hmu bbygrl

Bucky texts you during your lunch on Friday, telling you to pack a bag for a weekend trip and that he’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. When you ask for specifics, all he says is to wear jeans and the leather jacket you weren't at all subtle about stealing from him. 

The thing with Bucky isn't new anymore, but the secrecy makes it feel like it is. Your friends know you're seeing someone, and you've gone as far as to tell them he's older, does government contracting, and is really, really good with his tongue. They don't need to know more than that. It makes everything feel a bit more special, having it be something that belongs just to you. Maybe some people would feel like a dirty little secret, but considering Bucky's face is on boxes of cereal at the grocery store, you get it. 

You spent the first couple months waiting for the other foot to drop, thinking that he was going to figure out there were so many more people worth his time than the barista he snarked back and forth with a couple times a week. You think he almost had a heart attack when he figured out how old you are on your fourth date, but it's not like you're a kid at twenty-eight and it's not like his experiences are universal. He's catching up, but to say he's out of touch with your pop culture references would be a kindness. One he doesn't deserve for the amount of shit he gives you. You love it though, and you think he does too. 

You throw your bag over your shoulder and lock the deadbolt behind you. Your roommate is taking care of Alpine (no matter what he says, she's Bucky's cat), so you're ready for whatever Bucky has planned. 

He's already waiting for you outside your apartment, and you look over your sunglasses and whistle as you take in the sight of him: tight jeans highlighting thick thighs, that blue leather jacket that shows off his metal arm, and a grin so sweet you can already taste it on your tongue. Fuck, he's hot. The couple streaks of grey running through his hair are catching the sunlight and your hands itch to run through it.

“Hey, handsome.”

He grins wider, deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes and yeah, you're definitely licking those later. 

“You listened,” he says, looking you up and down. “Good girl.”

You bite the side of your tongue and hope he can't see on your face how much you love being called that. Going by the way his smile settles into a smirk, it's a lost cause. Whatever. Nothing he doesn't already know. 

“Where should I put this?” you ask, holding your bag out. 

He extends his arm and grabs it from you, swapping it out for a helmet you hadn't noticed before. “I'll take care of it,” he says. “Put this on.”

“What, no kiss?” 

You know he won't kiss you here, not out where people can see. Maybe some people would feel slighted but you know very well he more than makes up for it when you're alone.

“You know better than that,” he chides, voice taking on a stern but teasing tone. You love it when he gets playful like this. “You're smart, act like it.”

“I don't know,” you say. “I guess I was a teacher's pet, but…who knows what that really means.”

His eyes narrow. The first time you saw him in a suit had ended up with you on your knees telling him how fucking hot it was to see him like that and imagine him lecturing you, how you used to fantasize about closing the door behind you during office hours with some of your professors, how you would have done it if he'd been the one teaching. It's what he deserves for throwing down the gauntlet of ‘good girl'. 

Bucky settles back on the bike and nearly growls out, “come here.”

“Do I get to know where we're going?” you ask as you sit behind him, straddling the leather seat and pressing against his back. You wrap your arms around his waist and hook your chin over your shoulder. “Or do I find out later.”

He starts the bike instead of answering. Surprise it is, you guess. 

You've ridden on the bike with him before. You know what it's like to be pressed against him and have the engine thrumming between your legs. You love it, love the thrill and the feeling and knowing that you're safe with Bucky in charge. You don't realize it's going to be a problem until you're nearing the edge of the city. 

You don't know where you're going. You don't know how long the ride is. All you know is that you're wet and aching and you are wrapped around possibly the hottest man in existence who has reflexes faster than humanly possible. You could power through, bite your tongue and stay strong. 

It's easy to imagine how he’ll sound when you corner him whenever you get to your destination. His fingers will trace along your cunt and he’ll make that wrecked sound when he finds how wet you are. All you’ll have to do is whine and say please and he’ll give you what you need, press his fingers in and out until you're gasping his name and telling him how good he feels. The first won't take much, not if you're this worked up already.

Fuck. That's not the train of thought to be going down right now. You press your hands flat against Bucky's stomach, trying to focus on the feel of leather beneath your hands and the wind whipping past your ears instead of how good it feels to have the back of his thighs pressed up against yours. 

You should power through. Let him focus on the drive. Be a good girl, make it easy for him. 

But that's never been what you do, especially not with Bucky. 

You're kind enough to wait until you're on some stretch of highway you don't recognize. There are others on the road, but it's people in motion. It's different than the start and stop of city traffic. You press even closer to Bucky, making sure your hips are flush. He doesn't react, but why would he? He probably just thinks you're getting comfortable. It's more time on the bike than you're used to. 

The helmet is in your way, but trailing your lips along his jaw and neck would be too obvious anyway. Instead, you stretch your hands wide enough that your pinky and ring fingers are below the bottom of his leather jacket. He's only wearing a wife-beater underneath, as is his go-to when he's showing off his (sexy as hell) arm. He argues it's for functionality, but you don't expect a fight heading your way anytime soon. He wouldn't risk you like that. 

The wife beater has a tendency to ride up, and that works to your favor now because it leaves about an inch of skin exposed for you to trace your fingers along, less than a centimeter away from his belt. It's something you could excuse, if you wanted. 

You give him time to adjust to it before dropping your hands a bit so they're resting against his belt, adjust your hands slowly to press more of them against that expanding sliver of skin. You feel him exhale sharply more than you hear it. You're getting to him. The serum makes him sensitive, almost as sensitive as your clit feels right now against the seam of your jeans. He doesn't say a word and that may as well be permission. 

You wiggle a bit against him and him as you lower your hand until you're cupping his half-hard cock through his jeans. You chuckle, it's nice to have confirmation it's not just you. His grip tightens on the bike, you can see the knuckles of his right hand whiten. You move your hand a bit, rubbing him through his jeans. He's hardening under your hand and you lick your lips as you clit throbs. You know what he feels like inside of you, how he fills you and what he sounds like when he tells you how good you feel around his cock. It's easier to imagine when his cock is in your hand. 

“What,” Bucky grits out. It's hard to hear him, but you manage. “Do you think you're doing?”

You press your fingers against the head of his cock with a bit more pressure, just because you can. “What do you think I'm doing?”

He's silent, but he shifts slightly, pushing into your hand, so you know you're getting to him. 

There's no way he's not going to make you pay for this. It's going to be delicious when he does. You press a bit firmer with a hum. Is he going to shove you up against the nearest flat surface and tear your jeans off without care if you can wear them again or not? He could grab your thighs and wrap them around his waist, barely take the take to get his cock out before he presses into you. Or what if he makes you wait for it, instead lays back and tells you to make yourself useful since you wanted to get him so worked up? 

You try to clear the thoughts. Anticipation is thrumming through you, heightening every sensation. The bike beneath you, Bucky in front of you, it's all coming together to be a bit too much. 

The last thing you expect is for him to pull over on the side of the highway. Cars are driving past you, but he's slow and confident as he turns the bike off and gets off of it like he doesn't have a care in the world. He turns to face you. You're still on the bike and he's right there, leaning into your space and against the side of your leg. 

“You're causing problems for me,” he says, pulling your helmet off over your head. “I thought more highly of you.”

“I don't know why you'd do that,” you breathe out. 

Bucky clicks his tongue and sets the helmet to the side before he grabs your hips and lifts you off the bike like you weigh nothing. He sets you back down so you're properly facing him. He steps between your thighs. Your back is to the highway, but you're hyperaware of the cars still passing by. 

What if someone recognizes Bucky's bike? What if they recognize him? Someone could get a lucky shot and somehow identify you and ruin everything. 

“You're supposed to be smart,” he says, moving his hand along the waistband of your jeans until they're settled above a button in a mockery of you teasing him before. “But I guess things like patience are learned. And in this, I can't help but think your age works against you.”

You want to argue but he's popping the button of your jeans and pulling your zipper down. You're on the side of the highway and nothing about this is subtle. You're on his motorcycle and everyone driving by can see you. You don't say a word as Bucky inches your jeans down your thighs and crouches down so his face is level with your cunt. You swallow. 

“Look at you,” he says, looking up toward you. He lifts your legs over his head so he's trapped between your body and your jeans still around your ankles. There's not an ounce of plausible deniability to be had. “So needy that you're letting me do this for the world to watch.”

You adjust your hold on the leather seat, desperate for something to hold onto. Your breath is caught in your chest. You can't believe this is happening. 

“Bet you've been thinking about this, haven't you?” Bucky asks. “Makes me think you'd let me do this whenever I want.”

He lifts his metal hand and runs a finger along your cunt. “You're not even wearing underwear and you're soaking wet. Is this for me, sweetheart?”

You nod, pressing your fingers harder into the seat. A car whizzes past. It feels dangerously close but maybe you're just feeling everything so much right now. 

He spreads your cunt wide with his fingers and looks at it with the same intense focus he approaches everything. “Pretty.”

You whine and jerk your hips toward him. You're aching. You feel so empty and knowing he's just looking at you and not doing anything is sending blood rushing through you and you need it. Anything he’ll give you. 

Bucky drops his hand and leans his head against your thighs with a smirk. “I don't know if you deserve it,” he says. “We're risking public indecency charges as it is. We should get going.”

“I'll kill you,” you gasp, squirming on the bike. “Please, please, please.”

He turns against your thighs, beard itching the sensitive skin in a way that goes straight to your cunt. “No you won't.”

“Bucky,” you whine. 

He chuckles and pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. And then another, an inch higher up. The next one has a nip of teeth and the one after that is a full bite that has you arching your back so hard it hurts. “Oh my god, oh my god.”

“I guess it won't hurt,” he says. His voice is so low you struggle to hear him. “I'll be quick. Just enough to tide you over since you can't even make it the full ride.”

“Quick,” you huff. You've seen him do quick. This is not that. He's taking his time because he knows it's driving you insane. “Sure.”

Maybe he did mean it this time because the next kiss isn't a kiss as much as it is him taking your clit between his lips rolling his tongue against it hard enough you're seeing stars in front of the lining the highway. You swear you can feel him smirking against you. 

You're not aware of moving your hand until it's in Bucky's hair, yanking him even closer because it's so good but it's not enough and you've been rising the edge for what feels like a century and you need more. 

He gives it to you before you can form the words. The distinct cool and smooth feeling of his metal fingers press inside of you in one easy motion because you're so wet you might as well be drilling. It's so much but it's not enough and you clench around them. 

There's no disguising what you two are doing right now. You don't even care. You grasp onto the seat with one hand and pull Bucky's head closer with the other. You're grinding your hips down between his fingers and his mouth and you feel like you're a tight wire about to snap. 

He hums and curls his fingers and that's it. That's all you need to go tumbling over the edge with a scream you’ll probably be embarrassed about later. 

Bucky doesn't give you time to recover before he's standing up and undoing his belt and jeans. He places his hand, metal fingers still shining from your cunt, on the bike to steady and and uses the other to line his cock up with your cunt. It's your only warning before he presses forward with one easy stroke, filling you up in the way his fingers just couldn't. 

You can't believe this is happening. Your secret older boyfriend is fucking you on his motorcycle for the entire world to see and this entire this is so hot that it's blowing every fantasy you've ever had right out of the water. 

He groans against your ear, lips hot and wet as they slide down your neck, leaving a trail of bites you know are going to bruise. 

“The things you do to me,” he says. “You drive me crazy.”

You don't think you can form a solid sentence, but you know you don't want him to finish like this. You press his chest and somehow manage to convey that you want to suck his dick because you end up on your knees with him leaning against the bike. 

“Greedy,” he says, chest heaving. 

Maybe you are, but you don't care because the weight of his cock is heavy on your tongue and his eyes are nearly closed as he loses himself to the sensation. He's holding onto the bike with both hands, leaving you in control. It's a heady sensation. 

You take him deeper until the head of his cock is brushing the back of your throat. Bucky curses under his breath and you know he's close. You drag your hands up his thighs and reach up to grab his balls with one hand and press your knuckles behind them with the other. You've taken him too deep to taste when he cums, but he says your name like a prayer and that more than makes up for it. 

“Did I do a good job?” you ask, wiping the corner of your mouth. 

He stares down at you like he can't believe you're real. “A good job? Fuck you.”

“You just did.”

He puts his clothing back in place with a laugh and you do the same. The mirrors on the bike aren't the best for checking that everything's on order, but you figure you've already thrown decency out the window anyway. 

You settle behind him again on the bike, this time with a pleasant ache between your legs. He's more relaxed against you as he starts the bike. 

“Good start to the weekend?” you tease. 

You stretch your arms above your head and turn to the side as you examine your reflection. You look good. The black lace stands out against your skin and the cut makes your waist look impossibly tiny. It's definitely not how you imagined spending your weekends as a kid, but a grad school stipend only goes so far. You're pretty sure you're making more in tips than what the people who are stuck in adjunct roles get from the university. It's not a bad gig. A couple hours of work and you’ll get to go to bed with a hefty sum heading your way and your body loose from a series of orgasms. It's a win-win. 

You're not sure if there are any rules about playing favorites, but there's one subscriber who you always keep an eye out for. He's the one that sent the set you're wearing. It's a generous gift; Agent Provocateur doesn't come cheap. 

Setting up the camera and lights is automatic at this point. This isn't the first time you've been sent a gift, but it's definitely the nicest one. Combined with his tips, it's not hard to guess that the man is either making extremely poor financial choices to your benefit or has more money than you'd know what to do with. You don't normally make a big deal out of thanking people for their gifts—they get what they want out of you posting something with it and letting their imagination do the rest. This feels different though and you can't figure out why. 

Maybe it's the price tag, but you know of girls out there who get Dior and Chanel so often their closets are bursting. This would barely register as a drop in their buckets. 

Knowing that doesn't stop you from posing in a way you suspect he likes. You've noticed a trend in his tipping patterns. He likes to see you spread open, vulnerable. Maybe he likes to picture you spread out beneath him, there and ripe for the taking. Your first four-figure tip was from him on a video of you edging yourself, getting messy and loud with it. By the end, it hadn't even been performative, you just couldn't help yourself as you circled your own clit with a bullet vibrator. 

You've never sent someone something for free before. You get the occasional custom request, but nothing from the guy who sent you the set you're wearing. Would he want something private? Or would that be too much? Would it be a bad idea to hint at the gift being so much more than what you normally got? Did he get off on the idea of you showing it to everyone?

You're still debating when you lay back on the bed. You need photos to post anyway, you have time to decide if you want to send him anything special. 

A couple hours later, freshly showered with a pleasant ache between your legs, you click his name and hover your thumbs over your phone keyboard as you think of what to say. If you want to say anything. The chat just shows his tips and gifts, no messages. Jbb0317 is a mystery and a part of you thinks it might be better to leave him that way. 

But you're curious and while you'd miss the income if he stopped tipping, he's hardly your own subscriber. 

You type, heyyy, wanted to thank you for the gift xx it's a perfect fit ;)

There's no way of knowing when he'll see it or if he’ll respond if he does. You exit out of the conversation and go through replying to your other messages, most of which involve reminding people you don't work for free while carefully trying not to ruin their fantasy of you being painfully horny for them and them alone. After a year or so of this though, you've found a balance that works for most of them. 

Jbb0317 responds just as you're about to close the app. You bite your lip as you click the message to read it, uncharacteristically nervous. 

I'm glad you liked it, it says. Can't wait to see it on you.

Well, you guess that's as good an opening as any. You've already gone through the pictures and videos you took today to figure out which ones were worth posting. You have enough good ones that it won't hurt to take one or two out of the mix. 

You attach the photo you suspect jbb will be into the most: you're lying on your back and have pulled your panties to the side so the camera is aimed right at your cunt, already shining with how wet it is. You took the picture after using a vibrator through the fabric. It's messy and filthy and there's no mistaking what you'd just been doing. Your back is arched and your nipples are hard through the lace. The real cherry on top is the look in your eyes, half-shut and lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. You're not sure how you managed to look hungrily at the camera, but you're getting a bit heated looking at your own photo. 

Here's a preview, special just for you ;), you type and send before you can second-guess yourself. 

This time, his response is almost immediate. 

Fuck.

I knew it'd look good on you but this is even better than my imagination, sweetheart.

Sweetheart, you mouth to yourself. It's oddly charming. He's still typing. 

What would it take for you to send me the rest of the photos and not post them? 

Your jaw drops and you type, more than you can afford.

The next response comes just as fast. Try me.

10k, you throw out. It was a whole day’s work. You have some backlog, obviously, but you'd need to spend another day to make up for it and that's not time you'll have for at least a week. 

You expect a laugh emoji or being called a bitch or anything else that'd lead to you never wanting to talk to the man again. You don't make 10k in a week. It's a fuck you amount of money and there's no way this guy doesn't know that. 

Instead, his next message comes and you almost throw your phone at the wall. 

Done. Accompanied by $10,000. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Are you serious?!?!???????, you ask.

As a heart attack.

Well, he can't unsend the money. Even if he were to try to fuck with your shit by contacting his bank or credit card, the site you use protects you from that type of shit. 

You send the photos and resign yourself to having to play catch-up next weekend. Not that you'd even really need to do that with the money that'll be hitting your bank account soon, but you're too practical not to. 

Really, you expect that to be the end of it. Maybe another set of lingerie headed your way in the future, maybe some more requests for customs. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just adding your high-roller to the list of people you message. 

What you get is a diamond bracelet accompanied by a note to wear that and nothing else five days later. 

There's no name attached, but there doesn't need to be. 

—

You start setting aside more time for content creation. It's a squeeze in your already full schedule, but you make it work. Jbb, whoever he is, has not stopped with his gifts and his requests begin and end with wearing what he buys you and only showing it to him. It's different, and you keep waiting for the other foot to drop and the gifts and money to stop coming, but they never do. 

Today, it's a silk nightgown. There's a vintage quality to it, but that doesn't mean modest by any stretch of the word. The fabric feels like water on your skin and flows in a way that clings to your curves in a way that's more obscene than if you were wearing nothing. 

You send the video and hop into the shower, already looking forward to what jbb’s response will be. You didn't get into this work because you didn't like the attention, that's for sure. 

This time, instead of the usual slew of compliments and payment, there's a question: What would it take for me to be able to take you out for dinner?

You narrow your eyes at the screen. This is bold. More than bold, it's dangerous. This goes against every rule you've ever made for yourself. It's not the first time you've been asked if you do in-person (usually much more directly), but it is the first time you haven't immediately hit the block button. Maybe it's because in the last couple months he's more than paid for your tuition, or maybe it's because you've started assigning characteristics like decency to a man who's paying you for nudes and whose name you don't know. Either way, it's you being an idiot. 

You text back, not sure how the logistics of that would work

It's a gentle dismissal. You don't want to lose jbb, so hopefully he'll take the hint. 

How can I convince you? he asks. 

You sigh and type, you can't.

And if I told you I don't mean for this to be a one-time thing? That I want to take care of you? Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Agree to meet me one time, dinner with no expectations. If we meet and you don't like the sound of it, that's the end of it. I won't ever bother you again. 

That is…not what you expected.

I don't know who you are, you text, not really thinking before typing. Or where you are, this is insane.

Me telling you both of those things if you agree is implied, sweetheart.

Smartass. 

You have everything to lose but god dammit a part of you can't help but be tempted. A sugar daddy sounds a bit like a cliche in this day and age, and your logical brain knows it's a terrible idea, but an arrangement has rules and that means you might be able to make things work to your advantage. 

This is a dangerous train of thought. You don't even know what jbb looks like. Even thinking about this is the stupidest thing you've ever done. 

Prove it, you say. 

You expect a cop-out. Even if he sent a name and photo it wouldn't mean anything. 

Give me an email that works for you, he says. I'll send an NDA. It’ll protect us both, and prove that I am who I say I am. Even if you say no to dinner, I ask that you still sign it. 

Well, that's an option. Fuck it. You send your email. 

No new notification comes through for the next five minutes so you set your phone down with a roll of your eyes and figure that's the end of that. At least the email you shared isn't one you use for anything important if he decides to leak it or something stupid. 

You find an email waiting for you from a jbarnes after you finish cleaning. It has an attachment and you only hesitate a moment before opening it. 

And promptly drop your phone. 

Your jbb is none other than Congressman James Buchanan Barnes, WWII Veteran and literal superhero. 

—

There's no way he didn't know who you were when he asked you to dinner, knowing what you know now. Him knowing you're at Georgetown even makes things make a lot more sense, like why he even thought of the arrangement in the first place. You're local, he's attracted to you, you're obviously okay with exchanging sex for money, and he likely valued discretion. You don't doubt that he has women throwing himself at him, but you also can't fault him for wanting something simple and clearly defined. Stress relief at its core, and he's already made it apparent he likes to see you in things he buys you. Why wouldn't that extend to keeping you? 

It should turn you off. You really shouldn't be walking into this restaurant. You've told a couple friends the barebones of the situation—a potential sugar daddy—and they're on call if anything goes to shit. But not only are you walking into a place that looks like you can't afford to breathe there, you're doing so wearing an outfit entirely purchased by him. The dress and purse arrived two days ago and the dress fits perfectly.

He's waiting for you at the table and stands up when you approach. Your breath catches in your chest. This is actually happening and he's even more gorgeous in person. You're pretty sure that's not how these arrangements usually start (you scoured the sugar bowl Reddit), but you're definitely not going to complain. 

You manage to gather yourself, at least enough to not feel like a complete idiot, by the time he's sitting back down after he's pushed your chair in. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, sliding a velvet box across the table. It's familiar, similar to the one the bracelet you're wearing came in. You notice he uses his left hand, the lights from the candle reflecting against the metal. You suspect he did that on purpose. “This is for you.”

You open it to reveal a watch, a delicate one obviously designed for the women in the same tone of metal as the bracelet. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he says with a small smirk. 

He orders for you and you exchange small talk between courses. You talk about school and he talks about work. There's the occasional gesture toward why you're both really here, but the casual conversation helps lessen the pressure. He tells you to call him Bucky and how he still doesn't feel like he's found solid footing yet. 

He feeds you a bit of the chocolate cake he ordered for dessert and asks, “have I passed my interview?”

You laugh. “Shouldn't I be asking you that?”

“I’m not one to change my mind,” he says, eyes flashing. “I meant what I said. I want you. Let me have you. Let me take care of you.”

The words send a flare of heat through you. They're possessive and objectifying and you think you should hate them but you don't, at least not when they're coming from him. 

“And if I say yes?” 

He smiles and feeds you another bite of cake. “You're working to get through school, right?”

You nod. 

“Stop,” he says. “I'll take care of it instead. It doesn't need to be permanent, only until you graduate. Let me take that weight off your shoulders.”

It's appealing. Dangerously appealing. You don't hate the work, you really don't. But if the alternative is being spoiled and more time for yourself? You'd be a fool not to take it. Even if the sex isn't that great, you've done a lot more for a lot less. 

You smile. “Congratulations, you've moved onto the second round of interviews.”

Bucky laughs.

—

The sex is so not mediocre it's laughable that you even considered it. By the next weekend, you've cancelled your lease and have moved into the townhouse Bucky owns in D.C.. You're pretty sure most freshman congressman don't have these sort of funds, but he made a comment about back pay when you prodded and you figure it's not really your place to be too concerned. 

You're waiting for the downside to reveal itself because there has to be one. Life doesn't work like this. 

You find what should be it when you come home from a networking event (something you have time for now). You shut the door behind you and kick off your shoes, knowing you'll regret not putting them away properly tomorrow but not caring because you are not used to standing in stilettos for hours on end. They're gorgeous, patent black and shining red soles, but you much prefer when you're pressing the heels into Bucky's back than having to smile through the agony while talking to someone whose work you're citing in your thesis. 

Bucky's there, waiting for you. His jacket and tie are gone, but he's fully dressed otherwise. The top couple buttons are undone and his sleeves are pushed up and that on its own makes your mouth go dry but the narrow-eyed glare makes the rest of the room disappear. 

You straighten, skin alight with anticipation. You're still learning him and this is new. He feels dangerous in a way you thought didn't happen in real life. 

“You're late,” he says, pushing himself off the wall with his arms crossed over the chest. 

Maybe you should be worried about missing something, but you're distracted by the way his arms look through the thin fabric of his shirt. You check the time—the watch he got you had become a daily wear. “No, I'm not. I said I'd be back around 9. It's 9:05.”

Bucky clicks his tongue. The sound sends a shiver down your spine. 

“You're smart,” he says, getting closer. His voice is low and there's something in the back of your head telling you to leave but you also feel yourself getting wet. “Smarter than me.”

“That's not true,” you insist, taking a step back. It puts you against the wall. You think that's what he was going for going by the way he makes an amused huff. Your breath is coming fast now. 

“Yes you are,” he argues. He reaches out and grabs your chin to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “And you just made sure everyone knew it. Look at you…how could anyone look at you and not fall in love with you?”

“Fall in love with me?” you laugh. “You're joking.”

He shakes his head and steps even closer, pressing you fully against the wall. It's easy to forget how much larger he is than you, the force he's capable of putting behind his touches. Right now it's all you can think of. 

“I'm not,” he says, lowering his hand to the side of your neck. His other comes up behind the small of your back and pushes you even closer against him. He's hard against your hip and you know your panties are a lost cause. “And I guess it doesn't matter. It's me who you come home to, who you belong to. They'll never have you.”

You think the words should be teasing, but his expression is hard. He means them. It's a threat to anyone who would dare touch what he considers his. It's a red flag by every metric and should have you running for the hills. It makes you want to push, see how far he’ll go. This is the same man who couldn't bear the thought of others seeing you in things he bought you back when you were nothing more than a nameless woman spreading her cunt on the internet, after all. 

“Is that what you think?” you ask, pressing your hips against his. You almost moan at the way his grip tightens, but you hold it back. “Is that what I should think when you go to your fundraisers? Should I worry about every woman looking at you, wondering what it'd take to get you into a coat closet. I've seen it, you know, online. The way they talk about you.”

Bucky grins and grabs your tit roughly, and this time you can't hold back the sound you make. It's not gentle and it hurts but it's the kind of pain that heightens the pleasure when he rolls his thumb over your nipple like he's trying to soothe it. The fabric of your dress and bra dull it, but not enough. He spreads your legs with one of his thighs and your grind down on it, helpless to resist.

“I could take you with me,” he says, dropping his hand from your tit to lift up your dress. He likes to watch you and now is no different from when you were separated from distance. You roll your hips down against his leg, gasping when you manage to get the right angle. “Would they still try then, do you think?”

He can be serious but that doesn't matter because even the thought of it is bringing you closer to the edge. His eyes are fixated. You're not sure he's even blinked. 

“That's it,” he purrs. “Just like that, sweetheart. No one else can make you feel like this. Just me. I'm the only one who gets to see you like this.”

“Just you, Daddy,” you gasp. “Only you.”

“Only me.”

You nod and moan as you get closer to the edge. He likes to hear you too. His thigh shouldn't be enough to get you here, but the combination of his heat and his attention does it for you. 

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” you cry, hips jerking uncontrollably. “Oh my God.”

“Like that?” He asks. “Don't forget that.”

As if you ever could. 

He pulls his thigh back. You can see the wet spot on the fabric of his pants. You can also see the hard line of his cock. You lick your lips and drop to to your knees.

“Can I?” you ask. “Please?” 

Bucky nods and you waste no time in undoing his belt and pulling his pants and underwear down to free his cock. It's already flushed at the tip with a bead of pre-cum catching the light. Your mouth is watering, but you've learned he likes the tease. You lean forward and press your lips to the head in an open-mouthed kiss as you wrap one hand around it, looking up at him to make sure he's watching. 

You take it slowly, inch by inch, savoring the taste and weight of him on your tongue. 

This part is easy. This was part of the agreement. He takes care of you by covering every expense and showering you with gifts. In turn, you're there for him whenever he wants, for whatever he wants. 

The jealousy, the possessiveness, isn't new. That was there from the beginning. He didn't want anyone else to see you, let alone have their cock down your throat like this. It's always sent a thrill through you. Nothing compares to the feeling of being wanted so desperately. 

But his hand is cupping the side of your face and his thumb is stroking your cheekbone like you're something precious and this feels like more than just meeting his needs. 

He cums down your throat with your name on his lips, thumb still stroking your cheek. 

—

You smile and thank the staffer that leads you to Bucky's office, amused as you imagine what she's thinking of. Bucky asked you to visit him for lunch. His text was short and to the point, but the fact that he'd bothered to let you know he'd been stressed made it clear what he was aiming for. 

Not that you mind. There's something undeniably hot about being called on like this, like you're waiting for him to want you there. The secrecy only adds to it. It's all pretend, everyone here suspects if they don't know outright. There's nothing subtle about him locking the door and you stumbling out on shaking legs some time later. You might be more embarrassed if it weren't for the looks of envy aimed your way, and it's not like you're the only woman there on any given day for the same reason. 

He smiles when you walk in, one of his genuine ones that shows his teeth and makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

“You came,” he says, pushing back from the desk. 

“Of course I did.” You walk around so you're standing between his spread legs. His hands come up to your hips, not with any real pressure, but automatic like he can't resist the chance to have his hands on you. “I have class in a couple hours, but until then I'm all yours.”

“Good.” He grips your hips and lifts you onto the desk in one easy motion. “I think it's time for lunch and I'm hungry.”

It's a bad line, but he's still grinning so you laugh as he shoves your skirt up over your hips and he comes out of the chair to settle on his knees. 

“You're going to ruin your suit,” you say, voice already breathless from anticipation. 

He shrugs and parts your legs. He pulls at one of your garters and lets it go, chuckling when it snaps against your skin. “That's not for you to worry about.”

You didn't put underwear on. You didn't see the point and you don't regret it now because it means there's one less thing in the way of Bucky's mouth on your cunt. 

When you'd gone home with him after that first dinner, a part of you had resigned yourself to a year or so of a very selfish lover. You'd weighed the pros and cons and decided it was worth it. 

You couldn't have been more wrong. 

Not only does the super soldier serum mean a refractory period is nothing more than a set of words, but he seems to get more out of watching you fall apart on his tongue, fingers, or cock than when he cums himself. It's very possible he's ruined you for all other men. 

He licks into you like he's starving for it, looking up at you through dark eyelashes as he grips onto your thighs for purchase. You hope you bruise. You know you will. You can still see the ones from last week. 

You grab onto the edge of the desk. The edge of the wood almost cuts into your hands but you really don't care because he's circling your clit with his tongue and it's the perfect balance of not enough and too much and you know it's only a preview of what's to come. He's not in a hurry, he's not curling his fingers inside of you to press against that spot that only he's managed to ever find. No, he's going to take his time torturing you with his tongue on your cunt, somehow knowing when you're almost there so he can change the pattern or pressure before you cum. 

He likes it when you're loud. He likes to hear you. But now is not the time or the place to give him that. You need at least the illusion of decency, of plausible deniability. 

You moan under your breath, trying to keep quiet but silence is impossible when he sharpens the tip of his tongue into a point and presses. Fuck. 

He laughs against you and it's so hot you want to cry. You bite your tongue because now is not the time, but you have no idea how something can feel so good. 

—

You wake up surrounded by Bucky Barnes. If he's touchy while awake he's downright clingy when sleeping. He says it helps, knowing there's someone there with him. He's never said but you suspect nightmares. Your face is tucked under his chin against his neck where you breathe him in. Whatever body wash he uses leaves a lingering herbal smell behind and sometimes you just want to huff it in like an addict. He's radiating heat and his arms around you keep you pressed tight against him. Your own hand is settled on his side and you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be. 

It takes you a moment to figure out why you're awake. It's Saturday and you've won Bucky over to the side of slow mornings in bed by introducing him to the wonders of sleepy, morning sex. There's no feeling better than when he slowly rocks into you, voice still thick with sleep as he rolls your clit between his fingers. 

But Bucky's not hitching your leg up, instead he's moving away from you to reach for his phone that's vibrating like crazy on the nightstand. His biggest complaint about his job as a Congressman is the expectation that he always be reachable. You're pretty sure that if he had his way he'd keep his phone at his office and it'd spend most of the time lying dead and unused. 

You roll onto your back with a sigh. It’s probably something stupid, something that most people would call urgent but you think Bucky will just tell them to deal with it and call him when it's important. You don't know exactly what he's been so focused on, but you know it's gotta be a lot larger than petty squabbles or complaints. 

Bucky sits up straight, tension pulsing from him. His brow is furrowed and his frown is deep. Whatever he's hearing is not good news.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “Where did the leak come from?”

He runs his hand down his face and looks up toward the ceiling like he’ll find answers there. “Fine. I'll be right there.”

“What is it?” you ask when he hangs up. He's already standing up and heading toward the closet. “Don't you want to brush your teeth?”

He grunts. It's not like him to be so concerned. His usual way of dealing with things is with action, but you can tell by the way he's chewing his lip that he's anxious about something. 

“Tell me,” you say, getting out of bed so you can do his buttons for him. He lets you. That's a good sign. “What's wrong?”

Bucky winces. “They know about you,” he says. “About us. They don't know who leaked it yet, but it won't be hard to find. I'm going in for damage control.”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“I used a burner card to tip you, you know,” he says, turning away once his buttons are done. “Someone traced it to me. Which, considering I know what I'm doing, means this goes deeper than someone looking for a quick payout for gossip.”

Your blood goes cold. Mentioning the card means it's not just a rumor about a controversially young girlfriend. They know how you met. 

He turns back to you and squeezes your hands. “I'm sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

—

Really, you should be freaking out a lot more than you are. You're not ashamed of the choices you've made, but that doesn't mean you want them hanging over your head like a big neon sign. You're proud of what you've done. It's hard to put yourself through school without loans and you did it. You're enrolled in a competitive program that people dream of landing in and your advisor loves you. 

Logically, you know this isn't good. It doesn't matter how great your thesis is, how many publications you have, if people are able to find out you were selling videos of you fucking yourself for money when they google your name. People have associations with sex work and that's why you'd taken care to keep your real name as far away from it as possible. 

This is the sort of thing that should have you running into a corner and hyperventilating but instead you're stress baking in the kitchen because, no matter what lies ahead of you, it's Bucky on the front lines of it now. You haven't even started his career but he's been the news cycle's darling for years now after the bomb that was the Winter Soldier’s identity came to light. The idea that Congressman James Barnes has a sugar baby is going to be beaten like a dead horse. It doesn't matter he's far from the only one in D.C., it matters that he got caught and people will jump on any excuse to question his moral fiber. 

You know he has people for this. Good people. But you're stuck here waiting and catastrophizing and that means Bucky is going to be greeted with at least a couple batches of baked goods when he comes home. 

Home. Maybe you shouldn't think of his townhouse as home, not when your graduation is getting closer and closer. That was what you'd agreed upon. 

You don't mention it and neither does he and maybe that's part of the fantasy you're sharing. It's easier to cling to that explanation than admit to hoping it means something more. You can't even form the words in the privacy of your own mind. 

You beat the sugar and eggs together, trying your best to push the thoughts away. You'd ordered enough baking supplies to feed an army so you have plenty to occupy your time. You should probably be reaching out to your advisor, if not to ask what this means at least to give him a heads up. But no matter how much he likes you when it comes to going over your data sets, you don't know what that means for this. He's not the touchy feely type. 

You're not avoiding calling him out of veering into touchy feely territory. You're avoiding it because there's every chance he tells you you've ruined your chance as success before you've even started. 

You can't take any of it back. You always knew people finding out was a risk—everyone knows the internet is forever. 

Just, not like this. You haven't even looked up to see what people are saying. But you know they are. Your phone is safely upstairs in the bedroom where you cannot see or hear it. 

You have two batches of cookies, one batch of brownies, a fully decorated cake, and a loaf of bread by the time Bucky comes back. You've already ordered pizza because you've spent long enough in the kitchen today and regret that alcohol doesn't do anything for Bucky because you feel like now would be the time for a drink if there ever was one. 

“How are you?” you asked, taking his jacket off of his shoulders and setting it down on a bar stool. 

He looks more exhausted than you've ever seen him. He turns away from you as he yanks his tie off. The movements are sharp, jerky. Whatever happened today, you don't think he found a resolution he's happy with. 

“That doesn't matter,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter. It's only now that the bakery around him registers. “What is this?”

You slide the plate you'd prepared with a little bit of everything over. “Food,” you say. “Eat it. You'll feel better.”

Bucky shoves a cookie in his mouth and you feel better when you see him relax the slightest bit as he chews. You doubt he ate much today and this is comfort food. 

“This is so good,” he murmurs, grabbing a second cookie. “Since when do you bake?”

You roll your eyes. “When stressed, which you've been doing an amazing job of preventing from happening. I can do it more often if you'd like.”

He winces at the reminder and sets down his unfinished cookie. “About that…,” this time when he looks at you, you can see every single one of his years. “I'm so sorry. If I hadn't…if I wasn't so selfish, this wouldn't have happened. This is my fault.”

Yeah, that's not gonna cut it. 

You walk around until you're standing behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. You feel his muscles flex, but he doesn't push you away and one of his hands comes to cover yours. You hope you're managing to give him a little bit of the comfort he gives you when he surrounds you. 

“No, it's not,” you say. “I knew what I was doing when I made my account and I knew what I was doing when I went home with you. You have nothing to apologize for. In a perfect world, this would have stayed ours, but it didn't and that's okay.”

Bucky sighs. “You don't deserve to have me hanging over you like a shadow.”

You want to laugh, but know you can't. “I think it's me who'll be your shadow,” you say. “You're concerned about what people will think of me, but I'm much more worried about the people who want to kill me for getting to you first.”

He chuckles. It's dry, but you count it as a win. “I thought this would be safer,” he admits. “Our…deal…was supposed to mean I can't hurt you. It was supposed to protect you from this.” 

The press was never the danger but you don't know if you realized it until right now. Once you'd figured out that your high tipper wasn't a serial killer in disguise, you'd expected your biggest problem to be getting bored or having to fake it. It wasn't supposed to be the heart-stopping realization that it might not just be a deal for you. You can't ignore this warm feeling in your chest: you might be falling for Bucky Barnes.

You shove it down. You don't get that. He doesn't want that. He just confirmed he doesn't want it and it's your job to make him feel better about that. 

“I'm a grown adult,” you say. “You don't have to protect me from this. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then listen when I tell you it's okay, okay?”

He sighs but, after a moment, says, “fine. They said it should blow over soon anyway. It was good timing for the leak, comparatively. There are some rumors about the Senate Leader that are supposed to be surfacing soon.” 

You feel like this is more than convenient timing, but you keep it to yourself. 

“Good,” you say. And, because you can't help yourself when pressed against him like this, you drag your hand down his stomach. “Now, I have a couple ideas for how we can pass the time until the pizza gets here.”

—

Your advisor doesn't say anything about it and you don't bring it up. You're not sure if he doesn't care or doesn't pay that close of attention to be news, but you don't really care about the why. He brings out a bottle of champagne when you pass your defense and Bucky does the same when you come home immediately after. 

The moment is so sweet and perfect, the taste lingering on your lips that you try to ignore your impending graduation that will spell an end to it all. 

He makes it easy to ignore it. He's attentive and spoils you more than usual, always telling you how good you are for him and how perfect you are for being so smart and still choosing to be his, how you know your place is with him. 

“Hey,” you start, pressing yourself up from where you were lying in his chest. “My graduation is this weekend.”

Bucky trails his fingers up and down your spine with a soft smile. “Yeah, it is.”

“Will you come?” you ask, pushing down the nerves. “My family will be there, so I get if you don't want to, but it feels wrong not to—”

“Of course,” he says. “Anything you want.”

It feels like the beginning of the end. 

Your post-graduation dinner is…awkward isn't the right word, but your mom keeps looking at Bucky out of the corner of her eye and you know you're not going to be hearing the end of it for years. Your dad doesn't seem to have any opinion on Bucky's presence, but he's a pretty quiet guy as a rule so you didn't expect anything else. 

Bucky, to his credit, smiles politely when he's spoken to directly but seems much more interested in being a silent, steady presence at your side. His hand is resting on your knee and you're not sure if you're happy he's keeping things above board when you're with your family or if you're disappointed you're not having to hold it together while he takes you apart. 

You're happy he's here, grateful for even a few additional moments with him. Knowing this is the last time you'll get this is souring the moment. You should be proud of yourself, relieved that you made it, but all you can think about is the fact that your agreement was only ever supposed to last through today. Is he here out of pity? 

“So,” your mom starts. She's on her second glass of wine and you doubt you're gonna like what she says next. “What are your next steps? How long do you think it'll take you to find a job?”

You wince. The plans had been made before you even started your program—if you weren't able to land a job by graduation, you were going to go back home for a bit until you got your feet under you to avoid having to pay the rent that came with being close to the capital. You risk a look over at Bucky and find him frowning. More worrying is the way his hold on your knee tightens. This wasn't something you'd brought up. You'd been too worried that talking about it would make it real. 

“I'm not sure,” you say. “The market’s rough. My advisor thinks I could go for a doctorate, if I want.”

Your mom snorts. She doesn't have the highest opinion of graduate degrees, thinking that anyone who needs letters after their name to feel like they're smart needs a reality check. “And do what with it?”

“Research,” you answer, for at least the hundredth time in your life. “Maybe teaching. Professor positions aren't the easiest to get, but—”

“Or you could get a real job,” she interrupts. 

You reach over for Bucky's old-fashioned. He doesn't need it and you need something stronger than wine. He catches your eye and you see nothing but understanding. You lean toward him, just an inch. 

“We’ll see.”

Your mom huffs, but thankfully drops the subject. 

This is why you're not close to your family. 

On your other side, your brother spills his glass of water on his girlfriend's lap and your mom's attention quickly redirects. Small mercies. 

Your family is going back home tomorrow and you're going with them, but tonight you get to go back with Bucky. 

Walking through the front door is bittersweet. This is the last time you'll get to call this home. 

He guides you into the living room and pulls you down onto his lap on the sofa. You collapse against him, fucking your face against his neck. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you to come. I doubt that was any fun.”

Bucky shakes his head and wraps his arm around your waist, bringing you even closer. “I was happy to,” he says. “It was important to you, so it was important to me.”

You sigh. Of course he said that. That's why your feelings are in such a twisted tangle. This is your chance to say something about it, to let him know you know you only agreed to this through your graduation but that you're not ready to see its end. 

“You don't have to go with them,” he says. “You can stay here. It'll be easier for you to find a job in the city that way, and I have a few people I can reach out to. You don't have to go.”

It's everything you want on a silver platter but that's what makes it so dangerous. Going home makes it a clean break. Distance will give you the space you need to fall apart and come to terms with what it means to have fallen for a man who'll never want you like that. 

“I do,” you say. “It's…this was always the plan. Work through school and then move onto the rest of my life.”

He hums and you’ve had enough of the sort of conversation that could lead to revealing things best held close to your chest. 

You pull away from his neck and bring your hand up to play with the collar of his shirt. He didn't wear a tie today, and the peak of bare skin you kept seeing through the couple of undone buttons had been tempting you all day. You tell yourself he did it for you. 

“Enough about that,” you say. “I have to give you something to remember me by.”

Bucky looks away from you, just for a moment, but when he turns his face toward you again you only find glittering eyes and a pink lips quirked into a smirk. “As if I could ever forget you sweetheart, but sure, show Daddy what you've got.”

He drives you to the hotel your parents are staying at the next morning and even goes so far as to help you load everything you own into their old van. 

He doesn't linger. It's a harsh reminder that it was only ever an arrangement to him. You'd both fulfilled your ends of the bargain: you have a master's degree, no student loans, several investments, and enough jewelry to fund several years of unemployment and he got someone to come home to and stick his dick in. That was all you ever were. If you ever saw anything else, it was because you were a fucking idiot. 

You wipe away the tears before your mom can see. 

—

The free time you'd gained after getting with Bucky had been a luxury. Now, faced with so much of it, you are starting to lose your mind. There's only so many hours you can spend searching for and applying to jobs before your body starts screaming out for things like movement, sunlight, and nutrients. Still, you manage to send out a hundred job apps by the end of your first week at your parents’ and have completed the first week of a couch-to-5k program in addition to your usual regimen or Pilates and yoga. It still leaves you with too much time on your hands. 

You need to keep busy. Having nothing to occupy your mind means you start thinking about what could have happened if you'd dared to ask Bucky about maybe extending your arrangement until you got a job. It's a dangerous path to go down. He’d made it clear where he stood with his silent dismissal the morning you'd left. 

But what if he was silent because he was hurting? What if he couldn't bear to say good-bye any more than you could?

You shake your head of the thought and turn into the kitchen. Your brother doesn't live at home anymore, but he still swings by on the weekends so even if your mom snaps at you about having carbs in the house, you know the brownies won't go unappreciated. 

The stress baking becomes more frequent as you start to hear back from the companies you've applied to. They're mostly form rejections, but one email in particular keeps playing on repeat. 

Thank you for your interest in the position. We have had a higher than usual number of applicants and while we are grateful for and humbled by the interest, we have chosen to move forward with other candidates at this time. 

We would typically encourage you to keep an eye out for other roles, but in this case we advise you not to apply. Our company is very selective in who we hire and have no interest in inviting in someone with such a controversial background. 

It was from a smaller company, one that was family-owned and espoused strong values so it wasn't the most surprising response when you thought about it, but it still made your breath stop in your chest. 

The job market is rough on a good day—you’re not the only one of your friends who are at home with their parents while they desperately throw their resumes into the ether—but you'd been coddled by an advisor who didn't care and family who don't bring it up if they even know. D.C. was not that kind. Everything depends on your network, your connections and reputation. Bucky had made it easy to forget that you'd been part of a front-page scandal. He'd taken care of it, like he'd done with so much of your life, and you listened when he told you not to look it up. You know it didn't last too long after Bucky had done…something…but it was still there for anyone to find. Why would a hiring manager take a risk on you when they had hundreds of other similarly qualified candidates?

Your mom makes it another week before she starts nagging you. 

“Have you had any interviews yet?” she asks over her daily morning banana. 

“No.” You turn toward the coffee pot so she doesn't have to see your grimace. You have a feeling you won't be getting many interviews unless you give up on your big city dreams. “Not yet, but it's still early in the process so there's time.”

“Hm.”

Bucky would have an answer for you. He'd bring you in close and tell you how lucky anyone would be to have you, how they just don't know what they're missing, and then he'd drop to his knees and eat you out like a man starving for it like he needed to prove his point. He would have helped you apply, introduce you to the right people and then, if maybe a job wasn't what you'd wanted, he'd give you a safe place to fall and maybe even tell you how you don't have to work if you don't want to. How he'd take care of you, if you wanted. He'd shower you with lace and diamonds and you'd get to spend your days coming up with different ways to remind him why it was the best decision he'd ever made. 

You sigh longingly. Bucky can't be anything more than a memory and a fantasy anymore. You knew what you'd signed up for. 

You're surprised when, later that night, you see a text from him. 

Hey sweetheart, it says. Just checking in to make sure you're settling in okay. Thinking about you. Let me know if there's anything you need. 

You blink at the screen and bite your lip. This could just be some weird obligation toward politeness, trying to make sure you don't have plans to ruin him. But the NDA you signed at the beginning covers that and you know he's not much of a texter. More than that, he's not one to communicate needlessly nor say something he didn't mean. This was intentional. 

The smart thing to do would be to ignore it, but there's no part of that's feeling very smart about this. 

You text back, I'm okay. Thinking about you too.

Maybe you shouldn't have said that last bit. It's a bit revealing, isn't it? But hope is growing. He texted you for a reason, what if that reason is the same as yours? What if he misses you? 

I'm happy to hear that. The response comes faster than you expected. It brings you back to when he was a faceless tipper and that's a whole different kind of fun. Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?

The idea forming in your head is a bit risky. If he's just making sure there's no ill will, this is going to reek of desperation. But you still reach for that first lingerie set he ever bought you and set up your tripod to take a picture of you in it on your childhood bed. 

Can you tell me if this looks good? you ask, attaching the photo. I'm thinking of starting to post again if I can't find a job soon. 

You don't want to start posting again. Now that you're removed from it, you can realize how much work went into it. More than that, you'd have to build up a following again and that was hellish enough the first time. You'd been happy to be able to move away from live camming to a more subscription-based model and you're not looking forward to having to do that again. Bucky's jealousy had worked in your favor the first time, maybe it will again. 

But Bucky never responds. 

He does text three days later, as innocent as the first text with no reference to the photo still visible in your messages. 

Any more luck on the job search? he asks. Still thinking about you. Are you sleeping well? Eating enough?

It should be condescending but it's not because it's Bucky and you know he genuinely cares and had always wanted nothing more than to make sure you were taken care of. You feel your eyes water because this, this is what you want. You want to be taken care of again. You don't want your mom down your throat about when you're going to get out of her house and you don't want to have to go into work each day risking judgement should someone find an old article or if old gossip gets brought up again. You want the arrangement you had but you want it without an end date and that's the one thing you know you can't have. 

Still thinking about you too, you say back before setting your phone down. 

God, you need to figure this out because if this continues, you know it might kill you. 

—

It takes another week or countless rejection interviews before you decide you can't take it anymore. Bucky keeps sending you sweet messages, always checking in on you and always with a mention of how he's thinking of you and you really can't take it anymore because if he's doing it to be kind it's getting to the point of being the opposite. If he, like you, can't seem to let it go, you're going to need a bit more than a ‘thinking of you’. 

His card is still connected to your Uber account and you pre-book the ride rather than waiting an unknown amount of time for someone to accept the long drive. You have no idea if he gets notified when you use his cards or not. A part of you hopes he does. That same part of you regrets not thinking of the several still saved in your Apple pay. Spending thousands on pretty nonsense would have been a bratty way of getting his attention, but maybe that would have earned an actual phone call. Maybe then you'd have gotten to hear his voice take on that sharp tone that never failed to make you clit throb. 

That would have been worth it. 

Hopefully this will too. On the off-chance it works the way you really hope it does, the pay-off will be far, far greater than being told off on the phone while you try to stay quiet while getting off to the sound of him calling you wasteful and disrespectful. 

That's a fantasy for another time. 

You load the final shoe into your luggage and bring your bags down the stairs, grateful you timed it for when your parents are at work so you don't have to deal with their questions. 

The drive to D.C. is long but the driver is silent and it's far too late to back out by the time you're standing in front of Bucky's townhouse again. 

You hold your breath when you try the key. It still works. 

There's no doubt he knows you're here. You've never gotten the full run-down on security but he's assured you it's taken care of and if there's anyone to trust about that, it's him. 

You roll your bags in and shut the door behind you. If he doesn't want you here, there's nothing stopping him from telling you. 

Fifteen minutes pass and no message comes. It's a good sign. 

You don't dare get too comfortable. Sure, he's open to talking to you but what does that mean? You know what you want: you want what you had but this time without a built-in end date. You're going to ask for it. He cares enough about you to check in, but what if it's only out of obligation. He definitely had a better idea of the impact of your relationship getting out than you did. 

He hasn't responded to any of the photos you've sent, but he also hasn't told you to stop sending them. You don't know what that means. 

You place your bags against the wall, out of the way but still close to the door. You hang your coat up and turn toward the hall mirror. You're wearing a dress you know he likes over a matching set you know he likes even more. You'd thought about greeting him in just the lingerie and jewelry, but the embarrassment you'd feel if he turned you down made that a quick no. 

He doesn't make you wait hours. 

You're sitting on the sofa in the front room when he comes in. 

“Sweetheart?” he calls out. “Is everything okay?”

His voice sends a shiver down your spine. It's been too long since you've heard it. You've missed it, missed him. You start to pull at your dress and answer him, “in here.”

You drink in the sight of him. He's wearing a blue suit today, as flattering as ever. His hair is a bit messy like he's been running his hands through it. You press your own hands hard against your thighs, a flexible reminder that you still don't know if you're welcome no matter how much you want to leap up into his arms. 

“Hi.”

Bucky's brows furrow together. “Can I come in?”

“Of course you can, it's your house.”

“Sweetheart…” he trails off as he steps closer. 

He's only a couple feet away from you now, hands dangling loosely at his sides. You look up. Would it be better to get on your knees and beg for him to take you back? Or should you make a case? Your mouth is dry. You didn't think this far ahead. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

You bite your lip. You hate that it's such an obvious tell but you always notice you're doing it too late to stop it. “I…I miss you.”

His face softens and he lowers to his knees, bringing his hands up to cup your face like he was waiting for permission to touch you. 

“I miss you too, sweetheart,” he says, pushing some loose strands of hair behind your ear. “It's taken everything in me to not go find you and steal you away like you're some princess in a tower. I was so happy when I saw you were here. Just…tell me, baby…why are you here. I need to hear it.”

Hope begins to crest. His eyes are always so intense. You feel like you're under a microscope. It was overwhelming at first, the weight of his attention, but now you realize this is what you've been needing. 

“I didn't want to go,” you admit. “But I had to, because that's what we agreed on. You said until graduation so when I graduated and you didn't say anything I thought that meant I had to leave.”

“No, never,” he says. “I never wanted you to go, but you were only ever here to get through school. You don't need me.”

It's a direct contradiction to everything he's ever told you, and that's what makes you think maybe you were right to hope it wasn't just you tangled up in this mess. 

“I want you,” you say. It's terrifying but it's freeing. “I want to be yours. I want you to take care of me. I don't…I don't want to have to worry about anything else. Anyone else. Let me be yours.”

His eyelids lower and he presses his thumb into your bottom lip. “Do you mean that?”

You don't answer. Instead, you open his mouth and invite him to press his thumb in and press your tongue against it when he does. 

“Good,” he practically coos. “You're perfect for me, sweetheart. You came right back where you belong, right where Daddy can always take care of you, isn't that right?”

You nod. 

“Say it,” he orders, voice deepening. A shiver runs down your spine. 

“I'm yours, Daddy,” you say around his thumb. “And I'm here, right where you can take care of me.”

He's not gentle when he presses you back into the sofa, but you don't want him to be. It's a rush of clothing and he doesn't take your dress off enough to appreciate what you're wearing underneath. The first press of him stings, rough because you're not wet enough yet to make it easy but it feels so, so good. It's the needed reminder that this is where you belong. 

Bucky shoves your leg up and bites down on your exposed collarbone as he thrusts into you hard, forcing you to take the whole length of him. 

“Oh my God,” you cry out, desperately clutching into his shoulders. He didn't even take his jacket off. Fuck. 

He doesn't last long before he collapses on top of you, pressing you into the sofa cushions with his full weight. He sneaks his hand between the two of you and you follow quickly behind. 

You're panting when he presses his lips against your chest, beard scratching your skin. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” you say, bringing your hand up to come through his hair. 

“You'll stay here, with me.”

You guess there are worse reasons a guy could use to break up with you than it ‘being for your own safety' and how ‘he doesn't deserve you’, but you're not sure it's possible to get over Bucky Barnes. 

That doesn't mean you don't try though. You try and you succeed and end up picking up the pieces of your life post-heartbreak and finding a new kind of peace in a guy named Justin. 

He's the exact kind of guy you dreamed of meeting when you decided to take the risk of spending a year auditioning in New York. He's tall, handsome, and the sort of kind that hides a sharp edge. That's what really drew you to him. Real nice boys can't handle you, and any danger Justin presents is laughable after spending nights in bed with the former Winter Soldier. 

You shake your head of the thought and reach out to grab Justin's hand for good measure. He's taking you out for breakfast, something he joked was necessary after getting a good workout in during the night. 

“What's up?” he asks. “You seem bothered. You feel okay?”

“I'm fine,” you assure, biting your lip. 

It's only a partial lie. You have two auditions lined up this week and are out with a man who made your thighs shake more than they jiggle when you walk—but comparisons are easy to draw and Justin deserves better. You don't want to be the kind of person that never gets over your ex, but things are easier said than done. 

“Breakfast will help,” Justin says decisively. “You're probably just tired.”

You shrug. 

He looks down at you with a little smirk tugging at his lips. “I did wear you out last night.”

You shove your shoulder against his arm, grateful for the excuse he's handing you on a silver platter. “You didn't do shit.”

He laughs and you know everything's fine. 

Or it is until you see where he's taking you. Your fault for not paying more attention. 

You and Justin manage to snag one of the last tables in the corner of the worn-down looking diner Bucky had taken you to more than once. He said there was something comforting about how a diner was a diner was a diner, and the hours meant he'd ended up there after not being able to sleep through a night more than once. 

You tell yourself it's just paranoia as you sit down across from Justin, that you can't actually feel Bucky's presence like some oncoming storm, but sure enough, when you look over your shoulder, you find a familiar pair of icy-blue eyes boring into your very soul. 

God dammit. 

You turn back toward Justin, ready to say you're not really feeling the place when Bucky appears like you'd summoned him. 

“Hey,” he says, not paying a single ounce of attention to Justin. Not that you are either. Fuck, he's somehow even hotter than you remembered him and the tight white shirt isn't helping. “It's been a while.”

A familiar rage burns in your chest. How dare he?!

“Holy shit,” Justin cuts in, unaware of the tension. “You're Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky doesn't blink as he turns toward Justin. Her boyfriend, to her shame, wilts under the weight of his stare. “And you are?”

“Uh, Justin?”

Bucky snorts. “Right.”

He turns back to you. “I'll see you around?”

And, because you're an idiot who still isn't over this man, you nod and say, “yeah, you can text me.”

Bucky disappears like he was never there in the first place, and you're left with your heart hammering in your chest and a starstruck Justin for company. 

“I didn't know you knew him,” Justin says, awe coloring the words. 

Bucky would have gritted them out, jealous even if there was no reason to be. 

You sigh. “Not well,” you lie. “He helped me settle in, we’re in the same building.”

Justin blinks. “Small world.”

—

The problem is that Bucky takes ‘yeah, you can text me’ as permission to actually reach out and text. Which, sure, you expected that, but being faced with a series of messages from him is still a lot. You dismiss the notifications and tell yourself you'll forget about them. 

You don't make it two full days. 

Bucky's not a big texter. The man barely remembers to keep his phone charged. You'd been subjected to more than one rant about how people didn't talk to each other anymore and how Sam needed to get off his back. It'd been charmingly old man and in anyone else would have had you looking for the tin hat, but Bucky made it work. He makes most things work. 

He's not a big texter but he listened to you and texted. There are paragraphs waiting for you to be brave enough and read. No missed calls, no voicemails, just text messages. Because you told him he could text.

You really should have blocked and deleted his number, but instead you open the messages app and click his name. 

Hey. I know it's been a while and I know I'm not the best at saying the right thing. I know I'm the one who fucked up, but I can't stop thinking about you. You're the best thing that's happened to me in this century and I threw you away like you were a piece of trash. I don't deserve another moment of your time but I'm going to be selfish and ask for it. Wasn't it you who told me I'm allowed to want nice things, maybe even have them?

The worst part is that it was the right thing to do. You don't deserve to deal with my problems and it's safer for you if I'm not in your life, but I don't know if I'm strong enough to stay away. It's not fair to you. You deserve better.

But maybe there's another way I can keep you in my life, make sure it's worth living.

Is there any way we could be friends?

You frown and bite your lip. The smart thing to do would be to delete the messages. Best case scenario is that Bucky means it as he said it, that there's no hidden meaning underneath the request. If that's true, then it's up to you to hold to it. You can either say no, and he’ll understand because that's what he does, even if he's devastated. Or you can say yes and tempt fate like every other pair of exes who thought staying friends was something you could just do. Say yes and try to pretend like even getting within a few feet of the man didn't make you want to start peeling off whatever layers of clothing were separating you. 

In the best case scenario, he's willing to pretend too. 

In every other version of events, he knows just as well as you do how this is going to end. The feeling was always mutual. He'd never been able to keep his hands off of you, always ready with an excuse about how sliding his hand under your shirt is to hide the distinctive metal. 

You should delete the message. Close the chapter about you and Bucky Barnes. Respect Justin. 

Instead, you type, Yeah, we can be friends.

—

You agree to coffee. It's the sort of thing friends do, right? It's safer in public, no threat of lockable doors or flat surfaces to push him down onto (not that you've ever been one to be picky about that sort of thing). 

You get there first and order, knowing if you didn't he'd show up and insist on paying because he's old-fashioned like that and you fall victim for the charm of it every time. You need to be smart about this. You've rationalized why you agreed. You need more familiar faces here. Justin has a job and a life of his own, he can't always be there when you need someone and you aren't the type of girl to make a man your whole life anyway. You have a career on the line. You need a life of your own. A friend, even one like Bucky, is a part of that. 

And Bucky needs friends too. 

It's a lot easier said than done when you catch sight of him. He's let his beard grow out a bit and the sense memory of how it felt on the inside of your thighs is strong enough you're grateful you're already sitting down so no one can see the way you rub your legs together. More than that, he's wearing that tight shirt again that clings to every muscle and the little bit of weight he's gained that's softened his stomach enough to make you fixate on it and remember the way it felt when you bit down, the way he gasped and looked down at you like he'd just discovered something life-changing. He's also wearing the same leather jacket you'd admitted made you want him to fuck you over his bike. 

He did this on purpose. 

This is not the best case scenario. 

You know you should leave. You should pull your phone out and claim something came up, an emergency or some last minute opportunity you can't pass up because this could be your big break. 

You don't. 

He sits across from you and smiles and tells you how amazing you look. It takes everything in you to keep your eyes focused on the way the skin folds around his eyes and not how his shirt is really being put to the test. 

You chat. It's friendly, surface level. About the weather, about how Sam is still annoying him, how you haven't had luck hit yet. Apparently he's running for Congress. 

He doesn't ask about Justin and you don't bring him up. 

So no, you're not surprised when he licks his lips and places his hand on the table, palm up, in a silent invitation. 

“I know we said friends,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I thought I could do it. I meant it when I said it.”

A pit opens in your stomach. 

“I was wrong,” he continues. “I'm so sorry. I just…I miss you so much. And seeing you here is a reminder of everything I'm missing. Could we…could we try again?”

He looks so hopeful, staring at you from under his lashes, that every part of you is jumping up to say yes, absolutely you can try again. 

“We can't,” you whisper, reaching out and placing your hand in his because you're only so strong. “I…I have a boyfriend. I can't do that to him.”

He tries to pull his hand away but you don't let him. 

“I don't know if I can be just friends with you,” he admits, giving in and clutching your hand tight. “I don't want to do that to you.”

You bite down on your tongue as you think of the right thing to say. “Will you try?” you ask. “For me?”

It's playing dirty, but it works because Bucky nods and you feel just a little bit like you've entered into a game you don't know all the rules of. 

—

Bucky wins the election, because of course he does, and Justin is too excited about being invited by <i>Bucky Barnes</i> to question why you're so nervous. 

Being friends with Bucky has been…fine. He's been busy, obviously, so it's mostly been staying in touch with calls and texts. If his voice gets a bit low or the conversation gets too heated to be friendly at times, well, nothing is actually happening. It's fine. Everything's fine. 

It'd be easier if it was a party, some large get together where you can melt into the crowd, but that was the other night and you'd made up some excuse because you know you're not strong enough to see him fawned over by his staff and volunteers. You're stuck sitting between him and Justin, far too aware of the body heat radiating off of Bucky to pay any attention to the conversation. Justin keeps ordering drinks and the alcohol is really not helping you in your mission of friendship. 

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing away from the table roughly and stumbling a bit as you stand up. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Justin nods, but Bucky's eyes narrow and his smirk is enough to send you running because you know that smirk, and you know what comes after. 

He joins you in the bathroom with the same damn smirk on his face less than a minute later. 

“You shouldn't be here,” you say, like you haven't been wet for the past hour. 

“You could have locked the door,” he points out, flicking the deadbolt. “But you didn't.”

He stalks toward you and before you know it, he's lifted you onto the sink and shoved your skirt above your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs with a groan. You're not wearing underwear, and that fact does not go missed by Bucky. You clutch into your shoulders and tell yourself you can still push him away. You know he'd listen to you, would respect your choices. 

But you both know this is exactly what you wanted. 

His mouth drops open as he traces his fingers over your cunt. “This all for me, sweetheart?” 

You nod and bite your lip hard when he shoves his fingers inside of you in the exact way he knows makes you scream. You don't know what it is about Bucky Barnes that makes him always find that spot that has you seeing stars, but he locates it with a sniper’s precision and presses his fingers hard there and you know it's your fault for working yourself up all night, thinking about this, but it's almost no time at all before your first orgasm crashes over you like a wave. 

“What the fuck,” you breath out. “I hate you.”

He chuckles and pulls his hand back. It's glistening in the shitty bathroom lights, and it does something to you knowing that it's you all over him like that. The way he puts his fingers in his mouth and moans like you taste like the sweetest ambrosia doesn't help. 

“No you don't,” he says, already pulling at this belt. “You're always ready for me, aren't you? Bet that hasn't changed.”

It hasn't, but you're not telling him that. 

You throw your head back against the mirror when he pushes in. You've missed this stretch, the way he somehow manages to cover every inch of you. The way he whispers your name like it's a prayer into his ear, how he sounds like he's drunk on the feel of you from the very first second. His lips are hot against your neck and you sneak your hands under his shirt to drag your nails down his back. The marks won't last, they never do, but that's never stopped you from trying. 

You come out of the bathroom a couple minutes after the leaves, grateful for the excuse of alcohol to explain the waver in your steps. 

Justin doesn't suspect a thing and you chase the burn of guilt away with the shots he keeps buying. 

—

It doesn't stop there. It should. It never should have started in the first place.

“You're heading out?” Justin asks. 

You pull your purse higher up on your shoulder. He's been starting to get suspicious and you can't blame him. You've cooled toward him. You don't mean to, you tell yourself you're just settling out of the honeymoon phase into something more stable, but you know that's a lie. It's not Justin's fault that he'll never compare to Bucky.

“Grabbing coffee with a friend,” you say. “Want me to bring anything back. We're meeting at the place with those danishes you like.”

Justin frowns but doesn't say anything more than, “sure, sounds great.”

Twenty minutes later, you're easing down onto Bucky's dick. 

“Oh fuck, sweetheart,” Bucky breathes out, staring down at where you're taking him in like it's the eigth wonder of the world. “Look at you, taking me so well. It's like you were made for it. Made for me, baby, just like that.”

You're not much better, especially when he presses his thumb against your clit and circles it in a way no man born before the invention of sliced bread should know how to do. 

That's part of the problem. No man has ever made you feel like this. You don't know if any other man can. When there's a safe amount of distance between you and Bucky, you can look at your own actions and feel disgust. You like Justin. You don't want to be the type of person that cheats on your boyfriend, but it's like the moment Bucky even thinks about looking at you all of that gets thrown out the window. 

You drag your hands down his shoulder onto his chest and push him back against the couch cushions. You're at his place and hadn't made it to the bedroom. You'd barely made it to the couch. He'd opened the door and you're not sure it had even closed before he pounced, backing you up against a wall and pressing his thigh between your legs. 

He tightens his grip on your hips and holds you still so he can fuck into you. He's supporting you like this and you're putty between his hands. He'd already made you cum twice and you're well on your way to a third. 

You reach up and grab a fistful of his hair. “Growing this out for me?”

His smile is all teeth and his next thrust is a bit harder. 

You yank on his hair and his thrusts become erratic. You love when he gets like this, when all of his careful control starts to fall away and reveal the instincts driving the man beneath it all. 

Afterward, when your breath has calmed and the sweat has started to dry, he presses his lips against your forehead and holds you close and you do your best to ignore the burn of tears in your eyes. 

You shove your head against his neck and ghost your teeth over the spot that never fails to make him shiver as you trail a hand down his side. His dick is already half-hard against your hip. 

It's wrong and you need to leave and should never come back, but the sound of your name on his lips when he cums is so sweet you don't know if you can ever give it up. 

—

Bucky invites you out again, both you and Justin. It's the same bar as when you celebrated his win and you're not sure if you should expect a repeat of your bathroom rendezvous or not. 

Justin's suspicions haven't ebbed, but his respect for Bucky is too deeply rooted after growing up watching the Howling Commandos cartoons. Sure, Justin might think you're up to something but he'd never imagine Bucky has anything to do with it. You still haven't decided if that's insulting or not. 

“Hey, man!” Justin greets, bringing Bucky in for a quick man hug and looking thrilled at the fact that Bucky lets him. “What've you been up to?”

“Nothing much,” Bucky says with a shrug. “It's been the call before the storm. Part of why I wanted to see you guys tonight, actually.”

You have a bad feeling about that, especially when he hugs you and clings tight enough it feels like a goodbye. 

Bucky keeps his hand on the small of your back as he turns back to Justin and they start talking about something. You should be paying attention, but you have a bad feeling about this and focusing on the Bucky's touch is the only thing preventing you from falling into the depths of a panic attack. 

The calm before the storm can mean so many things. Has Bucky been stewing in guilt too? Has he decided to meet with Justin in public so when he confesses that they've been sneaking around the presence of other people prevents Justin from causing a scene?

Bucky wouldn't do that, not without telling you. 

But your hand still shakes when you accept the drink Justin hands you. 

“Everything okay?” Bucky asks, brows furrowed. Of course he asks before Justin. Maybe he's trying to rub it in. “You seem—”

“I'm fine,” you cut him off, taking a sip of your drink. You turn toward Justin and say, “thanks, baby.”

Justin grins and that's the end of that. 

They end up talking about baseball, and while you do have opinions on things other than the size of the players’ asses, you keep silent. Bucky's hand is soothing small circles over your back as Justin gets more and more heated, hands gesturing wildly. 

Justin hands Bucky another beer and asks, “so, how long are you in New York for? You've got to get down to D.C. at some point, right? Congressman Barnes?”

You freeze and Bucky tenses beside you, pulling his hand away. 

Justin's right. Of course he is. You know that's part of the gig, but somehow you’d neglected to put the pieces together and a waterfall is rushing in your ears as you're faced with the fact that you're not even getting to end this illicit thing on your own terms. Bucky Barnes is breaking your heart for the second time. 

Bucky nods and Justin keeps talking but Bucky is looking at you and there's an apology in his eyes but the waterfall sound hasn't gone away. 

“D.C.?” you ask, voice sounding hollow to your own ears. “When are you going?”

He grimaces and pulls away from you. “Tomorrow, actually.”

“And you're just bringing this up now?” you spit out. 

He flinches and it feels good to see it. To know he can see how hurt you are by this, how cruel it is for him to spring this on you. 

“Guess it didn't come up.”

You narrow your eyes into a glare. “Guess you're a coward.”

Justin's hand settles on your shoulder, startling you. “Hey babe,” he says. “He probably got stressed with everything. Cut him some slack.”

You shake his hand off. 

“No, no,” Bucky assures, shifting in his seat. “She's right, I should have told her. It's what a good friend would have done.”

“Right,” you say. “We're friends.”

—

He texts you the next morning, because of course he does. You claim you can't meet him for coffee because of a hangover despite you both knowing you only had two drinks last night. 

You regret it as soon as you set your phone down, but maybe a clean break is best since you both failed at it last time. 

He keeps texting you and you keep ignoring him, but Bucky Barnes hasn't gotten this far by giving up when things got hard so you're only a little bit surprised to find a printed out copy of a flight itinerary for a trip from New York to D.C. with your name on it in your actual, physical mailbox. 

You go. 

You take a taxi from the airport to the address he texts you and find yourself being led through halls by one of his staffers instead of the hotel or apartment you expected. 

Thank God you used some time to freshen up in the airport bathroom in preparation for seeing Bucky, but that only does so much to help how out of place you feel as your luggage rolls behind you. You do not belong in any sort of government building. 

The office you're let into is intimidating. The sort of wood furnishings you've only seen on screen. The shelves are mostly empty still, and you're sure the books there belonged to whoever used the space last.

You shut the door behind you and finally let your eyes fall on Bucky, who's leaning against the heavy desk with his arms crossed over his chest. His hair’s smoothed back and he's wearing a grey, tailored suit. You've never seen him like this. That's not to say it's a bad look…

You bite the inside of your lip and take a step forward, leaving your luggage by the door.

“Hi,” you say. 

“You came.” 

You nod and take another step forward. He pushes off of the desk and drops his hands to his sides, fingers twitching like he's barely fighting the urge to reach out and touch. 

“Of course I did.”

It's like you gave him permission. His eyes flash and his jaw drops, just a little bit, as he looks up and down like he's starving. His hands soon follow, and you'll never get tired of the contrast behind the cool metal and hot skin. 

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me why you're here. Really.”

You bring your hands up to his chest and trace your fingers along the edge of his lapels. You fiddle with his pin. “Do I have to?”

“Please.”

You look up and meet his gaze. “I missed you.”

His hand comes around to play with the hooks of your bra. “How could you miss me when you have Justin?”

The edge in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. “We're not talking about him.”

“Hm.” He unhooks your bra under your top. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” You pull him close by his tie. “Now kiss me if you're not going to stop being stupid.”

He kisses you like he needs it, likes he's desperate for it. You take it and match him for intensity, pulling your shirt and bra over your head and throwing them into some corner. His hands are your breasts immediately, pinching your nipples and stealing a gasp from your throat. 

“Fuck, you're perfect,” he says into your mouth. “I can't stop thinking of you, been missing you every day. Dreaming of this, wondering what it'd be like to have you here.” 

He's not gentle when he pushes you back onto the floor. You prop yourself up on your elbows and your chest is heaving. His suit is still done up as he pulls your jeans down your legs. 

You can hear the clack of heels on flooring in the hallway. You have to keep quiet, but you don't if you can. 

Bucky shoves his pants down his thighs and is between your legs a second later. His vibration hand comes down hard over your mouth in an attempt to muffle you. It kind of works. If anyone were to stop and listen they'd know what was happening. 

His eyes burn into yours when he pushes in. It's too much and not enough and you nearly squeal when he doesn't give you the time to adjust before pulling his hips back and slamming in again, forcing your back into an arch so hard it hurts. 

“You still love me,” he asks, angling his hips so he's hitting that one spot that might as well belong to him at this point. “Don't you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut instead of answering, pretending he didn't just throw a bomb into the clusterfuck of emotions in your chest. You focus on the drag of him, the stretch of his thick thighs between your own, how heavy he is as lays all of his weight on top of you. It feels too fucking good is what it is. 

“Tell me,” he says, voice getting deep and raspy in the way that's never failed to be your undoing. “Say it.”

His hand is still over your mouth. You couldn't answer if you wanted to, but that's not really the point, is it? You don't want to answer. You're not going to and you both know that but he's torturing you with this anyway. His other hand is holding your wrists above your head, so tight you can almost feel the bones grinding against each other. The pain is sharp, but it goes straight to you clit and how he's making this feel even better you don't know but he is and you feel like you could ascend. 

You whine against his hand. 

“You'll just take whatever I give you, won't you?” he asks, and this is much safer territory. You can't nod with how he's holding your head but you try and he can tell and he starts fucking into you even harder. “That's right. You're my little whore, coming out here because I told you to. You love this. You love me.”

And at this point you can't deny it anymore because the combination of everything is so much it's overwhelming and all you can do is sob your name as you clench down around him and shake as your orgasm works his way through you.

He doesn't stop, of course he doesn't. He seems frantic now, like he's trying to draw this out and remember every second of it because he knows he's crossed the line. It feels so good you don't care. You let him. Encourage him with grabbing hands and low sounds. You've abandoned the thought of being quiet. It doesn't matter. Not when you're in freefall. 

The moment, in all of its twisted perfection, can't last forever and he collapses over you, pressing you against the uncomfortable floor countless shoes have walked across. 

“Fuck you, Bucky Barnes,” you gasp when he finally takes his hand back. 

“Yeah,” he said, rolling off of you. You can feel him dripping out of you already. “Fuck me.”

You force yourself to stand up and find your clothes. Your bra’s hanging off the corner of the desk for some reason. You put it on, taking care not to look at Bucky. 

“I'm going,” you say, walking over to grab your shirt. Your jeans are by his feet, they can wait a bit. “Should I find a flight back or will you at least let me clean up?"

“I paid for your hotel,” he says. “Do whatever you want. I'll have someone bring over a card.”

You hum and reach down for your jeans. He looks like any other man on the floor like this, soft dick hanging out against his thigh. “Fine.”

Your underwear is missing. He definitely pocketed it when you weren't looking. You decide to leave it and let him keep his souvenir.