. Benedict's with the hollow stare, the ones who flinched at car horns and wouldn't talk about where they'd been.

Maybe that was still it. Maybe somewhere under all of this -the ring, the knight, the six hundred years- there was a man who'd simply broken somewhere overseas, badly enough that his mind had gone looking for somewhere safer to live and built an entire kingdom to hide in.

People did stranger things than that, she was fairly sure, when the alternative was staying inside their own memories.

Give it a few days, she thought, watching him scrape the last of the sauce from the bottom of the bowl reverently. Maybe it wears off. Maybe he wakes up tomorrow, or the day after, and he's just... someone.

A man with a hometown and a mother somewhere worried sick, and all of this comes back to him as something to be embarrassed about, and I get to hear the real story.

She waited for that thought to feel like relief, the way it should have.

It didn't, not quite, and for now she let herself off the hook for figuring out why. There'd be time for that too.

"Would you like more?" she asked, nodding at his empty bowl.

He looked at it as though the question had genuinely never occurred to him as a possibility.

"...I would not be imposing?" he mumbled.

"It's a pot of macaroni, not the crown jewels. Yes. It's permitted. Eat until you're full, nobody's judging you for being hungry."

He relaxed at that, and pushed the bowl toward her without further argument.

She got up to refill it, and told herself, refilling her own thoughts right alongside the bowl, that there was time. A few days, at least, before she had to figure out what came next.

Since Brock and his lawyer were, eliminated, you went back to your EA job, now working with Bucky. 

He doesn't say much when he's at Hydra Enterprises, keeping to Brock's office he had freshly painted and loaded with new furniture. 

The staff was somewhat concerned a new CEO was suddenly there, but everyone stayed on working and no one quit or was fired. The information Bucky provided to the staff about Brock was, he left and went to Europe to 'find' himself and left his company in good hands to his close friend Bucky. 

You snorted thinking the two men were not friends nor did they associate amicably with one another, but people seemed to buy it. The office kept on as it did under new direction and you were grateful to have a job and still be alive.

Since being 'kidnapped' and brought to live at the Barnes Mansion, your life was still the same as before, just in a new environment with new people, and a grumpy mafia leader as a boss and...landlord? Roommate? 

You rarely saw Bucky at the mansion and if you did, you were in his office going over files, contracts, and old correspondence from Brock. You're certain Bucky thinks your knowledge has been valuable and you were just as determined to stop the trafficking as he was once you learned a little more of what was happening. 

You just wanted your old life back, but somehow, you knew it would never be the same again.

"I think I'm going to make cookies." You announced. 

Steve and Sam looked at each other before they smiled, voicing their opinions. 

"Chocolate chip." 

"Oatmeal, no wait, peanut butter." 

The two men bickered about flavours while you got the ingredients out. 

Sometimes it was like living with college-aged racoons. 

"I can do peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip." 

"What's going on here?" Bucky walked into the kitchen, glaring at Sam and Steve. 

"Y/n's making cookies." Sam pointed to you. 

Bucky looked over and said, "Is that so?" 

"Was bored." You shrugged. 

Whenever you were bored, which was a lot, you either baked or made food to pass the time and Sam and Steve were all too excited to sample. 

Bucky looked around and sighed. "Meeting in 10, my office." He pointed at Sam then Steve. He took one last glance at you before he left and headed to his office. 

You were about to say, 'have fun' to them when Bucky poked his head back into the kitchen and said, "Double chocolate chip please." Making the two men groan and you snort.

 "I'll see what I can do."

 You rolled your eyes at the supposed big scary mafia man. 

You were slowly learning that Bucky was more bark than bite towards his men and more importantly you, but if he was crossed, it was like a switch was turned and he would instantly turn cold and cruel. You don't want that wrath turned on you, so you vow to stay on his good side. 

Sam and Steve grabbed some water before they left for the office. 

"See you later." They left you alone to create in the gourmet kitchen.

🔫👨🏻

"Last shipment Brock had set up is scheduled for tonight." 

Bucky sat at his desk and leaned back in his chair. Sam and Steve sat across from him tense, waiting to hear the plan. 

"And I plan on being there."

"We can go instead; you can stay here." Steve added.

 "No. I need to see for myself."

 This was the last 'shipment' Brock had set up while he was still alive, and Bucky wanted to make sure it was intercepted and finished once and for all. Since the pier was now in his control, they've busted and intercepted two 'shipments', eliminated the men behind them and saved countless women, but he knows Brock's connections are onto them for breaking up the operations. 

Retaliation may come, and Bucky's prepared if it does.

Bucky's prepared for tonight with extra men, and his tech people have intercepted money transfers and dismantled accounts and according to his sources, this should be the final one scheduled to the Pier he now owns. 

"It's going to be dangerous. We're expecting a lot of resistance but I'm confident this will end." 

Sam and Steve nodded. 

They could hear you in the background, making your cookies while listening to some music when Sam's voice cleared. 

"So, what's going to happen to Y/n?" 

Bucky's eyes flashed but he cleared his throat.

 "She's free to go." 

He said, leaning forward in his chair.

 "She can leave, just like that?" Steve's eyebrows rose at his boss. 

"We've paid her apartment rent and her other bills, so she can go home when I say she can. And it looks like that will be soon." 

Bucky wasn't ready to admit he liked having you live at the mansion. 

"Her job?" Sam asked. 

"She can stay on as my assistant, as normal." 

"Do you think she will?" Steve asked. 

Bucky had thought there was a possibility you may quit altogether, but he was taking a gamble and is assuming you will stay working alongside him at Hydra Enterprises. 

"So, she's not going to be eliminated?" 

"No. Now get out." Bucky pointed to the door as the two men rose and left the office.

🔫👨🏻

"So, you guys are leaving tonight on a what, a mission of sorts?" You asked, sitting on the staircase eating a cookie. 

"Yup." 

Watching the men load their weapons was something you got used to. They tended to always carry their loaded guns in their holsters, but seeing the other things like knives, brass knuckles, and various other weapons being shoved into pockets and hidden pockets always mesmerized you. 

Footsteps were heard down the marble floor and when you looked up, you saw Bucky in his signature black suit and white shirt. 

"You're going to?" You were confused as Bucky usually stays behind and lets his men do the hard jobs. 

"What, will you miss me doll?" He snorted, double checking his holster. 

"Yes." You bluntly said making his head snap to you.

 Lately, Bucky had been making comments to you, and dare you say, flirting a little? The man was frustrating as he was charming and it annoyed you, but you also played along. He turned and faced Sam and Steve, not replying to your admission. 

"Ready?" They nodded. 

"SUVs and teams are in place." Sam announced. 

He and Steve left, leaving Bucky standing in the foyer looking at you. 

"Be careful." 

Bucky stopped what he was doing and watched you closely before he turned and placed his hand on the door. 

"I'll try." Then he headed out the front door, with Clint quickly locking it up.

🔫👨🏻

You were in bed reading, seeing as how you couldn't sleep knowing the guys were out. For some reason, you cared about them and worried something bad was going to happen. You know something was going down tonight, and you were certain it had something to do with the fact that the pier was being heavily monitored, so you figured there would be a shipment coming in. Would this be the last one? 

You had no idea but tonight felt different so perhaps it was. More final from the snippets of hushed conversations you caught in the hallways and at the office. This may be the end of the shipments, but something's telling you there may be more things coming from the backlash when you heard commotion in the house. 

You got out of bed and headed downstairs to see what was happening.

🔫👨🏻

"I can't believe they did that!" Growled Steve. 

He was holding an ice pack to his jaw while Sam was nursing what looked to be a broken nose. 

"What's going on?" You asked, coming down the stairs. 

"Shit went south." Sam muttered, sniffing and wiping a tissue over his nose. 

"Oh?" Before you could ask, Bucky walked in. 

"Holy shit." You gasped, looking at the mafia leader. 

His usual pristine black suit was wrinkled, dusty, and rumpled and his white shirt had blood stains on it and was cut up so bad, it looked like he survived being put through a shredder. He held his arm and was breathing heavy. 

"All good?" He glanced at Sam then Steve who both nodded. 

"Good." Before he turned and was headed to what looked to be in the direction of his office. 

"Hang on, wait." You said, running after Bucky leaving Sam and Steve behind. 

He didn't stop, so you followed him in. 

"Bucky!" You said, following him to where he stopped and poured himself a whisky. 

"What?" He swallowed the dark liquid, pouring himself another. 

"Let me see that." You pointed to his left heavily inked arm that was bleeding. 

He scoffed, but relented seeing your glare, finally giving you, his arm. 

"It's fine." He insisted. 

You pulled the fabric back and gasped. 

"You've been shot?" 

You reached out and placed your hand on his warm, soft skin. You swallowed, feeling his muscles contract as you inspected the gash.

 "It's a graze, nothing more. Been nicked before dollface, this is nothin'." 

Your stomach fluttered at his words, but you ignored it. 

You looked at his arm and saw the blood dripping down it, onto the plush carpet.

 "Let me fix it." You said, walking him to the couch. 

"Don't got a first aid kit in here." Bucky shrugged. 

You glared at him and said, "Don't lie to me. I know there's a first aid kit here, I saw Sam use it when you punched Steve in the face last week." You muttered, opening a drawer in the side table. 

You didn't see the smirk Bucky flashed you. 

Low and behold, a kit was there, so you grabbed it and rummaged around, looking for what you needed.

Bucky huffed but let you fuss over him. He watched your steady hands move over his skin, sending tingles throughout his body. He watched you close as you took what you needed, placing the gauze and suture kit on the table. 

"I can stitch you up." 

How were you going to match up his skin and ink that was on it? 

"No stitches. Just a butterfly bandage, nothing more."

 You took the disinfecting wipes out and placed them on the wound, delicately cleaning it. The blood wasn't stopping, so you looked up at Bucky who huffed. 

"It'll be fine. Butterfly bandage, nothing else needed." 

You rolled your eyes at him but got the white strips of the bandages out, ready to place them. You were slightly relieved because if you messed up his ink, you're not sure how he would react. 

"Fine but let me clean this well for you since I know you're not going to do it yourself." 

You got the ointment out and wiped the wound down, making sure to clean it well. You heard Bucky inhale sharply as your hands were on him, dabbing at the wound.

"So, did you manage to complete what you set out to do?" You knew he wasn't going to divulge his mafia secrets to you, but you were curious to see if he was successful. 

You gently blew on the open wound to dry the ointment making Bucky shudder. You saw goosebumps appear on his skin making you smirk to yourself.

 "Yeah." He quietly said as you got one of the bandages out, placing it on the wound to hold it together. 

"Good." Was all you said, as you got the other one placed. 

"There we are, good as new...well...almost. It'll probably scar a little but...you're used to it." You sighed, putting the garbage away. 

"Go and get yourself a cookie, you've earned it." You chuckled, getting up from the couch. 

Bucky stood with you, inspecting your patch job on him when he stopped you. He reached out and turned you to face him. He cupped your neck, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb. You noticed the details of the skull and rose tattoo on his hand. Before you could sink into his touch, he dropped his hand. 

Your eyes were level with his throat, seeing him swallow before he said, "Thanks." In his deep voice. 

"You're welcome." You patted his good arm and turned to leave, heading back to your room.

You closed the door to your room and slumped against it, breathing heavy. Woah, that was the closest you've even gotten to him, and that sent shivers throughout your body. Bucky was hot as hell with his dark looks, impeccable clothes, and confidence, it was hard not to have a little crush on the scary mafia leader, but you know your time in his world is going to end soon. 

In your mind, you, frankly, didn't belong with the mafia or anywhere near the mafia. You sighed and went to clean yourself up, before you got back into bed and slept a little better knowing everyone was safe. Was it weird you had started thinking of these men as friends and not scary mafia men?

🔫👨🏻

"We're celebrating tonight gentlemen." Came the voice of Bucky. 

The following morning, you sat in the kitchen off to the side with some empty breakfast plates in front of you. You desperately wanted to get out of the mansion, having only been out once in the past few days to get some groceries with Clint, but you didn't push it. 

You hadn't gone into the office since Bucky had told the employees he was 'out of the country', so you didn't need to be there. He advised them he would be back the following week, so you had some time to yourself. You were honestly fine living how you were, but you were feeling nervous seeing as how the 'shipping' situation was coming to an end.

What is going to happen to you now? 

You also found out Bucky recently had Pierce eliminated as well as a few of Brock's old associates since they didn't stick to their word and comply with Bucky's new terms of the Pier deal. After last night, the pier would return to 'normal' operations, or as normal as they could be for a mafia, but Pierce wanted more. He was greedy and had plans to expand to another pier, but Bucky stopped that. No one went above him. 

Trafficking women was not allowed on his turf, and he made it known to everyone, that if they were involved with that, instant elimination. 

Pierce's death was described in the media as an 'unfortunate car accident' and everyone bought it. 

"The club?" Steve asked. His face was a little swollen and Sam had a shiner, but they didn't seem to mind. 

"We leave at 9." Bucky looked over at you, then left the kitchen. 

You got up and loaded your breakfast dishes in the dishwasher when Sam asked, "Are you coming?" making you snort. 

"Wasn't invited, so nope." 

"Bossman invited you." 

"Bossman was only looking at you two when he said that, not me. So, have fun tonight at your 'club', whatever that is." You left the kitchen and headed to the library.

🔫👨🏻

"What the hell are you doing here?" Bucky's voice sounded from the doorway to the library. 

"It's a library, so, reading?" You were confused at him barging in and running his mouth since you haven't seen him all day since the morning. 

"We're all waiting in the foyer for you." 

You placed your book down and looked at him funny. 

"I'm sorry?" You looked around, thinking someone else was hidden in the room with you. 

"I said earlier, we're celebrating tonight, that means you too." 

"Correction, you said, 'we're celebrating tonight gentlemen'. I was not aware you lumped me into the 'gentlemen' category since I am not a gentleman myself last time I checked, and I personally have nothing to celebrate seeing as how I have not done anything lately to warrant a celebration unless you count making cookies so if it's for that, I will gladly celebrate my baking competence." 

Bucky's jaw ticked in annoyance, and he stepped into the room, walking to you then he stopped. 

"We're headed to the club now. I'll send Clint back to pick you up. You have 45 minutes," 

Then, he turned and left, leaving you staring at his retreating back. 

You huffed, looking around the cozy library and scowled in annoyance of being interrupted. "Stop scowling at my books." Bucky's voice sounded down the hall. "And get yourself ready. You now have 40 minutes." 

Then you heard his footsteps leave. 

"Fine, jerk." You muttered, leaving the room and heading to yours to change.

🔫👨🏻

You got to the 'club' Clint drove you to and stood outside, gawking at the massive line up to get in. In large silver lettering, the sign on the building said, "Vibranium" with backlit orange and yellow lights making it look like the name was showing in flames.

 "Holy hell." You muttered. 

A man by the name of Loki met you at the entrance to escort you in, and he was all to pleased to be doing it. 

"This way, madame." He offered you his arm and a side of charm. 

"Right."

 You took it and headed to the VIP entry which bypassed the line. Many of the people in line were glaring and scoffing at you, but you didn't care. You had a small panic attack thinking you weren't dressed appropriately but shrugged. 

You only had a few items of clothing to choose from you deemed 'club' appropriate, so you went with this. Loki seemed pleased with your low-cut burgundy dress and black heels seeing as how he was eyeing you up like a hungry wolf.

"There's the VIP area." Loki pointed to a darkened staircase that led to an upper level. 

Two large men adorned either side of the staircase who were watching you and Loki. You looked up and saw people standing by a railing which made it look like they were looking down upon their subjects. 

"Ok..." You looked at Loki who smirked. 

"You can go on up love." He winked at you before he disappeared into the crowd. 

You didn't really want to head upstairs to a VIP level, but seeing as how you were now completely alone, you figured why the hell not. The two men let you by without asking who you were, but you figured they saw you with Loki who is with Bucky, so you were in. 

"Hello, and thank you." You said to the two men, climbing the stairs. 

You got to the top and turned the corner, taking in the darkened couches and vibe of the upper level. People wandered the area with their drinks; talking and laughing with each other. A large bar sat at the back of the club that had a few people standing by it. 

The faint thump of the music was heard from below as you made your way further into the crowd.

"Y/n!" Sam's voice sounded over the music. He sat and was chatting with a pretty blonde woman who wore a short pink dress. 

"Hi." You gave him an awkward wave. You looked next to him and Steve was sitting on a black leather couch with a red head on his lap who wore a forest green bustier and black leather pants. 

You quickly averted your eyes as they were making out with each other, and you didn't need to be seen gawking at them. 

You looked away and saw Bucky sitting on a chair with a blonde woman draped all over him, but he was watching you close, not paying her any attention. 

A weird feeling came over you seeing a woman all over Bucky. Not like you were 'with him', that would be silly you internally chuffed at yourself but seeing him with someone else put a sour taste in your mouth. You and Bucky had been getting along recently, talking more and dare you say, joking around with each other.

 It was quite the turn around from when you were first brought to his home. You suddenly felt a little self-conscious not knowing anyone else, so you stepped away, choosing to turn away from them.

"Get yourself a drink and come on back and join us. Put it on the big guy's tab." Sam winked at you and pointed to the bar. 

"Sure..."

 You weren't a big drinker of any kind, usually choosing a glass of white wine or something light like a seltzer, so you wandered over to the bar to order something. The quicker you could down this drink, the quicker you could get back to finishing your book. 

"What can I get you miss?" The cute bartender asked, with a wink. 

"Umm, how about a white wine?" 

He chuckled and said, "That sounded like a question. So, are you sure about the white wine, or did you want something else?" 

He leaned towards you and placed his hands on the bar top. 

"I'm quite good with my hands and can make anything you want." He added with a wink of his right eye. 

"I'm sure you are, but just a white wine please." 

He proceeded to get a glass for you. He finished pouring and placed the glass down, sliding it to you. 

"Umm, that man, Sam, said to 'put it on the big guy's tab'?" 

You took the glass and the bartender swallowed hard and nodded, entering some things in a machine. 

"All set, enjoy." He nodded and quicky moved onto another patron.

You sipped your wine, taking in the VIP level. You could go back to where the guys were, but you didn't want to feel like a fourth wheel while women grinded all over them. 

You looked around and wondered what kind of jobs these people did to warrant themselves a spot in the VIP level. 

Did they even know they were at a mafia leaders bar? 

You walked over to the railing to overlook the crowd on the main level, trying desperately to look like you know what you're doing when someone joined you. 

"Hello." A deep voice sounded. 

The man stood in front of you wearing a grey suit and white dress shirt. 

"Hi." 

"I'm Thor." 

You raised a right eyebrow up to him making him chuckle. 

"I know right? My dad's a big fan of Norse mythology..." 

"Right." 

"So, I've never seen you here before." Thor sipped his drink while you studied him. 

He was handsome in a surfer Norse god kind of way. His blonde hair was long and tied back while his blue eyes focused on you. 

"It's my first time here." 

His eyebrows rose and said, "Is that so? Well, welcome to my club." 

You snorted knowing damn well he was lying. You decided to have a little fun with him. 

"So, you own this place?" 

Thor seemed amused and nodded, finishing his drink. He placed the empty glass on a table. 

"Yup." 

"Wow." 

"Yeah?" He seemed amused you were buying it. 

This should be fun. 

"So, how long have you owned it?" 

"Few years." Thor shrugged. 

"Really?" 

Thor stepped closer and reached out to hold your hand in his, stroking your knuckles with his thumb. 

You tried to pull away but he held firm. 

"Yup. I own another on the other side of town." He boasted, sticking his chest out a little. 

"That's so awesome of you." You lamely replied, looking down at his hand that still held yours. 

"Yeah, made a few investments here and there which paid off so I figured why not? I'm kind of good with numbers."

 You thought Thor's name should be Brad or Chad with the bragging he was doing. 

"As I was saying, I made some investments and decided to buy this place. I'm thinking of giving it a facelift. New lighting, flooring, furniture, you know, a complete remodel. As it is now, it's kind of old." 

"Wow, I'm impressed." 

"Yeah?" He smiled at you. 

He was handsome, but not your type when an arm came in front of you and carefully moved you back from Thor. 

"Doll, why don't you come and join me?" 

You saw Bucky's eyes narrow on your hand which was still being held by Thor. Bucky gently pulled you away from Thor, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

You looked over at Thor who's face looked like he saw a ghost. He was white as a sheet and stood blinking at Bucky, then at you like an owl. 

"Uh, sorry, I'm sorry." Thor kept apologizing to Bucky. 

"Why don't you go on to that couch over there, and I'll be right there." Bucky whispered to you. You nodded and headed to the couch while Bucky stayed with Thor.

Bucky watched you safely walk to the couch and sit, smoothing your dress on your thighs. Bucky smiled to himself and turned to face Thor who also watched you with a smile on his face that quickly fell. 

Thor looked over at Bucky and his eyes widened at the hardened demeanor and glare Bucky was sending him.

 "Sorry. I didn't know she was your girl...I swear...I would never have approached her...I swear...please don't hurt me..." 

Bucky watched Thor have a meltdown before he replied. 

"You touched her." Bucky calmly said, picking a stray piece of lint from the sleeve on his suit. 

He didn't give a shit about what Thor was lying to you about, but the fact that he touched you which made you uncomfortable made Bucky see red.

 "I-I...what? I'm sorry...really...it was crowded, I have a nervous twitch that acts up sometimes, and well..." 

"I don't take kindly to people who touch my things. Makes things...difficult..." 

Thor put his hands up in surrender. 

"I swear I didn't know..." 

"Tell me, Thor. Do you often touch things that don't belong to you?" 

"No." Thor instantly replied. 

"Good that's what I like to hear, because you know that's wrong, right?" 

Thor vigorously nodded. 

"Good." 

Bucky's eyes moved to one of his men who walked over and discreetly grabbed Thor's arm and held it tight. 

Bucky leaned in close and said, "If I so much as hear you've touched something that isn't yours again, I will cut your arm off and feed it to my pigs." 

Thor's eyes widened in shock, but Bucky wasn't done yet. 

"If I ever see you or get word you have stepped into my club again, I. Will. End. You. Got it?" 

Thor nodded like his head was going to come loose. 

"Get him out of my sight, Scott. You know what to do with people who fuck with my shit."

 Scott nodded and wrestled Thor to the back of the VIP level, through an unmarked black door and that was that.

🔫👨🏻

"Did you want another refill?" Asked Bucky while he walked up to you. 

You looked down at your empty glass, then over at the bar. The bartender from earlier was missing and was replaced by a woman with blue hair. 

"Uh, no thanks, I'm good." 

Bucky sat next to you, his companion from earlier was nowhere to be found. You didn't see Sam or Steve either. 

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Bucky asked, turning to face you. 

He placed his arm on the back of the sofa, so it felt like he was surrounding you. 

"I guess." 

The area you were in was quiet where you could have a conversation with the perfect moody lighting where it made everyone look good. 

"Why didn't you come over earlier?" Bucky asked. 

You looked at him funny. 

"What, and be in the middle of all your...women? No thanks." You scoffed. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you then sipped his drink. 

"Jealous?" 

Your head snapped to his and you scoffed. 

"Please." 

You primly adjusted the hem of your dress. 

Bucky leaned in close to you. 

"I have no idea who she was; she just came over to me." 

"Good to know you let randoms grind all over you." You said sarcastically. 

You looked over at him. "Why are you telling me this Bucky?"

His face was close to yours making you lean back a little so you could see his eyes. His piercing blue eyes were searched yours and he said, "Just thought I needed to explain myself." 

"Right. The big bad mafia leader needs to explain to me, his lowly assistant and captive for that matter, that the beautiful woman who was sitting in his lap earlier was a nobody who just happened to sit herself down to which you did nothing to get rid of her. She looked awfully familiar with you. Tell me, if she is a no one, why didn't you shove her off and tell her to hit the road? Did you enjoy her sitting on your lap? Do you need the attention that bad?" You asked, glaring into his eyes. 

You saw his jaw tick with annoyance, but he didn't reply. You are certain steam would be coming out of his ears. 

"You bring me here, and for what? To show off? To show me you can have whatever woman you want fall all over you while I sit back and watch you three entertain yourselves? Tell me Bucky, where did the bartender go? Or Thor for that matter? I know you had them replaced and removed, and for what? And why?"

 He leaned back, not replying. It was like he was re-booting or something. The normal scary, confident, and powerful mafia leader was having an internal debate with himself and didn't reply. 

"You can have your fun, but somehow I can't. Why is that?"

He looked down at his shoes but didn't answer.

"I'm done my wine, so I'll be heading back now." You announced, getting up from the couch. 

You hesitated briefly to see if Bucky would do anything, but he didn't. 

He watched you leave as you headed down the stairs. You're certain Clint was hovering around the doors, and sure enough, he was, so you had him take you back to the mansion.

🔫👨🏻

"Fuck!" Bucky yelled, throwing an empty glass against a bookcase that exploded everywhere. 

He ran a hand through his shortened hair in frustration and was muttering to himself. 

"You ok boss?" Sam asked as Steve looked on. 

They stood in Bucky's office at the club. Bucky scowled at Sam but didn't reply. 

"I'm guessing you didn't have a nice night?" Steve asked, sitting himself down on a chair. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and flopped down in his black leather chair. 

"Would this have anything to do with Y/n?" Sam asked. 

Bucky glared at him. 

"Got to tell you man, it wasn't a good look to have Yelena all over you when Y/n got here, especially if you're trying to 'woo' her." Sam shrugged.

 "I'm not 'wooing' anyone. There was no 'wooing'. I don't 'woo'." Bucky scoffed and shook his head in disgust. 

"You didn't exactly tell Yelena to leave when Y/n came up to us." Steve shrugged. 

"How the fuck did you see? You were practically inhaling Nat's face..." 

"Pfft, I can multitask." Steve shrugged a shoulder. 

"So, you're into Y/n now?" Sam asked. 

Bucky sent him a death glare. 

"Cool, cool, just checking." Sam held up his hands. 

"So, what was your plan with Y/n for tonight?" Steve asked. 

Bucky folded his arms across his chest which made him seem like he was pouting. Steve sighed, looking over at Sam who nodded. 

They had enough of their moody boss who was too busy avoiding his feelings about you.

"So let me get this all straight." Steve leaned forward. 

"We kidnap the poor girl after she witnessed her boss being murdered, drag her with us to meet you only for you to be an absolute dick to her, hold her prisoner and make her give us everything she knows about Hydra. Force her to work alongside your sorry ass at a job you don't even want and continue to keep her at the mansion. You flirt with her and don't try to deny it we have eyes, drag her here under false pretenses of a 'celebration' but what you really wanted was to spend time with her only for her to see another woman all over you which you did nothing about. You then had the bartender fired for just doing his job, and a random douche thrown out and banned for what, talking to Y/n? Then Y/n leaves and you melt down because you refuse to tell her how you feel or tell her she's starting to mean something to you?" Steve recounted. 

Both him and Sam sat back and waited for Bucky to reply.

"He touched her." Bucky grumbled, not addressing anything else Steve pointed out. 

"I thought you had better game than this." Sam clicked his tongue. 

Bucky quickly pulled a knife on him making him chuckle. 

"Easy man, we're just trying to understand..." 

Bucky put the knife down but left it on the desk, glaring at it. 

"So, to confirm, you're into her?" Steve looked at the mafia leader and oldest friend. 

Bucky gave him a slow nod but didn't say anything. 

"We knew it." Sam shrugged. 

"Well, we have to do something about that." Steve looked over at Sam who nodded. 

"The gala dinner is next week when you're back from your supposed 'vacation.' You know the one your new company is having? Y/n finalized the details for it last week." Sam said, scrolling through his phone. 

"Y/n is supposed to receive a dress tomorrow for it since she's going as your assistant. Sam helped her order it last week after she made your sorry ass dinner." 

Bucky remembered the food you dropped off for him when you saw he was working late in his office. 

"How did you manage that?" Bucky finally asked. 

"We pay attention to her." Steve easily said. 

"You know things have been busy..." 

"We know. That's why we can help you with her." 

"You two?" Bucky snorted. 

Sam and Steve weren't known for being helpful in a personal sort of way. One liked to fire his gun and the other was too nosy and liked to gossip. God, why did he have these two as his main men? 

"Fine." 

"I need you to ask us nicely..." Sam smirked. 

Bucky inhaled sharply then exhaled like an angry bull. 

"Can you help me with Y/n? I'm into her and don't know what to do."

 "That's better." Sam said with Steve nodding.

 "We'll have Y/n falling for you in no time..." Steve assured his boss.

🔫👨🏻

You had gotten to the office early Monday morning since Bucky had an early meeting to attend. It's with a city official you're certain Bucky will more than likely pay off for him to 'look the other way' at the new warehouse build at the pier but you didn't say anything as you got the conference room ready.

 You hadn't seen Bucky at the mansion since the 'celebration at the club' night as Sam and Steve told you he was away and dealing with some other issues, so this would be the first day you've seen him since. You were nervous to see him, and you cursed yourself for having that feeling. You left the club with a weird vibe, and you were hoping it wouldn't continue to your work when you saw Bucky walk into the office. 

He stopped by your desk and placed a coffee on it. 

"Here." Then he walked into his office and closed the door. Your eyes went wide at the gesture seeing as how the mafia leader had never given you anything before other than a place to live and some clothes, so this was weird.

After Bucky's meeting, he called you into his office. It still felt weird standing in it, but the new paint and furniture helped.

 "The gala...it's Thursday?" 

"Yes. Brock thought it would look good for the company to host a charity gala, so he had set this up almost a year ago." 

Where is he going with this?

"You'll come with me."

 "Uh, that was the plan since I can't go anywhere without a chaperone you approve of..." 

"...As my date." 

You stood gawking at him as he stood and rounded his desk, standing in front of you. 

"But...I'm working it..." 

"No, you're not. I've got it handled. You'll come as my date and that's that." He said before he grabbed his phone and tucked it into his pocket. 

"I'm leaving for the rest of the day to deal with an issue on the new warehouse site. Clint will drive you home whenever you want." 

You didn't have time for a response since Bucky left you standing in the office. 

"Home? What the hell?" This was the first time he's mentioned the mansion as your home. You ran a hand over your face before you headed to your desk to over-analyze what he just said.

🔫👨🏻

"Where is she?" Bucky grumbled, looking at his watch.

 He stood in the foyer of the mansion in his all-black tuxedo while Sam and Steve looked on. The gala was something he would get through as many people were curious and wanted to meet the mysterious new leader of Hydra Enterprises.

 Bucky has plans to make Hydra Enterprises one of his legit businesses and over the weeks, he's restructured it with the help of Steve, so it's profitable. He's having a meeting that will remove the corruption and fraud from the books with his IT people and hopefully that will remove any trace of Brock's wrongdoings. 

He figures, if you're associated to it, he wants to keep your name as far away from that part of his world as possible, but he knows there's going to be some things you're associated to if he has any say. 

Footsteps were heard coming down the stairs as Bucky turned, only to freeze as he watched you descend.

"Hi." You said to the three men who were all gawking at you.

 You saw Bucky look over at Sam and Steve who quickly averted their eyes and seemed more interested in the flooring than you. Bucky openly stared as he took in your dress.

 "Is this, ok?" You asked, turning in a circle to show him. 

Your black dress clung to your body, revealing a high slit on your left side. The strapless bodice beautifully showed off your chest as you watched Bucky swallow. 

"It's fine." Bucky gruffly said. 

Bucky turned and glared at Steve and Sam who were still shuffling their feet. He's going to have a word for them helping you pick out such a revealing dress. 

He's not sure where his eyes should focus; on your face, chest, or that fucking slit revealing your legs in their high heels. He nodded to Sam and Steve who proceeded to leave with you following. Bucky's hand was on your lower back as he guided you to the waiting SUV.

🔫👨🏻

"Stop fidgeting." Bucky's voice cut through the quiet of the SUV. 

"I'm not." You scoffed at him. 

"You are."

 "Whatever. I'm hungry." You said to no one in particular.

 "We'll be there soon so you can have some food."

 You weren't thrilled at the idea of eating small appetizers, but at least you know what is being served since you signed off on the caterer's menu last week.

 "Fine." 

Your leg was bouncing up and down, so Bucky leaned over and placed his palm on your thigh to stop you, sending shivers throughout your body. His warm calloused hand squeezed your bare thigh to settle you. 

"Relax." He whispered, making your eyelids flutter and leg stop moving. 

You cleared your throat and shifted slightly. Sam and Steve smirked to each other. Bucky didn't remove his hand until the SUV came to a stop.

🔫👨🏻

You walked into the ballroom and looked around in awe. 

"Wow." 

The ballroom was decorated like an enchanted forest with fairy lights, large flower bouquets, candle centrepieces, and pops of colour. You knew there would be extra security at the gala, with Bucky doubling his men since he himself was attending and you noticed them right away with their dark suits, stoic demeaners, and earpieces you know lead to the tech team back at the office. 

Bucky watched you take in your surroundings and had to hide a smile on his normally stoic face. 

"Let's go." He said, once again placing his large hand at your back to guide you through the crowd. 

Sam and Steve walked on either side of you, making it look like all of you were untouchable. You looked around and took in the attendees, their tuxes, gowns, and jewellery shimmering in the light. For how beautiful the room was, you had a weird feeling something was going to happen.

You stood close to Bucky's side all night, sipping a glass of champagne while he chatted with people. Many women side-eyed you as you walked the room, but you didn't care, often sending them glares until they looked away. Whatever. Bucky made it clear you were his date, and you were going to enjoy it for the night. You're certain the blonde from the club was busy and that's why he asked you, but you don't want to think about it when you stepped out of Bucky's arms. 

"What are you doing?" 

You placed your empty glass on a table. 

"I'm headed to the ladies room." You said, feeling weird you had to announce that to them but whatever. Before you turned to leave, Bucky leaned in and said, "We're dancing when you get back." You looked at him in surprise but nodded when you turned and headed to the ladies' room.

🔫👨🏻

You finished and cleaned yourself up, re-applying some lipstick in the mirror when you heard the door open then close. You glanced over to see who entered, but you didn't see anyone. 

"Weird." You muttered, tucking your lipstick back in your clutch. 

You checked your hair one last time and took a step from the mirror when a pair of arms surrounded you and covered your mouth. 

"Don't scream." 

The male voice sounded in your ear. You couldn't fight them seeing as how your dress was awkward, they were strong as hell, and you were surrounded, seeing two large men walk out of the stalls, holding you at gunpoint. OMG - Did they listen to me pee? Why was that the thing you were thinking about at a time like this!

"Who..." You were about to ask, but a damp cloth was placed over your nose, knocking you out cold.

🔫👨🏻

"Go and check on her." Bucky told Steve who nodded, leaving the ballroom. He headed to the ladies' room, only to find it empty and what looked like a storage room was open revealing a hidden hallway. He quickly ran up and down the hall, shoving past people. He checked in with security to be certain what he was thinking, but no one had seen you.

"Fuck!" Steve yelled, talking into his hidden microphone. "Y/n is missing." 

When Bucky heard that, his eyes widened before he took off, fleeing from the ballroom. Many people looked over and gasped slightly but didn't react as he ran down the hall. He owns the hotel the gala was at, and ran to one of the offices, finding Steve already set up. 

"Where?" 

"We've got Parker tracing the cameras. We'll find her." Steve confidentially said, but Bucky only yelled in frustration, kicking the chair over. 

He ran a hand over his hair which fluffed it up making him look frantic. He breathed heavy, trusting his tech guys they would have an answer soon.

🔫👨🏻

You woke in a darkened room, lying on what felt like a dirty cement floor. 

"Shit." You muttered, trying to focus your eyes, but it was useless, the room was pitch black. 

"Where am I?" Your head pounded, feeling like you just left a 24-hour heavy metal concert. 

You were still in your gala dress, so you were somewhat glad no one had stripped you when you heard footsteps. A door opened causing light to filter in. 

You turned and squinted holding up your hand to block the brightness when a creepy male voice said, "Ah, you're awake. He'll want to see you now." 

The footsteps came closer and helped you up, causing you to stumble.

 "Wait, who the hell are you?" You tensed as the man grabbed your arm. 

"You don't need to know that right now. Come, he wants to meet you." 

"No!" 

The man smirked and pulled out what looked to be a long stick of some kind. He held it up, then immediately hit you with it, striking your side, causing you to scream in pain.

 "What the hell you sick fuck!" 

He reared back again and hit you across your back, knocking you to the ground. You winced when he hit you once more, hearing a crunch as you screamed. You're certain your arm was now broken. 

"Get up." 

He ushered you out of the room. You stumbled down a hallway and entered a large office when the man walked you to a desk. The walls and accent colours were red making your eyes fuzzy at the bold colour choice. 

"He'll be right with you." Then the man stepped back, leaving you alone holding your injured arm.

A side door opened and an older man stepped out wearing a black suit.

"Miss Y/l/n. Make sure you tell them you were injured before you got here. I wouldn't want that reflecting badly on us now would we." 

He walked towards you and inspected your arm. You felt his beady eyes roam you, making you want to hurl. 

"I'm Johann Shmidt. An...acquaintance of Mr. Rumlow's." He sat himself down at a large black desk. Your mouth popped open in shock. 

"Please, have a seat." He gestured to a chair. 

"No thanks." You replied in a raspy voice. 

"What am I doing here?" You asked. 

The man smirked, placing his hands on his desk. 

"You've been selected as part of the next shipment." 

Your stomach plummeted. You had thought Bucky's men dismantled that. 

"Me? What shipment?" 

"Scheduled to leave tomorrow. You'll board the ship and travel with the others..." 

"Others?" 

"Yes, others. You'll score a pretty penny for me now that you're Barnes' girl." 

"What?" 

"James Barnes, mafia leader and new CEO of Hydra Enterprises? You're his girl, so I expect you to fetch the most from my buyers." 

Oh hell no. 

You turned to leave but were stopped by this Zola guy who was now holding a gun at you. You turned and said, "Why are you telling me this?" 

The man shrugged a shoulder and leaned back in his chair.

 "Rumlow was a decent guy but no longer matched with our...priorities. I told him you would fetch a good dollar, but he always insisted you not be included in his dealings. He valued your brains too much over your body..." His eyes raked you up and down and said, "Although I agree on the body front, your connection to Barnes will overrule your physical...shortcomings..." 

He snickered at you making you scowl. 

"Fuck you." 

"I admire your feistiness although your buyer will more than likely want you submissive...so you better get used to it now."

 You almost heaved at his comment. There was no way that was going to happen. 

"Take her away." He waved, standing from his desk. 

Zola grabbed you and wrestled you out the door, but you stopped him by stomping your heel on the top of his foot causing him to yelp. You faced Shmidt. 

"Bucky will come for you, and when he does, you and your little minion will die a painful death!" 

"I count on it. Because when he does come, we'll be waiting." 

Both men chuckled ominously as another man grabbed you and walked you back to your cell as the door to the office slammed shut.

🔫👨🏻

"Who?" Bucky asked. 

"Johann Shmidt and Arnim Zola. Part of the newly formed science division at Hydra Enterprises." Sam said, placing a file on the desk. 

"Fucking hell! How many divisions does Hydra Enterprises have!" Bucky yelled. 

"I swear to God when I get her back, I am dismantling Hydra Enterprises." His plans for making it legit were thrown out the window.

Bucky read over the small intel sheet Parker provided him. 

"We tracked her here." Steve said, pointing to a map.

 Bucky would find a way to tell you later he had his men put small trackers in all your clothes and hoped you would forgive him. Bucky looked over the map and knew exactly where it was. 

"Let's go." He grabbed his gun and checked the ammunition. 

"Woah woah, Buck. I want to get Y/n just as much as you do, but we need a plan. We can't just storm in guns blazing. Besides, Parker is dismantling the bombs as we speak." Steve said, blocking Bucky from leaving. Bucky growled at Steve knowing he was right. 

"Ok, so what do we know..." Sam said, re-focusing his boss to come up with a plan of attack...

🔫👨🏻

You don't know how long you were in the darkened cell. You were on the floor, curled into a ball protecting your arm, when you heard footsteps then the door was opened. 

"Let's go." Arnin Zola grabbed you and ushered you out. 

"Where?" You muttered, fumbling down a hallway.

 "Stop shoving me along..." 

"Then walk nicely..."

 "I'm trying to..." 

You fought with him a little, but he stopped and faced you. 

"Shut up." He slapped you across your face causing you to wince. 

"Let's go. The ship is here but we have to finish getting it ready." 

Fuck. 

You figured you were in a warehouse by the pier but weren't sure where, or if you were even in the same city when he opened a door and threw you in, locking it behind you. You noticed there was six cots that looked like they were recently used. In another corner were six women who were huddled together. Bile rose in your throat but you swallowed it down. 

You walked over and they flinched slightly. 

"It's going to be ok, someone will come..." 

"No one will." A brunette woman interrupted you.

"We've been here for a month, waiting..." She shrugged. 

"We've all been waiting..." Another one said, hugging her knees to her chest. 

"My arm is broken..." You blurted out. 

The first women got up and looked it over, then she walked to a cot and cut a piece of cloth to make a makeshift sling. 

"There, that should hold. It's not much but it should feel better." 

"Thank you." You could cry because not only did it help with the pain, but she was so kind even though you were surrounded by fear and uncertainty.

"Where did they find you?" The first woman asked looking at your tattered black gown.

 "Gala dinner." 

She snorted. "Lucky. They grabbed me from my house in the early morning. I was about to leave for my shift at the er. My name is Peggy." 

"Y/n." 

No one else introduced themselves, probably too scared to speak. 

"I promise, someone is coming." You assured them. 

You sat by them and brought your legs up, hugging them to your chest and sent a small prayer up to anyone who would listen that Bucky was going to save you. You just had to hold on a little longer.

🔫👨🏻

Bucky rode with Sam and Steve in an SUV, along with 20 other SUV's full of his men and loaded weapons. A long line of them travelled to the abandoned pier, his gut twisting when he saw a waiting ship at the dock. 

"We just made it." Sam said. 

His men stalked out of the SUVs with another 50 who were already there his tech team dispatched. He's going to have to give Parker a hefty raise and some time off from the info he found. Parker was currently dismantling the newly formed science leg of Hydra Investments by blowing up the leader's homes, businesses, and acquaintances, along with dismantling their bank accounts, investments, and holding companies. 

Bucky didn't give a shit if this started World War three, his goal was to get you back in his arms, safe and sound and if that meant destroying half of the city, he was going to do it.

🔫👨🏻

You heard commotion outside the locked door as you and the rest of the women stood, inching your way to the door. 

"What the hell?" One of them said. 

You looked over at Peggy who was watching with a curious expression on her face. Your heart was racing knowing it was more than likely Bucky and his men that were causing the noise, so you waited.

🔫👨🏻

Bucky, Sam, and Steve walked into an office that made their eyes buggy from the colour. 

"Someone likes the colour red." Sam said, walking the perimeter. 

"Barnes, nice of you to check on your newest division at Hydra Enterprises." A man walked in from a side door. 

"Fuck off Shmidt." Bucky growled.

 "I'm surprised you know who I am."

 "You're the piece of shit in charge." Bucky said, leaning against a table. 

"Perhaps." Another man walked into the office and stood at Schmidt's side. 

"Zola." Bucky grumbled making the short man nod at him. 

Steve walked over to Bucky's side as did Sam. 

"You've brought the whole cavalry." 

Gunfire and blasts were heard from other parts of the warehouse. 

"It's over, Shmidt." Bucky said. 

"Is it?" 

Parker had assured Bucky the science division was dismantled, leaving no trace of it by the time Bucky got to the office. All the men in the warehouse were destroyed, along with the ships and the warehouses. This was the last one, but Bucky wasn't going to announce that...yet. 

"I don't take kindly to people who creep in on my turf, especially with trafficking." 

"Brock..."

 "Brock was murdered." Bucky snapped at him. 

Shmidt and Zola shrugged like they didn't care one bit. 

"He was murdered and I took over, plain and simple, and now, I'm going to murder you." 

Loki walked in and stood behind Bucky. Shmidt seemed to know who he was and shifted appearing slightly nervous. 

"The bombs on site have been dismantled, your men have all been killed, and your little ship has been grounded." 

"You work fast." Zola stated.

 "Now, all you have to do is tell me where Y/n is." 

Shmidt's face lit up for the first time. 

"She's here." He casually shrugged, lighting a cigar, turning to face Zola.

 "Where did you put her after you broke her arm?" Zola shrugged.

 In one swift move, Bucky took out his gun and shot Zola in the forehead, torture be damned. Zola crumped in a heap while Shmidt watched.

 "Your time has come to an end. Rumlow is dead, Hydra Enterprises is no more. You're going to die too." Steve said. 

Shmidt shrugged, not seeming to care as both Sam and Steve held their guns at him. Loki stood by and watched, waiting for the signal to take over so he could torture him, something he was the best at. 

"Very well." Shmidt shrugged, turning to face Sam and Steve. 

"Take your best shot." 

"Wait." Bucky watched close. 

"Ah, having second thoughts?"

 "Something isn't right."

 "You're good." Shmidt shrugged. 

"There's an explosive device set to the room Y/n is in. It may or may not have been triggered when you first walked in here and it may or may not have a kill switch, and it may or may not have gone off already." 

A few explosions were heard in the distance. Bucky's eyes flashed with concern. 

"He's lying." Sam scoffed. 

"Am I?" 

Another explosion sounded. 

"If you find her and open the door, it may end up badly for you both." Shmidt said. 

"Fuck!" Bucky growled, lowering his gun. 

He ran a hand over his face but held the gun up and cocked it. He took a shot, hitting Schmidt in the shoulder. 

"He's lying like Sam said. We've located Y/n." Parker's voice sounded in the earpieces. 

Bucky wanted to fall to his knees in relief, but he stayed composed as did his men. 

"We're going to torture you, you sick fuck." Bucky smirked, giving Loki the signal to start. 

"Wait, Y/n...she may..." 

"Shut up you fuck! I'm done with your games!" Bucky shot him in the other shoulder causing Loki to roll his eyes at his trigger-happy boss. 

"He's all yours." Bucky said, leaving the office. 

"Where is she?" He said into the earpiece. Loki smirked and swooped in, pulling out his bag of tricks making Shmidt's eyes widen in fear for the first time. 

"When you see Brock in hell, tell him I said hi." Bucky said, gesturing for Loki to take over before he left the office.

🔫👨🏻

A loud blast sounded, rattling the door to the room you were in. You stood by it, trying to listen since the gunfire had eased when you heard footsteps. 

"Someone's coming!" You announced. 

Many of the women tensed, some hung onto each other when the door to your room burst open. 

"Steve!!!" You yelled, seeing a tired yet relieved expression on his face. You ran to him and hugged him tight before you released him. 

"Where's Bucky? Sam?" 

"Here." Sam peeked into the room but was bowled over when Bucky stormed in shoving him aside.

 "Move." He bolted over to you, his blue eyes seemed electric as he quickly looked at you, then he immediately wrapped you up in his arms, holding you tight. 

"Fuck! Baby..." He sighed, melting into you. 

He was rubbing your back and hair trying to soothe you. Tears formed in your eyes as you let him hold you. 

"I'm ok..." You winced slightly when he let you go. 

He looked at your arm in a makeshift sling and his nostrils flared. 

"I think it's broken..." You whispered. 

"Fucking Hydra." Bucky's voice was low and sounded lethal. 

"Let's go." He announced as Sam and Steve ushered out the other women. 

"Wait!" You stopped. 

You walked over to Peggy who was on the arm of Steve and gave her a side hug.

 "Thank you, for helping me." 

Then you let her go and walked back to Bucky.

 "Fuck this." Bucky said, placing his gun in his holster. 

He reached down and scooped you up, so he was carrying you. 

 "Let's get the hell out of here." He said, his men following. 

When you got outside, the warehouse you were in was completely levelled along with the pier. 

"Holy shit." You said, looking around. A black SUV was waiting so you boarded it alone, with Bucky. 

The rest boarded the other SUV's who were waiting.

Bucky got in and slid to your side, bringing you to sit on his lap for the ride back. You winced slightly from your arm, pain starting to return as your adrenaline was wearing off. 

"I need a hospital..." 

Bucky's hand roamed up and down your back, soothing you as much as it soothed him with the rhythmic motion. 

"I'll need a cast...probably x-rays, pain killers..." 

"Baby..." 

You looked up at Bucky. 

"Shut up and let me hold you." He sighed, squeezing you close. 

"I've already got a doctor lined up and is waiting at home for you." 

You snuggled into his chest while he held you.

"M'kay." You said, closing your eyes feeling safe for the first time in 24-hours.

🔫👨🏻

You woke to a calm and quiet room, groggily looking around. You had a mini-panic attack thinking you were never rescued and still at the hell on earth warehouse, but you weren't. Your eyes focused on a darkened room, and you were surrounded by clean, soft bedding. 

You stretched and winced slightly at the slight pain in your arm, looking down to scowl at what was preventing you from moving. 

"Oh, right, it's broken." 

You scowled at the cast that was being held with a black sling. 

"Feeling better?" A voice sounded from your right side. 

You looked over to find Bucky sitting there. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up his arms, showing off his tattoos with the top button undone. His usual black suit jacket was nowhere to be found. 

"What are you doing here?" 

He smirked at you and said, "You're the one in my bed baby..." 

Your eyes went wide as you looked around again. 

Frig, this is not my room.

"Oh, well, let me up..." 

You shuffled around trying but failing as you flopped from side to side making Bucky chuckle. He stood and sat on the edge of the bed, settling you. 

"It's ok. I was the one who put you here after the doctor fixed your arm." He pointed to your cast. 

"Right..."

 You must have passed out and slept through it since you don't remember a thing. 

"You've been asleep for 72-hours." 

Your eyes widened in shock. 

"Really?" 

You looked around in wonder. 

"No doll, I'm just joking. More like 8-hours." You glared at him making him chuckle even more. 

"You're hilarious..." You muttered.

The bedroom door opened a crack and Sam and Steve stuck their heads in. 

"Is she awake?" Sam whispered. 

Bucky sighed and said, "yes." Then the two men barged in, walking up to the bed.

"Hey." You said, giving them a lame wave. You were propped up slightly, feeling better. 

"Glad you're ok." 

"Yeah, that was crazy." They said, chattering like a bunch of excited kids.

 You learned Steve was in contact with Peggy from the warehouse, who he has been communicating with. He told you she was a nurse and he's planning on stalking the er department when she returns to work, so you're certain that's going over well like a lead balloon. 

Sam told you he went to a bakery today to get some cookies, but he said they aren't the same as the ones you make and has asked if he can help you bake when you're feeling better. 

"Would you two get out of my fucking bedroom?" Bucky sighed, running a hand over his face. 

You giggled and looked over at Bucky. He had light stubble on his face and he looked exhausted. 

"Fine, we're going." Sam raised his hands up with Steve mimicking. 

"We just wanted to check on Y/n."

 "Get out." Bucky pointed to the door while the two men shuffled away. 

"It was good to see you guys. Thanks for rescuing me." 

They both turned and seemed to blush slightly at your words before they left the room, closing the door.

"You need rest." You said, looking at Bucky. 

"I'll rest later. I've got food coming for you. You need to eat." 

"I need a shower." You muttered. 

You went to get up but were stopped. 

"Bucky!" 

"Stay here, eat, then you can shower."

 "I'll eat but then leave, and head back to my room." 

"Are we negotiating then?" He teased.

 "No." You huffed. 

"Good. You'll stay here, in my bed and that's that." 

"Oh really?"

 You went to cross your arms over your chest but winced at the pain...again. 

Right, my arm is broken. 

You were in a standoff with the mafia leader when food was brought in. 

"Eat." Bucky pointed to the tray before he got up and left the room, leaving you with your food. 

"Fine bossy pants." You muttered, taking a sip of water.

🔫👨🏻

"Hydra Enterprises has been completely dismantled, the employees have been given severance pay and references to find other jobs, the offices has been cleaned out, leaving no trace of the former company." Bucky said to Steve and Sam. 

"So, what's going to happen to Y/n?" Sam asked. 

"She's mine." Bucky glared at him. 

"Ok, but like, is she going to live here? Forever?" Steve asked. 

"Yes." 

"Cool, cool. So, when are you going to tell her?" 

"Tell me what?" You asked, poking your head into the office.

 "You're supposed to be resting. Don't make me call Dr. Strange back..." Bucky shot up from his desk and marched towards you. 

"I'm fine. I was just getting some clothes to change into after my shower." You rolled your eyes at him. 

"What did you have to tell me?" 

"Would you look at the time?" Steve announced looking at his bare wrist.

 "Gotta head out." Sam added, with the two men darting from the office like it was on fire.

"What's going on?"

 Something was up. 

Bucky walked you to the large couch and eased you down, sitting right beside you. 

"Close enough?" You snorted to which Bucky said, "Never." Making your eyes widen. 

"I was saying earlier, Hydra Enterprises is no more. It's gone. I closed the company and office..." 

"Wait, what about my job? My rent? Where will I work, wait, what will I do?" Your mind was spinning as Bucky placed his hand on your thigh to settle you.

 "You're going to stay here." 

"Oh?" 

"With me." 

"Right..." You scoffed, but he didn't flinch.

 "Wait, you're serious? What will I do?" 

"Do whatever you want, I don't care. Pick a hobby, do nothing, do it all, but whatever you do, you do it by my side." 

Your mind raced with possibilities. 

"What if I want to join the circus?" 

"I'll buy a big top tent for you." 

"What if I want to lie around all day and eat snacks like a rabid racoon?" 

"Then I'll get new couches that are more comfortable. You may have to fight Sam off, but I'll make sure the snacks never stop coming." 

"What if I want to travel the world?" 

There, that'll stump him. 

"When do we leave? I've got properties in most major cities, just say when and we'll leave." 

You gaped at him. 

"Wait, the employees..." 

"Taken care of." Your eyes widened and he sighed.

 "Not like that. I knew you'd be concerned, so they've all been paid out and given reference letters." 

"Oh, ok." You fidgeted with your broken arm.

 "Stop fidgeting."

 "I'm not." You pouted. 

"Wait, my apartment..."

 "Already cleaned out." 

"That's presumptuous of you..." 

"I know you'll say yes, just admit it." 

"What if I don't want to live here?" 

Bucky had to stop his eye from wanting to twitch at your questions, but that was one of the things he's come to adore about you. 

"You want to remodel a room or the house? I don't give a shit, do whatever you want. Baby, I have all the money in the world for you to spend. If you find the house good enough? We'll move. In case you need it spelled out to you, you're mine Y/n. You live here, with me and I will do anything to keep you happy." He squeezed your thigh. 

"Hmm..." You thought about it. 

"Ok." 

You saw the corner of Bucky's mouth twitch. 

"Ok? Just like that?" 

"Yeah..." 

He eyed you.

 "Oh wait, there is one thing..." 

"Of course there is..." He muttered.

 "No more club. No more going to the club, doing things at the club, escaping to the club, you stay here. With me."

 "Done." He simply said without issue. 

Well, that was easy enough. 

"Ok then." 

That's done. 

"Your things are currently being moved to my bedroom." Your eyes widened slightly. 

"Oh, are they now?" 

"Yup." 

He leaned down, his lips practically brushing yours as his eyes flashed. 

"I hope you're ready to be my queen." 

You swallowed and nodded, unable to say anything else. He ran his hand up and down your thigh sending shivers throughout yours. 

"Good, because you're about to enter my world and I'm all too excited to show you everything there is about the darker side of it." Then he leaned in and placed his lips on yours, making you melt into him.

ᯓ★ play your song here

ᯓ★summary: When a bachelorette weekend lands you front row at a sold-out show in Austin, you catch the attention of your favorite rockstar: Bucky Barnes—and one reckless night turns into something neither of you planned for.

ᯓ★ play your song here

ᯓ★summary: two weeks into tour, Bucky suggests to invite Steve to join you in bed—just like they've done with other girls before. It's supposed to prove that you're nothing special. The problem is, Bucky might be lying to himself.

ᯓ★ play your song here

ᯓ★summary: You and Bucky keep keep things casual, until one night, one question, and one wrong answer sends everything spiraling.

ᯓ★ play your song here

ᯓ★summary: After a show in Nashville, a night out turns into something much uglier when Bucky’s past collides with his present and you realize exactly where you stand in his life... or don't.

ᯓ★ play your song here

ᯓ★summary: On tour, Bucky Barnes has everything: sold-out shows, screaming fans, the adrenaline of being untouchable… and you, the one who made a cramped tour bus feel like home. He was clear from the start—no relationships. No labels. But somewhere between city lights and hotel nights, those lines begin to blur. You become more than convenient, more than temporary. And he becomes too much of a coward to admit what you are to him.

ᯓ★ play your song here

ᯓ★summary: When the world finally notices you, Bucky can't decide if he's proud or ready to lose his mind.

request are closed .ᐟ

The curse of premonition had been in your family for centuries, bestowed by a witch who had wanted your ancestors to suffer long after their own deaths. You would feel every tragedy creeping towards you and still remain powerless to name the hour, the place, or whose blood would be spilled.

Your grandmother had tasted saltwater for three days before her brother drowned. Your mother had heard bells ringing inside her skull before the hospital called about her father.

Before your childhood best friend died a brutal death, bruises appeared on your skin and you woke up with blood running from your nose.

Bucky kissed the back of your neck, then stopped when you flinched. 

His hand became still on your hip. “You’re awake.”

You nodded, although he couldn’t see it.

Bucky pushed himself up behind you. The mattress dipped as he leaned over, brushing your hair away from your face. You could feel him watching you before he gently rolled you towards him.

His hair was tangled from the pillows, and there was a crease across one cheek from your pillow and warmth lingering in his eyes that disappeared when he saw your face.

“What is it?”

You opened your mouth, but the taste of smoke became stronger. You tried to speak and had to swallow dust first, drowned in a coughing fit. When Bucky offered water, you refused and forced the taste down. 

Oh. 

Bucky caught your face between both hands, because he knew that look too well by now.

“What did you feel?”

“Ash.” Your voice came out raw. “I… I can smell smoke.”

Bucky inhaled through his nose, as though he might be able to smell it too.

There was nothing for him, just the warmth of your shared bedroom in the tower and lemony clean sheets. 

You reached for him, twisting your fingers into his shirt and pulling yourself against his chest.

Bucky wrapped himself around you immediately, metal arm across your back while his flesh hand cradled the base of your head. 

“I think something bad is going to happen,” you managed.

Bucky pressed his mouth to your temple. “How bad?”

“I don’t know.”

You never knew.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

Bucky had survived so many things, from himself, to armies, alien invasions and the end of the world. He had spent his entire life teetering too close to the edge, but had never let you do the same.

You held him tighter and whispered, “I’m not worried about me.”

Bucky went still. His breathing stumbled, and the arm around your back tightened until you could feel every plate in his hand. “Oh,” he looked down. “Is it…”

“I—” You cut him off, before biting the inside of your cheeks so hard it almost bled. “I don’t know that it’s you.”

“But you think it is.”

You couldn’t answer.

Ash gathered beneath your tongue again, and you squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face against his bare chest before he could see what you were still feeling.

Bucky kissed your hair. “Whatever it is, you know we’ll handle it,” His hand moved along your back, trying to soothe you while his heartbeat raced beneath your ear. “I promise everything’s gonna be okay.”

Outside the bedroom, the New Avengers Tower began to wake up, an elevator door chiming below. Alexei laughed in the corridor, followed by the muffled slam of a door.

These were all ordinary morning sounds you had grown fond of over the last six months.

And to think it could be taken away, just like that….

Bucky pulled the blankets higher around both of you and held you, pretending nothing in the world could reach you there.

You knew better.

You knew promises had never stopped the curse before.

But Bucky sounded so certain, and he loved you so much, and there was no harm in letting him believe it for a little longer.

Right?

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.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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Grief, it turned out, was not a single catastrophic event.

It was routine.

That was the part nobody warned you about. People talked about funerals, about loss and crying until your chest hurt. Nobody talked about the quiet days afterward. The ordinary Tuesdays, the mornings when you woke up and remembered all over again, the afternoons where nothing happened except the realization that she was still gone.

By the second week, your life had settled into something resembling a routine. Not a healthy one, not necessarily a happy one, but a routine nonetheless. You woke with the sun, not because you wanted to, but because the cottage did. The old curtains never fully blocked the morning light.

By seven o'clock, soft gold beams stretched across the living room floorboards and warmed the couch where you'd fallen asleep. Again. You'd stopped pretending the bedroom existed, the couch had become your bed, the coffee table your desk, the living room your entire world. Each morning began the same way. Coffee, the couch and silence. You'd curl beneath the same knitted blanket while the coffee cooled between your hands. The television remained off, the radio stayed untouched. The only sounds were the refrigerator humming in the kitchen and the distant crash of waves beyond the dunes.

The ocean was always there, patient and waiting. You still refused to look at it most days.

After coffee came chores. Laundry, dishes and sweeping sand from the entryway despite barely leaving the house. Tiny tasks meant to occupy your hands, to keep your thoughts from wandering.

Occasionally you'd make a trip into town, only when necessary. Groceries, hardware supplies, the pharmacy then immediately back home. You never lingered, never stopped to chat, never gave anyone the opportunity. The town remembered you, you quickly realized that, which was unfortunate because you'd been hoping it wouldn't. People recognized your last name, your face. Recognized your mother's eyes staring back from yours. The pity that followed was unbearable, so you learned how to move quickly, how to smile politely, how to escape before conversations could become condolences.

For a while, it worked.

Until you started noticing him everywhere.

The first time could've been coincidence, the second time too but by the third, you were beginning to suspect the universe had developed a twisted sense of humor. You spotted the motorcycle before you spotted him parked outside the diner, the same black motorcycle you'd accidentally backed into, the same motorcycle belonging to the most irritating man you'd met since moving home. You told yourself you weren't looking for it which would have been more convincing if you'd stopped noticing it immediately.

That morning he sat outside the diner with a rag draped over one shoulder, cleaning the bike while drinking coffee. You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt.

The following week, he appeared at the grocery store while you were comparing pasta sauces. He was reaching for cereal when you saw him, then he saw you. Both of you immediately looked away. The interaction lasted less than three seconds and still somehow managed to annoy you. A few days later, he appeared at the hardware store carrying what looked like enough lumber to construct an entire neighborhood. You stood in the checkout line watching him load board after board onto a cart. An absurd amount. An unreasonable amount. A suspicious amount.

What exactly is he building? Noah's Ark?

The thought startled a laugh from you, not because it was particularly funny, because it had appeared at all. You hadn't realized how long it'd been since you'd made yourself laugh. The moment passed quickly and the guilt that followed arrived even quicker. By the time you reached your car, irritation had already settled back into place. Irritation seemed to be your default emotion lately. Everything bothered you, the tourists clogging sidewalks with cameras, couples holding hands, families eating ice cream together.

The sight of happiness felt almost offensive, which made you feel like a terrible person. You knew these people weren't doing anything wrong, you knew that. But grief wasn't logical, it didn't care that the world had continued moving after your mother died, continued laughing, continued celebrating. Continued existing as though nothing had happened. You hated it for that, hated how easy happiness looked on everyone else, hated how unfair it felt.

Most of all, you hated the anger, because anger wasn't supposed to be directed at her and yet sometimes it was. The thought would sneak up unexpectedly, while washing dishes, folding laundry, staring at the ocean through a crack in the curtains.

You left me.

The realization would hit immediately afterward, sharp and ugly and followed by guilt. Because she hadn't chosen to leave, she hadn't abandoned you and wanted to die. You knew that, you knew it with every rational part of your brain. But the irrational part didn't care, the irrational part remembered unanswered questions, unfinished conversations, future holidays that would never happen. The irrational part wanted someone to blame, even when there was nobody.

One afternoon you found yourself sitting in your parked car outside the grocery store. Watching a mother and daughter load shopping bags into their trunk. The daughter couldn't have been older than sixteen, she was talking animatedly about something. The mother laughed and reached over, fixing strand of hair that had blown into her daughter's face. Such a small gesture, one you'd witnessed a thousand times growing up.

The sight of it made your throat ache as you looked away immediately. You quickly started the engine and drove home.

The cottage greeted you with the same silence it always did. The same closed curtains, same unopened boxes, the same grief waiting patiently inside. The ocean rolled endlessly toward shore outside, yet you completely ignored it and sank onto the couch and convinced yourself this was enough. Just you, the house and the beach. Nothing more. Nothing else.

Certainly not friends.

And definitely not sarcastic men with motorcycles who somehow kept appearing wherever you went.

Unfortunately, life seemed determined to disagree.

There came a point where you were sure that the universe was determined to laugh at your suffering, specifically on Tuesdays. You were carrying a basket of laundry back inside when your hip brushed the railing, there was a sharp crack, a groan of wood, then half the section gave way. The basket slipped from your hands as you jumped in shock and clothes spilled across the porch.

The carved and smoothed weathered wood laid there snapped in half and scattered on the stairs and ground. It just… broke. There was no heavy winds rocking it from its post, no dramatic accident involving a flightless pelican or raccoon. Just age. Years of salt air and harsh summers finally deciding they'd had enough. For a moment, you simply stared at the broken wood and splintered boards.

It wasn't even that bad. Objectively speaking, it was fixable. A weekend project, just a minor inconvenience. Something your mother would've laughed about.

That thought did it and something inside you snapped right alongside the railing.

"Oh, come on!" The words burst from you startling in the quiet morning air. Your eyes burned instantly. "Seriously?"

The porch, the laundry, the broken wood—it all blurred together. Every tiny frustration from the past few months surged forward at once. The stuck screen door, the leaky faucet. The endless paperwork, the loneliness. The fact that every time something broke, there was no one left to call. Because your mother would've known exactly what to do. She always had.

You could practically hear her voice.

"Don't panic, sweetheart. It's just wood."

Just wood. Except she wasn't here, and suddenly that felt unforgivable. You kicked a loose board, immediately regretted it then stood on the porch and cried angry, frustrated tears that had absolutely nothing to do with the railing and everything to do with the fact that the one person who would've helped you fix it was gone.

Two hours later you found yourself standing inside the hardware store. Still irritated, still grieving, still holding a broken piece of railing like evidence in a court case. The owner glanced between the wood and your expression. A wise man would've stopped there, unfortunately, he chose to speak.

"You'll need something stronger than wood glue."

"I don't."

His eyebrows rose. "You do."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do."

Your grip tightened on the broken board. "I just need glue and nails."

"You need replacement wood."

"No, I need glue and nails."

The owner sighed. The long-suffering sigh of a man who'd probably had this exact conversation a thousand times.

"Ma'am—"

"I know how to fix a porch railing."

That wasn't entirely true, the owner clearly knew it, you clearly knew it. Neither of you acknowledged it.

"You really don't."

"I really do."

"You don't."

"I do."

A voice appeared behind you.

"You definitely don't."

You closed your eyes. Of course, of course it was him. Turning slowly, you found the motorcycle guy standing a few feet away with a box of screws tucked beneath one arm.

His expression carried entirely too much amusement.

"You."

"Me."

The hardware store owner looked between both of you. Immediately sensing entertainment. Traitor.

You folded your arms. "What do you want?"

He nodded toward the railing section in your hands.

"To save your porch."

"I didn't ask."

"Good thing."

Your jaw clenched. "You know, some people manage to have conversations without being irritating."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Haven't met any."

The hardware store owner barked out a laugh and you shot him a look that had him suddenly finding a price tag very interesting. Coward.

The irritating man glanced at the wood again and his amusement faded slightly.

"You broke it?"

"It broke."

His gaze flicked toward your face. You weren't sure what he saw there and whatever it was made him pause. The teasing disappeared completely.

"How bad?"

The question surprised you, not because of the words but because of the tone. It came out gentler, unexpectedly so.

You looked away first.

"Worse than it looks."

Something in your voice must've given you away because he nodded slowly, as though he understood the answer had very little to do with the porch. For a second, neither of you spoke, the store felt oddly quiet.

Then he set his box of screws on the counter.

"I can help."

Your immediate response arrived before he finished speaking.

"No."

His eyebrow rose. "You sure?"

"Positive."

"You know how to replace a railing?"

You hesitated, which was a mistake.

His eyebrow rose higher.

"I'll figure it out."

"That's usually code for 'I absolutely will not figure it out.'"

You glared and he did nothing but looked unimpressed. The annoying thing was he wasn't being cruel, just honest, which somehow irritated you more.

"I don't need charity."

"Didn't say you did."

"You think I can't do it."

"I think your porch is going to end up in the yard."

The hardware store owner immediately turned away to hide another laugh and you considered throwing something at both of them.

He leaned against the counter. "I'll help."

"No."

"You'll help me."

You blinked. "What?"

"We fix it together."

His shoulders lifted slightly, a matter-of-fact shrug like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

"You can carry things."

Your glare deepened. "I can do more than carry things."

"Good."

A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Then you can use the drill."

You stared, suspicious, waiting for the catch. Waiting for the typical pity to follow. There wasn't one, just a simple offer. No condolences, no careful expression people used whenever they looked at you now. Just a guy offering to help fix a broken porch. The normalcy of it caught you off guard.

"I'm not going to let you help just to laugh at me."

The words escaped before you could stop them. The moment they did, you wished they hadn't. Because suddenly you sounded exactly as vulnerable as you felt.

Something softened briefly in his expression, then gone almost immediately.

"No one's laughing."

Your throat tightened.

He looked away first this time, giving you space to recover.

"We start Saturday."

"You've already decided?"

"Yep."

"You don't even know if I agreed."

He grabbed the box of screws from the counter and started toward the door.

"You will."

The confidence was infuriating.

"You're impossible."

He glanced over his shoulder, the smallest hint of a grin appearing.

"Saturday. Eight o'clock."

"You don't even know where I live."

"I'll find it." Then he disappeared out the door.

Leaving you standing in the hardware store holding a broken piece of railing and wondering how, exactly, you'd managed to get voluntold into spending an entire afternoon with the most annoying man in town. And the truly irritating part? For the first time in weeks, the thought didn't sound entirely terrible.

Saturday arrived bright and hot. The kind of coastal morning that already carried the promise of humidity before nine o'clock. You'd been awake since six, not because you were excited, because you were annoyed. There was a difference.

The coffee in your mug had long since gone cold by the time a motorcycle rumbled up the driveway.

You watched from behind the living room curtain, like a suspicious raccoon protecting its territory.

He parked beside the cottage, killed the engine and climbed off. No hesitation, no awkwardness. No lingering in the driveway trying to figure out how to navigate you and your dead mothers house. He simply grabbed a toolbox from one side of the bike and headed for the porch. The simplicity of it caught you off guard.

By now most people in town treated you one of two ways. Either they drowned you in sympathy, or they looked at you like you might shatter if somebody spoke too loudly. You hated both. He apparently chose a secret third option, ignoring the issue entirely.

You screen door creaked open to get a better look, he was already by the railing taking in the damage.

"You planning on helping?"

You looked at him, already setting tools down, already working. No good morning, no condolences, no questions. Just work. Something inside you relaxed despite yourself.

"You're early."

"You're late."

You glanced at the clock. Eight-oh-two.

"You said eight."

"Exactly."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

The response came so quickly you almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, you rolled your eyes and stepped onto the porch. The morning sunlight illuminated him fully for the first time as he shrugged off an overshirt and rolled his sleeves above his elbows.

And froze you in place.

His left arm was… metal.

Not a prosthetic, not exactly. Something far more complex. Dark silver glinted beneath the sunlight, gold flecks and intricate plates disappearing beneath his sleeve. For a moment your brain simply stalled, not because it frightened you or because it looked strange. Because suddenly a realization settled heavily inside your chest. Nobody ended up with an arm like that because life had been easy.

Whatever story existed there, whatever pain, whatever loss.

Whatever circumstances had led him here, none of it could've been simple. You thought about the way you'd immediately labeled him irritating, thought about every sarcastic comment, every assumption. And felt a little embarrassed.

He noticed your staring and his expression immediately shuttered. A defensive wall sliding neatly into place. You recognized it because you'd built plenty of your own.

Your gaze dropped away first, not out of discomfort, but respect. The tension eased without comment or explanation. And you became just two people quietly deciding not to ask questions neither was ready to answer.

You picked up a stack of replacement boards. "Where do you want these?"

Something flickered across his face, brief surprise and gone almost immediately.

"Over here."

And just like that, you got to work.

The strange thing was how easy it became. Not the physical labor, that part was miserable. By noon you were sweaty, sunburned, and questioning every life choice that had led you to carrying lumber in ninety-degree weather.

No. The easy part was him. He didn't fill every silence, didn't pepper you with questions or force conversation because he found quiet uncomfortable. He'd told you his name and didn't make a sorry face when you'd told him yours like everyone else did, he'd looked at your weather-worn house not as the pity project for its recently deceased owner, but just as it was. An old ass house with a broken railing that needed to be fixed. Hours passed with only occasional exchanges.

"Hand me that drill."

"Which one?"

"The drill-shaped one."

"You own three drill-shaped ones."

"Good point."

Then silence again, comfortable silence, the kind you'd forgotten existed. Back in the city every moment had required something. Meetings, calls, presentations and constant conversations. Noise. This felt different, just two people working beside one another with no expectations attached. When lunch rolled around, you disappeared inside and returned with two sweating glasses of lemonade.

Bucky accepted his with a nod, took one sip and paused.

"This is homemade."

"Obviously."

He stared at the glass. Then at you. Then back at the glass.

"You made lemonade from actual lemons."

You frowned. "That's generally how lemonade works."

"No." He shook his head. "People buy powder now."

"That's horrifying."

"That's modern society."

You snorted and the sound surprised both of you. Bucky hid his smile behind another sip before getting back to work.

The porch took longer than either of you expected. One afternoon turned into three, then three became nearly a week. Neither of you mentioned it. The project simply expanded, a few loose boards here., a weathered step there, an unstable post that definitely needed replacing. Each day Bucky arrived around eight and each day you found yourself making two glasses of lemonade instead of one.

By Wednesday, he'd stopped knocking. By Thursday, you'd stopped pretending to be annoyed about it. On Friday afternoon, you climbed onto the porch with an armful of supplies.

Bucky immediately took half from you.

"I can carry things."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because this only needs one set of hands."

He didn't even look up from his work, just continued measuring a board.

"You can sit down."

The casualness of it made something warm settle unexpectedly in your chest. Not pity or condescension. Just consideration, a simple kindness from one person to another. The sort your mother used to perform without thinking. You sat for the first time all week, just watching him work. The breeze lifted strands of his hair, the ocean hummed softly in the distance and for a moment, things felt almost normal.

Then Bucky looked up, completely serious.

"Did you hear about the lumber thief?"

You narrowed your eyes immediately. "No."

"That's because I wooden tell you."

The silence that followed was devastating as you stared at him absolutely horrified. Bucky looked immensely pleased with himself.

"That was terrible."

"I know."

"Objectively awful."

"I've got more."

"Oh God."

He ignored you. "What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?"

"No."

"Sofishticated."

The laugh escaped before you could stop it, sharp, unexpected and real. Both of you froze as the sound seemed to echo across the porch, across the yard, across weeks of grief and anger and loneliness. For one brief second, it felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Your smile disappeared almost immediately, guilt arriving right on schedule, because laughter still felt wrong somehow. Like betrayal, like forgetting the truth.

But Bucky didn't comment, didn't point it out or make it a thing.

He simply picked up another board.

"See?"

You rolled your eyes. "What?"

"My jokes are growing on you."

"They're not."

"They are."

"They absolutely aren't."

Bucky grinned. And despite every effort to remain irritated, something suspiciously close to enjoyment began taking root between the two of you. Small and unplanned, like a wildflower growing through a crack in the sidewalk. Neither of you noticed it happening, not yet but it was there all the same.

The sound lingered long after it ended. That laugh, short but genuine. You hadn't meant to do it, hadn't meant to let it slip past the carefully constructed walls you'd spent months building yet there it was. Hanging in the warm afternoon air, proof, and for a moment everything remained exactly the same. The porch, the ocean, the lemonade sweating against the table. Bucky looking far too pleased with himself.

Then something shifted, a sharp yet subtle splinter working its way beneath your skin. Because suddenly you realized something. That had been the first genuine laugh you'd had since your mother died. Not a polite smile, not a forced chuckle, not something performed because social etiquette demanded it.

A real laugh. The kind that escaped before you could stop it.

The realization hit hard enough to steal your breath and your stomach dropped, chest tightened and the warmth from moments ago vanished entirely.

Bucky was still talking, saying something about how he was obviously hilarious. You didn't hear a word of it because all you could think about was your mother's funeral. The cemetery, the closed casket, the flowers, the dirt.

And you're sitting here, laughing.

The guilt arrived immediately, fast and brutal racketing through every bone in your body. As though happiness itself had become something forbidden.

You stood abruptly, the movement startled both of you.

"I need a minute."

The words came out strange, thin and tight and before Bucky could respond, you disappeared inside. The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and enveloped you in silence. You gripped the edge of the sink and stared at your reflection, waiting for the feeling to pass. Instead it grew.

Your eyes burned and the first tear slipped free. Followed immediately by another.

"No."

You shook your head as though refusing would somehow stop it. This wasn't fair. None of it was fair. The emotions crashed together so violently you couldn't separate them. Sadness. Relief. Joy. Grief. All tangled together. You'd laughed and for one brief second, you'd forgotten and somehow that hurt more than remembering. Because your mother wasn't supposed to be a memory, she was supposed to be here. Supposed to be sitting on the porch criticizing Bucky's construction techniques, supposed to be making lemonade.

Supposed to be alive.

Instead she was buried beneath six feet of earth.

And you were here. Laughing, fixing a porch, living.

Anger brewed fast and hot inside you. You should've been sad, should've curled up against the tub and cried until your ribs ached. But being angry was easy. Too easy. You were angry at yourself, for laughing, for enjoying yourself, for letting someone in.

You'd had a plan. You'd come home to be alone, to disappear quietly with just you the house and the beach. Nothing else. Then somehow a sarcastic idiot with a motorcycle had managed to wedge himself into your routine. And worst of all? You hadn't stopped him.

The irrational part of your mind then shifted the anger towards your mother. You hated that part. Because she wasn't supposed to leave, she wasn't supposed to die yet. She wasn't supposed to leave you standing alone in a bathroom trying to figure out how to survive without her.

The tears came harder and you swiped angrily at your face, furious with yourself for crying, furious with everything.

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, low and heavy. A storm moving in from the water so fast that by the time you emerged from the bathroom, the sky had darkened considerably. The sunlight was gone quickly replaced by thick gray clouds gathering over the ocean.

Bucky looked up immediately with concern flickering across his face, not pity. Concern. Somehow that angered you too.

"You okay?"

The question was gentle. You hated it.

"I'm fine."

The lie sounded terrible.

Bucky glanced at the unfinished section of railing, then back at you clearly unconvinced but didn't say anything. You couldn't stand it anymore, the kindness, the patience. The fact that he kept looking at you like you were a person instead of a problem.

"You're done for today."

His brow furrowed.

"What?"

"You can go."

He looked around at the tools, the unfinished work, the section of porch that still wasn't safe.

"We didn't get much done."

"I don't care."

Thunder rolled again, closer this time. The ocean beyond the dunes had turned dark and restless, whitecaps churning against the shoreline.

Bucky set down the board he'd been holding.

"The railing still needs another day."

"I said I don't care."

The words snapped out sharper than intended. You saw the surprise cross his face, brief and then gone.

"It's not really safe to use yet."

"Then I'll fix it myself."

"You don't know how."

The statement wasn't cruel. Just factual, and that somehow made it worse.

Something inside you finally snapped.

"Then maybe I'll learn."

The air between you went still as the storm pressed heavier overhead.

Bucky just stared quietly, waiting. You hated that too. The waiting, the understanding, the fact that he wasn't fighting back.

"You know what?" your voice rose. "You've done enough."

His jaw tightened slightly yet still no argument, no anger, just silence. And suddenly you couldn't stop. Because if you stopped talking, you might start crying again.

"I'm not even paying you."

Nothing.

"You've been here all week."

Nothing.

"You don't have to keep showing up."

The first drops of rain began tapping softly against the porch roof. Bucky remained exactly where he was, steady and calm. You wish he would say something, do something. You wanted him to react, wanted him to get angry, wanted him to give you something solid to push against.

Instead he simply waited.

So you delivered the only thing sharp enough to hurt.

"Just get the hell out of my house."

The words landed heavily, and immediately you regretted them. Not enough to take them back, but enough. The rain intensified, steady now, the ocean roaring louder beyond the dunes. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Bucky nodded once, a small motion, almost imperceptible.

"Okay."

No lecture, no argument, no demand for an explanation. No reminder that you didn't mean it. Just okay. He gathered his tools, packed everything away, moved with the same quiet efficiency he'd shown all week. You stood frozen, watching and waiting for him to say something. Anything. He never did. A few minutes later the motorcycle engine rumbled to life, then faded into the distance. Gone. The storm arrived fully after that. Rain hammered against the roof, wind rattled the unfinished railing and the ocean churned violently beyond the windows. Dark water crashing against the shore in angry waves.

You stood alone on the porch long after he'd left. Staring at the section of railing still broken, half repaired, half destroyed, caught somewhere in between. Just like everything else. Just like you.

Thunder cracked overhead and just like that the cottage was empty again, not like when you'd arrived. This time you had known a presence, known warmth and something eerily close to friendship, and now you know its absence. And you don't know which feels worse.

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Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.

It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.

This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.

Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.

By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.

Your fingers brush his.

The world splits open.

One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—

Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.

Bucky gasps.

The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.

The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once. 

A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.

White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.

A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.

Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.

A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.

Then all of it is gone.

The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.

Your eyes lock on his.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”

It isn’t a question.

In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.

Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.

HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.

You swallow. “That was not normal.”

“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”

The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.

You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”

Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.

He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.

“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.

He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”

You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”

“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”

Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”

He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”

“You looked reckless.”

“That too.”

You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.

For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.

“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”

“A lot,” he agrees.

You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”

He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”

“Same.”

A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.

“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.

That, strangely, is what steadies him.

Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.

He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”

You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”

So that is how it begins.

Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.

With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.

He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.

He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.

When you part, it is almost noon.

You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”

“Tragic.”

He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”

You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”

Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”

He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.

“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”

He watches you walk away.

At the corner, you turn and look back.

The city seems to hold its breath.

Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.

Jesus Christ on a plastic sign

The Vegas lifetime comes back first.

Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.

He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.

“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”

Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.

Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.

“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.

You laugh. “Romantic.”

“Practical.”

“Liar.”

You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.

“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”

He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”

Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.

The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.

Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.

On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.

You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”

“Probably is.”

You kiss him anyway.

In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.

He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.

Got another one. Vegas.

The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.

me too

Then, after a beat:

did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?

Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.

we were committed to the bit

You start texting every day after that.

At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us? 

But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.

The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.

You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.

“You know those need another week,” he says.

You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”

“Reckless.”

“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”

He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.

You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.

It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.

Your head turns toward him.

His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.

Winding roads, doing manual drive

In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.

Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.

“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.

“I’m helpful.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”

You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.

“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”

Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.

You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.

“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”

Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”

Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.

Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.

“Anywhere specific?” you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”

You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.

The air changes.

He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”

Your breath catches.

Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.

“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”

Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.

The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.

You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.

“That one hurt,” you say quietly.

He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.

“You drove stick,” he says.

“I was bad at it.”

“You were terrible.”

You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.

There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”

“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”

“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”

So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.

“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.

He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”

“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”

Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.

When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”

You nod once. “Me too.”

Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.

Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”

Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”

His mouth curves. “Dating?”

“Scandalous, I know.”

He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.

“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”

The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.

You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.

It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.

After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.

“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.

His pulse kicks. “Good.”

“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”

He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”

“You should. Honest branding.”

He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.

It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.

He sets his glass down first.

You do the same.

When he steps closer, you do not move away.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.

Your eyes go soft. “Please.”

He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.

But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.

The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.

You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.

“Oh,” you breathe.

The apartment falls away.

Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains

The room is small and gold with lamplight.

In that life, you have been married for six hours.

Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.

You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.

He has never seen anything more beautiful.

You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.

You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.

“We don’t have to,” he says softly.

Your brows draw together. “I want to.”

“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”

Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.

“I want to be married,” you whisper.

He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”

“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”

He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.

The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.

You are not shy for long.

He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.

“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.

“Tell me what you need.”

You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”

He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”

He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.

When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.

You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”

So he does.

Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.

When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.

He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.

Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.

“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.

He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”

You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”

He never forgets them.

When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.

The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.

Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.

“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”

He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.

“You okay?” he asks.

Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”

“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”

Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.

You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”

“Don’t apologize.”

When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”

He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.

He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.

“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.

At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.

“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”

He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I get it now.”

Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.

The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.

The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.

In between, you date.

Real dates. Present-tense ones.

You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.

And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.

One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.

When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.

“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words do something strange to the air.

You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”

He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”

But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.

You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.

Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night

The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.

In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.

And still, you build.

By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.

By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.

It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.

But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.

Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.

One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.

“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.

You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”

He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.

“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.

You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”

“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”

The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.

You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.

“We are,” you whisper.

He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”

You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”

The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.

You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.

Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.

“That one felt different,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.

It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.

“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”

He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”

You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.

“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.

He looks at you. “Doing what?”

“Building a life.”

The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”

He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.

By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.

By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.

The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.

The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.

You know before the memory hits what it will be.

The note hangs in the air.

Then London rushes in.

late nights in black silk in east london

The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.

Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.

Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.

The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.

And there you are.

You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.

Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.

Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.

“Careful,” his friend  mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”

Bucky barely hears him.

When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.

He is doomed.

Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.

“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.

You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”

You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.

“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.

“Only in London.”

“Convenient.”

You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.

“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.

You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”

So he doesn’t.

He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.

On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.

He sits beside you. The stage creaks.

You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.

For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.

Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.

“I hate war,” you say flatly.

“Yeah.”

“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”

He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”

That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.

When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.

“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.

He believes you.

Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.

Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.

“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.

You blink at him. “Terrifying?”

“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”

Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”

He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.

Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.

Not everything. Not all at once. But more.

About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.

That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.

The last of the big memories comes in November.

By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.

At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.

The glass knocks against his ring finger.

Sunlight slams through him.

Neon orange drinks on the beach

Salt lives in the walls of that house.

Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.

You have children in that life. Three of them.

A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.

The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.

It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.

The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.

The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.

“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”

Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”

You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.

Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.

Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.

You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”

“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”

Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”

You laugh. “I’m shocked.”

“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.

The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.

It is paradise.

Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.

“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”

You tip your face up. “The beach?”

“This.”

The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.

You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”

His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”

Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.

It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.

When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.

You are crying.

So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.

“That one was rude,” you say thickly.

He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”

It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.

A future.

You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”

“What?”

“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”

The market blurs around the edges.

Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.

“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”

You inhale sharply.

He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.

“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”

Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”

“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”

Something breaks open in your face.

Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.

When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.

“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.

He blinks. “I did?”

“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”

That night you come home with him.

Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.

The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.

There are no visions this time.

No past lives pouring through the cracks.

Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.

“This is ours,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You reach for him.

The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.

He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.

His throat goes tight.

On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.

“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.

“I’ve got you.”

You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”

When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.

He moves. You move with him.

Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.

He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.

Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.

You draw lazy circles over his sternum.

“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”

His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”

Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.

He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.

Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.

Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.

“Need a bag today?” he asks.

You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.

Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.

No flash comes.

There is no need.

Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.

The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.

And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.

Maybe you have.

Maybe you will again.

Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.

It is not a dramatic ending.

It is better.

It is a life.

And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.

Cocky to the marrow of his bones, sharp-tongued and arrogant as Lucifer himself, Bucky lived as though the world owed him pleasure, coin and willing flesh. By day he sold his sword to the highest bidder. By night he sold his body to any woman bold enough to meet his gaze. Tavern wenches with loud laughs and rough hands, blushing noble daughters sneaking out after curfew, widowed merchants’ wives starved for a man’s touch and painted whores in the stews, he fucked them all. Often two or three in the same night, sometimes all at once.

He never stayed till morning. Never asked their surnames. Never cared.

One humid summer night in a crowded Southwark tavern, he had a fiery red-haired barmaid bent over a stack of ale barrels out back. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist and he was pounding into her so hard the barrels creaked and shifted beneath them. He gripped her hips with calloused hands, lips brushing her ear as he growled low and filthy,

“That’s it, ye greedy little slut… take every thick inch of my cock. Moan louder, lass- let the whole fucking street hear how well I’m ruining this tight, dripping cunt of yers.”

She came with a shaking cry, knees buckling. Bucky laughed darkly, low and wicked and pulled out only to spin her around and shove her to her knees in the dirt.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, fisting his thick cock. “I’m going to spend down yer throat like the good little cocksucker ye are.”

She obeyed eagerly and he fucked her mouth until he spilled with a satisfied groan.

Two nights later, he found himself in a lavish merchant’s townhouse with twin noble daughters whose father was away on business. The sisters knelt before him in their fine shifts, taking turns sucking his cock while he sat like a king upon their father’s velvet chair. He tangled his fingers in their soft hair, voice low and dripping with filth:

“Look at you two proper little ladies… choking on a lowly mercenary’s cock like common whores in the stews. Share it nicely now- lick my balls while yer sister swallows me down. Good girls. I’m going to fuck both yer tight cunts senseless until ye can’t walk straight on the morrow.”

He took them one after the other on their father’s fine bed, then together, whispering the most depraved things between deep thrusts:

“Does it feel good, feeling yer sister’s slick all over my cock while I’m buried inside ye? Ye like being fucked like cheap sluts, don’t ye?”

The girls moaned and begged for more, and Bucky gave it to them until they were trembling and spent.

Later that same month, he fucked a widowed countess in her own marriage bed, her late husband’s portrait glaring down at them from the wall while he railed her hard from behind. He slapped her ass sharply, leaving a red handprint, and snarled against her ear,

“Bet that cold old bastard never fucked ye like this, did he? Say it, my lady- tell me how much better my thick cock feels stretching this neglected, dripping noble cunt of yers.”

“Better,” she gasped, pushing back against him shamelessly. “So much better- please, harder!”

He laughed, dark and triumphant, and gave her exactly what she begged for.

He never asked. He simply took, with that devastating smirk, those piercing steel-blue eyes and that rough, velvet voice dripping pure sin. Women dropped to their knees the second he crooked a finger and flashed that wicked grin. Word of him spread through the taverns and great houses alike: if you wanted a night you’d never forget, you sought out James Barnes.

To him, life was cheap and fleeting, especially with the dark rumors of a terrible sickness creeping ever closer from the continent. So why not wring every last drop of pleasure from it while he still could? Death was for the weak, the unlucky, the overly cautious. James Buchanan Barnes was none of those things. He felt invincible, already half-immortal in his own mind, a king of fleeting nights and stolen pleasures.

Until the night the plague finally found him in that filthy alley behind the tavern.

James had just finished with a laughing barmaid behind the tavern, still tucking his cock back into his breeches with that signature cocky smirk when the nightmare lunged out of the shadows.

The man was a nobleman once, fine clothes now stained and torn but the plague had rotted him from the inside. Black buboes swelled grotesquely on his neck and groin, his skin slick with fever-sweat and pus. His eyes, however, burned with something far worse than the pestilence. They were mad. Hungry. And his mouth was open, revealing long, sharp fangs glistening with saliva and fresh blood.

Bucky tried to fight.

Even half-drunk and sated, the young mercenary was no easy prey. He swung a heavy fist and caught the creature square in the jaw with a solid crack.

“Get the fuck off me, ye sick bastard!” he snarled, terror spiking through the haze of ale.

The nobleman’s strength was unnatural. He slammed Bucky against the slimy brick wall of the alley with bone-jarring force. The stench of death, decay and rotting flesh filled Bucky’s lungs, making him gag. He kicked wildly, cursed, and clawed at the creature’s rotting face, drawing blood and pus beneath his nails.

“Unhand me, you foul whoreson!”

But the dying vampire was too far gone. With a guttural, inhuman hiss, he struck.

Fangs sank deep into Bucky’s throat.

The pain was immediate and blinding.

James screamed, a raw broken sound that echoed off the narrow alley walls. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured straight into his veins. Every nerve in his body ignited at once. His back arched violently as the venom spread like acid through muscle and bone. He dropped to his knees in the filth and shit of the alley, clawing desperately at his own neck. Hot blood poured between his fingers, soaking his tunic.

“What… what the fuck have ye done to me?!” he gasped, voice cracking with raw terror. “Get off- get off me, ye devil!”

The nobleman collapsed beside him with a grotesque, satisfied smile still twisting his rotting face, finally dead.

Bucky’s vision blurred and doubled. His gums burned as though someone had shoved hot coals into his mouth. New fangs pushed through with agonizing slowness, splitting the flesh, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of his own blood. His eyes felt like they were boiling in his skull, bloodshot crimson, pupils blown wide with unbearable pain. Every heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a war drum, each one slower, heavier, more labored than the last.

He vomited bile and blood onto the filthy cobblestones, curling into a tight ball as wave after wave of excruciating pain ripped him apart from the inside out. Nothing in his life, no sword wound, no tavern brawl, no brutal fuck had ever come close to this torment.

“I’m dying,” he gasped between screams. “Christ save me… I’m dying…”

Then his heart stopped.

For one terrifying, endless moment there was only silence.

And then a new, monstrous strength flooded his limbs.

The pain crested like a breaking wave and shattered. The fire in his veins cooled into something cold, sharp, and impossibly clear. His senses exploded. He could hear rats skittering through the gutters three streets away. He could smell the fear-sweat and ale on every patron still inside the tavern. He could taste the copper of his own blood like the finest wine he’d ever stolen.

James Buchanan Barnes rose slowly from the filth of the alley a different man.

No longer the cocky mortal who believed himself invincible.

Now he was invincible.

The arrogance did not vanish overnight. It simply twisted into something far colder, darker and infinitely more dangerous. A ravenous hunger gnawed at his insides like a living beast. He staggered out of the alley on unsteady legs, eyes glowing faintly red in the darkness, new fangs aching in his gums. The whole world smelled of blood and opportunity.

For the next three centuries he drifted across Europe like a handsome plague all his own, still devastatingly beautiful, now paired with an immortal predator’s lethal grace. He took lovers by the dozen and left ruin in his wake.

He fucked them hard and mercilessly.

In silk-draped beds of French chateaus, he would take haughty countesses from behind while their husbands slept in the next room. He’d grip their hips hard enough to bruise, pounding into them until they sobbed with pleasure, then sink his fangs into their offered throats as they came. Many begged for it, baring their necks willingly, whispering “Take me, my lord… drink” as he drained them just enough to leave them dizzy and addicted.

In moonlit forests of Germany, he seduced witches who offered their wrists and throats in dark rituals. He’d fuck them against ancient trees or on moss-covered altars, their bare breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust while they chanted his name like a god. He drank from them mid-climax, their blood mixing with their screams of ecstasy as he filled their cunts with his spend.

In the secret royal chambers of Spain and Italy, queens and duchesses summoned him under cover of night. They offered their royal throats like sacred gifts, spreading their legs and begging the beautiful monster to ruin them. He would fuck them on their own thrones or royal beds, merciless and unrelenting, leaving bite marks that they would hide beneath high collars and jewels for weeks.

Even peasant girls in haylofts and smoky inns were not spared. They offered themselves eagerly, wrists, throats, thighs, drawn to his dangerous beauty like moths to flame. He took them roughly against barn walls or on piles of straw, growling filthy promises in their ears as he drove into them:

“That’s it, lass… bare that pretty throat for me. Let me drink while I fuck this tight cunt raw.”

He was never gentle. He fucked like the predator he had become, deep, brutal and possessive. Many women left his bed limping, marked and forever changed, craving the bite of the beautiful devil who had ruined them for mortal men.

And when the hunger demanded more than just sex, he fed.

He drank from wrists held out like offerings, from elegant throats bared in candlelight, from soft inner thighs spread wide beneath him. He never killed them, not unless they deserved it. He left them alive, dazed and addicted, whispering his name in their dreams for years afterward.

Then he vanished before dawn.

No attachments. No feelings. No mercy.

Just blood and pleasure.

He moved from city to city, country to country, leaving a trail of broken hearts, bitten throats and ruined reputations in his wake.

Until the second wave of plague swept through London in 1665… and brought him Dolores.

It was a rain-soaked evening when James first met Dolores.

He was walking the narrow, muddy streets of Cheapside, hood pulled low against the downpour, when a young woman hurried around the corner with a heavy basket of herbs clutched to her chest. She collided directly with him.

She stumbled, nearly dropping her basket. He caught her elbow with gentle, steady hands.

“Forgive me, mistress,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I was not watching where I-”

Their eyes met.

And she knew.

She saw the faint red glow in his eyes, the unnatural stillness of his body, the way the rain seemed to slide off him differently. She smelled the old death that clung to him like a shadow. Most mortals would have screamed or run.

Dolores only smiled, soft, unafraid, almost tender.

“You’re him,” she whispered, so quietly only he could hear. “The one the shadows speak of. The immortal with the devil’s hunger.”

James froze. For the first time in centuries, he was the one caught off guard.

“And yet ye do not run,” he said, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing. “Most women throw themselves at me for the thrill of the monster. They bare their throats and beg to be ruined. Why do you not scream?”

She looked up at him with calm, intelligent eyes, rain dripping from her lashes.

“Because I see more than the monster,” she replied softly. “I see a man who is tired. Lonely. Carrying centuries of sorrow in those beautiful eyes. Tell me, stranger… does the hunger ever let you rest?”

James stared at her, stunned into silence. No one had ever spoken to him like this.

That night, after she invited him into the back room of her father’s apothecary shop under the pretense of selling him a tonic, she offered him something far more precious.

“I know what you are,” she said softly, standing close enough that he could hear her steady heartbeat. “And I am not afraid. If you wish to drink… you may. But only if it brings me pleasure, not pain. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted by something eternal.”

James stared at her, stunned. No one had ever offered themselves to him like this, without fear or mindless lust.

“Dolores,” he breathed, tasting the name like a prayer. “Are you certain? I am no gentle lover. I have ruined women far braver than you.”

She cupped his face with gentle hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Then be gentle with me, my James. Show me the man behind the hunger. Kiss me first.”

He kissed her slowly, reverently, as if she were the most fragile thing in existence. When she moaned softly into his mouth, he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against hers while his hands explored her body with aching care.

That same night, in the small room above the shop with rain pattering against the window, he took her virginity.

He laid her down on the narrow bed like she was made of Venetian glass. He kissed every inch of her, slow worshipful kisses down her throat, across her collarbones, over the soft swell of her breasts. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he worshipped her with his mouth until she was trembling and whimpering.

“Easy, my sweet Dot,” he murmured against her slick folds, voice low and tender. “Breathe for me. Let me make it good for you. I want to hear every sound you make.”

He licked her slowly, reverently, sucking gently on her clit until she came with a soft cry, fingers tangled in his hair.

When he finally pushed inside her, he did it so slowly, so carefully, whispering sweet, filthy praises the entire time.

“That’s it, love… breathe. You feel so perfect. So warm and tight around my cock. Such a brave, beautiful girl, taking me so well. Does it hurt?”

“A little,” she gasped, legs wrapping around him. “But don’t stop. I want all of you, James. Please.”

He moved with aching gentleness, rocking into her in slow, deep strokes, one hand cradling her face while the other stroked between her legs.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered against her lips. “My perfect Dot. Look at you, opening up for a monster like me. I’ve never felt anything like this. Never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

As she neared her peak, he kissed her throat and asked softly, “May I taste you, love? It will feel like pleasure… I swear it on whatever soul I have left.”

“Yes,” she breathed, tilting her head. “Take what you need. I want to feel you.”

He sank his fangs gently into her throat at the exact moment she came. She cried out in ecstasy, not pain, as his venom flooded her veins with liquid pleasure. He drank only a little, just enough to bind her to him while she clenched around his cock, sobbing his name.

“My James… oh God, James… it feels… so good…”

For the first time in three hundred years, the cold, womanizing predator fell in love. Real, terrifying, all-consuming love. Dot became his anchor, his light in an endless night. She made the hunger feel like home. They moved into a small cottage on the edge of the city, hidden behind overgrown gardens. He watched her work by lamplight, head bent over dried herbs and for stolen months he felt almost human again.

He was gentle with her in ways he had never been with anyone. He would fuck her slow and deep on their modest bed, whispering filthy devotion between tender kisses:

“My sweet Dot… so tight, so perfect for me. Look how beautifully you take my cock. I’d burn kingdoms for this cunt, for you.”

She would moan his name like a prayer, fingers buried in his hair, gasping “My James… my James…” as she came apart beneath him, safe in the arms of the monster who had chosen to be gentle for her.

But the plague found her anyway.

It started with a mild fever and a small swelling under her arm. Bucky begged her to stay inside. She insisted on helping the sick in the city “I cannot sit idle while people die, James.” Within days she was burning with fever, black buboes blooming across her neck and groin, coughing up blood.

He took her to the only hospital-like place that would accept plague victims, a filthy overcrowded pesthouse run by overworked physicians and nuns. The air reeked of vinegar, smoke, and rotting flesh. They bled her, applied useless poultices, and prayed over her while she grew weaker. Bucky waited outside in the shadows like an animal, listening to her faint cries through the walls.

When the doctors finally told him there was nothing more they could do “She is in God’s hands now” he snapped. He stole her from the pesthouse that same night, carrying her home in his arms while she shivered and whimpered.

“I’ve got you, Dot. I’m not letting them touch you again.”

Back in their cottage, he took matters into his own hands. Desperate and terrified, he forced his ancient vampire blood down her throat by the cupful. He reopened the bites on his wrists again and again, mixing his blood with herbal tonics she once made, performing every forbidden rite he had learned across three centuries. He even tried to turn her prematurely, sinking his fangs into her throat while she was still semi-conscious, pumping venom and blood into her failing body in a frantic attempt to save her.

It only made everything worse.

His powerful blood clashed violently with the plague already devouring her. The buboes swelled larger and burst. Her fever spiked into delirium. She screamed in agony as her body tore itself apart from the inside, convulsing so hard she bit through her own lip. The vampire venom accelerated the plague’s destruction, turning her gentle decline into a nightmare of pain.

In her final hours she was barely lucid. Bucky climbed into bed with her, cradling her burning body against his chest, rocking her as she gasped for air.

“Stay with me, Dot… please, my love. I can’t do this without you.”

Her eyes fluttered open one last time, bloodshot, fading but full of love. She reached up with a trembling, fever-hot hand and cupped his tear-streaked face.

“My James…” she breathed, voice cracking like glass. “I love you… even the monster. Don’t… don’t blame yourself.”

Then she screamed.

A horrible, soul-shattering scream as another wave of pain ripped through her. She clawed at her own chest and neck, eyes wide with terror and agony, whispering his name like a broken litany until her voice failed. Bucky held her through every convulsion, sobbing blood tears into her sweat-soaked hair, begging, praying, cursing God and himself.

She died just before dawn, limp and cold in the arms of the immortal who had tried everything and only hastened her suffering.

The silence afterward was worse than any scream.

Completely shattered, Bucky remained on the bed where they had been lying together.

Dot was still in his arms, limp and cold against his chest, exactly where she had drawn her last painful breath. He held her tighter, rocking her gently as if that could somehow bring her back. The silence in the small cottage was deafening, broken only by the distant rumble of plague carts outside and the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.

Tears of blood streamed down his face as he pressed his lips to her forehead one final time.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. Forgive me, Dot… forgive your monster.”

With trembling hands, he gently laid her back against the pillows, arranging her hair and pulling the quilt up to her chin like she was only sleeping.

Then he rose.

He moved through the cottage like a man in a nightmare, pouring oil from every lamp and bottle he could find. He soaked the floorboards, the rugs, the curtains, the herbs and dried flowers she had so lovingly collected. He drenched the wooden beams and the table where she used to mix tonics.

When the entire home was saturated in oil, he returned to the bed.

He stood over her for a long moment, memorizing her peaceful face one last time. Then he struck the match.

The flames roared to life with terrifying speed, greedy and hungry, racing across the floor and climbing the walls. Bucky stayed right there beside the bed as the fire reached them, the heat blistering his immortal skin. He watched the flames lick at the quilt, at her hair, at the body of the only woman who had ever truly loved him.

He didn’t move.

He stood in the flames’ glow, the inferno painting the small cottage in violent orange and red, until the roof began to collapse and the entire structure became nothing but a roaring pyre.

The last remnants of the man he used to be, the cocky mercenary, the arrogant lover, the creature who still believed he could be redeemed, died with her in that fire.

When the cottage finally collapsed in on itself with a thunderous crash, Bucky walked out of the burning ruins and into the night.

He never looked back.

After Dolores burned, Bucky wandered the world like a ghost for nearly two hundred and fifty years, feeding in the slums of Paris, hunting through the fog of Victorian London, drifting across continents with no purpose except to dull the ache in his chest.

Then the wars found him.

In 1914, when the world descended into madness, he enlisted under a false name and threw himself into the trenches of World War I. He fought like a shadow, slipping through No Man’s Land at night, ripping out German throats with his bare fangs while artillery shells screamed overhead. The mud, the blood, the endless screams… they felt like penance. He told himself the carnage was justice for every innocent life he’d taken, for failing Dot. He rarely fed on soldiers, only the cruelest officers and rapists among the ranks. The rest of the time he simply endured, letting bullets tear through him, healing slowly, welcoming the pain.

When the war ended in 1918, the emptiness followed him back across the Atlantic.

He moved to Brooklyn in the early 1920s.

New York felt different, loud, restless, alive in a way Europe no longer was. Brooklyn, with its brick row houses, bustling docks and working-class grit, reminded him faintly of the London he once knew. He bought an old warehouse near the waterfront under yet another alias and made it his lair. For a few quiet decades he tried to disappear into the rhythm of the city: working nights on the docks, boxing in smoky gyms, fucking nameless women in speakeasies just to feel something close to warmth.

But peace never lasted.

World War II dragged him back in.

By 1942 he was operating as a covert Allied operative, a ghost soldier who could walk through enemy lines and leave nothing but corpses. In the brutal winter of 1944, during the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes Forest, everything shattered. A German artillery shell landed too close. The explosion tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder in a spray of blood and bone. Vampire healing tried desperately to close the wound but the shrapnel was too deep, the damage too severe. He lay bleeding in the snow for hours before a secret HYDRA-linked unit found him.

They dragged him to a makeshift lab hidden in the frozen woods. There, while he was half-conscious and roaring in agony, they fused a prototype metal prosthetic to the raw stump, cold steel wired directly into his immortal nervous system. The pain was worse than the turning in that London alley. He screamed until his voice gave out as they bolted the arm into place.

When he finally woke, the arm was part of him, unbreakable, unnaturally strong and freezing to the touch. A permanent scar on the body that had once made women drop to their knees.

After the war ended in 1945, Bucky vanished again.

He returned to Brooklyn, the only place that still felt halfway like home. He kept the same warehouse, later converting it into a hidden penthouse high above the city as the decades passed. The metal arm stayed hidden beneath long sleeves and gloves. He fed only on the worst of humanity, mobsters, rapists, corrupt politicians and fucked to forget, never staying longer than one night.

As the years went on, the world changed… and so did the way people fucked.

In the roaring 1920s, flappers threw themselves at him in smoky speakeasies, lipstick-stained mouths whispering filthy promises while they rode him in dark corners. In the 1950s and 60s, women grew bolder, secretaries, housewives, beatnik girls who wanted danger. They offered their throats and wrists in motel rooms, begging him to bite while they came on his cock. By the 1970s and 80s, the sexual revolution turned everything dirtier. Women took him home and asked him to choke them, slap them, fuck them until they cried, sometimes filthier than he had ever been in his mortal days.

He gave them what they wanted. He fucked them hard and merciless in alleyways, penthouse suites and the backs of cars. He drank from them while they screamed in pleasure, leaving bite marks they would hide under turtlenecks and makeup. But it was never love. Never connection. Just bodies and blood to numb the emptiness.

He was the shift.

Many, many years ago, people fucked mostly for love, for marriage, for heirs. Now they fucked for fun, for thrill, for the sheer dirty pleasure of it and Bucky became their favorite sin. They threw themselves at the tall, silent man with the metal arm and the dangerous eyes, never knowing they were offering themselves to something ancient and monstrous.

Yet no matter how many women he took, how many throats he drank from, how many nights he spent buried in warm, willing bodies… the loneliness never left.

Four hundred more years of numbness stretched ahead of him.

A ghost with fangs, a metal arm that never truly felt like his own, and a heart that hadn’t truly beaten since Dolores died screaming his name.

Until one rainy night in 2026, outside a quiet Brooklyn library, a warm-blooded girl with a sunlight smile literally crashed into him… and everything changed.

You’re running on fumes, a broke stubborn waitress working chaotic double shifts at a loud hipster café by day and a quiet night-shift librarian at an old branch library by night. Your Gothic literature thesis is the only thing that still excites you: tragic monsters, obsessive love and beautiful creatures of the night that always end up destroying what they crave most. You laugh at how dramatic it all sounds.

It’s a brutal, pouring rainy night when fate decides to be cruel.

You’re leaving the library well past midnight, arms overloaded with books and thesis notes, your cheap umbrella doing almost nothing against the downpour. Head down, coffee in hand, you hurry down the slick stone steps and slam directly into a solid wall of muscle.

Your coffee cup flies out of your hand, splashing across his dark coat. Your umbrella spins wildly into the street. You stumble backward, nearly slipping on the wet pavement.

“Shit- I’m so sorry!” you blurt, face burning with embarrassment. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, I-”

Before you can finish, a large, surprisingly gentle hand catches your elbow, steadying you with effortless strength.

“Easy there, doll,” a low, rough voice murmurs, laced with an old-fashioned accent that doesn’t belong in modern Brooklyn. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”

You finally look up.

Holy fuck.

He’s stunning. Tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-blue eyes that seem to cut straight through you, sharp jawline and dark hair dripping from the rain. Danger rolls off him in waves, but his touch is careful, almost reverent.

He releases your elbow only to bend down and retrieve your soaked umbrella from the gutter, shaking the water off before handing it back to you.

You’re still flustered. “No, really, it was me. I’m such a klutz when I’m tired. Here- let me get you some napkins or something-”

He’s already shrugging off his long, clearly expensive black coat. Before you can protest, he drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm from his body and smells like aged leather, rain and something darkly rich, like old wine and copper.

Your eyes go wide in panic.

“Wait- no, no, no! I can’t take this!” You immediately start shrugging it off. “This looks really expensive. How am I supposed to give it back to you? I don’t even know your name. I can’t just walk off with your coat like some weirdo-”

He places a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder, stopping you from removing it. His eyes soften, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest crooked smirk.

“Keep it,” he says, voice low and smooth. “You’re soaked to the bone, doll. You’ll catch your death walking home like that. I insist.”

“But it’s yours,” you insist, cheeks burning hotter. “What if I ruin it? Or lose it? Seriously, I feel terrible. At least let me get your number or something so I can return it properly-”

He shakes his head, that ghost of a smirk deepening. “It’s just a coat. I have others. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve had a long night. Keep it. Wear it home. I’ll survive.”

You clutch the coat tighter despite yourself, the fabric heavy and comforting against the chill. No one in this city is ever this… chivalrous. Guys your age would’ve already grumbled and walked away. This man is looking at you like your comfort actually matters to him.

“You’re really sure?” you ask softly, still hesitant.

“Positive,” he replies, eyes never leaving yours. “Besides… it looks better on you anyway.”

Your stomach flips. The way he says it, quiet, sincere, a little rough, makes heat creep up your neck.

You manage a flustered, stubborn little smile. “Thank you… really. Most people in this city would’ve just cursed me out and kept walking. You’re… surprisingly nice.”

Something flickers across his face, pain, surprise, hunger but it’s gone in a heartbeat. He hasn’t been called nice in over four hundred years. He hasn’t been looked at like a person since Dolores whispered “my James” with her last breath.

“You stay safe getting home,” he says quietly, almost like a command wrapped in velvet. “And maybe… watch your step next time, doll.”

You nod, cheeks still warm. “Yeah… I will. Goodnight.”

You give him one last awkward little wave and start walking, his coat wrapped around you like a shield against the rain. You can feel his eyes on your back the entire way down the block.

Bucky stands motionless in the downpour, fists clenched at his sides, metal arm whirring quietly under his Henley. Your scent, warm vanilla, rain and that sweet, pulsing blood underneath has already burrowed into his lungs like a drug. His fangs throb painfully behind his lips. He has to fight every instinct not to follow you right now and drag you into the nearest alley.

He waits until you’ve turned the corner.

Then he moves.

Silent as death, he follows you home.

Every step. Every turn. Close enough to protect you from anyone who might look at you too long. Far enough that you never notice the shadow trailing behind you.

By the time you reach your apartment building, he’s already memorized which window is yours.

He stands across the street in the rain, eyes glowing faintly red in the dark, heart dead for centuries cracking wide open with dangerous, all-consuming obsession.

He already knows one simple truth:

He’s never letting you go.

Bucky waited in the shadows across the street like a predator who had already decided his prey belonged to him.

He stood motionless in the pouring rain for nearly two hours, eyes fixed on your apartment window on the third floor. When the last light finally clicked off at 2:47 am, something dark and hungry uncoiled inside his chest.

But he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he stayed where he was, hidden in the darkness between two buildings and watched.

You had left the curtains open.

Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw you clearly. You were still wearing his long black coat. You shrugged it off your shoulders and held it up to your face, pressing your nose into the collar. Your eyes closed as you breathed in deeply, then again, slower, savoring his scent. A soft, almost dreamy expression crossed your face.

Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His cock hardened instantly.

You muttered to yourself, voice quiet but perfectly clear to his enhanced hearing:

“God… why does this smell so good?”

Bucky’s lips curled into a dark, predatory smile. He murmured under his breath, voice low and rough with dark amusement,

“People really don’t close their curtains anymore, do they? They have no idea who could be watching them…”

You laughed softly at yourself, shaking your head, then started changing. You peeled off your damp clothes, letting them drop to the floor without a care. For a moment you stood there in just your panties, stretching, completely unaware of the ancient predator standing in the rain across the street, staring at every inch of your body with black, starving eyes.

Bucky’s metal hand clenched at his side, plates whirring. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth. He watched the way your breasts moved when you raised your arms, the curve of your hips, the soft sway of your ass as you turned. His breathing grew ragged.

“Beautiful,” he whispered to the night. “So fucking beautiful… and so unaware.”

Only when you finally pulled on an oversized t-shirt and climbed into bed, turning off the last light, did he move.

Silent as death, Bucky crossed the street, climbed the stairs to your building’s front entrance, and picked the cheap lock on your apartment door in less than eight seconds. He slipped inside like smoke, closed the door behind him, and locked it again with the same unnatural precision, so perfectly that no one would ever know he’d been there.

The apartment was small, cluttered and alive with you.

Your scent was everywhere, warm vanilla lotion, faint coffee from your shift, the sweet copper undertone of your blood pulsing just beneath your skin. It filled the cramped space like perfume made specifically to torment him.

Bucky’s boots were silent on the worn hardwood as he walked through your living room. Books and thesis notes were scattered across the coffee table. A half-empty mug of tea sat cold beside them. A worn blanket was crumpled on the couch. The mess should have annoyed the centuries-old soldier in him… but it only made the obsession sink deeper. This was your chaos. Your life. Your little mortal world he was about to invade.

His gaze fell on the open notebook lying on top of the pile. Your neat handwriting filled the page, underlined and circled in places:

Vampires in Gothic Literature

Eternal life vs. eternal loneliness?

Do they feel love or only hunger?

Real or metaphor for forbidden desire? Witches – power, seduction, danger… real?

Bucky read the notes slowly, a low, dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. The sound was soft, almost affectionate, but laced with something ancient and dangerous.

“Only if you knew, doll,” he whispered to the empty room, the corners of his mouth twitching into a predatory smirk. “Only if you knew.”

He lingered there for a moment longer, tracing one finger over your handwriting, before continuing toward the bedroom.

Your bedroom door was ajar.

He pushed it open slowly, the hinges giving a tiny protesting creak that made him freeze. You didn’t stir.

There you were.

Curled up in bed under a messy pile of blankets, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton panties. Your breathing was deep and even, lips slightly parted, one leg kicked out from under the covers. So vulnerable. So warm.

Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His metal hand flexed at his side, plates whirring quietly.

He stepped closer.

Your scent was strongest here, concentrated, intimate, intoxicating. He could hear every heartbeat, every soft inhale and exhale. His cock hardened instantly, thick and aching against the front of his jeans. He hadn’t felt this kind of raw, physical need in decades.

On the floor near the foot of your bed lay a pair of discarded black lace panties, the ones you’d clearly worn earlier that day. Slightly damp from the rain and your long shift. The scent rolling off them made his mouth flood with venom.

He crouched down, metal fingers hovering just above the delicate fabric. The urge to snatch them was almost painful. He wanted to press them to his face, inhale you until he drowned in it. He wanted to wrap them around his cock the second he got home and fuck his fist while imagining burying himself inside you.

But he stopped.

His hand trembled. The metal plates clicked softly.

“Not yet,” he whispered to himself, voice barely a breath. “Don’t scare her. Not yet.”

With a low, tortured growl, he forced himself to stand. He backed away from the panties like they were burning him.

He allowed himself one last indulgence.

He leaned over your sleeping form, careful not to touch you and breathed you in deeply, dragging your scent into his lungs like a dying man taking his final breath. His lips hovered an inch above your neck, right where your pulse fluttered so invitingly. He could hear the blood rushing beneath your skin. His cock throbbed harder, leaking against his thigh.

He stayed there for a long minute, eyes closed, fangs fully extended, fighting every instinct screaming at him to bite, to claim, to take.

Finally, with a ragged exhale, he pulled back.

On his way out, he noticed his coat draped over the back of your couch where you must have taken it off before bed. The fabric still carried traces of both your scent and his. For a moment he considered taking it back… but he left it exactly where it was.

He didn’t want to take anything from you tonight.

Not yet.

By the time he reached his penthouse, he was shaking with raw, barely contained need.

The second the door shut, Bucky shoved his jeans down, freed his painfully hard cock and stroked himself with brutal, desperate strokes. He buried his face in the collar of his shirt, the one that still carried the faintest trace of your scent from when he’d stood so close to you and fucked his fist like a man possessed.

He came hard within minutes, spilling over his hand with a broken, guttural groan.

Even after the release, the hunger didn’t fade.

It only grew sharper.

He didn’t even know your name yet.

And he already knew he’d be back tomorrow night.

And the night after that.

Until simply watching you sleep was no longer enough.

The next morning, Bucky was already waiting in the shadows outside your building when you left just after 6:30 am, yawning, hair messy, clutching a travel mug of cheap instant coffee.

He followed you at a distance, ten blocks through the waking city, never close enough for you to notice. He memorized every little habit: the way you adjusted your bag strap, how you checked your phone at stoplights, the slight slump in your shoulders from exhaustion. When you finally stopped in front of a small, cozy café called “The Midnight Brew,” he lingered across the street for nearly forty minutes, watching through the large windows as you tied on your black apron and started your shift.

Only when the morning rush began to build did he cross the street and step inside.

The bell above the door jingled. You looked up from behind the counter and your breath hitched.

It was him.

Bucky chose the small table by the window, the one with the perfect view of you. A few minutes later you approached, notepad in hand, trying (and failing) to look professional.

“Hi… you again,” you said, a shy, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. What can I get started for you today?”

Bucky looked up slowly, his steel-blue eyes dragging over your face like he wanted to commit every detail to memory. His gaze flicked briefly to your name tag.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he murmured, voice low and rough with that old-fashioned accent. “Suits you perfectly.”

Your cheeks instantly burned hot. You weren’t used to compliments delivered like that, slow, sincere and a little dangerous.

“Th-thank you,” you stammered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s… really sweet of you to say. Um, what would you like?”

“Black coffee. No sugar,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And whatever your favorite pastry is this morning. Surprise me, doll. I trust your taste.”

You nodded quickly, scribbling on your pad to hide how flustered you felt. “One black coffee and a chocolate croissant coming right up.”

When you returned with his order, your fingers brushed against his right hand as you set the mug down. His skin was cool, almost unnaturally so, and the brief contact sent a shiver racing up your arm. You couldn’t help but notice that his left hand remained gloved in black leather, resting quietly on the table, the same glove he’d worn outside. You wondered about it for a split second but said nothing, simply offering him a small smile instead.

“Here you go,” you said softly, still pink-cheeked. “The croissant is still warm. Let me know if you need a refill or anything else.”

You hesitated for a second, then added, “Oh- I actually brought your coat with me. It’s hanging on the rack in the back. I was going to take it to the dry cleaners on my break because it got soaked last night. I can drop it off at the library tonight if you want, or… I don’t know, maybe you could pick it up later?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, something possessive flickering behind them. He shook his head slowly.

“Keep it,” he said, voice low and firm but gentle. “It looks better on you than it ever did on me. I have more coats than I know what to do with. I insist.”

“But it’s such a nice coat,” you protested, cheeks burning hotter. “I’d feel terrible if something happened to it. At least let me get it cleaned for you-”

“No arguments, doll,” he interrupted, the faintest crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wear it when you need it. Stay warm. That’s all I want from you right now.”

You blinked, completely thrown by how gently but stubbornly he was refusing. No guy had ever spoken to you like this.

“…Okay,” you said softly, biting your lip. “If you’re really sure. Thank you again. Seriously. Most people wouldn’t have even offered their coat in that rain.”

Bucky’s gaze softened for just a moment. “Most people aren’t me.”

You gave him a shy little smile and hurried back to the counter, heart racing. For the rest of your shift you could feel his eyes on you, steady, dark and unwavering. He barely touched the coffee or the croissant. He just watched you move behind the counter like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire world.

When the rush finally slowed, he stood up, left a very generous tip folded neatly under the mug, and paused at the counter on his way out.

“See you soon,” he murmured, saying your name like it was something sacred and secret. “Have a good rest of your shift, doll. Don’t work too hard.”

You could only manage a flustered nod, cheeks still warm long after he’d walked out the door.

That night, when he picked the lock on your front door and slipped silently into your apartment while you slept, he stood over your bed for a long time, breathing you in.

He leaned down, lips hovering just above the soft skin of your neck and whispered your name into the darkness like a vow.

It sounded like both a prayer… and a promise.

Over the next several nights, Bucky’s restraint completely shattered.

He came back every few nights, slipping through your front door like a ghost, locking it behind him with that soft, familiar click. At first he only watched you sleep. But the hunger quickly grew teeth.

The third night he touched you.

He leaned over your bed, cool lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. He nipped at your skin, fangs grazing but never breaking it, sucking lightly until you whimpered in your sleep.

“Fuck… such a pretty neck,” he growled quietly against your pulse. “Bet you’d look so good with my marks all over it.”

He pushed your nightshirt up, exposing your breasts and buried his face between them with a low, filthy groan. His tongue dragged over your nipples in slow, wet circles before he sucked one into his mouth, moaning like he was tasting something divine.

“So fucking sweet… these tits are perfect, doll. Made for my mouth.”

His metal hand ghosted over your hips, fingertips barely brushing your skin as he fought not to grip hard enough to bruise. You arched unconsciously toward him, thighs pressing together.

The fourth night he went lower.

He eased your panties down your legs and spread your thighs wide, kneeling between them like he was worshipping at an altar. He dragged his tongue through your soaked folds in one long, obscene lick and groaned deeply.

“Jesus Christ… your pussy is dripping for me even when you’re asleep,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “Such a needy little cunt. You taste so fucking good, baby. I could eat this pretty pussy for hours.”

He licked you like a man starved, slow, filthy strokes of his tongue circling your clit before pushing inside you, fucking you with it. He sucked on your swollen clit with wet, obscene sounds, metal fingers gently holding your thighs open.

“That’s it… grind against my tongue even in your sleep like a good little slut,” he murmured against your slick flesh. “This pussy belongs to me now. You hear me? Mine.”

You came hard on his tongue, thighs shaking, a broken moan slipping from your lips. He licked you through every pulse, drinking down every drop like it was sacred.

The visits only got dirtier.

Night after night he returned. He’d bury his face between your thighs for what felt like hours, tongue-fucking you, sucking your clit, growling filthy praise against your soaked cunt.

“Fuck, you’re so wet… creaming all over my tongue like you were made for this. That’s my girl. Let me taste how much you need me.”

Sometimes he’d slide two cool fingers inside you while sucking on your clit, curling them just right, whispering, “Tight little pussy sucking my fingers in even when you’re dreaming. Gonna ruin this cunt one day. Gonna fill you up and make you scream my name for real.”

You always woke drenched in sweat, thighs slick and trembling, panties pushed to the side or completely off. Fragments of sensation haunted you, cold tongue licking deep, a rough voice groaning filthy things, the faint scent of old leather and blood on your skin. You told yourself they were just extremely vivid, filthy dreams caused by stress and loneliness.

Your body knew the truth.

Every morning you woke up aching and empty, clit throbbing, sheets ruined. And every few nights the dreams returned, darker, wetter, more intense.

Bucky, meanwhile, was unraveling.

He left your apartment every time with your taste coating his tongue and his cock so hard it hurt. Back in his penthouse he would stroke himself raw, snarling your name as he came but it was never enough.

He needed to hear you moan his name for real.

He needed to sink his fangs into your thigh while buried balls-deep inside you.

And he was getting dangerously close to losing the last shred of control he had left.

A few days later, the universe seemed determined to keep pushing you together.

You were halfway through your post-shift grocery run, still wearing Bucky’s oversized black coat because the autumn air had turned crisp. It swallowed your frame, the hem brushing your thighs and you secretly loved how warm and safe it made you feel. Your basket was overloaded with pasta, fresh vegetables, a cheap bottle of red wine, and a pint of ice cream you were definitely stress-eating later.

You turned the corner into the pasta aisle and walked straight into a solid wall of muscle.

“Oh- I’m so sorry!” you gasped, nearly dropping your basket.

Gentle but strong hands immediately steadied you, catching your elbows with careful precision so you wouldn’t fall.

“Easy there, doll,” a low, familiar voice murmured. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”

You looked up and your heart skipped hard.

It was him, the mysterious, devastatingly handsome man from the rainy night and the café. He was wearing a red Henley under a leather jacket, his metal hand tucked discreetly into his pocket like always. His steel-blue eyes softened the second they met yours.

You blushed instantly. “I swear I’m not this clumsy all the time. I was trying to decide between spaghetti and linguine like my life depended on it.”

Bucky’s mouth curved into that faint, crooked smile that made your stomach flutter. His gaze drifted down, noticing you were still wearing his coat.

“Looks far better on you than it ever did on me,” he said softly, almost reverent. “I’m glad you kept it.”

Before you could respond, he smoothly took the heavy basket from your hands as if it weighed nothing.

“Please, allow me,” he said, already heading toward the checkout. “A lady shouldn’t have to carry all this herself.”

You tried to protest. “You really don’t have to-”