That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take. 

It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you. 

Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand. 

He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline. 

The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you. 

Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd. 

He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view. 

It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.

His fourth mistake is looking at your lips. 

Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you. 

It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier. 

Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection. 

Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static. 

Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you. 

A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie. 

When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense. 

He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.

It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.

You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word. 

Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech. 

It hits him all at once. 

He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-

He can't understand a word you say. 

What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either. 

It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.

You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match. 

Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty. 

You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.

Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?

"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream. 

He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.

Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky. 

"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.

His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.

He wants to know yours. Badly.

Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.

He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.

That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere. 

Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.

“I see you’ve met Sirène.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?

“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.

“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”

The bald suits, presumably.

“Oh.”

“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.

While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.

You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.

“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.

“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”

Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.

He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something. 

Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.

"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."

Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.

Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could. 

Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.

"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease. 

"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."

"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"

"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."

Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus. 

He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in. 

With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece. 

"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."

You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head. 

"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."

Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen? 

"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip. 

He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response. 

"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"

Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for. 

"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."

He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.

"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.

One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve. 

His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so. 

You beam, smile widening with approval. 

"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted. 

You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."

"He's headed toward you." Sam translates. 

You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."

"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor. 

"My pleasure." Bucky agrees. 

With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.

Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.

Or more specifically, test his sanity. 

With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to. 

And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French. 

They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company. 

If he can even call it that. 

What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head? 

Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees. 

What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?

Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.

You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle. 

Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find. 

Instead he asks you to teach some more French. 

Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky. 

Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.

Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?

Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?

Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.

That one is probably his favorite. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork. 

He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about. 

You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence. 

Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand. 

"I'm not exactly sure how to-" 

You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place. 

"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod

Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.

At least he's pretty sure that's what it was. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now. 

And it hurts his ears.

Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-

What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting. 

You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt. 

"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."

Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.

He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."

Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice. 

"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided. 

"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?" 

Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?" 

Bucky shrugged. 

"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned. 

The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-" 

"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted. 

"No." 

"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.

Bucky's protest died on his tongue. 

"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."

So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club. 

He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror. 

"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust. 

Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there. 

Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you. 

He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam. 

"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.

You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by. 

When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked. 

"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder. 

Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar. 

Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth. 

"You look good enough to eat." 

Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction. 

"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."

Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified. 

His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway. 

You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"

Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer. 

The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting. 

Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?

His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.

"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink. 

Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night. 

As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music. 

"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before. 

"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't." 

By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long. 

He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.

It's three songs, maybe four. 

Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.

Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper. 

Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck. 

Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular. 

Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.

You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth. 

His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest. 

He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder. 

He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel. 

For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak. 

Mercifully, he's fluent. 

His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose. 

The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all. 

Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off. 

He definitely wants to find out if there's more.

"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room. 

He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared. 

It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me on." 

Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge. 

"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper. 

Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand. 

"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."

You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."

"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song." 

You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."

He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself. 

His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst. 

Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his. 

It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.

Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes. 

Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.

The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.

When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look. 

Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession. 

You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it. 

When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question. 

"Ramène- à ta maison?"

"Can I take you home?"

Both of you are answered with another kiss.

Bucky - woefully unprepared Bucky, takes you back to his apartment. He guides the most ethereal woman he's ever met up two flights of stairs and into his shoebox. 

Okay, it's little bigger than a shoebox but not by much. 

He does his best to steer you through the living room, kissing you earnest as he walks you back toward his bedroom. In part just to kiss you, but also to keep you from seeing the makeshift bed on the floor by the couch. 

You either don't notice his tactics or don't care. By the time you make it to his room you've stopped walking altogether. No, instead your legs are wrapped around his waist, having jumped up somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. Just threw your weight at him between kisses and trusted him to catch you.

It makes his head feel warm to think about. 

The bed is softer than he remembers, his hands sinking into the plush mattress as he lays you down on it. 

He waits until your back is flat, then leans onto his haunches. His chest pulls tight at the distance, like an invisible is string gone taut between you. His jacket comes off in rushes drags of sleeves down his arms, one side even catching on his wrist in the hurry. He doesn't even remember putting it back on, doesn't remember much about leaving the club except the way you were tucked into his side with a hand in his back pocket. 

The jacket lands somewhere behind him with a thud, the sound marrying beautifully with your giggle. 

Bucky has to take a moment just to look at you. 

You perched on your elbows and staring up at him with nothing but excitement. Youwith your dress bunched up around the tops of your thighs, bare skin catching in the dim light of his lamp. You with a pretty smile on your lips, any lipstick that you had started the night with long gone.

He wonders if it's rouge on your cheeks or if you just glow like that all by yourself.

For a second, he's out of his body. Who is he to have this? The soft bed beneath his knees is unfamiliar, the trust you offer yourself up with even more so. 

It must show on his face. 

"Bucky?" You whisper, humming as you bring his attention back to you. "Ça va?"

He nods, only half sure he understood the question. "I'm okay." He promises, "Just making sure you're real."

You melt, slight enough that only someone as well attuned as him would notice. Shoulders curling inward, lips twitching at the corners, the brief break in your eye contact. 

Slowly, you lower yourself flat once more, this time grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with you. 

Your hands grab the hem of shirt, reclaiming the skin you had teased on the dance floor. This time you don't stop at a sliver, pulling it up over his head until it lands somewhere by his jacket. 

A low breath blows from between your teeth, borderline a whistle. "Es tu?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow as you flatten your palm over his abdomen. 

Bucky can't be bothered to decipher that one, instead he decides he's much more bothered by the fact that you are still wearing so much clothes. 

Okay the dress really isn't much in the way of fabric but his point stands. It's between him and your skin and that's crime enough.

Your zipper slips between his fingers twice, the delicate metal pull taunting him as he tries to grasp it. That's when he gives up. 

The zipper pulls apart with just a little pressure, coming undone in a cascade of popping teeth. From the top of the dress to the end of the zipper at the base of your spine, it's rendered useless in seconds.

Bucky waits to be scolded, a hand slap or sharp glare. 

When he finally looks back up at you all he sees is want, pupils blown wide with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

Bucky's hands freeze where they had been pulling the dress down, fabric bunched in his hands like a brute. 

Then you nod. 

It rips like paper, tearing along the seam that had run up your hip and all the way to the base of the zipper. 

He throws it so hard it hits the wall. 

You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush. 

It's his turn to be greedy. He copies the path you took, from sternum to ribs to belly button. Only he paints it with his mouth instead. 

A kiss over your collarbone, then just over your heart. Then one is pressed in the valley between your breasts, another further down at the base of your ribs. Until finally he laves one more just above the waist band of your underwear, low enough for the elastic to tickle his chin. 

Your breath catches, a sharp gasp that catches just as he makes contact. Like he's caught you off guard, something he didn't even know was possible. 

It would make even the worst cowards brave. 

Bucky tucks a finger into the elastic on either of your hips, pausing just long enough for you to know his intentions. 

Without missing a beat you raise them, lifting off the bed by just as inch and giving Bucky the only signal he needed. 

They don't even get pulled all the way off, abandoned somewhere around your ankles and left for you to kick away as Bucky gives all his attention to the sight in front of him.

The low lights cast a shadow across your body, draping you in gentle curves and sharp contrasts. It settles over your skin until you look like a painting, and your cunt is no exception. 

There at the apex of your thighs, Bucky's is pretty sure sits the holy grail. 

He moves slow, like a predator stalking its prey. He makes a home for himself between your thighs, pushing your knees apart to make room as he lays down between them. 

Your words from earlier play back in his mind, the translation Sam had fed him.

"Vous êtes à croquer" He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. He probably butchered the pronunciation, dragged the vowel too hard or exaggerate a letter that doesn't belong but you don't seem to care. "Means you look good enough to eat."

As if forgetting him, your legs immediately try to close, a little whimper bubbling from the back of your throat as you're blocked by his hands. 

Bucky clicks his tongue, using the movement to shift your position. The legs that had been on either side of him are lifted onto his shoulders, rendering you completely vulnerable to hid intentions.

"Sil te plaît." You whine, hips jerking up toward him. Your breathing turned erratic, sharp inhales and cut-off exhales as you wait for him to finally do something.

Bucky doesn't pretend to hide just how much he likes it. 

His fingers find you first, wet heat that catches on his skin. You feel like fire, tantalizing and hypnotic. His index and pointed drag through your folds, parting them to give him a better view of your ruin. 

He repeats the motion a few times, gathering slick around his digits and watching your reaction with every pass. 

The tensing of your thighs when he just misses your entrance, the way your chest stills when he passes over the hood of your clit. 

Your body is a language he's desperate to be fluent in. 

The taste of you melts on his tongue, potent and sweet. Better than anything he's had the privilege to swallow in years. 

One lick, then a second slower one. The full width of his tongue pressing flat against your clit. Then he can't bear another second, closing his lips around the bud in a sloppy wet kiss. 

Your hands fly to his hair, followed by a jagged moan that sounds more like it was torn from your body than given willingly. 

"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!" 

Your slip up is missed completely, half covered by your thighs over his ears and half drowned out by the his own satisfied groan. 

His mind is blissfully blank, for the first time in a long time he's not thinking about anything other than the task at hand. 

Your pleasure isn't even a direct motivator, well it is, but Bucky's driven by his own just as much. The way you feel in his mouth, the vibrations of your moans and the how your entire body jolts when he finally slides two fingers inside of you. 

It's relief, finally understanding that as much as he wants you, you want him. It only fuels him further, his nose pushing against your clit, fingers working along side his tongue inside you. Curling at different angles until he hears that scream again-

"Bucky!"

You're wet everywhere, the insides of your thighs and down his chin. Some sick part of him wishes he could bottle it, where the most natural part of you as a cologne.

His own hips grind into the mattress, more instinct than intention. He's harder than he's been in seventy fucking years and you don't even speak the same language.

Your legs go rigid around his head, tightening as your orgasm starts to build.

Bucky's making sure you get there, pressing his fingers into that spot inside you until he's all but giving it a massage. Your walls pulling tight around him, pulsing in time with your rapid heart. 

His lips close around your clit one more time, tonguing it with gentle pressure. He can't help but hum, he's damn near choking on you and would die happily if it was between your legs. 

Then it all bursts. 

His nightmare, his French muse, his siren, his Venus cums hard on his tongue. 

Bucky swears he can taste a whole language, the sweetest elixir God could have ever made and he's drinking it from the source. 

You're one fire above him, broken curses and whimpered babbles of his name. 

As it retreats, your grip finally loosening, Bucky crawls back over you. Not stopping until he's above your face, watching it contort in the come down. 

You're still speaking, the sound of it finally coming back into focus. 

"So good," you gasp, "So fucking good Bucky don't stop-"

Everything goes still. An entire orbit freezing in place. 

He can see it in your eyes, something hazy and romantic as you finally lock in on him. Your hands cup his face, oblivious to the fact that you've given it away. 

"You speak fucking English?" It comes out harsher than Bucky means for it to. "This whole time you spoke-"

You groan, pulling his lips back to yours. 

Despite it all, Bucky goes willingly. He kisses you and instead of betrayal he tastes something sweeter.

"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?" 

When he pulls back that look is there again, the mischief he saw that first night. 

He kisses you again, even harder this time. 

Yeah, he thinks, it was.

Collab Masterlist (If you're interested in Bumpin' that)

Main Masterlist

Ten months.

It had been ten long, grueling months since Bucky last got a taste of you.

After taking your virginity, he paid for your groceries—as promised, because he believed himself to be a gentleman—and messaged you a few days later, inviting you to film another video with him.

You were his loyal fan.

You were there for every single one of his videos.

Hell, your own username was dedicated to him.

So when you left him on read for ten months without leaving a single trace behind, he grew furious. He tried making excuses for you—perhaps you were too busy? Or maybe you went on vacation? He tried circling back to your social media, which was how he had first found you, but you had privated all your accounts and deactivated your TikTok.

Naturally, pessimistic thoughts began to fill his mind.

Was he too rough when he took you? Did he freak you out by finding you at the grocery store? Worse, had he scared you away for good?

Bucky knew where you lived. It would’ve been easy to just show up at your front door and demand answers—but he couldn’t do that. Not with the threat of a restraining order looming in the back of his mind.

Ten months. He couldn’t believe he had let you stray away from him for that long.

There was so much you could’ve done during that time. You could’ve moved, had sex with other men, or even found a relationship.

You went from being his loyal fan to a ghost.

Bucky knelt on his mattress, holding up a clear silicone toy that looked tiny compared to his hands. He squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm and spread it carefully along his half-hard cock, making sure none of it dripped onto the sheets.

His camcorder was propped against a pillow, angled perfectly to capture him from the waist down. With his bare abs and thighs fully in frame, he settled back on his heels, gripped the toy firmly, and guided it toward his cock.

A rough groan escaped him as he teased the sensitive tip against the entrance. The lubricant made every movement slick and audible, the wet sounds filling the otherwise quiet room.

“Fuck. Been waiting for this all day.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he slowly worked the toy against his shaft. He continued at an unhurried pace, his grip tightening as he lost himself in the sensation.

“Good girl,” he muttered without thinking.

The words slipped out on instinct, a praise that always led back to you. As the room filled with the sounds of his grunts and movements, his thoughts drifted to the memory of you. They always did. He pictured your soft lips wrapped around his dick, the way he had your face pressed into the pillow as he took you from behind—the moments that had replayed endlessly in his mind over the past months.

At some point, imagination alone had stopped being enough.

Whenever he wanted to relive it, he would pull up the private video he recorded of the two of you, letting it play in the background while he lost himself in the pleasure of his toy.

“God,” he groaned, your name slipping from his lips in a breathless rasp.

He made a mental note to cut the part where he whispered your name like a prayer before uploading the video to the site.

“Shit—fuck. I miss that tight little pussy.”

With a loud groan and both hands holding the toy tight, he drove his hips deep into the toy until it made an unmistakable tearing sound. Too lost in the haze of his own desire, he didn’t even realize he tore through yet another toy to the memory of you.

Seed filled the silicone, marking every cloudy surface with his thick cum.

Once he caught his breath, he let the toy fall from his grip and pushed it aside.

From there, the rest of the evening followed the same familiar routine.

He would take a shower, get dressed, make himself something for dinner, then spend the rest of the evening at his computer. He would spend his time editing the footage, preparing it for upload to the same porn site he had been posting on for years.

Except this time, there was no excitement after hitting the ‘post’ button, because you wouldn’t even be there to watch them.

After the video went live, he waited for the likes and comments to start pouring in, holding onto the faint hope that your username might appear among them.

As usual, it never did.

Surprisingly, though, that wasn’t what disappointed him this time.

Every time he jerked off with the intention to post a new video—your video was always in the background. It got to the point where people started to leave comments asking who the mysterious girl was. Who those sultry, seductive moans belonged to.

He would even get comments asking if he’d be willing to record another video of the two of you together and post it online.

Every time he read those comments, he would scoff, laughing to himself.

I would like to know the same thing.

After posting his latest video, his comment section had been flooding with the same demands for weeks.

wankingandspanking: hell yeah man! love the new video. but who’s the babe in the video you’re watching??

StraightJorkinIt: U breaking ur toy was so hot, but what’s even hotter is the girl moaning in the back. xx

Bwasexual: The toys are getting a little old, don’t you think?? Bring a real woman in. especially the one in the vid you’re jerking to ;)

Each comment was a direct insult to Bucky’s pride.

He was one of the platform’s top creators—yet now, his community was entirely consumed by you.

He had spent the last ten months trying to get you out of his head, trying to just use your video as a quick jerk off aid and move on. But how could he when his own fans wouldn’t let him forget?

How could he, when he couldn’t even cum to anything else anymore? His memory was flooded of the way his cock had disappeared in and out of your tight pussy while he had you bent over from behind. By the recollection of your cute, virgin mouth stuffed full of cock—his cock—for the first time ever.

How could he possibly forget how sweet your tight little body was, like it was made for him?

Bucky’s frustration was peaking. At the very least, he was making money off of this.

Just as he was about to shut down his computer and call it a night, a new notification popped up.

He clicked it, and what he saw made the air in his lungs vanish completely.

Pleasure_Ring: Love the video!

Bucky blinked.

Was he seeing this right?

He rubbed his eyes, but lo and behold, your comment was still there. He double—and triple—checked the username, ensuring every single letter matched and that it wasn’t some random copycat trying to impersonate you.

But no, it was you.

When he clicked your profile, the interface loaded your old message thread. He saw the green indicator showing you were currently online, sitting right above his last unanswered message asking you to film with him again.

He couldn’t believe it.

You were real. You were still here, ten months later, watching him.

Bucky didn’t realize he was holding his breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to spam you with messages—to demand where the hell you’ve been, to beg for your phone number so he would never lose track of you again.

No, he couldn’t risk ruining this moment. He had to stay rational and seize this chance before you slipped through his fingers again.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I saw the comment you left.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Where have you been?

A minute passed. Then another. He propped both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands, his foot tapping impatiently as he waited.

Three minutes went by. Your little icon was still green—you were still online.

Then, his heart leaped.

Pleasure_Ring is typing…

Pleasure_Ring: Why? Did you miss me?

Bucky’s brow twitched. Your messages from ten months ago had been sweet, alluring, and almost innocent. If you had been texting him consistently, he might’ve read this as a flirtatious little comment to make his dick hard.

But right now, he just felt pissed off.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Quit playing around. Of course I missed you. Where did you go?

There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t risk scaring you away just yet. His heart raced as he watched the screen.

Pleasure_Ring is typing…

Your bubble kept appearing and disappearing. You would type, then silence. You would type again, then nothing.

Bucky felt like he was going insane. He was just about ready to send another message himself, until one finally popped up under your name.

Pleasure_Ring: I think it’s best that we talk in person.

Pleasure_Ring: Can we exchange numbers?

And of course, Bucky gave you his number without a second thought.

You sat alone at the coffee shop Bucky had agreed to meet you at, fiddling with your mug and glancing anxiously out the window.

The meetup was set for noon, and the closer the clock ticked to the hour, the more your mind began to spiral.

It had been ten months since he last saw you. Ten months since he had you bent over your own bed, your face pressed into the pillows, ravaging you like an animal.

You were growing anxious. What if he had lost interest? What if he took one good look at you and realized you were nothing like the woman he had been infatuated with all this time?

The bell above the door chimed. You glanced up, and your breath caught in your throat.

Bucky was right there. He looked just as handsome as the day you met him. His presence seemed to take up the entire space of the coffee shop, just as it had when he first approached you at the grocery store.

His eyes swept across the room. The moment they landed on yours, your thighs instinctively clenched together. He was wearing that same cold, stern expression he had when he first told you to strip for him.

Naturally, it did things to you.

He marched over to your table, dragged the chair back, and dropped into the seat directly across from you. He didn’t bother with a polite smile, and his gaze didn’t warm up at all.

Was he angry? Was this a nuisance to him—taking time out of his busy day just to see a girl he slept with ten months ago?

“Bucky,” you breathed, forcing a polite smile. “How are you—”

“Where have you been?”

You blinked. You were about to stammer out a quick excuse, but he breezed on past.

“Ten months without a single word from you.” He leaned closer across the table. “Where have you been?”

Despite his harsh tone, he was anxiously bracing himself for your answer. He expected you to say you had lost interest, or that you found a boyfriend to practice your new... sexual experiences on. You hadn’t even given an explanation yet, and he was already fuming with jealousy.

You looked down at your coffee mug, avoiding his gaze. Looking him directly in the eye right now was simply too much to handle.

“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” you mumbled. “Ever since… that night, I’ve been… uh—how do I even say this?” You chuckled awkwardly, scratching lightly at your cheek. “I guess I’ve been feeling a little ashamed of myself.”

Bucky watched your shoulders slump as your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap.

“Ashamed?”

“Ever since we slept together, I’ve felt insecure about not being able to... keep up with you.” You winced. “I mean, you’re obviously experienced—I had a great time, and everything—but it made me realize that, at my age, when everyone else seems to be out there having fun and figuring things out, I’m nowhere near as experienced as they are.”

Your voice dropped lower as you glanced around the room.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation suited for a small, intimate coffee shop.

Bucky frowned, crossing his arms. Your explanation wasn’t giving him the reassurance he had hoped for.

“So you were embarrassed about sleeping with me?”

Your eyes widened.

“No! It’s not like that.” You shook your head. “I had an incredible time with you. You gave me an experience I’ll never forget. I mean...” You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspicuous whisper. “You were the one who took my virginity, after all.”

That, at least, managed to draw the hint of a smile from him.

“It’s just...” you hesitated. “I’m ready to start dating, and in the current dating scene, sex matters, you know?”

There it was.

The sentence Bucky had been dreading.

While he had spent the last ten months thinking about you—worrying about you, searching for some way to reconnect, replaying the video you’d filmed together and jerking off to it, moaning your name—you had spent those same months looking forward to a future with someone else.

“So...” You hesitated. “After reading all those comments on your videos, the ones talking about how good I sound, and remembering the offer you made ten months ago to film another one...” Your gaze dropped briefly. “If that offer still stands, maybe you could teach me?”

“Teach you?” Bucky repeated, the words leaving him almost like a scoff.

Just as innocent as the day he first met you, you nodded shyly.

“Teach me how to be better at sex.”

An awkward silence took the space between the two of you.

You were preparing yourself for rejection. For Bucky to push back his chair, walk away, and decide this conversation had been a mistake. After this, you wouldn’t be surprised if he even blocked your number and your profile, cutting off the last connection between you.

Instead, he studied you for a very long moment.

“You know,” he said slowly, his gaze finding yours, “the comments have been asking us to film a video together, right?”

The look he gave you was difficult to read—careful, calculating, and almost suspicious.

“I know,” you said bashfully.

“If you want me to teach you,” he said, leaning forward as his voice dropped soft and intimate, “then we’re going to do the same thing we did before, but I want this done at my house instead. I’ll record.”

He paused, studying your reaction.

“And this time, I’m posting it online.”

You sat there frozen.

It wasn’t exactly the compromise you expected, but you couldn’t say you were entirely surprised. After disappearing from his life for months, after leaving things unresolved between you, part of you knew he would want something in return.

Bucky leaned in closer, his hand finding yours on the table. His fingers curled around yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

“You’ve read the comments,” he said. “You might be insecure about your experience, but my viewers love you. They’re curious. They want to know who the woman behind that voice is.”

Heat rushed to your face. The confidence in his words only made your pulse quicken, and the slow sweep of his thumb across your knuckles wasn’t helping at all.

“I’ll teach you everything you want to know,” he continued. “I’ll take care of you. You know I will.”

For a moment, his confidence faltered and his eyes looked pleading, revealing something almost hopeful beneath it.

“What do you say, doll?”

Your heart had been pounding ever since Bucky sat down across from you at the coffee shop. It hadn’t slowed once—not during the conversation, not during the drive over, and certainly not now as you stood behind him while he unlocked his apartment door.

Bucky stepped aside, holding the door open for you. After a moment's hesitation, you stepped inside.

The studio apartment was dimly lit. The blinds were drawn, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp to light the room. In one corner sat a computer setup—his workstation where he recorded and edited his videos.

Your breath caught at what was displaying on the monitor.

Your chat history.

His studio was the definition of a man cave. What caught your attention, however, were the sex toys scattered throughout the apartment without a hint of shame.

Some of the toys were immediately recognizable from his videos. Having been a longtime viewer, you had seen them often enough to identify them at a glance.

Bucky tossed his keys onto a nearby surface and motioned for you to follow him toward the bed. As you approached, your gaze landed on something unfamiliar at his bedside table.

“What’s this?” You pointed to a toy shaped like the lower half of a woman’s body. Unlike the others, you didn’t remember ever seeing this one in any of his videos.

Bucky glanced at it. “Oh, that?” He came to stand beside you. “Custom made. I use it off-camera.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive. “Had it modeled after you.”

You were suddenly grateful for the low lighting, because that meant he couldn’t see the stunned expression that immediately crossed your face.

Modeled after you?

Your eyes drifted back to the toy, taking in the details—the shape of the hips, the skin tone, it was an unmistakable similarity. What shook you up, though, was the tear in the toy around her upper abdomen, a sign that Bucky’s cock tore right through the silicone.

The sounds of his belt buckle being undone drew your attention back to him.

“Had it set to the maximum tightness,” he explained gruffly, setting the belt down on his chair and reaching for the familiar camcorder he used before. “Still not nearly as tight as you felt—but it made do during those ten months you were gone.”

A moment later, he lifted the camera and pointed it in your direction, the red light flickering to let you know it was on.

“Go ahead,” he prompted, watching you. “Undress.”

You bit your lip as you stood in front of him, feeling far more self-conscious than you expected.

For some reason, the atmosphere felt infinitely more tense than it had the first time you undressed for him.

Bucky seemed to notice your hesitation immediately. He lowered the camera slightly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don't know about this, Bucky.” You fiddled with your fingers, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on your bare feet against the floor. “What if I'm not good at this?”

A slow, patient sigh escaped him.

Without a word, he set the camera on the bedside table. It remained angled in a way that still captured your body, but his attention had shifted entirely to you. His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, letting his fingers tickle your lower belly.

“Are you feeling shy, doll?” he murmured softly.

The question was quiet enough so that the camera wouldn’t pick it up. It wasn’t meant for an audience. It was just for you.

“Look at me,” he commanded gently. “You’ve got a perfect, tight body. There are a lot of people that would kill to be in my position, and you’re scared to show it off?”

He lifted your shirt up until it exposed the lace of your bra. His large hand cupped over your breast, giving it a squeeze that made you gasp softly.

Bucky grinned. “Ah, there she is.”

While his left hand fondled your tits, his other hand crept up to your chin, tilting your head so you were forced to look at him. His eyes wandered down to your lips—exposed, plump, and vulnerable.

“When you get a boyfriend—you’ll have to learn how to kiss,” Bucky murmured. “Do you know how?”

The question felt almost condescending. He should already know the answer. You were still inexperienced, still clueless, but despite it all, you couldn’t help the ache that began to form between your legs from the way he talked to you.

Your voice came out soft and trembling, but to Bucky, it sounded like music to his ears.

“… Teach me?”

A low growl vibrated from his lips as he closed the distance in one, smooth motion. His lips collided with yours—hungry and consuming—letting his tongue delve past your lips and into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He held your face tight, forcing you to take every inch of his tongue and every surface of his lips. It was hot, messy, and wet. During every second of his ravishing, his hands continued to explore your body, groping you through your bottoms. He held you so close, you could already feel him throbbing against your leg.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling away slightly to catch his breath. “Still taste so good. So sweet, just for me.”

He stepped away, breathing just as hard as his dick felt.

With the warm lamp glowing next to him, it outlined the sheer size of his dick throbbing in his pants. You watched it pulse, a little wet spot forming near the tip, before his large hand came down with deep, circular rubs to soothe the ache.

“Bucky…” You gasped softly.

His other hand snatched the camera off the bedside table, nearly knocking down the picture frames. With a shaky hand, he lifted the camera up to you again.

“Strip.” He commanded, rougher this time. “Strip. Now.”

Your heart raced. His patience was fraying, and without upsetting him further, you began to undress. You abandoned your top, your pants, all until you were left standing in nothing but your panties and bra.

Bucky groaned at the sight, his palm working faster over his clothed erection.

“God, look at that,” he zoomed in on the wet spot collecting at the front of your panties. “You’re fucking soaking for me, doll. And all I did was kiss you.”

Shame flooded your face. As you unhooked your bra and worked for your panties next, Bucky’s voice pulled you to a stop.

“No,” his hand shot out, catching your wrist. “Keep those on. I want to see the mess you’ll make after having my dick in your mouth.”

With his grip tightening around your wrist, he ushered you to the ground until your knees made contact with the floor. He tugged his pants down with force, and his cock sprang out heavy—slapping you in the cheek and making you wince.

He was big and hard. Seeing him up close like this, with his hand around his shaft and his tip rubbing against your cheek, you weren’t sure how you took him the first time.

“Do you remember the first time you sucked my cock? When you tried fitting it all in on your first try?” he rasped a chuckle, slapping his cock against your face and smearing his pre-cum over your wet lips. “Your mouth was so small—you could hardly fit anything past the tip.”

You flicked your tongue out, giving his cock a shy kitten lick just to tease him.

“Oh, fuck,” he shuddered. “You slut. You want it in your mouth again? Wanna try again for me?”

He pointed the camera closer to your face, his other hand tangling in the back of your hair, nodding you closer to his shaft.

“Come on. Open up. Show me what you remember.”

You licked the pre-cum that was beading at the tip. It tasted just like it did the first time—salty and thick. Bucky groaned, his hand tightening in your hair, pushing you forward for more.

You opened your mouth, letting your lips wrap around the swollen head. His cock was warm and hot, already twitching in your mouth and he wasn’t even halfway. Encouraged by the camera and his breathy grunts, you sunk your head deeper.

Bucky felt like he could cum right there. Your mouth was still so tight and inexperienced. He was half tempted to pin you against the side of the bed and face fuck you until his balls were dry—but he forced himself to hold back.

“God. Is this—fuck—the best you can do, really?”

He brought his camera down, the lens pointing right where his tip disappeared in and out of your plump lips, making sure to pick up every wet squelch that left your mouth.

“You can do better than that,” he hissed, pushing his cock deeper into your throat. “I know it hurts, baby. Just remember what I said the first time. Stretch those lips, relax your jaw, breathe in and out of your nose.”

You fluttered your lashes as you looked up at him. Your eyes were sheen with tears that threatened to spill out from the ache of your mouth being stretched open. He rocked his hips forward, making you gag and choke.

“Oh, christ,” he grunted, his cock twitching as your throat tightened around him. “You guys listening to that? She’s gagging for me.”

He was talking to his potential viewers. Your eyes widened with embarrassment as an instinctive moan left your lips and vibrated around his cock.

“Mph!”

“Fuck, she’s sloppy—drooling all over my floor, but her mouth is so tight. Could cum just from this,” he started drawing his hips back and forth, forcing himself deeper.

He angled the camera closer to your face, capturing your pleading eyes and stretched mouth.

“Does it taste good, sweetheart?” he asked, despite knowing your inability to answer. “Come on, show that pretty face off for the camera.”

With your mouth stuffed full of his cock, all you could do was nod in desperation.

“Damn, what a good girl. The fans are going to love this,” he let out a shaky laugh.

His hand kept your head still, and without warning, he pushed his hips even deeper into your mouth. He pushed until your jaw ached from the stretch and your nose made contact with the dark, musky curls sitting on his pelvis.

Bucky tossed his head back, letting out a deep, pleasurable moan.

“Ohh, shit.”

You gagged and choked, your hands finding his bare thighs as you attempted to push your head away for a quick breath. His cock was sitting heavy on your tongue, and drool began to shamelessly drip down your chin and onto your thighs.

Despite your mouth being overworked, you were getting wetter by the second.

“Shh… shh. I know, baby. Just stay right there.” Bucky cooed, his blue eyes hazy with lust. “Just let it sit in your mouth. Breathe in and out through your nose. That’s it.”

You did as instructed, keeping your mouth stuffed full of cock like a good girl. But every time you breathed in, all you could smell was him. His musky, masculine scent only made your head spin with desire even more.

Another deep groan tore from his chest before he gripped your hair tight, pulling you away from his cock with a wet pop. Saliva mixed with his pre-cum drew from your lips like a silver string as you coughed for air.

“Fuuck,” he groaned, fucking his hand for a few pumps as he watched you struggle.

Bucky’s cock was angry, pulsing and throbbing with a mind of its own. His cock was sheen with your saliva, and he was dripping out so much pre-cum, he looked just about ready to cum right then and there.

“Goddamnit. Ten months later, and your mouth is still good enough to make me almost fucking cum,” he hissed angrily. He bent down, catching your stray tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry, pretty girl. You wanted me to teach you, didn’t you?”

He spoke so gently in a way that might’ve fooled his viewers, but every word that left his lips felt hauntingly patronizing.

You nodded with a sniffle. “Y—yes…”

Bucky smiled, his eyes softening as he took in your utterly debauched state.

He knew he was being a little mean, but he couldn’t help it. It’s what you deserved after ghosting him for ten months.

“That’s a good girl. My girl.” He nodded to his bed, standing up. “Go.”

Swallowing hard, you pushed yourself up—your mind dizzying and your legs feeling like jello from standing up too fast. You crossed over his crisp, white sheets—the mattress dipping under each crawl.

You didn’t know what position he wanted you in, so you played it safe and laid flat on your back.

Bucky’s expression was completely unreadable. His eyes were dark, his breathing labored, but his cock was still stiff, angry, and unsatisfied.

He adjusted the camera, zooming in on the cute bow on your panties.

“Spread your legs. Show everyone how wet you are after getting a taste of my cock.”

Biting your lip and turning your head from shame, you slowly spread your legs. With your thighs wide and your damp panties on full display, Bucky’s gaze somehow felt even heavier and more tense.

He growled, a deep rumbling sound of satisfaction. He stepped closer, meeting you at the bed. Every dip and creak from his moving weight made your heart race. His camera lens was focused solely on your panties, highlighting the growing wet patch on your crotch.

“Mm,” he hummed, his fingers dragging up and down your underwear, letting the fabric cling against your slick folds just underneath. “So wet. Could smell you from here, baby.”

You felt your body growing weaker by the second.

You wanted to beg him to fuck you—to take you just as he had the first time. But with the camera pointed steady in his hands, you knew he was trying to drag this out for as long as possible.

“Bucky,” you panted, eyes pleading. “I can’t take it anymore. I need your cock—”

“Aw, you’re begging?” Bucky huffed a laugh. “Ten months without a single word, and now you’re in my bed, demanding for my cock. That’s real cute, doll.”

Bucky brought the camera up to your face, and instinctively, you shied away from it. Despite your agreement to film, the lens pointing directly at you made you burn with an embarrassment you didn’t feel the first time.

Maybe because, in the back of your mind, you knew he’d be posting this one online—meaning you’ll be watched by thousands of people.

Sensing your hesitation, he lowered the camera with a slight frown, brows furrowing.

“Do you want to stop, doll?”

Stop?

Your heart clenched, eyes widening as you faced him.

“Stop?” you repeated softly, making sure you heard him right.

The softness in his eyes made your body feel warm. Bucky lowered his camera completely and angled it in a way that wouldn’t capture you in this vulnerable state. He was serious. He would stop for you if you changed your mind, despite your initial agreement to this as the compromise.

“If you don’t want me to upload this, I won’t.” He reassured. “I’ll keep this video for myself—just like the first one.”

His hand found your hip, his thumb tracing soft and gentle circles with a tenderness that only encouraged you to give yourself to him completely.

“I promise,” he added.

“No. I… I want to do this,” you searched his eyes, trying to soothe your nerves. “I can do it, Bucky. Please teach me.”

It was hard to ignore the way his cock hung heavy between his legs—twitching at your admission. The corners of his lips tugged up in a satisfied, smug smile.

“That’s my good girl.”

While one hand repositioned the camera back to you again, the other found the waistband of your panties, giving it a gentle tug downwards. With the fabric slipping slipping down your thighs and past your ankles, you hissed at the cool air greeting your wet cunt.

“Christ. You soaked the fabric right through, doll.” He held the garment up, the lamp highlighting every glistening wet spot as he made sure to capture your essence on camera.

He leaned over you with a grunt, setting your panties down on the side table. Your eyes followed his movement, and you sucked in a breath at seeing the toy he modeled right after you—resting there with a loose hole and an obvious tear in the abdomen.

It was haunting, almost like a warning for what you’re about to take.

Bucky nestled himself in the space between your legs, letting his length rest heavy on your stomach. His tip tickled your belly button, grinning proudly at the size comparison of his cock to your body.

“Did you fuck anyone else after me?” he rasped as he rocked his hips back and forth, grounding his cock against your belly.

You shook your head, face blistering from the sensation.

“No, Bucky. There was no one else…”

A satisfied groan tore from his lips. He grabbed himself at the base, guiding the tip toward your entrance.

“Is that so?” he mumbled. “Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”

With a slow forward push of his hips, his tip fought against the tightness of your entrance. He sucked in a breath as he slipped in deeper, and your walls immediately clenched around the intrusion. You were so tight—Bucky had to grit his teeth to keep his composure.

Whimpering, you held onto his shoulders for support as he stretched you from just the tip. “Fu—fuck..”

“Fuck, baby. Still so goddamn tight. Just breathe in and out,” he gasped, his voice thickening in a way that made it sound like he was trying to calm himself down. “In and out while I sink into you deeper. That’s it. Good girl…”

Your back arched off the bed as he filled you. Your legs were stiff around him, your lips whimpering and mewling with every inch he was forcing your tight body to take. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stretched your pussy out with just half his cock.

“Have you been keeping up with my videos?” He asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You were too stuffed—too concentrated on trying to get your body to accommodate the sheer size of him.

“I—I haven’t—” you answered truthfully.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval, pointing the camcorder to where the top half of his cock disappeared in and out of your tight cunt.

“The videos would’ve scared you,” he pushed his cock a little deeper, making you cry out. “Kept breaking my toys. All my damn fleshlights are torn right through. Had to keep ordering new ones, but fuck, they didn’t feel nearly as good as your tight, virgin pussy did.”

The broken sex doll that laid on his bedside table was certainly a testament to that.

Bucky’s hand found balance near the side of your head, his muscles and veins popping from holding his weight while the other hand was too occupied filming every inch of his cock delving deeper in your pussy.

“How does it feel, baby? Still as big as you remembered?”

“Still big, Bucky,” you winced when he angled his pelvis, his cock twitching in time with every clench your pussy gave him. “I’m trying to take it all—to big the good girl that you remembered—”

He tossed his head back with a groan. He tried his best to control himself—he really did. But the longer he stayed inside your warmth, the more his mind started to fray.

“Fuck—so cute. Such a good girl,” he groaned, sheathing himself completely inside until his dark curls were greeted with your wet folds. “Oh my god.”

Bucky stilled inside you, basking in your warmth. Your body felt like a wet, tight hug wrapping around his cock. This was the sensation he sought after the day you left. The very feeling he’d been looking for in the useless sex toys he was constantly ordering.

Now that you were finally here—pinned beneath him and his camera—he was afraid that if he moved, he would cum right there on the spot.

“Bucky?” your voice was soft, breaking into a gentle moan. “Are you okay?”

His eyes fluttered down to look at you, and his breath caught.

Your hair was fanned out so beautifully against his white sheets. Your body was laid bare and perfect for him. You asked the question in such a soft and innocent tone—it did nothing to dull the ache in his balls and did everything to make his heart heavier.

He should be asking you the question, with you lying there stretched out with more than you can take, but alas.

“You’re asking if I’m okay?” he huffed a raspy laugh, shifting his hips to deliver a deep and hard thrust inside you. “No, I’m not okay. I want to fuck you right through the mattress. Want to split you open and make you cry on my cock. But I can’t—I have to control myself and teach you how to take me again.”

The red light of the camcorder flickered in the dark room as he began rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you—capturing every moment of him claiming you a second time.

The bed started to creak, accompanied with his grunts and your soft moans of pleasure.

Bucky’s breathing was heavy, every deep, punishing roll of his hips making your eyes roll back.

The tip of his cock was kissing your cervix so sweetly, you felt your body giving out. He was right—your pussy was acting like a vice, wrapping impossibly tight around his thick shaft, refusing to let him go.

The camera shook in his hand as he aimed it directly at your hips. He had failed to capture the moment he pumped you full of his cum last time, and he was going to make damn sure he got it right tonight.

“Not a single drop going to waste,” he panted, his hips rutting uncontrollably against yours. “Gonna pump you full—God. Should fill up your womb so you’ll never leave me again.”

Your heart started to race as his words danced in your mind. Surely, this was just make-believe dirty talk. A performance he put on for the camera to secure a good payout from his loyal subscribers, right?

But as his body moved even more erratically, the bed groaning under every hard, bruising thrust, you began to fear otherwise.

“Fuck—this little slut thought she could use my cock to practice for other men,” he laughed, the sound deep and condescending. “Said she wanted to learn how to take dick for her future boyfriend. What a fucking joke.”

Your face burned with humiliation. You couldn’t believe Bucky was airing out your private confessions to his viewers like this.

“Oh my god! Bucky, please don’t say that—”

But your protests were useless. Your pussy was already spasming, clenching around him in a tight, weeping mess at every degrading taunt that left his lips.

“Ah, fuck. My sweet girl is milking me so hard—she doesn’t want to let go.” He chuckled, watching the wet friction of your hips through the camera screen. “You want to cum for me?”

You nodded, letting out a pathetic whimper.

Bucky leaned over you, shoving the camera close to your face. “Come on, baby. You’re on camera. I need you to speak up so everyone else can hear you.”

Pleasure was coursing through your body in ways that a simple vibrator could never match. Ten months without Bucky—and without touching anyone else—had left you chasing a high you couldn’t replicate. It was never like this.

You nodded frantically, losing all control over your own autonomy as tears of pleasure blurred your vision.

“Yes, Bucky! Please—please, please, I want to cum!”

Your cries were loud enough to peak the camera’s built-in microphone. Your walls clamped down around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as your back arched off the mattress with a loud moan, letting the climax rip straight through your core and down to very tip of your toes.

Bucky groaned, his entire body going stiff as your pussy milked him ruthlessly. Fuck. He missed this. He missed the tightness of your cunt. He couldn’t find this sensation anywhere else.

“Christ. Look at that,” he growled into the camera, his hand shaking as he kept the lens focused on where you squeezed around him. “She’s squeezing me so tight—it nearly hurts. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too.”

His balls slapped against your pussy with every hard thrust. He was chasing his release—his face twisted into a mask of pleasure as he felt his balls tighten and his cock twitch. You were already past your high, but Bucky forced you to ride it out for him.

“Shit, the idea of her having sex with someone else...” he snarled to the camera, his voice breaking as he slammed deep into your pulsing heat. “...of someone else’s cock buried deep in what’s supposed to be mine. I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

You cried out his name, your nails digging into his back as he used your body ruthlessly, just like one of his sex toys.

“Fuck, fuck—shit—fuck!”

A litany of curses spilled from his lips as his cock buried all the way to the hilt.

He shuddered violently, pinning your hips flat against the mattress as his orgasm tore through him, flooding every surface of your womb with thick, warm seed. He held himself deep, marking you from the inside out, leaving his cum to fill you completely until it was dripping onto the sheets.

Bucky brought the camera down with a shaky hand, capturing the way your puffy slit was pulsing around his cock, and the way his cum trickled out of you.

“There we go,” he breathed, satisfied. “Captured every second of it, baby.”

Ensuring that you kept your end of the bargain, Bucky uploaded the video to his profile.

Before hitting post, he texted you multiple times to make absolutely sure you were comfortable with your face and username being shown.

When you finally agreed, you never expected the video to blow up overnight. You knew Bucky was a popular content creator, but perhaps the sight of a woman’s body—your body—in the thumbnail stood out against his usual solo content.

Today, you sat at your desk, pulling up his profile out of habit, just like the ritual you used to have ten months ago. Your mouse hovered over the video, and you hesitated before clicking.

Two million views.

A wave of nerves hit you—the thought of being perceived by two million strangers while completely bare and vulnerable was overwhelming. Yet, for some reason, the idea of it excited you more than a girl like you should admit.

You finally clicked the link. The video started with you stripping for him, then dropping to your knees, and just minutes later, you were sprawled out bare on the mattress while he pumped you full of his cum.

You were already soaking through your underwear just watching it, your thighs rubbing together shamelessly from the memory of being filled by Bucky. The way his breathy moans sounded so much more enthusiastic than they ever did in his solo videos filled you with absolute pride.

You made him feel that good.

And apparently, you made his entire comment section feel good, too.

Daddywants2play: hooooooooolyy fuck. she’s so hot. my balls are so heavy just from watching her tits bounce. u lucky dog

Bwasexual: Omg!!! Do you guys need a third?

pegm3please: God so fucking hot. Is she going to upload anytime soon?? Just gave her a follow.

Your brow rose at the last comment.

Gave her a follow?

Instinctively, your mouse hovered to the top right of the screen where the notification bell was displayed.

It showed over 99+ alerts. You were used to seeing two at the absolute maximum—a like from Bucky on one of your comments, and his reply.

Bracing yourself, you clicked it, and a wall of notifications flooded the screen with dozens of different usernames following you. Your follower count had gone from exactly one—Bucky’s account—to well over a thousand in just a single night.

You couldn’t believe it.

People loved watching you.

They loved you enough that, despite you having zero videos posted, no profile picture, and an entirely blank description, they were hitting follow anyway—eagerly expecting to see more. You mentally patted yourself on the back for having the foresight to remove the links to your personal social media accounts beforehand.

A warm flush traced your face. The crazy part was, it wasn’t from embarrassment at all.

It was pure excitement.

Without thinking, you snatched your phone off the desk and dialed a familiar number. It only rang twice before a deep, sleepy voice answered on the other end.

“Hey, doll,” Bucky rasped. “Everything okay?”

“I just saw the video,” you said, the words tumbling out fast. You couldn’t contain your excitement. “I woke up to a little over a thousand followers—and there are so many comments!”

He paused on the line. You could hear the rustle of sheets as he sat up.

“… And are you okay with that? Do you want me to take it down?”

You bit your lip. You couldn’t believe what you were going to say next. “I’m more than okay with it. But… um…”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He pulled the phone away from his face for a split second to make sure you were still on the line.

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

A breathy sigh left your lips. “I… I want to become a content creator, too. Will you teach me?”

And just like that, the air left Bucky’s lungs completely.

Everything he could possibly want—and more—was finally being served to him on a silver platter.

This meant more videos, more collaborations, and endless opportunities to have you completely to himself.

“Yes,” he swiped at his camcorder and car keys. “I’m coming over. Be ready for me.”

hopping off the bed turn my swag on. happy almost one year anniversary to pornstar bucky and the first bwa collab. once again, thank you to my dear friend @unificsation for the premise. thank you to @barnesonly for the cyber sex bucky edit she made inspired by this fic that i goon to nightly. thank you to @blowingbarnes and @buckybunni for being pornstar bucky's number one fan (i never forgot) thank you to @houseofhyde for giving me the inspiration to write this after sum silly joke. and thank you for all the love and support for part one. i would like to dedicate this oscar to you guys /j

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

There were a few things you could respect Steve Rogers for.

He always seemed to know what was best for the team, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he always tried to find a way to resolve conflict with the least amount of bloodshed possible. He was a respectable man—respectable enough for people like you to follow him into hell.

But there were also plenty of things you disliked about him.

Namely, once he had a plan, he stuck to it whether the people around him agreed or not. Unfortunately for you, his current plan involved you babysitting the world’s most wanted Hydra assassin.

And that was the Winter Soldier.

“What!” you barked in disbelief, throwing your hands in the air. “No! I am not watching him. I’m coming with you—”

Steve was already gearing up—wearing the suit he stole from the Smithsonian and strapping on his shield last.

“No,” he replied, sharp and firm. “Trust me, it’s better if you stay put. If I show up with Buck by my side, it’s not gonna look good.”

Steve motioned towards Bucky, who just stood there looking about as useful and clueless as a bag of bricks.

The kicked puppy look on his face almost made you feel bad for him. Almost. Because if it weren’t for him, and your own stubborn loyalty to Steve, nobody would be in this mess in the first place.

“Look, you’re going to talk to Stark, right? Nat’s with him. Let me come. I can talk to her while you work things out with Stark, and maybe we can figure out a better solution—”

“We shouldn’t even consider talking to Nat. She’s in deep with Tony and the Accords. And besides, I don’t trust—” Steve cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes flickered between you and Bucky. “Never mind.”

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Don’t trust what?”

The tension in the parking garage turned uncomfortable really fast.

No one dared speak or move—it felt like a bunch of kids walking in on Mom and Dad arguing and refusing to pick sides. Even though you already knew what he was going to say, you kept your eyes fixed on Steve with a silent threat for him to continue.

Steve sighed and stepped forward, mentally cursing himself for letting the words slip.

“You Widows—they’re known to be deceptive,” Steve explained as calmly and gently as he could, though it didn’t help.

“I just… can’t risk you talking to Natasha. It’s too dangerous.”

Offended wasn’t even the right word for it.

Everyone in this line of work—including you, especially you — knew about the Black Widows and their reputation. You were a group of young girls broken down and rebuilt into perfect chameleons. Widows were trained to whisper sweet nothings into a victim’s ear, only to hold a blade to their throat, slit it without remorse, and go about the rest of their day as if nothing had happened.

Steve wasn’t wrong, but the hypocrisy of his logic made you feel sour.

He didn’t trust your background, yet in the very same breath, he was willing to leave you entirely alone with Bucky—his best friend, and the only piece of his past he had left. If you were truly so deceptive, so inherently untrustworthy, what was stopping you from turning Bucky over to Stark the second Steve cleared this garage?

You wanted to cry. You had been loyal to Steve, standing by his side while the rest of the team split up and tore at each other’s throats—and this was how he repaid you? By humiliating you in front of everyone?

But you’d die before you let a single tear fall in front of Steve, or anyone else for that matter.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tightened your jaw until your teeth hurt and forced your gaze away.

“Fine.”

You were going to protect his precious best friend—not out of submission, but to shove his own prejudice right back down his throat. You would prove to him, definitively, that you could be trusted.

“I’ll watch over him,” you added, trying to keep cool. “I’ll keep my comms open, too—just in case you want to pop in and check if he’s still alive.”

Steve returned your sarcasm with a relieved exhale. “Thank you—”

“Don’t mention it,” you cut him off, waving a hand dismissively as you walked past Bucky—who was standing there looking like a child of divorce. You headed for your motorcycle.

“Are you coming, Barnes?”

Before joining you at the bike, Bucky walked over to Steve with a fond look in his eyes. They shared the same brotherly hug they'd been exchanging since they reunited. Steve mumbled something into his shoulder—probably reassurance that everything was going to be okay—before finally sending him off to you.

You rolled your eyes, slipping your helmet on to block them out.

As everyone else cleared out of the garage, Bucky walked over to your bike. You handed him a helmet, and he started strapping it on.

“Should I drive?” He asked.

You blinked at him, your face going blank despite him not being able to see it.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been hiding in Bucharest for a while,” Bucky explained. “I know some discreet spots where they won’t find us.”

Even though neither of you could see the other’s expression, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky was testing your competence—and on top of everything that had led to this moment, especially that little conversation with Steve, your patience was wearing dangerously thin.

“Barnes, I assure you that whatever spot you’re thinking of, a SWAT team is already sweeping it.” You revved the engine. “Get on.”

Bucky muffled a deep sigh inside his helmet. Based on his stiff posture, you thought he might argue, but he finally conceded, swinging his long leg over the back of the seat.

As you gripped the handlebars, you waited for him to hold on, but nothing happened.

Glancing at your side mirrors, you saw him awkwardly plant his hands at the edge of his seat, leaning back as far away from you as the space would allow.

“I’m gonna need you to hold on,” you ordered without looking back.

Bucky hesitated, not moving an inch.

Annoyed, you killed the revving engine for a second and glared at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to fall off?”

Bucky still didn’t budge. He kept his posture uncomfortably stiff, his eyes boring down at the empty space between his hips and the arch of your back.

“I’ll be fine right here.”

You couldn’t believe the gall of this guy. You had been tasked with something that was supposed to be so simple—tedious, sure, but easy enough—yet he was making your job twice as difficult. You glared at him through your visor, your voice strict even through the muffle of your headgear.

“Steve entrusted me to look after you. If he finds out on the evening news that his most wanted best friend fell off the back of my motorcycle and got captured by the government, then he’s never going to talk to me again. And everyone who is risking their lives for you did it all for nothing because you chose to be stubborn. Now, I am not going to repeat myself. Hold. On. To. Me.”

You couldn’t make out his expression, but slowly and reluctantly, he leaned forward and wrapped his thick arms around your waist.

“Tighter,” you commanded.

From the short time Bucky had known you, he already knew there was no point in arguing.

He let out a sigh into his helmet and wrapped his arms around you just a little tighter than before—but still kept his hold loose and, well… as respectful as he could manage.

“Bucky, I need you to hold me tighter,” you urged again.

It had already been a good five minutes since everyone left—and here you were, stuck with the man who, if caught, could risk your life and your position, all because he refused to hold onto you properly.

To you, this was nothing but a nuisance.

But for Bucky…

Bucky was holding onto every thread and reminder left from the forties of what it meant to be a respectful man. Especially since it had been so long since he’d not only been this close to a woman, but held one.

“Tighter!” you shrieked, patience finally snapping.

“Fuck, you know what? Fine!” he snapped back, adjusting his hips so that his chest was pressed up right against your back, wrapping his strong arms around you tightly enough to make you gasp.

“Is that tight enough for you?”

“Perfect,” you croaked sarcastically.

Without giving him another second to respond, you kicked the bike into gear and finally steered it out of the garage.

You were determined to keep your pride intact. His broad chest was pressed up against your back, trapping your body heat until your leather jacket felt burning hot against your skin. His metal arm was a hard band across your midsection, while his flesh arm gripped you still.

You were so small compared to him. He could easily take over—yet here he was, being your obedient puppy.

“Where are you taking me?” Bucky shouted over the rush of wind as the two of you whipped through the busy streets of Bucharest.

“To an amusement park,” you shouted back. “Don’t you want to ride a roller coaster?”

Bucky let out a tired sigh.

You managed to find sanctuary at an abandoned, overgrown rooftop greenhouse. Located on the very outskirts of Bucharest, it was far enough from the city center to avoid suspicion, but still close enough to keep your comms within range of Steve.

You paced the rooftop, feeling restless as your mind overworked with what Steve and the rest of the team could be doing right now.

Were they already fighting? Would Stark actually listen to reason and put all of this to rest?

Letting out a defeated sigh, you kicked a stray pebble, watching it skid across the concrete of the rooftop.

“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself. “Stuck on babysitting duty when I should be out there.”

Lifting your head, your eyes locked onto Bucky. He was standing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distant streets below.

“Hey!” you barked, pointing a finger at him like a mother scolding a child. “Step away from the edge! You’re going to fall.”

“I’m just keeping a lookout,” Bucky mumbled, his back still facing you as he refused to step away from the edge.

“You’re just making my job harder than it already is,” you argued, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

You pointed aggressively to the dusty wooden crate tucked against the brick wall.

“Just go sit over there or something.”

Bucky’s brow twitched the same time his patience snapped. He turned around to finally face you, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.

“Would you stop talking to me like I’m a child?” he snapped, stepping away from the edge—not because you had ordered him to, but to match your hostile stance as he stalked toward you. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the shitty job of watching over me, but I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”

His defensive outburst made you raise a brow.

“Oh, really? You can handle yourself just fine?” you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Is that why the entire global government is hunting you down right now? Is that why Steve had to throw away his entire reputation just to keep you out of a cage? Because you’ve got it all handled?”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.

The mention of Steve’s sacrifice definitely hit a nerve, you could see the guilt in his eyes.

A part of you wished you hadn’t said it at all, and you were just about ready swallow your pride and apologize, until…

“You’re from the Red Room,” he said, stepping closer. An involuntary shudder went down your spine. “You’ve done terrible things in the past—just as I have. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone like Steve bend over backwards for lowlifes like us.”

You didn’t realize just how close he was standing until his hot breath hit your face, only shortening your temper.

“We don’t ask for the help, yet they do it for us anyway,” Bucky’s voice graveled into a whisper. “Don’t talk down to me like you don’t know what it’s like. When in fact, you’re worse—”

You were already seeing red before he could even finish his sentence.

You quickly unsheathed a pocket knife from your belt and lunged at him, aiming straight for his throat just as a threat to silence him.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me!”

But Bucky was faster.

He brought his metal forearm up just in time to block the blade, making an ugly scraping sound. He twisted his wrist to disarm you, but your grip on the knife was tight. While one arm was held captive by his, you used your other to try and deliver a punch—which he also dodged.

You resorted to your legs, bucking them up to deliver hard kicks to his stomach. He grunted after each hit your leg managed to put out, but his hands moved quickly to grab the collar of your jacket and hurl you backwards to the nearest wall.

You cried out, face scrunching into a wince as your back slammed into hard brick.

The impact made you drop your knife. Bucky pressed his heavy body right against yours, aggressively tucking his legs between your thighs so you couldn’t use the space to swing your knees at him again.

“I can’t believe this is who Steve decided to trust me with,” he hissed in your face.

“Get off of me!” you yelled, squirming beneath his body.

“You drew your knife at me,” Bucky roared back. “Maybe Steve was right. All you Widows have a tendency to break your vows whenever things go even remotely south for you—”

You weren’t going to sit there and take his insults. Gritting your teeth with a brace, you pulled your head back and slammed your forehead directly into his face.

Bucky groaned out in pain, his grip on you loosening as he stumbled back with a hand to his face. Seizing the small window of opportunity, you shoved his chest away and dove towards the floor, reaching for the dropped pocket knife.

Before your fingers could even brush the hilt, his large hands grabbed you from behind and slammed you right back into the brick wall again.

You let out a breathless gasp as your face was forcefully squished up against the brick.

Bucky’s flesh hand came to the back of your head, pushing your skull firmly against the wall to keep your vision pinned away from him. At the same time, his metal hand gathered both your wrists behind your back, locking your two arms prone.

“Let go of me!”

You started to violently squirm and writhe, trying to buck your back against him—to tire him out, but Bucky moved his entire lower body to seal the space. His hips pressed tightly up against your bottom, his chest to your back, pinning you completely helpless as you were left trapped between him and the wall.

“No. I don’t care if you’re Steve’s friend, or if Steve respects you,” Bucky hissed, his breath right at your ear. “If I find my life in danger—after finally being free from Hydra, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way. Even you.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving against your back.

He was angry.

He hated how much a woman like you could get under his skin with just a few sarcastic words and petty jabs.

One moment he was flustered just holding onto your waist during the bike ride, and now, he had you pinned up against the wall, your life completely in his hands.

You grit your teeth. “Dammit, Barnes—”

“—do you hear me? Hello? Anyone copy?”

You and Bucky froze. His eyes went wide as he leaned his head down toward the earpiece tucked just behind your earlobe where Steve’s voice was emitting. You glared at Bucky through the corner of your eye.

“Steve’s calling for me. I can’t answer it unless you let me go.”

“Status check. Code Blue-Alpha. Repeat, Code Blue-Alpha. Do you copy?”

Bucky was hesitant.

He didn’t want to let you go—afraid that you might actually threaten his life again the second he backed off.

Instead of releasing you, his metal hand kept the tight grip on both your wrists, while his flesh hand finally let your head free. Shifting his body closer, his finger reached around to press the button on your earpiece, activating the channel and allowing you to speak.

“Steve,” you breathed, catching your breath. “I’m here.”

“There you are!” Steve let out a relieved, staticky sigh through the comms. “How are things over there? Are you two alright?”

You and Bucky side eyed each other.

The situation was ridiculous—the two of you were still tangled in each other’s limbs, bodies pressed tight against one another, chests heaving in sync as the adrenaline from the fight slowly began to die down.

“We’re fine,” you lied. “Your boyfriend’s still alive.”

Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh right against your ear. He didn’t say it out loud, but you could already hear his thoughts. This fucking woman.

Steve wasn’t laughing, however. His voice was serious.

“Listen to me carefully. We just got word that there are traps set up around the highest points of Bucharest. They’re wired to release an airborne toxin—specifically meant to target the biology of a super soldier.”

You watched Bucky’s eyes. His brows furrowed, concentrating on Steve’s voice as his grip on your wrists loosened slightly.

“They’re trying to smoke him out,” you reasoned. “What about the regular civilians? Will it affect them?”

“No. Just us. I’m already wearing a rebreather mask on my end,” Steve continued with a rasp. It sounded like he was running from something. “But Bucky doesn’t have one. You need to keep him inside and be extremely careful.”

There was a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach.

Steve was thinking about Bucky, and Bucky was thinking about himself, but neither of them knew your full medical history—how could they?

During your time in the Red Room, they had pumped your veins full of a biochemical serum. It wasn’t the exact super soldier formula that created Captain America, but it was a heavily modified variation meant to enhance your physical abilities, speed up your healing, and maximize your strength.

It was what made you into a Widow. And right now, you had no idea if that same chemical footprint was enough to trigger the airborne toxin.

“Steve,” you swallowed hard, your voice shaking with worry. “How is Natasha doing? Is she with you?”

If Natasha was fine, then maybe you would be, too.

Behind you, Bucky must have sensed the sudden spike of panic in your posture. He took a step back and finally released his tight grip on your wrists—relinquishing his hold over your body.

He inhaled a deep breath to steady himself, but stopped midway, choking as if something had gotten stuck in his lungs. His chest hitched. He sniffed the air again, letting out a harsh, hacking cough in return.

“Fuck—” Bucky choked out, his hand flying to his throat.

You spun around, catching the way Bucky stumbled blindly against a wooden crate. Your heart started to race in a panic.

“Steve?” you called into the earpiece, your eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of the trap he had just mentioned over comms. “Steve, do you copy?”

There was no answer.

The static on the other end had cut out completely. Steve had already ended the line to focus on his own escape—either that, or his comms had been jammed. You tapped the button behind your earlobe again desperately, but there was nothing.

“Steve! Respond!”

Bucky called your name from where he held himself against the crate—a sound that was broken, small, and almost whiny.

“Bucky!” you cried out, abandoning the comm line completely and focusing entirely on the man you were tasked to protect. “Are you okay?”

“Hot,” he winced, letting out a deep groan. “It feels... hot.”

You knelt by his side, the palm of your hand flying to his forehead to check his temperature. Your eyes widened at how warm he had suddenly become. He wasn’t nearly this hot when he had you pressed up against the wall just mere seconds ago.

“Fuck. Did the toxins get to you already? But how! We’re on the outskirts—”

Bucky lazily raised a finger just past your head. You whipped your head around, squinting past the sunlight that pierced the clouds.

There, you saw a hazy, almost pollen like fog beginning to drift from across the rooftop building far from you.

“Shit,” you cursed, wrapping your arm around his waist and positioning his heavy arm over your shoulders to help him up.

“Come on, we’ve gotta hide you somewhere. You’re too weak to run if you get caught.”

You tried lifting him up, but he was too heavy to carry just on your own. You groaned beneath him, using every bit of your strength to try and keep him steady.

While you struggled, Bucky’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused—he could barely keep them open.

“Stay with me, Bucky,” you murmured against him with a grunt, dragging your feet to get him inside the greenhouse.

It was a glass enclosure, but the walls were muddied with dirt and the plants were overgrown enough to provide decent cover. It wasn’t as indoors as you’d like, but it was the closest place you could take him with your current strength.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered down to you, letting out a heavy sigh.

“I think… I need to sit.”

Suddenly, he felt like he was suffocating in his own clothes. The breeze in Bucharest was cool, but his body felt like it was burning up from the inside. What was even worse was your touch—having your body pressed up against his made him react in ways he never thought he would.

Or at least, not anytime soon.

You stumbled over an overgrown branch, losing your balance and your grip on Bucky.

“Shit—I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

Bucky lay on the ground, adjusting his body so that he was flat on his back. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, the organ trying to tear its way out. His vision and mind went hazy, and his flesh hand was clammy.

The tension was even worse whenever he looked at you. His pupils would dilate the second his eyes landed on your body, his breath getting stuck in his throat.

You knelt down, trying to get your hands under his arms to haul him back up, but Bucky flinched away with a sharp hiss.

“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”

You furrowed your brows. You had no idea what kind of side effects the airborne toxins had been released—Steve hadn’t specified. But right now, you couldn’t afford to stand around and ponder it. You groaned, trying to lift him up one more time, but your body suddenly felt even weaker than before.

Your knees buckled as a strange aroma began to drift into your nose. It was a musky, almost tangy smell filling the deep pockets of your lungs.

“W-what the hell…?”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavily from where he lay on the floor, his dark, half lidded eyes meeting yours. “Do you feel it, too?”

Meeting Bucky’s eyes in this state was the worst thing you could have possibly done.

Suddenly, the greenhouse felt smaller—a glass enclosure closing in on the two of you. Your body felt molten, and you wanted nothing more than to strip your clothes off.

Grunting, you began to pull down the zipper of your jacket, and Bucky inhaled sharply.

“Hey—what… what are you doing?”

“It’s hot,” you breathed, your head spinning. “Need to take my jacket off.”

The heat inside your own skin was hurting, but for Bucky, it was absolute torture.

The super soldier serum in his veins processed the toxin at an accelerated rate, making his flesh feel like it was working overtime. His blood was rushing—hot and heavy—pooling lower until he was completely and unapologetically hard under his pants.

He wanted to rip his own clothes off. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice the tent poking between his legs—or maybe a dark part of him did, and he wanted you to offer to take care of it.

Fuck. What was he thinking?

But it wasn’t like you were thinking straight, either. Abandoning your jacket, you were left in just a tank top that clung tightly to your chest, offering Bucky a full view of your tits. You knelt right back down beside him, your hands clumsily reaching for his shoulders to lift him up again.

This was going bad for Bucky.

Too close.

Too close. Too close. Too close.

Bucky caught your scent—a natural floral and feminine smell mixed with an underlying musk of sweat that made his head spin with an overwhelmingly dangerous amount of desire.

“Stop,” Bucky choked out, his voice dropping deep and dangerous.

His right hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your bare wrist, while his metal hand gripped your hip to keep you from leaning any closer.

“Don’t... don’t do this. Get away from me right now.”

“Bucky,” you panted. “I need you to get up for me.”

“I can’t,” he groaned, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I mean it. Move away… or I swear to God, I won’t be able to control myself—”

Your gaze drifted down his body, your eyes widening at the prominent bulge waiting for you between his large, strong legs.

It throbbed and twitched beneath his pants, growing harder and more unbearable by the second.

This position was too compromising—too vulnerable, and far too dangerous for you both.

Bucky had no strength to get up on his own, and you could feel your own body betraying you by the second. You would have to relieve this for him now, or it would be doom for you both.

“Goddammit,” you cursed, bracing yourself mentally.

You moved to cradle Bucky between your thighs, mounting his lap while he was pinned weak to the floor.

His eyelids flew open, and he used all the strength left in his body to lift his head and stare up at you, bewildered and off guard.

“What the hell are you doing—!”

“We need to take care of this,” you muttered, grinding your hips tight and firm against his, making him let out a groan.

“We need to fix your problem before they find us. They set up that trap not too far from this building. There’s a chance they’re already scouting it out. It’s only a matter of time—”

Bucky’s eyes were filled with hungry lust as he stared at the point where your hips were rubbing against his. He was so hard it fucking hurt. He didn’t dare touch you—because if his hands made contact with your waist, with that warm, smooth skin just beneath your tank top that was begging to be licked, he would probably embarrass himself and cum in his pants right then and there.

“Shit—wait. Hold on. I—fuck.”

You reached for his zipper, tugging it down, and the sudden movement made his hips buck up against yours.

“Now’s not the time to talk, Barnes,” you panted, the toxin blurring your thoughts. “We need to take care of this now, or we’ll be in deep trouble. And Steve’ll have my head—”

“Fuck, shit. Wait—! I’ve never…”

You were losing your patience. You stopped your hands, glaring down at him. “Never what, Barnes?”

His face burned an embarrassing shade of red. He refused to look at you, his eyes suddenly far more interested in the overgrown plants next to him than your face.

“I’ve never had… sex,” he admitted quietly, swallowing hard.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky was a virgin?

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

You felt incredibly foolish straddling him with your hands still hovering over his open zipper.

You felt shameful—you felt like a harlot, throwing yourself onto him and thinking you could resolve this entire crisis just by getting him off with a few strokes. You felt dirty, humiliated, and deeply guilty.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly scrambling off his lap.

Your legs felt like jelly—a testament to the toxin fully taking hold of your own system.

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know. I mean, that doesn’t excuse it, but—”

“No,” Bucky rasped, his hand catching your wrist before you could back away entirely.

His grip on you was so tight and dominant, it felt like a pickaxe slowly chipping away at your remaining resolve.

“Don’t go,” he broke out, his voice a desperate, tortured rasp. “Please. Keep going. It hurts. I need you to relieve it.”

If he had said that to reassure you, you felt anything but. In fact, you felt even guiltier because of how broken and desperate he sounded.

“Bucky, I can’t.”

His brows knitted together tightly, his face twisting unpleasantly—he was upset.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because—”

“Because what!” he barked back, rolling onto his side to give you his full attention. You tried really hard not to look at the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “You threw yourself onto me. You promised Steve you’d take care of me—so you’re going to come back here and finish it.”

“Bucky, I’m not going to be your first!” you yelled out, and that finally stunned him into silence.

Your chest was heaving with a frustration you didn’t even know how to name.

With confusion and a flash of embarrassment taking over his gaze, his fingers finally loosened, releasing your wrist reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” you said, much softer this time. “I’m sorry. Just… if you need a minute to take care of it yourself, I’ll be over there—” you pointed to the far end of the greenhouse “—I’ll keep watch.”

“And what about you?” he asked, his dark eyes trailing down your body in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. “Don’t you need to take care of yourself, too? You feel it, don’t you? That… primal need.”

You pressed your lips tight and tore your gaze away, not trusting yourself to look at his pained, desperate expression. You couldn’t look at the way his body was open and inviting you back in, or the way his voice went so coarse when he said the word need.

“I’ll be fine.”

You were not fine. And Bucky certainly wasn’t, either.

You tried to keep your concentration focused outside the greenhouse, forcing your hazy eyes to stare through the glass panes to keep watch. But your gaze kept betraying you, drifting right back to the corner to watch Bucky where he sat propped up against a wooden crate, his legs spread wide.

His chest was still rising and falling heavily, his long hair damp with sweat and falling over his darkened eyes.

You had told him to take care of his business, but he hadn’t made a single move since you stepped away from him. Your own urges were becoming impossible to control, too. You found yourself squeezing your thighs tightly together, trying to find any form of friction, any relief from the ache that had been building up ever since the toxin first wafted into your lungs.

It didn’t help that you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, watching you from behind, tracing your silhouette.

It felt telepathic—as if his silent gaze was speaking directly to your body, knowing you wanted exactly what he was desperately craving too.

No. You couldn’t go to him.

If you walked up to him right now, neither of you would have any control left, and you would both submit to the drug completely.

He was a virgin. You couldn’t take something so precious from him. He had already been through a lifetime of torture and lost autonomy. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you took his first time over a stupid, weaponized toxin.

Sex was meant to be reserved for someone special—and you were far from it.

“Bucky,” you finally called out, still refusing to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay back there?”

“…No,” he muttered with a thick rasp. “Come here.”

You sucked in a breath.

Every instinct in your brain was telling you stay exactly where you were, but your body was entirely out of your control now.

Your feet dragged you across the dirty floor until you were standing over him again.

You dropped to your knees in front of him with a sigh. Trying to frame it as purely medical check, you lifted a hand and pressed your palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature once more.

He was still burning up, but the fever felt even worse.

Every hot breath he exhaled hit your exposed collarbones, and the way he was sitting—legs spread wide with you kneeling directly between them—made you feel like a mouse being lured into a trap.

Realizing just how dangerous this proximity was, you swallowed hard and began to pull your hand away. But Bucky didn’t let you. His fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist to hold you back. He let his heavy eyelids flutter shut and slowly leaned his head into your touch, rubbing his stubbled cheek right against your warm, open palm.

“Stay,” Bucky pleaded as he his metal hand came to hold your hip. “Stay here. I need you.”

A breathless groan rumbled warmly into your palm. You froze, your eyes locked onto him as you watched the lethal super soldier—the very man who had pinned you up against the wall just minutes ago—unravel helplessly right in front of you.

As he held you there, you felt an unbearable heat trickle between your legs.

Your cunt pulsed, and you squeezed your thighs tightly together to soothe the desperate ache spreading through your lower body.

The friction was a temporary fix, but the tight grind of your thighs only made you ache for more.

Bucky nuzzled his face deeper into your palm, inhaling your scent like a dying man catching a breath of fresh air.

Then, his parted lips pressed a soft, wet kiss against the center of your hand. And another one. Then another, right against the inner skin of your wrist.

“Bucky… what are you—”

“Please,” Bucky whispered against your skin, looking up at you through his dark, thick lashes.

His eyes were dilated, the blue completely washed out by a lust that made you burn from the inside out.

“I need you.”

“You… You don’t know what you’re saying,” you muttered, shaking your head in a desperate attempt to find your reason.

Bucky held your hand tighter, refusing to give you any chance to escape.

“Please, don’t go. Fuck—I need you so bad, it hurts,” he choked out. “This ache won’t go away until you help me take care of it.”

His eyes never left yours. Under normal circumstances, every confession leaving his lips should have left him feeling deeply ashamed or embarrassed. But right now, he didn’t care. His body was on fire, and your touch was only stroking each and every flame.

“I know I’m a virgin, but I don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either,” Bucky rasped.

His large hand covered yours, forcing your palm down his chest—slick and damp with sweat—until he guided your hand directly over the heavy erection waiting for you beneath his pants.

“I can make you feel so good. I can fix this for both of us. Please.” He begged.

You let out a shudder as his large hand swallowed yours, guiding your palm to slide up and down against the length of his cock. Even through the denim, you could feel him throb and harden rapidly beneath your touch, his breathing turning incredibly shallow and fast.

“It hurts so bad,” he groaned, his eyes unhinged by the toxin. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too?”

You looked down, biting your lip hard at the sight of Bucky’s thick bulge pressing directly against your fingers. He twitched beneath your touch.

There was nothing you wanted more than to finish the job you had started earlier—to finish unzipping his pants, sink right down onto him, and show him exactly what it felt like to be inside a woman for the very first time.

But you couldn’t.

Not like this.

“Bucky, I can’t—” you whispered so softly, it sounded like a whine. “I can’t be your first.”

Bucky trembled a sigh, his head falling back against the wooden crate. But he didn’t let go of your wrist. He began to subtly shift his weight, rocking his hips up in a tilt that forced his thick length to slide right against your captive palm.

“Why not?” he murmured, deep and gravelly. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’d do a good job?”

His question was so innocent, though the very thing he was doing wasn’t. He kept grinding his clothed cock into your hand—seeking pleasure from just your palm—and you felt yourself going insane.

“No, it’s not that,” you tried to pull your hand back, but he held you tight, using your trapped hand for his own pleasure. “Sex is supposed to be something that you save. And your virginity is something you give away to someone special. Not… not a casual teammate—not someone like me—”

Bucky interrupted you with a groan, his hips bucking up higher against your palm. All of your words went in one ear and out the other. The only thing he could process right now was how good your hand felt—and how much better it would feel if he sunk into something tight, wet, and warm.

Like your mouth… or your…

“I don’t care about any of that,” he choked out.

His hips rolled into your palm with a needy jerk.

“I need this. I need you. I’d be more than happy to give it to you. Fuck—I’ll give it to you so good. You’re the one I want. I need you—”

Bucky’s mouth dropped into an o shape, a sharp hiss of breath filling his lungs as his hips bucked uncontrollably. His eyes never left yours as he suddenly started spilling in his pants. A warm, thick liquid began to seep through his jeans, leaving your fingers sticky with his seed and musk.

You couldn’t believe it.

Bucky had just finished right in his pants.

“Bucky…”

His face was unreadable.

His head was tilted back against the crate, his eyes boring into yours through heavy lids and long lashes. He was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath while letting his cum shamelessly pool in the tight space of his pants.

You figured he’d pull your hand away any second now—that finally releasing all that pent up frustration would make him feel well enough to move to a safer location.

You tried not to point it out to save him from the embarrassment. And most importantly, you tried not to give in to the intense sensation of his warm spunk right beneath your fingertips.

“You should be feeling better now, right? We should keep moving—”

With his grip on your wrist tightening, he hauled you forward until you collapsed back to the ground. Two strong arms wrapped completely around your body, caging you flush against his chest.

Your knees—already so weak—forced you to straddle his lap. Your hands flew to his broad shoulders for balance as you found yourself perched directly over his ruined pants.

“Hey—what are you—!”

Bucky nuzzled his face straight into the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breaths turning into open mouthed kisses against your skin.

“More,” he begged, the deep vibration of his voice tickling you. “S’not enough. I need more.”

Your breath hitched when his hands started to roam over your body. His fingers tickled beneath the hem of your tank top, the metal fingers cooling your skin and making you gasp out loud from the sudden cold.

No.

I won’t let this happen.

I refuse to be Bucky’s first.

But despite your emotional turmoil, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not with the way his hands were roaming around your body, claiming every inch of you as his through touch alone. Not with the way he was looking at you, his mouth parted with desperation.

And especially not when he had just let himself spill in his jeans from nothing but your touch and closeness.

“I know you feel it too,” Bucky rasped against your neck. “I know you’re wet down there, begging to be touched. Begging to be filled. I can fix you, baby. Just let me take care of you, please.”

He pulled back slightly, looking up at you with wide puppy blue eyes that made your heart ache and your pussy clench.

“Can I kiss you?”

You searched his gaze, breathless. “You want to kiss me?”

His metal hand left your waist, slowly crawling up your spine until his fingers tangled firmly in the hair at the back of your head, keeping your eyes pinned to his. His pupils were completely blown out, his gaze demanding an answer right now.

You should have said no. You should have pushed his chest, reminded him of the drug, and scrambled away to safety.

He was a virgin, sure. But with the way he was looking at you while holding you tight—you felt like you were going to be ravaged.

But your resolve was already a fragile thing. And with the way he was looking at you, you knew you were in too deep. Your body was hurting—aching for him in the exact same ways he was aching for you. The only way you two could fix it was each other.

You pressed your lips hard against his, and Bucky let out a rough, needy sound into your mouth.

His grip tightened in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

The fever burned through your veins, and the way his tongue danced with yours only made the fire burn hotter. He was tasting you, broken whimpers tearing from his lips with every slick slide of his tongue. Saliva mixed together, leaving you both completely breathless, your lips and limbs tangled.

You rolled your hips back, grinding yourself deeper against Bucky’s pelvis.

His cock twitched inside his jeans, poking hard against you. You didn’t know how—but he felt even bigger and harder than he had before.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he panted against your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t—I need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”

His hands scrambled down to your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of your pants. He popped it open with a rough tug—threatening to break the button itself—as his knuckles brushed against your hot skin.

Bucky groaned at the sight.

The lace of your panties was poking through the opening, damp with sweat and your scent. He inhaled deeply, and you wondered just how much his heightened senses were actually taking you in.

When he let out a satisfied sigh, you knew he could smell everything.

“Look at you,” he praised, his eyes tracing the curves of your body. “You’re so beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you.”

You chuckled—a sound that came out raspy and sultry without your intention, making Bucky’s cock twitch beneath you.

“Quite a bold statement for someone who’s never had sex before,” you teased, your hands trailing slowly down his chest.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He accepted your challenge, gripping the waistband of your unzipped pants and yanking them down your thighs.

The moment your bare skin was exposed to the cool air, Bucky wasted no time traveling his eyes down the expanse of your legs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from drooling like a madman, his gaze raked over the inner and outer curves of your thighs. His mouth went dry at the sight of the little wet spot that had collected near your clit.

His large hands slid up your thighs and behind you, squeezing your ass firmly in his rough palms.

“So fucking beautiful,” he growled, his thumb swiping over your clit, smearing your own juice all over the lace.

“Fuck—you’ve been dripping all this time. You need this just as bad as I do, and you’ve been holding back?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not too late. We don’t have to—oh!”

You cried out once his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties. His fingers dipped between your folds, collecting your arousal with embarrassing wet noises as he tried to rub at your clit.

“No, Bucky… it’s right here—” You grabbed his forearm, guiding him to the right spot, and arched your back with a sharp cry when he started rubbing deep circles against the sensitive bud.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

This was the pleasure you were looking for—but it wasn’t nearly enough.

There was an empty ache deep inside you that was begging to be filled. But you weren’t going to demand that of him just yet, in case he changed his mind.

A lazy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he watched you come undone from his fingers.

“Yeah?” he huffed out a breath. “That feel good, baby?”

“Yes—don’t stop, please,” you cried helplessly.

His other hand lifted your tank top up and over your head, quickly unhooking your bra to fully reveal your tits. With a low grunt, he leaned forward, capturing one of your perky nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth.

You moaned loudly, your hand flying to the back of his head and giving his hair a hard, desperate tug. He liked that a lot, moaning against your skin in pleasure.

Bucky’s tongue swirled around your nipple, licking and sucking until you were arching off his lap at his mercy.

He was making a beautiful mess of you, switching between both buds and letting his mouth worship your body. His rough stubble tickled your chest while his fingers continued their clumsy work down below, sliding through your slick folds and rubbing messy circles right against your clit.

The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers moving against your soaking flesh filled the greenhouse—the filth of it only making you wetter and causing the toxin to course even harder.

He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your chest, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin, and finally looked up at you.

His lips and chin were slick and shining from giving your breasts such sloppy, adoring kisses.

“I need to be inside you,” he pleaded. “Please… I need to put it in. I need to stuff you so full of me, baby. Please, let me fuck you.”

Your eyes searched Bucky’s.

He looked like an even bigger mess than before. He looked and sounded utterly helpless, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face tight with an expression that made it look like he was physically hurting.

Even though he had just come in his pants moments ago, he needed so much more.

You knew that once you gave in to him completely, there would be no holding back for either of you. He would have to live with the fact that you would be his first.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky slowly slipped his hand out of your panties, bringing his fingers up to his lips and licking the juices clean. “You’re scared, but I’m not. I know what I want, and what I want right now is you.”

Bucky gripped your waist, raising you off his lap and pinning you flat against the ground.

He slipped his large body directly between your legs, his strong thighs forcing yours wide open as he covered your frame with his.

Your hair was messy across the dirt floor, framing your face as you laid beneath him breathless. The toxin was taking over control of your body—every single nerve demanding to be touched by the man between your legs.

You felt like you were in heat, consumed by a fever that only Bucky could cure.

His eyes fell over your body, tracing your tits and stomach, his gaze locking onto the way your panties—already a soaked mess—looked like they were begging to be torn away by his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands making quick work of your underwear.

With a harsh tug and a sharp tearing sound, the fabric gave away.

“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do to you.”

Your panties didn’t even make it past your knees before tearing clean off your thighs. You winced slightly.

It was dizzying to think about how you had found the strength to fight Bucky earlier, only to now be reduced to a breathless, aching mess over a piece of torn fabric.

Bucky leaned back on his heels, unbuckling his belt and shoving open his unzipped, stained denim jeans.

The moment he pulled his cock free, it sprang forward then back—the tip slapping against his abdomen.

He was thick, his cock fully engorged and begging to be wrapped in something tight and warm. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, trailing down his shaft and mixing with the creamy white essence from his earlier release.

His eyes were glued to your soaking center, legs spread wide and inviting. His jaw slacked as he lazily pumped himself at the shaft, prepping his cock for your warm embrace.

He claimed he was a virgin, but the way he was looking at you with such a hungry look in his eyes made you think otherwise.

“Bucky,” you breathed, heart racing. “Are you sure you want to do this? With… me?”

Bucky leaned over your body, using his metal elbow to prop himself up while he slapped the tip of his cock against your entrance.

You weren’t sure where he learned that from, but the dirty act left you clenching around nothing.

“The more you ask, the harder it is for me to stay in control,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m just gonna have to stuff you full of my cock just to prove how much I want you.”

You craned your neck, watching Bucky rub his tip up and down your folds—smearing his pre-cum while coating his shaft in your own slick juice.

When he positioned himself right at your opening and poked gently, testing your stretch, your folds immediately parted for him. You were so wet and pliable from the toxin that you were sure he would slip right in without a fight, despite how big he was.

“Just… just enough to get rid of the side effects, okay?” you muttered, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.

Bucky either didn’t hear you, or maybe he did and he just chose to ignore it.

With a clench of his jaw, he slowly pushed his hips forward, his eyes glued to the spot where your cunt wrapped around the head of his cock.

The sensation was delicious. Your body was burning hot, tight, and dangerously wet. He had only sunk the tip in, but it was already the greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back as a deep groan tore in his chest.

“Ohhh…”

Despite the toxin making your body more accommodating, you were still tighter than either of you expected.

You were being stretched completely and fully as Bucky kept going, relentlessly sinking his cock all the way inside until his dark, hairy base pressed flush against your folds. He was so big, and a part of you was grateful that he had already come once before this—because right now, his entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable need.

“So goddamn tight,” he cursed, his face twisting that looked almost like pain. “I never… fuck, I never expected pussy to feel this good… Christ.”

He stilled inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. But in reality, he was the one who needed time to adjust to your tightness.

You paced your breathing. Being stretched full by him made you want to scream at him to hurry up and move, to fuck you right into the dirt floor of the greenhouse—but you couldn’t make that kind of demand of a virgin.

Since it was his first time, despite the unfortunate circumstances, you were going to guide him gently.

“Hold me here,” you murmured, taking his hands and guiding them back to your thighs. “Feel me. It’s soft, isn’t it?”

Bucky breathed hard, nodding as he held you.

“When you’re ready, just move your hips nice and slow. Take your time.”

His face fell into a tight scowl, as if displeased with that order.

Every single one of his base instincts was screaming at him to fuck you hard and fast—to claim every surface of your pussy with his cock.

“F—fine,” he reluctantly agreed, his voice strained. He gripped your thighs tightly, spreading you open as he began rocking his hips back and forth.

His eyes were glossy with desire, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your body.

A thick, creamy white ring was forming around the base of his shaft, staining the unruly dark curls that sat at his pelvis.

Every time he pulled out, he made sure to sink back in even deeper, rolling his hips forward until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.

Your eyes rolled back, your hands clutching his broad shoulders as he buried himself inside you.

“Fuck… just like that,” you moaned. “Keep going.”

“Does… does that feel good?” He swallowed hard, fingers digging deeper into your thigh.

You nodded fast. “So good—I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Your breathless plea made him scowl , a frustrated snarl leaving his lips.

“This is torture.” He groaned.

You furrowed your brows, looking at his angry expression in concern. Torture? That wasn’t what sex was supposed to feel like. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.

“Bucky,” you said, pressing your hand against his sweating chest. “If this is hurting you, we need to stop right now. Pull out of me—”

You gasped as his metal hand circled tight around your wrist, prying it away from his chest and pinning it over your head. He slammed you back to the floor, his large body shadowing yours as his face hovered.

His dark eyes bored deeply into yours—and you felt like if you so much as looked away, he might take it as a threat.

“No, I can’t—I can’t do slow,” he growled. “The drug in my veins, it’s like it's yelling at me to take what I want. And what I want is to fuck you until you cry.”

Your breath left your lungs as Bucky slammed his hips forward, burying himself inside you.

He pulled out halfway before fucking right back in, a broken gasp leaving your lips as you arched your back against the floor from the pleasure. You hadn’t expected him to fuck you this hard—being a virgin and all—but you couldn’t complain.

You had been craving to be taken like this since the moment the drug first entered your system.

“Oh my god—!” You cried out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

“Ah—fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky cried out.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath scalding against your skin as he relentlessly pumped his hips in and out of you, using your vulnerable body like his own personal sex toy.

“It feels too good, fuck, baby. Everything feels too good—I can’t stop,” he moaned.

Your moans blended together into a dirty symphony.

The toxin was amplifying every single touch, his thick shaft stretching you out completely—turning your usually strong and poised body into mush with every thrust.

Your wet walls clenched down on him every time he threatened to pull out, as if sucking him right back in. Bucky was entirely lost, his mind short circuiting from the pleasure.

Every time he buried himself deep, your swollen pussy tightened around him like your body was trying to milk him dry. You whimpered with every single thrust he gave you, your teary eyes meeting his in a lustful haze as you wrapped your legs tight around his hips for support.

“Fuck—my god, don’t do that—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re squeezing me so tight. God—if this is what sex feels like, I never want to stop.”

He tilted his head down, his sweaty strands of hair tickling your hot face as he stared back down at the exact point where his hips got lost with yours.

Every stroke of his cock inside your tight body came with a hot wave of pleasure, amplified by the toxin coursing through your blood.

The sensation was addicting.

Bucky had never felt a pleasure like this before. He’d jerked off a few times in his apartment just to quickly relieve some stress, but that was always by himself.

He was a curious boy back in the forties, but he had never been close to getting any action like this.

To him, this was like a dream come true.

But he needed to go deeper. These regular, sloppy thrusts weren’t enough. He needed to feel more.

With a snarl, he leaned back to grip the backs of your thighs and shoved your knees up towards your chest, folding you into a tight mating press.

Before you could adjust to the new position, he pressed his hips against yours to lock you in place and sank down even deeper than he had before.

Your eyes flew wide, nearly bulging from their sockets as a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. His cock was stretching you at an impossible angle, burying himself so deep you could’ve sworn you saw stars.

Because you were already so sensitive from the toxin, having him bottom out so hard against your cervix made your core shudder uncontrollably, causing your legs to shake. Your head fell back against the floor, your toes curling in the air as your vision went hazy.

“Oh my god!” you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “It’s too much—I can’t… you’re gonna make me cum!”

You felt your walls start to hyperventilate around his length. You knew he felt it, too, because he immediately doubled his pace.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Fuck—I’m so sorry. It just feels too good—fuck, I—”

His voice broke into a pained moan the moment your pussy tightened. You came hard around him without warning, your neck arching as a loud moan strained your vocal cords.

Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face twisting in a grimace from how your climax was squeezing him.

The feeling was exquisite, and fuck, he wasn’t going to last another second when he was buried this deep inside of you.

He knew your body was sensitive and overworked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His balls had never felt this full, this heavy. He was close, so fucking close, and the more your pussy fluttered around his shaft, the more desperate he became to chase that same release.

“Shit. M’gonna cum,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he hilted himself deep inside.

His cock twitched—he had never came inside a girl before, but he was determined to do so now.

He was going to make sure he filled you, to stuff your tight hole to the brim with his backed up super soldier seed.

“Gonna cum inside,” he warned, his metal hand sliding beneath your lower back and lifting your hips up to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t control myself.”

You couldn’t muster a single coherent word. Only muffles and teary whimpers escaped you, but it didn’t matter what you said while Bucky was in this state. He had no intention of stopping.

His blue eyes were crazed, rolled back so far in his sockets you could see the white. He grit his teeth, meeting your hips with sloppy and wet thrusts. A litany of curses mumbled in broken strings under his breath, until finally…

“Oh my god—I’m cumming. Take it, baby. Take every single drop of me. Don’t let it go to waste. Please, I need this. I need this so fucking bad—”

With a firm grip on your thigh, he pinned you down and pushed his hips against yours.

His tip kissed your cervix, pulsing twice before his body gave way to your tightness. You were being filled by the thick, heavy pumping of his seed. You could feel his cock twitching relentlessly against your walls, determined to flood every inch of your pussy.

He buried his face in your neck, his chest heaving violently as he stuffed you so completely full that your lower belly felt heavy.

“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded brokenly.

Bucky trembled from head to toe, and despite his mumbled apologies, he kept your hips pinned securely so that not a single drop of his release could escape. He was spent, breathing in shaky and ragged gasps against your skin. He didn’t want to pull out yet, still savoring the feeling of your pulsing walls squeezing the very last drops from.

The two of you lay on the floor, tangled and sweaty in each other’s limbs. Once you finally caught your breath, your hands gently caressed his broad back, a comforting gesture that caught even you off guard.

“How… how are you feeling?” you finally mumbled.

Your body tensed as you braced yourself for an answer.

Now that the side effects of the toxin seemed to be wearing off, dread started trickling in.

You were terrified that everything you had just done with Bucky would be something he’d immediately regret. A part of you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care—that he had despised you before this, and he would simply go back to hating you again.

But after being his first, there was an undeniable connection in the way you felt beneath him.

If he was already starting to feel regret... well, you weren’t sure how you would handle it. Guilt? Probably. The longer he stayed silent, the more the worry gnawed at you.

He eventually huffed a breath, but he didn’t pull away.

“If you’re wondering if I’m going to regret this,” Bucky began, his voice so raspy and tired that it sent a shiver down your spine. “The answer is no.”

You sucked in a breath, expecting a but to follow.

Bucky attempted to lift himself up slightly so he wasn’t crushing you, but he was still so sensitive that the movement made him wince sharply. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out yet, so he collapsed right back against you with a soft huff.

“I wish I could just stay like this,” he muttered, wrapping both arms around you while resting his head against your sweaty chest.

He looked so small and vulnerable in that moment, and it made your heart ache for him.

“Just holding you,” he whispered, hugging you tighter as his voice grew quieter. “Instead of constantly running, fearing for my life, or being taken away. I just want to stay like this. Holding a pretty girl.”

The tension was starting to become too much for you to handle. Your face burned, unsure of how to process the sudden compliment. Trying to break the tension, you huffed a soft laugh and continued to rub your hand up and down his broad back. He seemed to like your touch very much.

“I’m sorry you lost your virginity this way.” you tried to joke.

Bucky chuckled against your chest. “The man I was in the forties probably would’ve done a much better job.”

“Well, this wasn’t bad at all—I’ll tell you that much.”

The two of you lay there, chuckling softly in each other’s arms, until the loud, sudden static of your earpiece made you both jolt.

“Do you copy? Report in.”

You both froze, your hearts beating rapidly for an entirely different reason now.

Bucky cleared his throat as he reluctantly tried lifting himself up. The friction of his slick and semi-hard cock sliding out of you made you let out an involuntary whimper.

“Status update,” Steve pressed, his tone anxious. “Are you two safe, or are you compromised?”

Compromised, sure. But definitely not in the way Steve meant.

Suppressing a giggle, you tapped your earpiece with a bright smile, catching Bucky's eye.

“Glad to hear your comms didn’t break, Steve.”

A relieved sigh came from the other end. “Give me a status report. How are you two? How’s Bucky?”

You watched as Bucky began to pull his clothes back on, his face an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to compose himself. You chuckled softly.

“We’re fine.”

halfway through proofreading this i lowk realized this was slop. i thought i had a good idea and then lost the plot. if you actually liked this please consider leaving a like and hit that subscribe button *epic outro music*

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Oonts. Oonts. Oonts.

It was the same wretched sound all over again.

From where you sat in the complex’s office, the bass emitting from Bucky’s room was thumping and vibrating the very walls around you. The ground shook, and you swore you could see dust and pebbles straying off the ceiling and landing right into your cup of coffee.

There was no one else in the office, so you screamed as loud as you could.

“Keep it down, Barnes!”

But of course, your angry voice was met with even more thumping bass and weird techno noises.

Mumbling curses to yourself, you angrily picked up the office phone—which barely worked—and dialed his number. You pressed the receiver hard to your ear, foot tapping impatiently as you heard it ring once, twice, three times, until finally…

“Hey, you reached Bucky. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number—”

He had left your phone calls unanswered so many times, you had already memorized his voice message word for word.

With another curse, you slammed the phone back down, pushed out of your rolling chair, and stomped your way up to his room.

It was peak summertime, meaning that vacationers were flooding the streets of Greece looking for accommodations, meaning that your rundown complex had available rooms for cheap rent, meaning you had to leave your one-man post just to take care of the obnoxious tenant you should’ve kicked out years ago.

Finally reaching his door, you knocked angrily with a strength that threatened to break the hinges.

“Barnes, open up!” you shouted.

I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A. G—

“Bucky! Don’t make me break down this door!”

I wanna dance with George, I wanna dance to SOPHIE.

Christ. What the hell was he playing? Whatever this noise slop was, it felt specifically designed by Bucky himself to give you a headache.

“God, this fucking… fucking asshole—” you cursed to yourself, fishing for your keys in your pocket.

You unlocked his door and pushed it open. Lo and behold, you found him seated in the exact same position you always found him in every time you barged into his room for a noise complaint. Bucky’s music was so loud he didn’t even hear you enter, his focus entirely on his fancy DJ setup and speakers that probably cost more than his rent.

“Bucky!” Your face scrunched as it took every vocal cord in your body to muster the shout.

Bucky whipped his head around to face you, looking very much like a boy who had been caught red-handed watching porn—except this music was much worse than mediocre sex-on-a-screen.

He finally lowered the volume, allowing you the ability to actually hear your own thoughts.

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out as you glared at him with an unpleasant and as equally disappointed frown.

“I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I need you to turn this music down.”

Bucky didn’t react.

He had heard this exact complaint from you more times than he could count. It was always the same routine. You’d yell at him, your body hot from the lack of AC circulation this shitty complex provided, leaving you standing in his doorway in a tank top—no bra—and tiny daisy dukes that left little to his imagination. And once you were done yelling, you’d go back downstairs to your office, and he’d turn the music right back up.

But of course, he always had a knack for making your job much harder than it actually was, purely because he loved seeing you get riled up.

“Oh. Is Georgia from the third floor complaining?” He tilted his head like an innocent puppy, knowing damn well that Georgia was a senior citizen who was legally deaf.

You scrunched your nose, looking even more pissed—which only made Bucky’s smile widen.

“No, but I’m complaining, and that should be enough to get you to shut the hell up—considering I’m your landlord.”

“Aw, but I’m dedicating this song to you.”

You wanted to stomp over to his desk and slap him right across the face to shut him up for good—but dealing with a lawsuit and a restraining order was the last thing you needed when you were responsible for running this shitty complex during peak tourist season.

“I’m not going to argue with you today,” you said, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself rather than him. “Soon, this complex is going to be packed with tourists and I need you on your best behavior. That means no loud robot music that’ll scare potential tenants away.”

Bucky flinched, looking offended.

“Robot music?” he scoffed, spinning back in his chair to face his laptop. “And you say this shit every year. Summertime, tourists, rent... but you’re lucky if even one person books a room.”

Your brow twitched. You hated how right he was. “Regardless, I need you to give the music a rest. If I’m not the one complaining, someone else will.”

You were ready to leave it at that. You turned around, your hand gripping the doorknob, prepared to slam the door behind you so he wouldn’t have the space to argue back. But of course, Bucky just couldn’t help himself.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You spun around so fast your hair whipped across your face. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

Bucky kept his back turned to you. You didn’t even need to see his face to know he was wearing a smug, shit-eating grin.

“My music is harmless,” he muttered, clicking away at his screen. “And who knows? Maybe your future tenants will actually find it entertaining. I might even draw people in.”

“No, it won’t,” you hissed. “You’ll scare people away.”

Bucky shrugged. “Then what the hell am I paying you rent for if I can’t even listen to music in my own apartment?”

The way he said it was so casual, but you knew he had thrown those words out just to pull the pin right out of your heart.

Over the years, you had seen several tenants come and go, break their leases, or even scam you out of money. Taking over the building with little to no hope for business had been completely exhausting, and Bucky—along with Georgia—had been the only loyal tenants you had left.

In reality, the two of them were the ones keeping the place afloat.

You grimaced, facing the door again.

“Just… keep it down,” was all you said, because you no longer had it in you to keep up the fight.

Bucky had kept his promise to keep the music down—but that only lasted about a day. And Bucky being Bucky, if he didn’t have the ability to piss you off one way, he’d make sure to do it another.

You weren’t sure if it was entirely intentional or not, but regardless, it made your skin burn with irritation. While you were talking to a man seated across from your desk, the sound of a girl’s loud laughter echoed right above the office—and it certainly wasn’t the voice of any girl you recognized who lived in this complex.

You smiled through it. As long as you ignored it and didn’t address it, then maybe the man in front of you—who seemed to have every intention of staying here during his months long vacation—wouldn’t notice.

“But yes, as you can see, the building is very close to the beach—walking distance, actually!” You smiled, hands folding primly on the desk in front of you. “And the beaches in Greece are beautiful. I’m sure you’ve seen them while doing your research. You said you like to surf, right? This spot is very convenient for—”

“Haha—you’re so silly, Bucky!”

“I know. But you like it.”

The man in front of you glanced at the ceiling, frowning at the sound of the girl giggling, and you swallowed hard.

“—surfing….”

Instead of answering your question or addressing anything else you said, he kept his focus on the wooden ceiling above him and pointed up. “I take it this place is pretty busy—considering all the noise.”

You gripped your hands tighter.

If you weren’t able to secure this guest, you were going to make sure Bucky got an earful from you after this.

“That’s a good thing, right? Shows how lively Greece is during this time of the year.” You tried your best to salvage the situation, but your own words only gave you secondhand embarrassment.

The man chewed the inside of his cheek, his expression apprehensive. His eyes darted around the office, suddenly taking in the white plug-in wall fan that was making a suspicious whiiiirrr noise, along with the poorly painted window panels you hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.

“Look, you seem like a nice, responsible, and hardworking young lady, but—” He stood up and started grabbing his bags. “I don’t think this place is right for me.”

“W-wait!” You scrambled from your chair, nearly lunging across the desk just to get him to stop. “We have much quieter rooms on the second floor! Facing the courtyard! You won’t hear a single thing over there, I promise!”

Fuck. What were you even saying? Bucky’s room was on the second floor.

The guy was already heading for the exit, his heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He gave you a tight, sympathetic smile that felt more like a slap to the face before walking out.

“Sir, please! I can offer you a discount on the first month! Ten percent—no, fifteen!”

Your voice was pitching higher in distressed panic, but the bell above the office door gave you a cute and mocking ting! before he pushed it open and stepped out into the burning Greek heat. The door shut behind him, leaving you alone in silence with the stupid run down fan.

Well, almost silence.

Aside from the consistent whirring from the fan, another loud giggle squealed through the floorboards right above your head. Then came the thud of Bucky’s mattress hitting the bed frame.

Your eye twitched as your hands curled into tight fists. The payment that man would have given you had he settled in today—even with a fifteen percent discount—was supposed to be your grocery budget for the next three weeks.

Your sandals were already stomping up the stairs to Bucky’s floor. By the time you shoved the key into his lock, twisted it, and slammed the door open without so much as a knock, you were seeing red.

“Barnes!” you screeched, not even caring that the unknown woman lying in his bed was half-naked.

She squealed and yanked the blanket up to her chest, trying to cover herself, but you didn’t so much as glance at her.

“Bucky, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she yelped, looking at Bucky with wide, terrified eyes.

Well, at least this one had some decency compared to the others. Most girls would look at you with swollen lips and a proud, “gotcha” smile to match. Bucky pushed himself up with a groan, giving you a glare that could have killed you right where you stood.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grumbled, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s my landlord.”

“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped in relief—and a part of you wished Bucky hadn’t clarified that, just so you could have kept the upper hand.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Bucky? You scared another potential renter away!”

Bucky didn’t look remotely remorseful. If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been interrupted. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, getting up to meet you at the door.

You didn’t even care that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his hips—you had walked in on him one too many times to even bother telling him to put on a pair of pants.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice gravelly from whatever he’d been doing earlier. “I was minding my own business.”

“I’m sorry, but your ‘business’ becomes everyone else’s when you’re being too fucking loud!” you shouted. “I was seconds away from closing a three-month lease, Bucky. Three months! Do you know what I could do with that kind of money right now? I could finally fix the plumbing so the water doesn’t smell like eggs!”

The girl in his bed looked back and forth between the two of you, awkwardly clutching the sheet to her collarbone. “Um… should I leave?”

“Yes!” you snapped.

“No,” Bucky countermanded, running a tired hand through his already tousled hair. “Stay, Eleni. My landlord was just leaving.”

“Like hell I am,” you hissed, crossing your arms. “I swear to God, Barnes. If you keep this up, I’m going to tear up your lease and evict you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. That was new. He had pushed your buttons enough to unlock a brand new threat—even if it was one you both knew you probably wouldn’t follow through with.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and kick me out,” he challenged, stepping closer. “You need me more than I need you, anyway.”

You were seconds away from going ballistic—from grabbing his precious DJ setup and throwing it right off the balcony. Every hair on your body stood up like a threatened cat, and you were ready to tear Bucky Barnes apart in his own room.

You sucked in a deep breath to unleash a litany of curses, and Bucky stood up straighter, bracing himself to return the sentiment right back, until a familiar voice called out from the office downstairs.

“Honey? Are you here?”

Both of you froze. Your accusatory finger hung in midair as your head instinctively turned towards the open door.

Of course. Your boyfriend, John, always managed to show up at the absolute worst timing possible.

“Would you look at that,” Bucky sighed—though you couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or annoyance. “Your knight in shining armor, coming to save me yet again,” he said sarcastically.

You shot Bucky one last lethal glare— forgetting all about Eleni still laying in his bed—and turned on your heel, stomping back down the stairs to tend to your boyfriend. As you hurried down, you flattened your hair and adjusted your tank top, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable, though it was a lost cause.

“Hi, John,” you said, sounding more tired than endeared as you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey, you,” he grinned before pulling back to look at you, his expression turning from a smile to displeasure.

“Wow, you look terrible.”

Your boyfriend always had such a way with words.

You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. With John here, you felt like now was the great time to talk about your day, hoping that it’d relief just a tiny bit of stress.

“I look terrible because my day is going terrible. I feel like a hamster running on a wheel that leads nowhere. It’s barely afternoon, and the day is already kicking my butt—”

“Did you hear that I got promoted today?”

You blinked at his blatant interruption. “I’m… I’m sorry?”

“No worries,” he waved his hand with a guileless smile, as if you were actually offering him a sincere apology when, in fact, you were just giving him the opportunity to rethink his interruption. “I said I got promoted. Valentina finally saw how hard I’ve been working and decided to give me the next position up. I’m making double the amount I made before!”

You felt utterly and completely defeated.

Here you were, feeling like a dog that had been beaten to the ground, and the man you proclaimed as the love of your life was flaunting his success. You should have been happy for him, but every sentence that left his lips only felt like a slap to your face.

“I’m happy for you, John,” you said, your voice wavering. You were happy for him—you really were—but John didn’t buy it.

He frowned. “Well…?”

You blinked again, your brows furrowing in confusion. “Well, what?”

“Are you going to take me out to celebrate?”

“Celebrate?” You huffed a laugh, taking his words as a joke. But one look at John’s face told you he was entirely serious.

Your lips twisted right back into a frown, your brows furrowing as dread began to settle in your gut.

“John… look around you. I can barely afford to keep this place running, much less take you out to celebrate your promotion. And besides, you’re making so much more than me now. Wouldn’t it financially make more sense for you to take us out if you really wanted to celebrate?”

You knew the words were blunt and straightforward, but truthfully, you didn’t have it in you to beat around the bush to cushion John’s feelings. You were drowning, and you needed to be honest with your partner.

John sighed, stepping closer and resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Honey, if money was that important to me—then I wouldn’t be with you right now, would I?”

Before you even knew it, you were looking at your partner not with the eyes of a lover—but with the eyes of an enemy.

“Excuse me?” You ripped yourself away from his touch, his hand dropping as you stared at him in utter disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

John let out a long sigh, his classic way of telling you that you were blowing things out of proportion. “I’m just saying, I don’t care about your financial situation. I’m looking past it because I love you. You don’t have to get so defensive.”

You wanted to cry. Your body was so coiled with nothing but rage, and right now, the only person you wanted to take it out on was John.

“Look past it?” Your voice cracked as it began to rise. “You’re looking past the fact that I run myself dry trying to keep a roof over my head with zero support from you? I can’t afford groceries, and instead of asking how I am, you walk in here, cut me off, brag about your money, and insult my business!”

“Oh, here we go with the drama,” John scoffed, throwing his hands up as if he were the victim. “It’s a rundown complex in Greece, honey, not the Hilton. You’re overreacting like you always do—”

“I am not overreacting! You are being incredibly selfish—”

“What’s going on here?”

You were so caught up in the yelling match that you hadn’t even heard the footsteps creaking down the stairs and into the office.

Both you and John turned to find Bucky and Eleni standing by the archway that led to the stairs. Bucky was dressed appropriately this time. By the looks of it, he had no intention of eavesdropping—he was just politely leading Eleni out of the building.

You swallowed hard. What a funny predicament to be in—complaining about Bucky and his noise just minutes ago, only to end up doing the exact same thing.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, averting your attention back to John. But John was already looking elsewhere—more specifically, right at Eleni.

“You sure? Sounded like things were getting pretty heated in here,” Bucky said, trying to make a joke that landed flat. “I was just leading Eleni out. You can go right back to tearing at each other’s throats once I escort her out, thanks.”

Eleni had been following close behind Bucky like a lost puppy, looking a little flustered, until her eyes scanned the lobby and landed squarely on the man standing next to you—who was already staring at her.

She froze, her jaw dropping. “John?” she gasped.

The color drained from John’s face, his cocky posture instantly stiffening into a defensive stance. “…E-Eleni?”

You blinked, looking between your boyfriend and the woman who had just been in your tenant’s bed. “Wait. You two know each other?”

Eleni gave you the exact same treatment you had given her earlier. She zipped right past you, completely forgetting about you and Bucky, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “John, you asshole! You ghosted me after Cabo! You blocked my number and never returned any of my calls!”

The office went dead silent. Aside from the whirring fan, of course.

You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Cabo? John had mentioned going on a ‘business conference’ to Cabo—but that was only two months ago.

No.

He couldn’t have…

You slowly turned your head to look at John, silently pleading to whatever cruel God that was currently tormenting you to just give you a break. You hoped John would deny it, that he would tell this interloper to get lost, even if you hadn’t had the guts to do it yourself when she was upstairs.

But he didn’t. All he did was dart his guilty blue eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the two women he had wronged.

“John…?” you whimpered.

And under just a smidge of pressure, John folded.

“I’m sorry!” he barked out defensively. “Look—it was a one-time thing, okay? I got drunk with Lemar on the beach, and… we lost track of time, and Eleni came up to me and—”

“Get the hell out.”

John’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for you again. “Honey, you don’t mean that—”

“Get out of my fucking face, John!” you screamed, slapping his hand away.

“Please, just listen to me for one second!” John pleaded, taking another step closer despite your screaming.

“I know I messed up, okay? I know it was a mistake—but look at the bigger picture here! I just got promoted. I’m making double now! I can take care of you. I can fund this entire complex and even… even fix the plumbing smell you’re always complaining about! Whatever you want! You won’t have to worry about a single cent anymore. Just please, don’t throw us away over a stupid slip up.”

Slip up?

Was this what he thought this was?

Years of being together, and his infidelity was just a slip up? A stupid moment of weakness?

You had thought that having a boyfriend—someone who loved you unconditionally—was the one thing you could have to yourself in this cruel world. You and John had your ups and downs, sure, but the idea of being in love was what kept you going.

Now, you felt entirely sick to your stomach—humiliated, exhausted, and broken.

“Stop it,” you choked out, a tear finally spilling down your cheek. You stepped forward and weakly slammed your palms against his chest, trying to push him towards the exit. “Just stop talking. Get out!”

Your hands were trembling, completely devoid of the strength you had wielded against him and Bucky just minutes ago. John barely budged under your weak shove. He sighed, reaching out to grab your wrists to stop you.

“Honey, stop. You’re hysterical right now, just calm down and—”

Before his fingers could even brush your skin, Bucky’s broad frame wedged itself between the two of you. He clamped a heavy hand hard onto John’s shoulder, shoving him back as he used his own body as a shield to protect you.

“You heard the woman,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, glaring down at your now-ex-boyfriend. “She told you to get the hell out.”

John stumbled back a step, swallowing hard as he looked up at the much larger man.

He tried to reclaim some of his lost dignity, puffing out his chest. “Hey, man, back off. This is between me and my girlfriend. It’s none of your business.”

“When you’re being that loud, your business becomes everyone else’s,” Bucky hissed. “You have three seconds to pack up your pathetic excuses and get your feet off this property before I throw you off it myself.”

If you weren’t such a fragile mess, you might’ve laughed at the fact that Bucky had just used your exact words to throw right back at John.

John looked at Bucky’s tight fists, then glanced past his shoulder at you, where you were wiping away your tears. He huffed a bitter laugh—he knew he couldn’t win a physical fight against Bucky, but that didn’t mean his pride was going down without a fight.

“Wow. Blew one of your tenants so he could act as your security guard since you couldn’t afford one?” John’s face twisted into an ugly, resentful sneer. “Fine. Keep her. I’m leaving.”

You were too busy sniffling behind Bucky—of all people—to notice that his shoulders were shaking with anger.

Bucky knew he wasn’t a saint, especially towards you, but hearing you get degraded by a man like this—a man you had given your heart to—made him unfathomably angry.

If you weren’t in such a sensitive, vulnerable state, Bucky probably would’ve had this guy pinned to the floor by now.

“While you’re at it, go ahead and take Eleni out with you,” Bucky added, nodding toward the woman dismissively, as if he hadn’t been tongue deep in her mouth just minutes ago. “Sounds like you two have some catching up to do, anyway.”

John muttered curses under his breath as he pushed through the exit, a timid Eleni trailing quickly behind him.

When the door shut, leaving just you and Bucky in the office, he turned around to finally look at you—and his heart broke right there in his chest.

He knew he had said and done things to purposefully get under your skin in the past, but seeing you now, looking so small with your cheeks stained with tears, it made him feel like the worst kind of man, despite not being the one who broke your heart.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured gently, resting both hands on your shoulders and leaning down so he was at eye level. “Are you okay—”

He nearly stumbled back from the impact of you burying your face into his chest.

You gripped his shirt tightly as you broke into the most gut wrenching sob he had ever heard in his life.

Without another thought, his arms came up to wrap securely around your body, holding you close against him. One large palm rested at the back of your head, soothing you with a comforting caress.

Bucky didn’t know what to say.

There had been times when he had almost made you cry out of sheer frustration, yeah, but that was almost. Now with you breaking down in his arms, he hated the very idea of you crying, period.

“Hey, he’s gone, okay?” he murmured against your temple. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He didn’t know what else to offer other than a couple of “you’re okays” and the occasional “I’m here.”

“I—I don’t understand—” you whimpered into Bucky’s shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Guilt clawed at his heart while his teeth caught his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

He knew your words were also a partial reflection on him and how he’d been treating you—constantly making your job so much harder than it needed to be. He sighed, holding you a little closer.

“Nothing. You did nothing,” Bucky said, his tone gentler than you had ever heard it before. “You don’t deserve any of this. And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you sniffled. “For standing up for me. I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m just so tired.”

Bucky felt like the Grinch—his chest tight as his heart softened with each broken word you cried out.

For the first time since he had moved into your complex, he was hearing a thank you leave your lips. He might have expected it if he ever turned his music down on the first ask, or helped you take out the trash. But not once had you muttered those words to him until now, while you were weeping in his arms and holding onto him like he was the only person you could rely on.

He felt terrible.

He, of all people, didn’t deserve your gratitude.

“Hey, don’t get sappy on me now.” He sighed, caressing your hair again as he rested his chin on the top of your head.

“You’re a strong girl. You’ll be okay.”

As the day bled into the rest of the week, Bucky felt like he was getting whiplash.

One day, you were crying in his arms and seeking his comfort, and the next, it was like you slapped your cold mask back on and went right back to being his personal landlord from hell.

He had made a promise to himself to help you out in small ways—like keeping his mixer at a lower volume, or offering to help paint the window frames. He hadn’t even invited a single girl over since your breakdown. It was selfish of him to think you’d soften up just because he held you while you cried, but you didn’t. Instead, it was the same usual business from you.

“Bucky, turn down your music!”

“Your music is giving me a headache. Lower it.”

“I can’t believe people actually listen to this robot music.”

Today, he had his friends over—Steve and Sam—whom you seemed to detest just as much because of the volume they brought with them.

Sam was lounging in the beanbag chair, his legs sprawled out, while Steve found comfort on Bucky’s bed. All three of them had a cold Mythos beer in hand, taking slow swigs while Bucky focused on mixing a new track on his laptop.

“Turn the music up,” Steve said, gesturing to the monitor with his bottle. “I want to hear how the bass hits on that drop.”

Bucky’s hand hovered over the master volume knob, then hesitated. If he recalled correctly, you had a lot of important calls to make down in the office today. The last thing he wanted to do right now was add more to your plate.

Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the volume exactly where it was. “Nah, it’s loud enough.”

“No way, man. The walls are usually shaking from how loud you play this stuff,” Sam said, furrowing his brows. “Come on. Turn it up.”

Bucky kept his attention glued to his laptop, his hands adjusting everything on his mixer but the volume.

“My landlord is making calls downstairs,” he muttered, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as possible in the hopes his friends would just drop it.

But of course, they don’t.

Steve sat up on the bed, his arms resting on his knees while the green bottle dangled loosely in his fingers. “Hold on. Since when do you care about what your landlord thinks?”

“Especially when it comes to your music,” Sam egged on, that teasing grin spreading across his face.

Bucky felt like he was a cat being cornered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting to play around with the BPM to distract himself, but ended up completely messing up the transition.

“I don’t care what she thinks,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too defensive as he clicked aggressively on his trackpad. “I just don’t feel like hearing her run her mouth today.”

“You know, speaking of running her mouth—” Sam pushed himself up on the beanbag chair with a groan. “How did she react when she walked in on you and Eleni? Surely she heard all the noise you two were making, right?”

Steve barked out a laugh, waiting to hear Bucky’s response.

Bucky grimaced at the memory.

Despite them bringing Eleni up, his mind wasn’t on her at all—it was entirely on you and everything that had unfolded that day.

Normally, he’d chug his beer with his track set to the highest volume, laughing alongside Sam and Steve about how you were constantly on his ass, pestering him like a mother. But this time, he recoiled at the way his friends were talking about you.

He didn’t even know how to begin explaining it.

How could he explain that he hadn’t actually slept with Eleni because he’d overheard you arguing with your boyfriend, John? The very same John who got outed for cheating on you with Eleni—the girl Bucky just so happened to have brought home that day.

“We didn’t even sleep together. We were just messing around on the bed, and she came in to complain about the noise,” Bucky muttered with a casual shrug. “That’s it.”

Sam hummed in thought, pausing in the middle of sipping his Mythos. “You know what it sounds like your landlord needs? She needs to loosen up.”

Bucky frowned.

They had no idea what you were going through at all.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Take her to one of your gigs tonight—show her how good your music actually is, and what keeps her rent money coming in.”

Bucky couldn’t picture it. You, loosening up in the middle of a crowded dance floor, actually enjoying the music you constantly complained was nothing but “robot noise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”

Steve shrugged. “A girl like that wouldn’t be hard to impress. Who knows, maybe she’ll realize the nightlife she’s missing out on here in Greece, ditch her lame boyfriend, and give you a chance instead—”

“Alright, alright, enough.” Bucky waved his hand, spinning around in his chair to glare at Steve. He hated how obvious it was that he cared. “Can we just get back to working on my mix? I need it ready and sounding perfect by Friday night.”

Sam’s brows rose. “Oh, Friday night! That’s the perfect amount of time for you to convince her to come out—”

Bucky groaned, rubbing the space between his brows to soothe his impending headache. “Christ, Sammy. Would you just shut up—”

“Eeeeek!”

Bucky was cut off by a loud, piercing screech echoing from down the stairs—straight from your office. He immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening.

Steve grimaced. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her now—”

But before Steve could even finish his sentence, Bucky was already throwing himself out of his chair. He lunged out the door and raced down the stairs toward you. As his feet pounded against the creaky steps, his mind scrambled through every worst case scenario.

Had John returned to threaten you?

Was a potential tenant giving you a hard time?

Either way, he was ready to tear them apart. And he didn’t care if Steve or Sam were right behind him to witness it.

“Hey!” Bucky barked, breathless as he rounded the corner into the office. “Are you okay—”

“Oh my god, oh my god, get away! No! Don’t get any closer!” you squealed.

Bucky froze in the doorway, only to find you stranded on top of your desk chair, your legs wobbly as you tried to keep yourself from falling. Your eyes were wide with terror, staring down at the floor. Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at what was going on.

Sitting right at the base of your chair was a stray white cat. Her tail was swishing lazily against the floor, and she was proudly holding a very dead, very fat rat between her teeth.

Bucky’s shoulders instantly slumped as he realized he wouldn’t be throwing hands with John after all—and just how ridiculous this entire situation was.

“Bucky, help me!” you wailed, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. “Get it out! Get it out of here right now!”

“Which one?” Bucky crossed his arms, making absolutely no effort to rush to your rescue. “The rodent, or the cat?”

“The rat, Bucky! Oh my god—she’s getting closer, ew!” You whipped your head toward him, frazzled. “Do something!”

Bucky sighed heavily.

He was on a tight time crunch, needing his mix ready by Friday for a gig at a massive club here in Greece—and now his precious time was being spent trying to wrestle a stray cat.

Then again, he had made a silent promise to himself to start helping you out.

He stepped away from the doorframe and closer to you, making exaggerated shooing motions at the animal.

“Shoo! Go on, get out of here. And take your friend with you.”

The cat looked up at Bucky with big, round blue eyes that perfectly matched his own, let out a raspy mewl, and turned her head right back to you. Wanting to ensure her favorite human accepted the prize, the cat pushed herself up on her hind legs, stretching her paws onto the seat of the chair to drop the limp rodent right at your feet.

“Oh my god, no! Don’t do that! Ew, ew, ew! No!”

You could’ve sworn you saw the dead rat twitch.

Panic completely overrode your system. Without a single thought for your pride or your dignity, you launched yourself off the chair and jumped straight into Bucky’s arms.

Bucky looked up, his eyes widening as he realized what you were doing, but it was already too late to brace himself.

He let out a oomph! as your body collided with his, nearly knocking him right off his feet. With a huff, his arms hooked around your waist and thighs to catch you before you both could hit the floor. He stumbled back, struggling to find his balance as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder in panic.

He had never expected to find you in his arms again so soon—much less over a damn cat.

“You’re okay,” Bucky sighed, caressing your back. “Look! She’s already taking the rat away.” He reassured, despite the cat not moving a single paw.

You kept your face buried, your fingers tightly bunching the fabric of the back of his shirt. “Is she really? Promise me you’re not lying, Bucky.”

“Buck! We’re coming! Hold on—”

Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway as he and Sam burst through the office doorway in a sprint. Both of them had their shoulders squared and their fists clenched, ready to throw down in whatever fight Bucky had gotten himself into.

But they came to a halt, their eyes wide as they took in the view.

There was Bucky, holding the very woman he claimed to detest so much securely in his arms—bridal style, at that.

“Oh,” Sam chuckled, raising a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”

Bucky’s neck flushed a deep crimson. Even with your body tucked firmly against his, he was focused on the mortification of Steve and Sam drilling their stares directly into the side of his head.

“Get the rat out of the room!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

He tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t startle you with the word rat, but the attempt obviously failed—because, well… you were right there, and you squealed in response.

Sam didn’t move, his grin only widening. “I don’t know, Buck. Pest control wasn’t really on the itinerary today. What’s the magic word?”

Bucky now understood why you hated his friends so much.

“Sam, I swear to God—”

Seeing that his best friend was about to combust from embarrassment, Steve finally took pity on him.

“Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Steve reassured, stepping past them. He grabbed a plastic clipboard from your desk, using it like a makeshift shovel to carefully scoop the dead rodent off the chair.

“Ugh, that thing is huge,” Sam pointed out—eliciting another loud squeal from you—as he held the door open for Steve so they could dump it in the trash bins outside.

“Is it gone?” you whimpered into his chest.

Bucky looked down, his eyes softening as he took in the way your nose was pressed directly into his shirt. “It’s gone. I promise.”

With a relieved breath, you gently pushed yourself out of Bucky’s grasp until your feet hit the floor. He hated the sudden, empty space between the two of you.

Trying to bridge the gap you just created, Bucky stepped closer again, resting a warm palm on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He spoke so softly, with a gentleness that caught you off guard.

Heat tickled the back of your neck, your heart beating rapidly from the embarrassment of your outburst—and the fact that you had run straight into Bucky’s arms for comfort yet again.

“I-I’m fine,” you stammered, straightening yourself.

Steve and Sam were just about to walk back inside, but they stopped when they saw Bucky leaning down, his thumb now softly caressing your cheek.

They knew their friend had a long track record of being a blatant flirt and a playboy, but never once had they seen him soften up the way he was right now. Exchanging looks, the two of them played it smart and silently agreed to turn around, letting their friend have his chance.

You gently stepped away from Bucky’s touch, letting out a soft sigh at the cat still perched in the middle of the office floor. You hoped averting your attention elsewhere would soothe the awkwardness.

“Why’d you do that, Alpine? Are you trying to scare me to death?” you murmured, kneeling down to give her a gentle pat on her dusty head.

Bucky furrowed his brows. “She has a name?”

“She was a stray hiding near the trash bins a few weeks ago. I ran to the market next door to buy some food for her, and she’s been following me ever since. But I didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to gift me a…” You shuddered at the mere thought. “…a rat.”

He chuckled, kneeling down right next to you to offer the cat a few pets of his own.

“That’s cute,” he murmured. “Look at you, always on top of taking care of things—even the neighborhood strays.”

You let out a small laugh, the sound soft, warm, and genuine against his eardrums.

Bucky felt like his chest was going to explode. You were so close, smiling brightly in a way he almost never saw from you. As the last of your laughter trickled in the air, he realized this was his perfect opportunity.

The atmosphere between you two was soft. Your walls were down, and he could take this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go.

Are you free this Friday night?

Do you want to come see my set at the club? We could even dance together.

I actually named one of my tracks after you.

But you spoke up before he could. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to say thank you.”

Bucky shrugged casually. “The rat was no problem—”

“No, not just for the rat. I meant for everything else,” you clarified, sitting up straight and meeting him in the eye.

“These past few days, I’ve noticed you’ve been… well, on your best behavior.” You offered a sheepish smile as you struggled to find the right words. “You’ve been lowering your music whenever I ask you to, and I really appreciate it. So, thank you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Here you were—showing gratitude just because he was finally giving you the bare minimum. He didn’t deserve you.

“Yeah, well, even if my music isn’t blasting at full volume, it still sounds good,” he joked, flashing you a confident grin.

You rolled your eyes, letting your hands gently pet down Alpine’s spine. She was purring.

“You keep telling yourself that,” you teased back. “I still don’t know how you can listen to music like that all day, much less produce it.”

“It’s not music you listen to all day,” Bucky adjusted his posture so he was a bit more relaxed as he sat on the floor. “It’s music you listen to when the stars are out while strobe lights are blinding you.”

Without even realizing it, he started rambling.

“It’s the kind of music that's meant to make you feel good. To push all the thoughts out of your head, drown out the noise of the rest of the world, and just let yourself loose for a little while.”

You hummed in thought.

For the entire time you’ve known Bucky, you had never bothered to ask about his DJing simply because you didn’t care to.

You’d always figured it was just a stupid hobby he did to piss you off and disrupt your peace—but the way he talked about it now, passionately getting lost in his own words, made you interested to say the least.

“You should come to one of my gigs one day and see what it’s like,” he murmured, his voice sounding far more vulnerable than his usual confidence. “It’ll be fun.”

You blew a raspberry, though you weren’t entirely put off by the idea.

“I appreciate the invite, but look around you, Bucky,” you huffed, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “This place is running on my bare hands alone. I can’t afford a night off.”

“Then let me help you,” Bucky interrupted, turning his body so he was giving you his undivided attention. “You need help painting the window frames and fixing the plumbing, right? I’ll take care of it.”

You blinked, your eyes widening in surprise.

Bucky… helping you?

This was completely out of character for him. You braced yourself for the catch, waiting for him to follow up with something like, “As long as I can bring home whoever I want, play my music as loud as I want, and get a discount on my monthly rent,” but nothing came.

“I don’t know, Bucky—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he grinned, that taunting tone creeping back into his voice. “Let someone help you for once.”

You searched his eyes, trying to catch a punchline, but still, there was nothing.

You didn’t quite believe him. You figured this was just his way of tossing you sympathy points to get you to praise him some more, only for him to end up doing absolutely nothing.

So, you just sighed, rolled your eyes, and pushed yourself up off the floor.

“Whatever you say, Barnes.”

To your surprise, Bucky had actually made true to his promise and helped you around the complex.

He was already up most mornings before you even arrived, blasting his music from his speakers. Instead of just fixing the paint on the window panels, he reinstalled new ones and painted them over with the pretty blue you’ve been eyeing.

It made you feel giddy, seeing him in a tank top and jeans that were covered in both dirt and blue paint.

“Morning,” you shouted over the music, setting your cup of coffee down at your desk. Alpine was still here—curled up in your chair. Bucky must’ve let her in.

“You’re already working on the window panels?”

Bucky didn’t hear you at first, sweeping his paintbrush back and forth until he lifted his head in your direction. He reached over to his Bluetooth speaker, lowering his music to a much more appropriate volume for seven in the morning.

“Oh, yeah.” He pushed himself up with a groan. “Thought I’d get started on the easy stuff first.”

He crossed his arms, taking a step back to admire his work. Then, he looked at you for your reaction.

“How… how do you like it?”

You wanted to jump up and down in glee with how beautiful the windows looked. The bright blue color made everything much more welcoming and inviting, but you didn’t want to give Bucky the opportunity to gloat just yet.

“Hm,” you tilted your head. You could feel Bucky growing anxious beside you—though he tried his best not to show it. “I think I want it in a different shade of blue, actually.”

Bucky’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He raised his hands, about to protest, but you broke down in a laugh.

“I’m kidding,” you said, wiping a tear at his reaction. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

He let out a heavy sigh of relief, but you could still see the grump lines on his face. “Good. Otherwise I would’ve painted your face blue,” he muttered, motioning to the paintbrush.

“Oh? You mean like this?”

You quickly snatched the brush out of his hands, and before he could even process what was going on, you had already swiped a stripe of blue paint over his stubbled cheek.

Bucky stood there, wide eyed. He swiped his thumb over the paint and looked down at his fingers, appalled. But while you were busy laughing in his face, a slow smile cracked across his lips. He suddenly lunged for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body from behind. He hooked the paintbrush back out of your hands, smearing a streak of blue over your face as well.

“Bucky, stop!” you yelled, thrashing in his arms as you just barely dodged the bristles that were tickling your chin with paint. “Stop! I can’t be covered in paint—I have to work!” you argued, despite the breathless laughter breaking in between your words.

“Yeah, well. You should’ve thought about that before you attacked me first, sweetheart.”

From that day onward, your week with Bucky had been filled with more laughter than you’ve had in the entire course of previous months.

Each day was eventful—Bucky was always up early in the morning working on the complex, somehow always managing to find new things to fix, while you arrived with cups of coffee and a bag of treats for Alpine.

During break times, you and Bucky would eat lunch together in his apartment, and he introduced you to more and more of his music.

Every time you two worked, he always had his music playing. Slowly, you started to become fond of it. There were even a few tracks of his that you liked so much, you actually saved them to your own playlist. And every time you asked him for the track title, Bucky would laugh and say, “See? I told you my mixes are good.”

Now, you were sitting on his beanbag chair with your legs crossed, the two of you eating pitas with cold beers to wash them down.

“It’s all about the frequencies,” Bucky said, gesturing to the DJ controller sitting on his desk. He set his beer down, leaning forward as his fingers traced the knobs and sliders. “You’ve got your lows, mids, and highs. If I want to drop the bass out to create suspense before the hook hits, I twist this dial right here.”

He clicked a button, and the beat lost its thump thump, turning into an airy synth. Then, he slid a fader up, and the thumping beat came back in.

“That’s pretty cool. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” You leaned your head back against the beanbag, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I just thought guys up there would bop their heads to pre-made music and pretend like they’re doing something. I didn’t think they played it all live.”

Bucky chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he swiveled his chair to face you. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

He glanced at his desk, then back to you. “Come here,” he nodded his head toward the console. “Try playing something.”

“What?” you said, sitting up straight. “No. Knowing my luck, I’d touch something and it’d break.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Who would’ve thought that the very woman who had threatened to throw his entire DJ setup out the window was actually too scared to even touch it?

“Enough of that. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, you knew he wasn’t going to let this up. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the beanbag chair and walked over to him. He scooted his chair back, giving you the space to step right up to his setup.

You felt your face warm up instantly when he swiveled right back around, locking you between his desk and his lap.

“Sit down,” Bucky instructed from behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and swallowed hard. His lap was spread, and he was leaning as far back in his chair as possible to make space for you. You wanted to make an excuse, to say you were much better off standing, but you knew Bucky would just fight you on it.

Mustering up your courage, you sat down, pressing your bottom directly into his lap. Bucky didn’t seem to mind it at all—meanwhile, your face was burning like crazy.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching around you to grab your arm. He guided it toward one of the sliders and placed his hand firmly over yours, setting your fingers down gently on the control.

Bucky’s palm was rough and warm against the back of your hand.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing into your back, and you could feel the rumbly vibration of his chuckle against you.

“Relax,” he murmured right against your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

You hated him. You really did.

“Bucky, I swear to God—”

Bucky nudged your hand forward, forcing your fingers to slowly push the slider upward. As the fader moved, the track playing through the monitors began to warp.

“That’s the high-pass filter,” Bucky explained softly. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his thighs under your bottom. “Hear how it cuts out the low end? Now, wait for the timer on the screen to hit zero, and slam it back down.”

You did exactly as instructed, yanking it down the second the timer hit zero, and a smile broke across your face at the bass.

“Wow, that sounds pretty good,” you breathed.

Curiosity got the best of you, and you started to play around with the different sliders on your own—creating a whole new funky and out of beat mix. You messed with the distortion and the reverb, and it sounded terrible enough to make you burst into laughter, with Bucky laughing right along beneath you.

You pressed a button, then a beep! noise came after. A red light started blinking at the soundboard.

“You’re recording now,” he said. “Want to sing something?”

“God, no.” You laughed.

Sooner or later, you felt his hands slowly drift from your arms down to your hips. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind his touch one bit. It felt entirely natural. Like his hands were always meant to be right there—guiding you, holding you…

“Come watch me play on Friday,” he murmured gently.

You looked down at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. Bucky had been staring up at you this entire time. His blue eyes bored right into yours the minute you made eye contact, with no intention to break it first.

“Bucky, I…”

“I can get you in for free—you can skip the line, or come whenever you want. Just take one night off for yourself. You deserve it.”

You chewed your lower lip, feeling apprehensive. You and Bucky had done enough hard work over the last few days to compensate for the rest of the week, essentially clearing your schedule.

Looking into Bucky’s eyes—seeing the blue glimmer with hope just like the Greek ocean does on a sunny day—made it so much harder to say no. He had done so much for you these past few weeks, and the very least you could do was watch him do something he was truly passionate about.

“Fine. But only if you play my favorite tracks,” you said with a teasing smile.

Bucky blinked, as if he hadn’t heard you right.

Then, his lips pulled into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen from him. His grip on your hips tightened before trailing up to your waist. Hell, he’d delete this entire set he had been working on for months if it meant you’d come watch him.

He was so overjoyed with excitement that he didn’t offer any words to prove it.

Instead, he pulled your waist a little tighter, tilted his head up, and kissed you.

You froze, your eyes going wide as his warm lips connected with yours.

You?

Kissing Bucky?

You never thought you would see the day. But the second his slick lips began to dance with yours—the second his tongue pushed past your lips to taste you—it was like all the stress from before this, all the emotional drain from your breakup with John, disappeared in an instant.

“Mmm,” you moaned into the kiss. Your hands flew to the back of his neck, burying into his messy brown hair and giving it a firm tug that made him groan right back against your mouth.

Bucky’s hands slid up from your waist, his large palms smoothing against your ribs and moving to your back to pull you closer against him.

He tasted like the cold beer, but his mouth was intoxicating heat.

Bucky had his fair share of kisses with women—just as you had your fair share of makeout sessions with John. But neither of you had to say a single word to know that this was it. This kiss shared between you two was like no other.

His hands roamed under your tank top, his fingers tickling your lower back as he trailed upward.

Of course, you had no bra on. You never wore one in this suffocating summer heat. That was one of Bucky’s favorite things about you.

Bucky broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head leaning back against the chair to gaze up at you. His eyes flickered down, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal your smooth belly. He had seen your midriff from a distance whenever you bent over in your office—but never up close like this.

He groaned hungrily, then leaned in, pressing soft, warm kisses to your abdomen.

“A—ah, Bucky…” you mewled, squirming from the ticklish sensation.

He looked up at you with the softest eyes a boy could have, leaning his cheek right against your fluttering stomach. His stubble made you ticklish, but he didn’t pull away.

“I love it when you say my name like that,” he sighed dreamily. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your face warmed and you stammered, avoiding eye contact.

It was clear to Bucky that you weren’t used to receiving compliments, especially not from your no-good ex-boyfriend, John Walker.

But that was okay, because Bucky was here to change that.

“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. You tried to shy away from his compliment again, but his fingers trailed up to your chin, tilting your head down so you were forced to look at him.

“The prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile,” his thumb traced patterns on your bare hip. “And the prettiest lips. God, those lips.”

He leaned in to press his lips against yours once more. Your tongues danced in a warm embrace as he slowly began to undress you, starting with your tank top. His hands eagerly lifted the fabric, breaking the kiss momentarily just so he could pull it over your head before his mouth crashed right back down onto yours.

In between kisses, he would murmur things like, “So beautiful,” and “Mine,” every soft word matching the steady blood flow pumping from his heart and straight to cock.

When his hands found the button of your shorts, you rolled your hips forward, grinding that hot, delicious heat right against the growing bulge in his jeans.

He chuckled raspily against your lips before pulling away, his lips swollen and his chin sheen with exchanged saliva.

“Eager little thing, are you?”

You groaned in annoyance, though it sounded incredibly sexy to his ears.

You worked at his belt, then moved to the button of his jeans. “Take these off.”

Bucky clicked his tongue. His hand caught your wrist, gently prying it away from his pants. “You’ve ought to learn how to say please.”

His arms wrapped securely around your body, lifting you up from the chair so suddenly that you yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He led you quickly over to the edge of his bed, setting your body down and tucking himself right between your thighs.

“Besides,” he breathed, eagerly pulling your shorts down along with your panties and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’m still not done with you. I want to take my time worshiping this fucking body.”

You lay there sprawled out and bare while Bucky was still fully clothed. It was overwhelming, but you didn’t have time to fully process it before Bucky’s head tucked between your thighs, his nose pressing to your base as he inhaled deeply.

“Fuck, you’re dripping already.”

You arched your back, letting out a shocked gasp. “B-Bucky—! What are you—!”

“Relax,” he murmured against your sensitive skin, his hands finding your outer thighs and prying them wider for him. “Just want to taste you, baby.”

Bucky’s tongue swiped flat against your dripping center, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. He groaned, letting the taste of you linger on his mouth.

He glanced to look at you between your legs, and the sight of your face—brows pinching together with your bottom lip caught between your teeth—made his cock painfully hard. You lying bare in front of him was an invitation for him to sink his cock into you, but he wanted to savor this.

He tucked his head back down, lapping at your pussy sloppily. His warm tongue would tease your entrance with every flick, before slowly dragging up. He’d press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing his tongue deep against your clit and dragging his tongue up and down quickly to make you cry out in pleasure.

“Bucky—please, oh god, Bucky—!”

He swirled his tongue around the swollen peak of your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a light tug that had your toes curling around his head.

You were so deprived of intimate touches, never being ate out in a way that Bucky was eating you out, and you already felt like you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.

“Don’t stop, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, hand coming up to your mouth to muffle your cries.

Bucky had no intention of stopping.

He doubled his efforts, the sound of his wet tongue squelching against your cunt, lapping at every drip your arousal gave him. He was eager to make you fall apart, to listen to you cry out his name as you came all over his face.

Bucky inhaled sharply as you began riding his tongue with abandon. You were being selfish—chasing your high. He knew you were that kind of woman, to take what you wanted, and fuck, did he love you for it. Especially when you’re riding his face for your own pleasure, not even caring if he could breathe or not.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, tossing your head. “Fuck me with your tongue, Bucky. I’m gonna cum—!”

Your eyes went wide when you realized you were about to let out more than you could handle. But you couldn’t stop—not when Bucky was pressing his tongue firmly against your clit and holding your thighs down with his strong hands.

“Bucky—wait, I…” before you could warn him, your back arched off the bed into a cry.

Your orgasm came hot and hard, pleasure suddenly flooding your senses as you felt yourself gush around his tongue. Bucky’s face was drowning with your juices, your puffy cunt clenching around his mouth. Your wet essence trickled down your thighs and stained his bedsheets vulgarly, leaving a wet spot beneath you.

“Oh my god,” you panted, face burning hot as you fought to catch your breath.

Bucky finally pulled away, a smug grin plastered on his face while his chin was dripping with your juice. You watched as he licked his lips, the gesture only making you want to sink deeper into his bed from embarrassment.

“Look at that,” he kneeled back, hand rubbing his hard cock through his jeans. “You made a real mess on my bed.”

Your eyes were shamelessly glued to the way his dick was printed against his pants. It was strained tight against the denim, and you could see the heavy outline of his tip, spurting pre-cum and dampening his thigh with his own juice.

“I’m… I’m sorry…”

Bucky chuckled—a deep, raspy sound that made you clench around nothing.

“God, baby. You’ve got my dick so hard, it hurts,” he rasped, finally pulling his cock out of his pants and kicking the article off the bed. “You already came so much. I don’t know if you can go another round.”

You weren’t sure, either. But with the way he was jerking himself off, that heavy string of pre-cum dangling from his tip, and the way his balls looked so full and desperate for relief, you were determined to go another.

He crawled over you, dragging his tip along your shaking inner thigh and against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness as he probed you.

You were so sensitive, your pussy puffy and aching, yet when he pushed his tip in to test you, your cunt parted for him so easily. You winced, your overworked pussy already fluttering around his tip despite yourself.

“Please, Bucky…” you whined, and it might’ve been the cutest thing Bucky had ever heard. “Put it in. It hurts…”

“It hurts? Aw, baby. But I bet you’re not hurting as much as I am.” He grabbed your hand, guiding it down to his cock. It was so hot, his skin smooth as it twitched under your fingertips. “Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, aligning himself perfectly so he could sink in deeper, pushing his tip past your tight walls until half of his cock was embraced by your warmth.

“Fuck, you’re tight… even after cumming,” he hissed, his face tightening as he eagerly pushed his hips forward to stretch you out. “Like you were made for this.”

Already sensitive, the sudden fullness was overwhelming. A high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on him, tightening around the middle of his cock where he was thickest.

You whimpered and winced, trying to accommodate him, and Bucky felt his heart soar.

You were usually always so demanding, wound up so tight from constantly being overworked, and now you were wound up tight from his cock bottoming out in your pussy. Each moan and gasp of breath that left your lips made his cock twitch and his balls heavier.

“Those cute little noises—it makes my cock throb so hard,” he groaned.

Once his cock was fully sheathed inside, he started to pick up the pace, his balls slapping against you with wet and obscene smacks. His room—usually filled with the sounds of his music—was now filled with the sounds of your moans, and that was the greatest sound Bucky had ever produced.

He was fucking you so deep, each thrust met with curses and grunts. “So fucking beautiful,” “What a tight little pussy, fuck.” “You’re gonna make me cum so fast. M’already getting close…”

Each moan that left his lips made white spots dance around your vision. He was so deep, you could feel him in your gut. Pressure was building fast in your lower abdomen—a fullness that was equally agonizing and overwhelming.

Bucky’s big body was enveloping yours, his chest pressed into your sweaty one as he rocked his hips sensual and deep. He quickened his pace, in and out, in and out, until he felt his balls clench up.

“Shit, shit—” he gasped into your shoulder. “Not gonna last.”

Your pussy was like a drug. It was addicting, the way you would squeeze and flutter around him. Despite him making you squirt all over his sheets just minutes ago, you were already edging on your next orgasm. He felt every ripple and pulse your cunt had to offer—pumping him with your pussy before you cried out in pleasure so overwhelming, it made you see stars.

“Bucky!” you screamed, “oh my god—I’m cumming again—I can’t—”

Fuck, this was the fastest he had ever came.

“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” he pleaded with a broken voice.

That was essentially your warning that he was gonna cum inside. And when you nodded, that was his invitation to do it.

His entire body coiled up tight as he started pumping you full of his backed up seed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex before you. All that mattered now was that his balls were finally being drained inside the person he wanted to pump them in the most—his precious landlord.

“Shit. I’m cumming, fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight—” he gasped as his body collapsed over you, huffing angry groans as his body tensed—draining every drop of his cum into your overly fucked pussy.

The two of you lay tangled in each other’s sweaty limbs, melting under the shared, musky scent of sex.

While Bucky was catching his breath, he peppered you with wet kisses—to your collarbones, shoulders, neck, and chin.

“You’re so pretty. Could lay with you forever—just like this.”

Who knew that Bucky Barnes, of all people, was the one person you slept with who made you feel more pleasure and adored than John ever had?

Your heart felt too big for your chest, and you felt like you wanted to cry. The way he held you and murmured sweet things to soothe your heart—it all became too much.

A small sniffling sound escaped you before you could stop it, and Bucky caught it immediately. He tilted his head up and looked at you, wide eyed.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed so softly, his palms coming up to caress your cheeks so you would look at him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Bucky was so soft, looking at you with wide, adoring eyes, like you were the only woman in the world and the only one he wanted to be with. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who always made sure to get a rise out of you just weeks ago.

“I’m… I’m okay,” you stammered. “I just… didn’t expect all this.”

Bucky frowned, his touch so delicate as if he were afraid of hurting you.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t apologize,” you interjected gently, your fingers running through his sweaty strands of dark hair so you could see his eyes. “I loved every bit of it.”

He searched your eyes, his brows furrowing with vulnerability as he tried to find the truth in your words. When you held his gaze, showing how sincere you were, his frown tilted back into a sheepish smile—a far cry from his usually smug grins that you always wanted to wipe off.

“Good. Because I don’t regret a single bit of it,” he leaned in, capturing your lips with a wet kiss. “You better come on Friday. Watch me play. Then, after my set, we’ll come back home and make love all over again.”

You grinned at how blatant he was. But lying here with him, soaked up in each other’s essence, it was hard for you to say no.

“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”

With how busy you were taking care of the complex, Friday night came in the blink of an eye.

Despite living in Greece, on an island notorious for its nightlife, you weren’t a fan of clubbing at all. You were always so busy, elbows deep in the run down housing complex just to keep it afloat—so naturally, you didn’t have anything to wear.

When you had asked Bucky for advice, he told you, “Whether you wear a short skimpy dress or a skirt that goes down to your ankles, I’ll be tearing it off later in bed.”

You had rolled your eyes at that before settling on a dress that was far too short and far too tight for your liking. But you couldn’t be bothered to care, considering the club would be dark and packed enough with bodies that no one would notice your outfit anyway.

You arrived later than you had anticipated, having been caught up with last minute paperwork and calls. By the time you got there, the club was already packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with colorful neon strobe lights dancing across the crowd.

Your eyes naturally gravitated to the stage, where a familiar—if slightly fancier—DJ setup stood right in the center.

And of course, Bucky was right behind it.

He was manning the mixer, getting lost in his own music while the lights danced around him. One hand was resting on the mixer while the other rested on his headset. He kept his promise of playing your favorite tracks—and you couldn’t help but smile with the way he had everyone dancing in the center.

You felt out of place, standing awkwardly by the bar while everyone danced drunkenly around you. Unlike Bucky, this was not your element at all. But you took the night off, making a promise to yourself, and Bucky, that you would enjoy yourself.

Remembering Bucky’s instructions from earlier that day, “Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want,” you pushed your way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention for a drink.

A guy with a slammed expression who looked like he’d been dealing with unruly tourists all night finally looked at you.

“Hey,” you shouted over the music.

“What’ll it be, miss?”

“A double Tsipouro—I’m with Bucky,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the DJ who was currently mixing your favorite track.

The bartender paused, looking at Bucky on stage, then back at you with an irritated scoff.

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” he grabbed a double shot glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it towards you. “That’ll be €8.”

You frowned. You contemplated on arguing back, but the local girls next to you giggled after they eavesdropped on the interaction, and by then, the bartender was already tending to the next person.

With a sigh that felt almost self-deprecating, you downed the shot without a chaser, and tried to enjoy the rest of the night listening to Bucky’s set without letting that interaction get to you.

After a couple of shots—that you all paid for—you went from being buzzed to intoxicated. You were dancing by yourself in the crowd, relishing every bass and beat that Bucky was throwing up on stage. When an unexpected hand came to rest on your lower back, you instantly spun around to tell the guy off.

“Hey, get your hands off—!” but you stopped when you saw Steve standing right in front of you with Sam right next to him.

“If it isn’t Bucky’s landlord,” Sam teased with a tone that brought good intentions, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you here.”

“Did Bucky drag you out tonight?” Steve asked.

With the alcohol bubbling in your bloodstream, you weren’t sure if you hid your flustered expression well.

You had no clue how much Bucky had told his friends about you—how you two were technically a ‘thing’ now, despite not officially talking about it.

“Yeah,” you shouted back. “He wanted me to come out tonight to watch his set. He’s really good.”

“He definitely is,” Steve agreed, then grabbed your hand. “Well, if you’re out here to party, better make the most of it.”

You laughed as Sam and Steve pulled you further into a clearer pocket of the crowd. With the two guys next to you—warding off the other drunk men who tried getting close to you—you actually started to let loose. You were laughing, your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.

During a transition, you looked up at the stage to see if Bucky had noticed you in the crowd yet.

But then your smile faltered, and you realized you were no longer dancing.

A small group of girls—dressed in tight outfits and looking beautiful—had managed to bypass the side security and were now crowding his DJ setup. They were drunk, based on the way they were stumbling and trying to grind on Bucky—who you thought was just trying to focus on his music. But he smiled.

You didn’t know if that was him trying to save face because he was right there, in front of a whole crowd, but from where you were standing, it seemed like he enjoyed every bit of the attention they were giving him.

You looked down, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious in your dress.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sam reassured you as he continued dancing. “People get on stage all the time, no matter who’s playing. His set is ending soon, anyway.”

Based on Sam and Steve’s expressions, they weren’t soothing your insecurities, but rather assuming you were just expressing concern for a friend’s safety. They didn’t know you and Bucky had a thing going on at all.

You tried to push those thoughts away for the rest of the night, but how could you? Not when every single time you looked up to see Bucky—the person you came out tonight for—he was being smothered by and dancing with half dressed girls.

You tried to get lost in the music, but instead, you were getting lost in your own thoughts.

It was a horrible, familiar feeling.

It was the exact same feeling you had felt with John, who had sworn he only had eyes for you while routinely crossing boundaries, making you feel like you were crazy for caring, and eventually cheating on you. You had promised yourself you would never let a man make you feel that way again.

And yet, here you were.

You thought about the night you and Bucky had just shared. But what was it to him? Just a fun distraction with his landlord? The woman he always swore he hated? Were you just another checkbox on his list—one he sought after simply because you were ‘playing hard to get’ in his eyes?

Bucky was a playboy. His friends knew it. You knew it. And hell, even the only other tenant in the complex—who was deaf, mind you—knew it.

You were the one who had to watch him constantly bring different girls back to his place week after week. You were the one always barging in on them with noise complaints. He was charming, hot, and clearly popular in clubs, and he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted.

“Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want.”

And on top of it all, you remembered what the bartender had said.

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before.”

He had heard it before because Bucky had probably used that exact same line on a dozen other girls.

You weren’t special.

You were just the latest girl on his list, foolish enough to believe his sweet compliments after he ravished you in bed—the very same bed he had shared with countless other women.

Tears stung the backs of your eyes, blurring the flashing strobe lights into a messy smear of color. Your throat choked up, your chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.

“Hey,” Steve leaned down, noticing your expression. “You okay?”

You couldn’t even answer him. If you opened your mouth, a sob would escape.

You tried to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt—that this was just his job, that he had to put on a pretty smile and perform. But as you looked up and saw him with a drunk smile, leaning closer to a woman who had her hand on his chest and was shouting something in his ear, that was it for you.

“Sorry, I—I… um, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s due tomorrow morning,” you lied, trying your best to sound steady. “Have fun tonight.”

Steve and Sam offered to take you home, but you couldn’t let them. You needed to be alone.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You took a cab back by yourself, drunkenly stumbling into the complex’s office with only one thing on your mind. It wasn’t because of stupid paperwork or bills. It was to tear up Bucky’s lease.

You shoved the key into the lock with a clumsy hand. Bursting inside the small office, you slammed the door shut behind you.

The office was dark, but sitting right there in the very center was Alpine. The white cat lifted her head from her food bowl, kibble crumbs decorating her white, fuzzy chin as she blinked tiredly at you.

The sight of her made the tears spill over your cheeks. You were intoxicated, heartbroken, and your emotions were at an all time high— looking at the cat you two took care of together only made the anger burn hotter in your already fragile heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you choked out, pointing a shaky finger at the cat. “You and your stupid dad. Your stupid, lying, playboy dad!”

Alpine blinked before letting out a mighty yawn for such a small body. Then, she turned her attention back to her food, completely indifferent to your emotional breakdown.

“Yeah, go ahead and eat!” you cried, wiping furiously at your wet face. “Enjoy it, because both of you are packing your bags! He thinks he can just… smile and say the right things, and I’ll just let my guard down and let him in?”

You marched past the cat and stormed over to the filing cabinets. You grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer and yanked it open so hard that it rattled.

“Where is it…” you muttered, your vision blurred by tears as you began rummaging through the folders. You tossed utility bills, maintenance requests, and old plumbing receipts over your shoulder. “Where is that stupid piece of paper?”

You were going to find his lease.

You were going to tear it into a million pieces, throw it in his face, and kick Bucky Barnes out of your complex.

The office door suddenly pushed open, and you jumped at the unexpected intruder who just barged in.

Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as the moonlight outlined his body from behind. Any other woman probably would’ve seen him as a god, but to you, he just looked like a man spawned from the very depths of hell.

He looked like he had run all the way from the club—but he couldn’t have, not with how fast he got here.

“Why did you come back here?” He panted.

“Get out of my sight,” you mumbled, so quietly that it was like a part of you didn’t want to mean it.

He ignored you, stepping closer as he caught his breath. “Steve told me you left before I could finish my set—said that you had paperwork to do, but that can’t be right. You told me you cleared your schedule just so you could go to the club tonight—”

“Yeah—well, plans change,” you muttered, finally pulling his folder out from the others. You sorted through it until you found his paperwork, gripping it firmly in your hands.

When Bucky stepped closer and realized what you were doing—your fingers positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like you were about to rip it—he stormed over and snatched the paper right out of your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with that?!”

You glared up at him, your head spinning so fast it hurt. “I’m tearing up your lease. I’m evicting you.”

Bucky blinked, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.

“Are you trying to play with me right now?” He sighed, setting the paper safely on top of the filing cabinet before bending down to try and lift you up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re drunk right now—”

You slapped his hands away, pushing yourself up to stand on your own. “What? Get me in bed so you can add me to the long roster of women you fuck?”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes went wide, looking nearly as hurt as you felt just from that accusation alone. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t think I don’t know!” a sob ripped from your throat, and you hated how weak it made you sound. “You and your notorious record for being nothing but a player who plays stupid music. You know—it makes sense, actually!”

You hiccuped, slurring your words between tears.

“You being a DJ and playing in clubs and all. It’s such a classic tale, isn’t it? How easy it is for men like you to just… pick up women and bring them home in the middle of the night. And I’m always the one cleaning up your messes and kicking them out the next morning,” you laughed at yourself.

You probably looked insane in his eyes, but you didn’t care.

“Now, look at me. I’m the mess, and no one is there to clean me up. I was stupid to think I was different.”

What the hell were you saying?

None of it even made sense to you anymore. All you felt was an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt. Your head was pounding so bad that you just wanted to lie down and sob until there were no more tears left.

Despite every cruel word you hurled at him, Bucky didn’t get angry. How could he? When almost every word you said was nothing but the truth. All the talk about him being a player, blasting his stupid music loud enough to hurt your eardrums—he couldn’t deny any of it.

Except for one thing, and that was you thinking you weren’t different.

With a soft sigh, his shoulders slumped. He stepped closer, moving quietly so as to not startle you like a cat. When he was finally within reach, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body, pulling you close against his chest in a comforting hug.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered gently against your temple, his voice rough. “You saw all those girls huddled around me at the club, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I made you feel like this.”

You jammed your fists against his chest, weak and uncoordinated. But the alcohol had drained all your strength, leaving you hollowed out and drowning in your own tears.

Bucky took every pathetic blow you gave him, and instead of pulling away, he just tightened his arms around you. With a broken sob, you collapsed into his chest, burying your wet face in his shirt.

You hated this. You hated how every time you were upset, Bucky was always right there, comforting you in this very office. And you especially hated that, despite him being the cause of your current distress, you were still seeking his comfort.

One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers caressing through your hair, while his other arm held you around your waist.

“I’ve got you, baby. Just breathe.”

You were a weeping, hiccuping mess, your shoulders shaking violently as months of built up insecurity and old, unhealed wounds from John came pouring out all at once. You stained his shirt with your tears and ruined makeup, but Bucky didn’t seem to care at all.

He just held you, swaying you slightly from side to side in the quiet, dark office.

“I know what you’re scared of,” Bucky started with a gentle murmur. “You’ve gotten your heart broken, and you’re scared of opening up and getting hurt again.”

He rested his chin on your head with a sigh, looking blankly at the wall with eyes full of regret.

“And I don’t blame you for feeling that way towards me. I’ve been an awful guy to you from the start, and even now, I failed to make you feel secure with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, hoping it would help.

“There was no woman that came before you, and I have no intentions of anyone coming after.”

You wanted to believe him, but everything that left his mouth was just noise. Even drunk and vulnerable, you could feel your heart closing on him to shut him out.

You slowly pulled back, your hands pressing against his chest—not out of anger, but out of a desperate need for distance.

Bucky let you go reluctantly, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips, his blue eyes searching your face with a fragile and heartbreaking hope that made it even harder for you to look away.

“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you whispered. “I like you. I like you so much, and I want to love you... but I can’t. I don’t want to get hurt again. I just want things to go back to the way it was before. Me as your landlord, and you as my tenant. That’s it.”

Bucky knew he deserved every ounce of your doubt, but he hadn’t braced himself for the hurt that came with it.

Still, he forced a pained, tight lipped smile, his eyes telling you just how much he was hurting. His hands twitched on your hips, a painful urge passing through him to pull you back, to hold you against his chest and never let you go.

The words I love you rushed to the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He wanted to shout it, to promise you the world, to prove to you that he was entirely yours.

But as he looked down at your tear-stained face—at the exhaustion and fear written in your eyes, all because of him—he stopped himself.

Even drunk, you still had the strength to look out for yourself. And because he cared about you more than his own need to fix things, he respected your wishes. He wouldn’t use your vulnerability to force a confession on you. He had always been a selfish man, but he couldn’t afford to be one now.

Bucky swallowed hard, a visible lump forming in his throat as he forced the words back down. His shoulders slumped as he finally accepted defeat.

Slowly, his hands dropped from your hips. He took a single step backward, giving you the space you asked for.

“I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re ever ready to open your heart to someone again—please, let me be that person.”

Bucky kept his word and left you alone.

Yet, there were countless times when he found himself pacing in his room, or lingering just outside your office, waiting to see if you would open your heart to him again. He held onto the smallest bit of hope that the words you had shouted in a drunken blaze were words you didn’t truly mean—that they had simply come from a place of deeply unhealed hurt.

He stayed close, waiting for a knock on his door, hoping you would tell him you were ready to talk. But that knock never came.

Just like him, you also kept your word and went right back to treating him as if he were nothing more than the annoying tenant from the very beginning.

He still helped you around the complex whenever he had the time—entirely on his own insistence. But every time he found himself in the same room as you, you would make up some excuse just to get away from him.

“I need to stop by the store and buy litter for Alpine.”

“Georgia forgot to pick up her mail. I’m going to hand it to her.”

You were like a stone of indifference—not happy, but not angry either. It was starting to get frustrating.

He knew he should have respected your space, but the more you strayed away from him—not only emotionally, but physically—the more restless he grew. Maybe it was the immature side of him creeping in, but he started to take your pleas as a challenge. You wanted things to go back to normal? Back to how things were before his heart fell for you?

Fine. He would make sure to do exactly that.

The next afternoon, the entire building—which had been quiet for the past few days—began to shake.

It was that same, robotic warping noise that always rattled the ceiling of your office. It started with the usual thump, thump, thump, before the bass dropped into the most annoying sound nonsense you had ever heard in your life.

It was Bucky’s music. Except this was nothing like the tracks he knew you actually liked, and it was louder than it had been in months.

For the past few weeks, he had been playing his music through headphones or keeping the volume respectful. But right now, he was blasting it with a vengeance, the aggressive electronic beats making the light fixtures tremble.

You tried to ignore it for ten minutes. You tried to focus on your paperwork, but the relentless oonts oonts oonts was making your teeth rattle and your head pound. You knew exactly what he was playing at. He was trying to get your attention—but you wouldn’t give in. You refused to.

But then, a family of tourists walked past the front of your office. The daughter pointed up at the building, and the mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head in disapproval at the noise.

Shoving your chair back, you marched out of the office and stormed up the stairs.

You banged on Bucky’s door roughly. “Bucky! Turn that music down right now!”

You were furious, but for Bucky, this was the greatest moment of his week. He grinned, pretending not to hear you, and bumped the volume up just a tad louder.

You knocked again, but he ignored it. When you started cursing under your breath—which Bucky thought was the cutest thing he’d heard in what felt like forever, aside from Alpine’s meows—you finally fished out your master keys to unlock his door yourself.

“Do you mind?” you snapped, stepping into his apartment. “I have potential tenants walking past, and your absolute garbage music is running them off!”

Bucky was leaning back in his chair, lazily reaching over to slide a fader down.

“Garbage?” Bucky echoed, the cocky grin on his face not shrinking one bit. “You didn’t call it that when you were sitting on my lap and playing with my mixer, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widened—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he had gotten a reaction out of you, and to him, that was like a man finally finding water in the desert.

“Just turn it down!” you demanded, already turning away and slamming the door shut behind you.

Throughout the rest of the week, Bucky realized he couldn’t hold your attention for more than five minutes with just his music blasting alone.

He was working on a mix—one that wasn’t meant for his club sets, but one that would definitely catch your attention. What was distracting him more, though, was the sound of your giggles echoing all the way from your office.

A tourist had been sitting in there with you. Initially, Bucky thought it was just a potential renter. But as the minutes dragged into over an hour, he realized that the man in question had absolutely no intention of signing a lease. He was trying to get with you.

With the floorboards being so thin, Bucky could hear everything. The guy was a blatant flirt, and you were laughing and giggling cutely at every single word he said, convinced you were just sealing the deal on an apartment.

Bucky, moved by petty retaliation, queued up special track he was working on.

The beat was slower than usual—the exact kind that would have people drunkenly grinding against each other at a club. He dialed a knob, weaving the explicit, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathless moans right into the track, letting it echo loudly through the thin flooring.

Downstairs, your laugh died in your throat.

Your eyes widened slightly, your jaw hanging loose before a rush of heat flooded your cheeks. The tourist blinked, his charming smile faltering as the loud, provocative audio filled the small office space.

“What an interesting song,” he forced an awkward chuckle. “Didn’t know you had a DJ living in here.”

You sat stiffly in your chair, a storm of emotions thundering in your chest. Embarrassment came first, but right behind it was a wave of shock and a sickening twist of jealousy that nearly choked you.

He brought a girl over? While I'm down here working?

He actually had the audacity to do that after everything he said to you? After he said he’d be your person once you opened your heart again?

“So, anyway,” the tourist continued, oblivious. “Since you’re a local—do you think you could show me some cool spots around here? Maybe we could start with dinner?”

You didn’t even realize how jealous you actually were until that exact moment.

Knowing that another woman might be in his apartment, touching him, making those sounds, made your blood boil and your fists curl tightly under the desk. You thought you were protecting your heart by keeping him at a distance, but hearing this only proved your heart was still hopelessly tied to him.

And right now, those ties were threatening to snap and hit him right in the face.

“Excuse me,” you choked out to the man seated in front of you, abruptly stepping away from your desk.

Every step up the stairs was a stomp accentuated by your anger, the explicit moaning getting louder and more humiliating with every flight you climbed. By the time you reached his door, you were already drowning in an emotional cocktail of rage and heartbreak.

You threw the door open, ready to scream at him and whatever woman he had hidden away in his room.

“What the fuck is your problem, Bucky!”

The door banged hard against the wall as you stormed into the apartment, your chest heaving, your vision tunneling with pure rage. You were so flustered, so blindingly angry, that the words just started spilling out of you before you could even think to filter them. You were desperate to cover up the humiliating jealousy tearing through you, but it only made you sound more unhinged.

“I am trying to run a business downstairs! I just had a guy down there, a potential tenant, and then... then you had to go and bring some woman over and—and do this while—”

You paused, letting your eyes sweep across the room, only to find an empty bed.

“Where is she?” you hissed.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, leg crossing the other as he folded his arms over his chest, looking far too smug for his own good.

“Where’s who?”

Your brow twitched with annoyance. You huffed a stray hair out of your face, waving a hand around the room. “The girl.”

Bucky tilted his head, playing dumb. “What girl?”

“The girl!” you screeched out. “The girl you have over right now—that’s… that’s making all these vulgar and indecent moaning noises because you don’t know how to keep your dick, much less your promises, in your pants for more than a week!”

Bucky’s lips quirked up into a smile.

“I have been keeping both of those in my pants, thank you very much.” He turned back to his screen, his hands hovering over his mixer. “And you mean your vulgar and repulsive moaning noises?”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, defensive. “What?”

“Listen to it closely,” he said, slowly amping the volume up. Your soft and breathy moans of pleasure filled the room.

“That’s you.”

Your face twisted. With the heavy distortion overlaid by the beat, you couldn’t tell if he was just pulling your tail or being serious. You didn’t even remember recording anything like that when you played with his mixer.

“Stop playing in my face, Bucky.”

Bucky, still impassive as ever, simply shrugged. “You don’t recognize your own voice?”

Then, a breathy little whine came in that sounded much too familiar. “Bucky, Bucky, oh—”

Your eyes shot open so wide that your pupils stung. That was you, no doubt about it, just remixed in a way that an outsider couldn’t tell.

“That’s you moaning my name, sweetheart,” Bucky said, turning to you again with a smile.

He watched as your once angry posture began to deflate into a look of pure embarrassment. You started to stammer, your eyes darting everywhere in the room that wasn’t him. “I… I—I don’t even remember recording that.”

Bucky pushed himself off the chair with a light groan, sauntering over to you with confidence now that he knew he had the upper hand.

“You pressed the record button yourself when you were playing with my table a few weeks ago,” he explained casually.

Standing in front of you, he lifted his hand to gently caress your cheek. When his palm made contact with your soft skin without you pushing him away, his smile grew wider, and the prideful flames in his heart glowed hotter.

“What’s with that face?” he taunted, his voice low and gravelly in a way that did nothing but make your heart race faster. “After everything I said to you, did you really think I would bring a girl up here? Hm?”

Bucky tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes, which were currently glued to the ground—refusing to give him any attention.

“Don’t tell me—are you jealous?”

He knew the answer, and you did too—you just didn’t want to admit it. Despite you telling him, “No more relationship!” there was a part of you that didn’t want anyone else to have him, as selfish as it might be.

“No,” you lied.

“Okay,” he hummed in amusement. “But I am.”

You scoffed. “What are you on about?”

His eyes trailed the curves of your face—the very curves he had fallen in love with and peppered with kisses just a few weeks ago.

“I’m jealous over the fact that you have a guy downstairs making you laugh, when I haven’t seen a smile from you in days,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your lower lip. The sensation made you shudder.

You hated how much you were leaning into his touch. And you hated even more how much you liked the idea of him being jealous over you, just as you had been over the simple thought of him having another woman over.

“I’ve tried so hard to be patient,” he continued. “To wait and see if you’ll open your heart to me again. To see if you’ll finally let your walls down and believe the words I said. But I can’t be patient when there’s a guy down there capturing your attention so easily, when the only way I can get yours is by playing loud music.”

“And you playing a track with my moans in it makes you think you’ll win me over?” You furrowed your brows at him. “If anything, it only pisses me off. You’re distracting me and my customers, and I need you to stop.”

You tried to make yourself sound more furious than you actually felt, but it didn’t translate very well. Bucky simply licked his lower lip before catching it in a subtle bite, making your body tingle all over again.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “If you give me just one more chance to prove to you how much I care about you and how serious I am.”

You wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep that shield locked up with the key swallowed. But as you stared at him, hearing every sweet word that came out of his mouth, you realized how terribly you missed him.

God, you missed him.

You missed the moments when he would hold you in his arms after every problem, big or small. You missed the stupid afternoons down in the office, when you were supposed to be doing paperwork but ended up doing baseless chores with him instead—with Alpine inevitably scrambling up onto the desk and squeezing right between you two, demanding her own share of the attention. You missed hearing his music up close, sitting right on his lap while he guided your hand with his on the turntable.

You tried your best to keep your face stoic, to force down the screaming of longing in your chest so you wouldn’t cave. But Bucky saw right through you. He watched your shoulders ease up slightly, the way you chewed at your lower lip, and the way you were slowly unlocking that key in your heart.

Letting out a reluctant sigh that sounded like music to his ears, you mumbled, “Fine.”

Bucky’s smile widened.

“But you better not play this track anywhere. Not even to Steve or Sam,” you continued before he could speak, swatting weakly at his chest. “I’ll shoot you dead, Barnes—I mean it. That track is for your ears only.”

Rather than backing off, Bucky reached down and wrapped his arms firmly around your lower waist, pulling you close against him until your hips hit his, making you fluster at the proximity.

“Deal,” he whispered, leaning down even closer. “I’ll delete it if it makes you feel better, but only if I get to make you moan again like that for real—live and in person.”

Your breath hitched as his lips slid down to the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. Even though you two had been together like this before, the sudden closeness after days of agonizing distance made everything feel brand new, yet exactly right.

It was a feeling that, despite everything, you missed all too much.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” you breathed out as a final and weak attempt at keeping your guard up.

Bucky’s lips hummed deliciously against your neck, his mind already filled with things more than just hope.

“I’ll try.”

if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!

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When Bucky was told he had to go through government mandated therapy sessions, it might as well have felt like being put back into a sterile Hydra room.

He wanted to avoid it as best as he could—the mere idea of therapy didn’t sound pleasant at all. White walls and in an enclosed space, ostensibly designated to make him feel safe—a place to open up about his past and get “well” enough to prove to everyone that he was no longer a threat. No longer the Winter Soldier, but rather just a boy from Brooklyn. He almost laughed at the idea alone. As if therapy could help with that.

He had been trying to avoid several things lately. Text messages from Sam and these therapy sessions were at the top of the list. But if given the choice of which to face first, he’d actually choose the therapy.

Now, Bucky sat in the quiet waiting room, manspreading as his left knee bounced anxiously. He was hunched over, hands between his legs like a cat with its tail tucked.

He should get up and leave—go back to being a hermit in his small apartment on Union Street, and do his best to dodge these sessions until he got a call ordering him to try again. Then rinse and repeat.

The door in front of him clicked open, and you stepped out.

You wore a soft cardigan, and your hair was a little messy. Not totally unkempt, but he wouldn’t call it professional, either. You looked more like a regular, frazzled woman he’d bump into at a grocery store than a specialist meant to mend broken people and their emotions.

“James Barnes?” you called out, glancing around the small waiting room.

There were only two other people in the room—a man and a woman sitting just a few seats away—but you still looked right at the super soldier first.

Bucky lifted his head, meeting your eyes before pushing himself out of the chair with a huff. Here goes nothing.

“I’m here,” he said, raising a hand. He offered a tight-lipped smile meant to be friendly, but it fell flat.

You smiled warmly. It was inviting, but far too rehearsed for him to accept at face value.

Pushing the door open with your back pressed against the frame, you stepped aside to let him in. He gave another forced nod out of politeness as he entered the room.

Standing near the entryway, he paused and took in the surroundings. The room wasn’t what he expected at all. The walls were colorful, warm string lights hung across them. Several plants were arranged neatly around the space—more so near the windows. A large couch sat on one side while a simple lounge chair faced it. Against the wall stood a shelf lined with books tucked neatly inside— self-help, fiction, and biographies.

But what really caught his attention was the turntable sitting on top of it, with no record spinning.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, flipping the ‘THERAPY IN SESSION’ sign to face outward and shutting the door behind him. “Whether you want to take the couch, the chair, or even lie on the floor—it’s all fine by me!”

Bucky huffed out a short laugh, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “You have people who lie on the floor?”

You shrugged, removing your cardigan and draping it over the coat rack. “This is a judgment-free zone, James.”

You stood beside him with a smile, your hands folded neatly in front of you, and that’s when Bucky realized you were waiting for him to make a decision.

He eventually chose the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt, while you settled into the chair across from him.

“Have you ever been to therapy before?” you asked softly.

“No,” he replied—straightforward, honest, and flat.

You sifted through the papers attached to the clipboard in your lap, checking the records that were passed on by his psychiatrist. Bucky assumed the list of things wrong with him was longer than your weekly grocery list. You lifted your eyes back to him, noticing the obvious tension in his shoulders.

“It’s not as bad as they make it out to be,” you explained gently. “I won’t tire you out with the whole ‘what do you want to work on, why are you in therapy?’ nonsense,” you tried to say lightheartedly, waving your hand for emphasis. “I know that you’re only here out of a government mandate, but just know that I’m here to help you because there are people out there who care about you—”

A heavy, long sigh escaped Bucky’s nostrils before he could stop it.

You tilted your head with an innocent frown. “Is something the matter?”

Yes. There are a lot of things that matter—like how you’re saying your usual script for your other clients, claiming that you “care” when in reality, you care about dragging out the time until your pockets are full of green.

“No,” Bucky lied. “Nothing’s wrong. Go ahead.”

You knew he was lying, and you didn’t need to call him out on it to prove it.

After some awkward silence and being watched under your silent scrutiny, he eventually sighed and shifted awkwardly on the couch.

“It’s just… I doubt there are people out there who care about me, you know? Like…” he blew a raspberry, feeling like he was rambling now. “They couldn’t care less about what I do in a day.”

You set your clipboard aside. “And what did you do today?”

He blinked, not expecting that question at all.

“What did I do today?” he repeated with pinched brows. He shrugged. “I went for a walk at my nearby park, and then…”

He trailed off with a scrunch of his face.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t done much at all today.

“And then…?”

But for some reason, he didn’t want to seem as lame as he felt. So, he continued.

“I guess all my eventful stuff will be after this therapy session,” he explained. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with a friend.”

Your face lit up, and Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek. Your expectations for him were probably that low—you truly believed he didn’t have any friends to have lunch with.

“That’s great, James!”

Just wait until you find out that the person he was having lunch with is a man in his eighties with a son whom he had brutally murdered while he was the Winter Soldier.

“Yeah. His name’s Yori. We usually get sushi on Wednesdays.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m glad that you have a friend who’s close enough for you to find a routine with,” you said. Your eyes flickered to his gloved hand resting on his thigh. “Does he know?”

Bucky glanced down at his left glove. “I’m sorry?”

“Does he know about your arm, and about what you’ve done in your past?” you clarified in a gentle tone—well, as gentle as it could be given the subject.

Bucky flinched, and that action alone was enough to give you your answer. His eyes fell to the colorful patterns on your carpet, his left hand curling into a tight fist beneath his glove out of apprehension.

No. Of course Yori didn’t know.

He knew that being truthful to himself and to his therapist was the whole point of therapy—the whole point of getting better. But Bucky didn’t see the point in going into detail with the whole, “No, Yori doesn’t know, because then that’d mean I have to tell him I killed his son!” routine.

You frowned, leaning a bit closer. “If he doesn’t already know, you’re going to have to tell him.”

Bucky stayed quiet. The patterns on your carpet were stupid, but he couldn’t look away.

“Because if you don’t—if you continue to hide from someone who cares about you—you’re hiding a part of yourself,” you explained.

“It’s not that simple, doc.”

“Is it ever?” you asked with a small chuckle. “This is all about trust—not just for Yori, but for yourself, too. You have to trust yourself to find trust in others. And in order to trust yourself first, you can start with acceptance—accepting who you are and what you’ve done.”

“I can’t,” Bucky protested weakly. “If I tell him, everything will change. He’ll look at me differently and… and then we can’t have lunch—”

“—that’s the beauty of life, James. Change is a constant thing, and sometimes, it's completely outside of our control. Without change, there is no growth.”

Bucky stayed quiet.

You leaned back in your chair and suddenly asked, “Before everything that happened, what did you like to do?”

Bucky furrowed his brows. He had no idea where you were going with this, but he tagged along anyway—not like he had a choice in the matter, but just to get it over with.

“I liked listening to music.”

“Okay, okay,” you nodded, rubbing your chin. “What kind of music?”

“Forties music,” he replied.

“Has that ever changed?” you asked with genuine interest.

Bucky remembered the list of things Sam had told him to listen to before he ghosted him. Marvin Gaye was one of them. Had he listened to it at all?

“No,” Bucky answered.

It was like a light switch turned on in your head. You suddenly got up out of your chair, making him flinch, and walked over to where your record player sat. You crouched down, your fingers sifting through your large collection of records until they landed on one he didn’t recognize.

You pulled it out and revealed the record to him face-first with the brightest smile. It had four men walking across the street in flared jeans—and with hair too long for his liking.

“Abbey Road,” you announced, handing it to him. “The Beatles. Made thirty years after your time—but listen to it and tell me what you think.”

Bucky frowned, examining the cover. He wasn’t fond of your methods of getting accustomed to ‘change,’ but it could’ve been worse.

“Fine,” he sighed, pushing himself up from the couch as his session neared its end.

You led him out the door, holding it open for him. “I’ll see you again next week, and you can tell me what you think about it. And whether you like or don’t like it—just remember, change can be good, James.”

You pointed to the cover he held in his hands. “And personally, I think Abbey Road is very good,” you added with a grin.

Bucky, however, was surprisingly fond of how personal you were. He didn’t think that’d be possible with a therapist.

“Sure,” he said with a smile that felt just a tad less forced than the first one he had given you. “I’ll see you next week, doc.”

As he walked past your door and entered the waiting room, you also added with a shout that caught the other patient’s attention who were waiting, which could be seen as totally unprofessional:

“Oh, and if you’re grabbing sushi, order the fried tempura rolls!”

His back was already turned, and he made a face. Oddly enough, fried tempura rolls were something he’d never ordered before. Not only were you dictating his emotions, but now you were dictating his music choices and food as well?

He waved over his shoulder, letting you know he heard you, before disappearing around the corner with your vinyl in his hands.

Looking back down at it, he realized he didn’t even have a record player to put this on.

Shit.

Bucky had forced himself to do more things out of his comfort zone in the span of a week than he had ever since gaining his freedom in Wakanda.

Since his first session with you, he had gotten sushi with Yori and had tried the tempura roll. It was different from what he usually ordered—which was just nigiri and a beer—but surprisingly enough, he liked it. Even the waiter had raised an eyebrow when he pointed it out on the menu.

Then, after walking Yori home—who lived in the same complex, so it wasn’t much of a walk at all—he decided to stop by a music store just a couple of blocks away to listen to the vinyl you had given him.

The store had various music players that people could test, such as jukeboxes, CD players, radios, and record players.

Stepping inside, he was greeted by a friendly ding! from the door chimes. Bucky lifted Abbey Road in his hands. “Got any record players open?”

The boy behind the desk, who looked no older than twenty-two, pointed towards the back. “There’s one open, but it’s loud in here. Need headphones?”

Bucky furrowed his brows in confusion. “Headphones? For a turntable?”

The worker nodded with a shrug that was far too casual—it made Bucky feel stupid. “Yeah, we use headphone amplifiers for them.”

Bucky looked at the boy like he had grown a second head. The worker grabbed a pair of headphones from beneath the counter and nodded toward the other end of the store.

“Here, follow me.”

Bucky followed the boy’s lead to the turntable, which was far different than the ones he was used to back in the forties. Back then, turntables were usually in a small brown box, and the vinyls were never this size. The player in front of him was silver, sleek, and he didn’t even want to attempt to use it at the risk of making a fool of himself.

The boy, luckily, took charge. He grabbed Abbey Road from Bucky’s hands, popped it onto the platter, plugged in the headphones, and handed them to him.

“Enjoy,” he said, before walking back to his post behind the counter.

As Bucky slipped the headphones over his ears, he tried his best not to stare at the people around him. The customers in this store were young, with styles he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Piercings, colored hair, and tattoos.

It was different—but he liked it.

It was his next session with you.

Your hair was styled more neatly than it had been the last time he saw you, but your smile was still the same. Soft and welcoming.

“So,” you started with excitement. “What did you think of it?”

“It’s different from the music back in my day, but it was good,” Bucky said with a shrug that felt almost dismissive despite his honesty.

“What was your favorite song?” you pressed on.

His teeth caught his bottom lip as he tried to remember the one that stuck out to him the most. “The one with the sun, and how it’ll be alright?” he answered, though it sounded more like a question.

“Oh! Here Comes the Sun—that’s a popular one! One of my favorites, too!”

You sounded more excited over this than he felt. Your smile and enthusiastic energy were bouncing off the colorful walls and string lights—and Bucky couldn’t help but smile, too. It was contagious.

“Did you have a record player at home to play it on?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I went to a music store down the block and played it on one of their players.”

Your smile grew wider and your eyes softened. You had planned for this to happen—for him to step out of his comfort zone and find a way to listen to the music.

“And how was it?” you asked.

“Not my kind of crowd, but it wasn’t terrible,” he explained. “It was loud in there. People were blaring all kinds of music I’ve never even heard of.” He made a face at the memory. “The kid who worked there had to give me headphones so I could listen.”

Your eyes widened in confusion. “Headphones? To listen to a turntable? That’s a thing?”

Bucky was caught off guard by your reaction. Even over something as small as headphones, he liked that he wasn’t the only one who felt out of the loop.

“Yeah, the kid was trying to explain it to me—something about disabling the phono preamp and using the input for an amp. I’ve got no clue. It’s all rocket science to me,” Bucky rambled.

You threw your head back with a laugh, and Bucky chuckled along. He hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling until then.

“I had no clue that was an option. I might have to try that one day.”

Bucky couldn’t stop staring at you.

Up until this point, he’d had to drag his feet just to get to your office. But now, sitting across from you, he felt like all the tension that had built up in his shoulders over the last week had finally eased. He was laughing and smiling more than he had in a long time—he probably looked stupid.

“Oh yeah, I also tried that thing you suggested I get for lunch yesterday,” he said, trying to remember the name. “The… fried tempura?”

You leaned closer, practically on the edge of your seat as you looked at him with wide-eyed anticipation.

“Did you now? How did you like it?”

He’d actually liked it a lot—but with the way you were looking at him, those sparkly irises fixed on him, he couldn’t help but want to tease you. Maybe it was just the playful instincts he had back in the forties kicking in again.

“Eh, it wasn’t really my cup of tea.” He shook his head, watching closely for your reaction.

Your expression shifted dramatically from delight to disappointment. The sparkles he loved seeing in your eyes dimmed just a little, and your lips pursed into a slight frown.

“Ouch,” you muttered, slumping in your chair. “Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”

Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. You were too easy, and he was having fun.

“I’m kidding. I did like it.”

You blinked at him. “Oh, so you’re playing with me now?” You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms and legs. “Whatever happened to my lesson about being truthful and honest?”

Bucky wore a boyish grin. He felt like he was talking to a friend rather than a therapist.

“Hey, I was being honest... eventually,” he added, which received an eye roll from you.

“Well, despite you pulling my leg, you did really well this week.” A proud smile spread across your face. “I’m so happy for you.”

His grin faltered for just a second. He knew that tone of yours. It meant this session was closing to an end, meaning he wouldn’t be able to talk to you again until another week. He hated how disappointed he suddenly felt about it.

You pushed yourself out of your chair and wandered over to your large collection of records. “Since we’re almost out of time, I want to send you home with another album to listen to.”

You pulled out another vinyl—a black and white cover featuring a woman who looked like a ballerina witch and a man with a beard and a ponytail.

“Rumours,” you said, handing it to him.

Your hands brushed over his just briefly, and his whole body shuddered. Despite wearing a leather jacket, he felt goosebumps prickling his skin after your touch.

“Fleetwood Mac. It’s lighthearted and catchy—kind of like Abbey Road, but… not really.”

You watched as Bucky took the record, examining the cover closely. A small smile lifting across your face.

“Let me know what you think about it next time.”

It was the first time in a long time that Bucky felt like he had something to look forward to.

Going to the same music store no longer felt like a chore. Rather, it had become another stepping stone that brought him a little closer to you. The kid behind the counter already knew why he was there, handing him the same pair of headphones and all.

He slipped on the headphones, put on Rumours, and let himself get lost in the music. There was something special about listening to your favorite albums. It felt like a closeness he wouldn’t ever get to experience any other way. Music said a lot about a person, and with every track, he felt like he was learning a little more about you.

Suddenly, a finger tapped his shoulder.

Bucky turned around, pulling the headphones down around his neck.

Standing behind him was a woman—and a remarkably pretty one at that—wearing a bright smile that instinctively put him on edge. She pointed to the silver turntable spinning in front of him.

“Fleetwood Mac?” she asked.

Bucky glanced from her to the album cover, his mind landing on the most logical conclusion. She must’ve been waiting for her turn.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping aside. “After this song, I’ll be right out of your way.”

The woman let out a soft laugh, taking a small step closer to him.

“No, no, you’re fine! Keep listening.” She smiled. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you know? A guy who looks like you listening to Rumours? That’s a rare find these days.”

Bucky frowned, looking down at his worn leather jacket.

What was wrong with the way he looked?

She leaned against the edge of the counter, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked at him. “And honestly,” she drawled with a honeyed tone, “I find it kind of hot.”

Now, Bucky was just confused.

His brows furrowed into a tight knot as the words failed him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hit on, and it was just another one of those moments where he had no idea what to say.

“The, uh…” He cleared his throat. “The record doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my therapist. I’m only listening to it out of recommendation.”

He figured mentioning the word therapist would be enough to lose her interest, but the woman only smiled wider, and somehow that scared him.

“And you care about your mental health?” she said. “Gosh, you’re like a man straight out of every girl’s dream!”

He had no idea what to make of that. If this random woman thought he was hot, he wondered what you would think of his appearance.

She ran a hand through her hair and looked him up and down, making Bucky stiffen. Did his hair look weird?

“But hey, if you’re looking for other recommendations… I know a really great bar that makes the greatest cocktails just down the street. They have an open-play turntable with fancy speakers on Thursdays. I’d love to show you sometime.”

He knew he should accept the offer. He was being given the opportunity to put himself out there and make friends. This was what you would want him to do. This was good for him.

“I can’t,” he mumbled weakly. You idiot. “Sorry. I usually have… a, uh, thing on Thursdays with a friend, so—”

He started to scratch the back of his head, and she took the hint to back off.

Well, not entirely.

She pulled a notepad and a pencil out from her tote bag. Bucky had assumed that everyone did everything electronically these days. She started to jot down something, then tore the page off and handed it to him with a grin.

“If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

She turned and walked away before he got another word, and Bucky stood there with the headphones wrapped loosely around his neck with a dumbfounded expression. He glanced down at the piece of paper.

It was her phone number.

“You managed to get her phone number? That’s incredible!” You beamed in your chair, clasping your hands together with excitement. “How does that make you feel?”

You were more excited over this than he was, and he found himself smiling. It wasn't because the memory of getting that girl’s number was a huge boost to his ego, but because he liked seeing you smile. He always missed it during his week away from you.

“I felt flattered,” he answered truthfully. “I was surprised that any woman in this day and age would be interested in a guy like me.” He leaned back on the couch. “Though, it’s usually the men who pursue the women… not the other way around.”

“Well, times are changing, Bucky!”

Earlier in the session, he had encouraged you to use the nickname he was fond of—the one he reserved for the people closest to him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t suggested it sooner, because he was already in love with the way it rolled off your pretty lips.

Bucky made a face that made you chuckle. “Is that why she gave me her number on a piece of paper instead of making me hand my phone over?”

You grinned. “I guess some ladies like to keep it old-fashioned.”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his words from spilling out—words that were far too inappropriate to say as a patient to a therapist who was only there to keep his emotions in check.

“Do you like to keep it old-fashioned, too?”

And yet, the words spilled out anyway. If he wasn’t staying silent, then he was always saying something stupid instead.

The way you looked at him made him want to open up the couch and let it swallow him whole. You went from smiling to a flustered, awkward mess. You chuckled—trying to save face—as you scratched lightly at your cheek to ease the tension.

“Probably just like any other woman,” you managed. “I like to get wined and dined. There’s nothing more romantic than keeping it classy.”

Bucky’s eyes studied the way you sat so neatly in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, your skirt draping softly over your knees. Your nails were neatly manicured, and your makeup was light enough to let your natural beauty shine through, doing nothing more than enhancing what was already there.

He couldn’t help but think that someone like you deserved nothing less than a classic kind of love.

The kind that received flowers for no reason at all. The kind of man that held doors open for you, or put his palm respectfully over your waist during a slow waltz, and remembered every little thing you ever mentioned. The kind of love from a man that made you feel cherished every single day.

Bucky silently wondered if he could be that kind of man.

You cleared your throat, sitting up straight and dusting off your skirt. “Anyway, enough about me. This is about you.”

Bucky’s frown lines deepened. He didn’t want to change the subject—he wanted nothing more than to hear about you and your interests. But even then, a dark feeling began to stir deep in his gut over the thought of you being wined and dined by someone else.

You tilted your head, trying to engage him back into the conversation. “Have you spoken to her since?”

“No,” he answered, his gaze drifting down to check for a ring on your left hand.

“Why not?”

There was no ring.

Letting out a subtle breath of relief, he met your eyes again. “I just don’t see the need to.”

“Then open your eyes, Bucky. There are a lot of opportunities you miss out on if you continue to keep them closed.”

There was a selfish part of him that didn’t like the fact that you were trying to encourage him to talk to another girl. If he were to find out that a man had given you his phone number, Bucky would be entirely against it.

Fuck. What was wrong with him? He tried to push those thoughts aside—those silly, inappropriate thoughts about his own therapist.

He knew the session was nearing its end, so he thought he’d change the subject—but that was just his excuse to get you to stop encouraging him to go on a date with this random woman.

“What’s the album for this week, doc?” He asked.

You smiled. “Marvin Gaye.”

Bucky remembered the list of things his old friend Sam had told him to check out—though Sam probably wouldn’t consider him a friend anymore, given how Bucky had ghosted him. It was a long list, a couple of items even carried over from the notes Sam had given Steve years ago. Aside from emphasizing how great Thai food was, Sam had insisted that he absolutely needed to listen to Marvin Gaye.

Yet, despite all of Sam’s efforts, all it really took for Bucky to finally listen was a recommendation from you—the only woman he cared about.

Marvin Gaye’s voice filled his ears, and Bucky could finally understand why Sam had been so insistent about it.

If love was an emotion too complicated for him to grasp, the lyrics explained everything. The gentle beats danced in his ears, and sweet melodies about love, devotion, and longing wrapped around him. Before long, he found himself closing his eyes and picturing you.

He imagined the way you smiled, the way you laughed so easily around him, and the way you made him feel like living was a beautiful thing and not something you dread.

Whoever Marvin Gaye had been singing to in Let's Get It On must have been someone deeply cherished—someone longed for so intensely that the only way to express it was through music. It was everything Bucky wished he could say to you, if only he were allowed.

A soft smile tugged at his lips at the thought of you.

Of course you liked music like this. The kind you’d slow dance to in the middle of the living room, one hand intertwined with someone else’s. The kind that sounded like old-fashioned love brought to life.

His heart thrummed happily, his mind filled with giddy, hopeless thoughts.

He couldn’t wait until Wednesday morning, when he would see you again to talk all about it.

On Tuesday afternoon, his flip phone dinged with a notification from you.

Hi Bucky, I’m so sorry for the short notice, but something urgent has come up and I have to cancel our session tomorrow. I’ll reach out next week to reschedule. Take care!

Bucky stared at the message, his frown lines deepening.

Had something bad happened to you? Or had he scared you off with his question last week?

No. This is stupid, he told himself, trying to shake the sudden panic. There’s no point in dwelling on something like this. She’s just busy.

But as the hours ticked by, his mind began to spiral. He had nothing to look forward to for the rest of the week—just seven empty days without you. He stared at his phone, wondering how inappropriate it would be if he sent a simple, “Hey, how are you doing?” text to his own therapist.

He tried to push the thoughts away, but nothing he did could distract him. Frustrated and exhausted, Bucky decided to turn in early and end the day.

But as the sun went down and the moon rose, sleep brought him no peace. Instead of falling into a blissful rest, he was dragged straight back to his nightmares—except they weren’t like the ones before.

None of them were about his Hydra days or his past victims.

Every single nightmare was about you.

It was the most absolute terrifying fear of abandonment.

In the dream, he pushed open your office door, expecting to see the warm lights and your pretty smile. But the room was completely empty. The walls were cold, bare concrete, and your chair sat vacant in the center of the room. It didn’t look like the welcoming, colorful space with the warm string lights he knew—no, it looked more like the sterile Hydra rooms where he had been brainwashed over and over again.

He tried calling your name, but his words were stuck in his throat. He tried to scream, but it only strained his vocal cords, and nothing came out but a pathetic wheeze. He kept trying, over and over again, until he finally gasped hard enough to wake himself.

His eyes flew open as he bolted upright on the floor. His bare chest was drenched in sweat, his vibranium hand clutching the sheets so tightly the fabric threatened to tear.

He stared blindly into the dark corners of his empty apartment, his chest heaving. It took him a long time to realize it was just a dream, but the hollow feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away.

He just needed to see you.

“I think the saxophones were the best part,” Bucky praised Marvin Gaye with a gentle smile. “In Distant Lover, especially.”

“Excellent choice, Bucky. That one’s my favorite, too,” you returned the sentiment, leaning back in your chair. “So, tell me. Did you have any new, fun interactions at the music store again?”

Bucky shook his head. It hadn’t been interesting at all this past week—just seven days of solitude away from you.

“What about the girl who gave you her number?” You tilted your head. “Did you ever reach out to her?”

“God, no,” Bucky said with a huff of a laugh. “I actually ended up losing the paper. Pretty sure it went through the wash.”

You let out a soft gasp, placing a hand over your heart.

“Bucky! You threw away her phone number? Do you know how hard it is to get someone’s number the old-fashioned way these days?” A smile crept onto your face, matching the teasing look in your eyes. His favorite. “I’m guessing Marvin Gaye couldn’t convince you to be a little romantic, huh?”

Bucky looked down at his hands, both flesh and vibranium. He had stopped wearing gloves to his appointments. He fiddled with his fingers over his lap, looking almost sheepish.

“Guess I just haven’t found the right person,” he mumbled shyly.

“Sometimes it’s not about finding the right or wrong person. Just spending a few hours with someone can help you grow,” you explained. “If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.”

Bucky rose a brow.

You grinned. “A quote from Marvin Gaye.”

“What a sap,” he joked, and you chuckled.

You adjusted yourself in your chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

“You haven’t brought this up in recent sessions, but I’m curious to know—”

A ring. Nestled on your left ring finger.

“—are you still having nightmares?”

It was shiny. The diamond was a respectable size—as much as he hated to admit it.

“If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, we don’t have to.”

You had been proposed to?

Was that why you had to cancel on him?

“I just thought… as your therapist, it was important for me to ask, to see if you’re actually getting better—”

While he was having nightmares about losing you, you were out getting proposed to. He hadn’t even known you were being courted.

The warmth that he only felt inside your room turned to ice so fast it was hard to breathe.

Your lips were still moving, your voice as gentle and professional as could be as you continued to speak, but Bucky couldn’t hear a single word. There was a loud ringing in his ears, drowning out everything else.

His eyes were helplessly glued to your left hand. Every time you moved, the silver band caught the sunlight streaming through your office window, throwing a tiny, mocking rainbow light over his lap.

It was cruel. Someone else had asked you for forever, and you had given it to them. While he had spent his Tuesday night twisting in his sheets, choking on a nightmare about losing you, you were already out in the world, building a life that didn’t include him. A life where he was just an hour on your Wednesday schedule. A stupid, court-mandated file.

He wanted to pull his eyes away. His vibranium fingers were twitching to pull his gloves back on. He wanted to collect his things, and his feelings, and leave the room without looking back at you. But he knew he had no right.

All he was was your patient.

He was nothing to you.

“Bucky?” you asked softly, carrying such genuine worry that only made his feelings that much more complicated.

When he didn’t move, you leaned forward. Slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to, you reached across the small gap between your chair and the sofa and gently rested your hand over his. Your touch was light, full of professional respect, but the warmth of your skin seared right through him.

“Bucky? Are you okay?”

He flinched slightly, his eyes ripping away from the diamond to look up at your face. You looked so kind, so concerned for him. It nearly broke him right then and there.

He swallowed hard, forcing the massive lump down his throat as he tried to find his voice. He needed to lie. He needed to put the walls back up before he spilled every pathetic, selfish thought in his head.

“No,” he whispered, his voice rough and slightly cracked. He cleared his throat quickly, pulling his hand back just a little to break the contact, though his skin immediately missed your warmth.

“No. No nightmares, doc.”

Time had passed since he saw the ring, and every day felt like a countdown to the ticking time bomb in his heart, ready to explode.

The walls of his apartment felt lonelier and smaller than ever before. Night after night, he found himself sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands as he let himself drown in panic. He always had pent up grief and anger from his past to wrestle with. Now, he had to contend with something else entirely—the longing for you that clawed relentlessly at his heart.

It was the kind of emotional turmoil he was supposed to share with his therapist, but how the hell was he supposed to tell you everything when it was all about you?

He couldn’t go to his sessions and look at that ring anymore. He couldn’t sit there pretending to be the patient who was supposed to be honest about his feelings when he couldn’t even tell you a fraction of the truth.

Then came a bright Tuesday morning, the day before his weekly Wednesday session.

Bucky wandered aimlessly down a quiet street, his jacket collar pulled high against the breeze, when he saw you.

You were standing outside a local flower shop beneath a green awning, leaning over a vibrant display of fresh blooms. Your eyes were closed as you bent down to smell them, a soft, peaceful expression resting on your face.

You were probably looking for flowers for your wedding. The thought twisted painfully in his chest.

As if sensing his gaze, your eyes slowly fluttered open and found him across the sidewalk.

A warm, familiar smile spread across your face—the same smile he had grown to love, and the very one that haunted his dreams. But because you were his therapist, you kept your distance. You didn’t wave or approach him, preserving that professional boundary and leaving the choice entirely up to him: acknowledge you, or walk away.

He had every opportunity to turn around.

He should. He should walk away and never look back. But as he looked at you standing there among the flowers, so close yet completely out of his reach, he felt his resolve begin to crumble.

He couldn’t keep living like this.

If he was ever going to accept himself—if he was ever going to trust his own heart, just as you had spent these sessions trying to teach him—then he had to face the truth.

Sooner or later, his footsteps brought him closer to you.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, trying to force himself to sound cheerful, but the effort failed.

“Yeah,” you breathed with a smile, gesturing to the blooms. “I’m just looking at some flowers for the wedding.”

Another knife to his heart. He felt his face ache from how hard he was trying to maintain his smile.

“They’re beautiful,” he complimented the flowers, despite his eyes being stuck on you.

“I know! There’s so many to choose from. It’s kind of overwhelming,” you chuckled with a hand over your mouth.

Bucky’s heart was hurting so bad in his chest. The longer he stood in front of you, the less he trusted himself.

“Your fiancée is a lucky man,” he said. Fuck. “I’m happy for you.”

You blinked at him, processing his words. It confused you, but what confused you even more was the solemn expression he wore on his face despite saying he was happy.

He looked like a can of worms that were threatening to open and spill all over your hands, like a bomb that was ready to tick off with one wrong move or one wrong breath.

“Bucky,” you frowned, adjusting your bag strap. “Is everything okay—”

“I… I don’t know what to do,” he cut in, his voice trembling with pent up feelings he couldn’t contain for a single second longer. “I’m having the nightmares again. Every single night. But they aren’t about Hydra anymore. They’re about you.”

You stood there, stunned.

“Bucky, what—what are you saying?”

“I have… I have all these thoughts about you,” Bucky confessed, the words pouring out of him like a broken dam, his blue eyes left entirely vulnerable. “Stupid, selfish thoughts. It’s making me crazy. I know I’m your patient. I know I have no right to feel like this—”

He pressed his lips together. He should stop. No. He needs to stop—but he can’t.

“But you taught me to trust myself, and right now, the only truth I have is—”

“Bucky, slow down—”

“—that I’m in love with you.”

With the way you were looking at him, he might have believed he was in a nightmare already.

“I… I—” you stammered, clutching your bag so tightly.

You were usually so confident with your words, always knowing the right things to say in the perfect tone. But now, your words failed you completely.

A patient? Falling for his therapist?

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say—” you tried for a lighthearted laugh, but it came out painfully awkward. “I’m sorry—but you don’t love me. Y—you’re just confused—”

“I’ve had a lot of doubts in my life,” he insisted on adding salt to the wound, stepping closer in the small hopes of reaching you. “I struggle to navigate my feelings—I know that. But my feelings for you—that is the one thing I don't doubt.”

The look on your face was so solemn, so melancholy, yet you were still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

In no world would it ever be appropriate for a patient to fall in love with their therapist.

He knew what was coming next. He knew full well the consequences of confessing his feelings—of saying something stupid to the one woman he shouldn’t.

But he loved you so much, and as a result, he had to let you go.

“I’m so sorry, James.”

“Let’s hope you don’t fall in love with me next,” Dr. Raynor tried to joke in that flat, sarcastic tone of hers. Bucky didn’t even smile.

She jotted something down in her notebook, and the scratching of her pen made him deeply uncomfortable.

It was cruel, really. The moment the board found out he had fallen in love with his therapist, they stripped him away from the one person he actually cared about. Now, they had paired him up with a much older, entirely unenthusiastic replacement. It was a complete joke.

“Since then, have you tried reaching out to other people?” Dr. Raynor asked.

Bucky sat perfectly still on the sofa, his expression blank. “I… have.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “James, I’ve done this long enough to know when a person is lying. You hesitated.”

“You’re a cynic. I don’t know what you want me to do, doc—”

She clicked her pen with a sigh and started scribbling, making Bucky’s eyebrow twitch.

“Okay, fine. I haven’t reached out to anyone,” he admitted in defeat. “I know I should talk to Sam, but… I don’t know. It’s hard.”

“Have you tried reaching out to him?”

“No.”

“Has he tried reaching out to you?”

Bucky stayed quiet, and Dr. Raynor’s patience wore thin. “Let me see your phone.”

Bucky knew there was no point in fighting her on this. With a reluctant sigh, he shifted his weight to dig into the back pocket of his jeans and handed over his brick of a flip phone.

Dr. Raynor took it and began clicking through. “Several missed text messages from Sam, spanning back months. James, what are you doing?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he turned to stare out the window. Dr. Raynor’s office was completely different from yours. It lacked all the welcoming colors your walls had. There were no string lights, no carpet with silly designs he could get lost in, and most of all—there was no music.

Dr. Raynor tossed the flip phone back to him, and he caught it effortlessly.

“You’re punishing yourself,” she pointed out blatantly.

Bucky didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes down to his phone, his gloved thumb swiping over the screen. “I’m not punishing myself, doc. I’m doing myself a favor.”

“Bullshit, James,” she snapped, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees to force him into her line of sight. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, his gaze lifted up to her.

“I know what happened with your previous therapist. I read the file,” Dr. Raynor said, using that same tough love of a tone that only made Bucky feel like a child being lectured. “And I know it hurts. I know it feels like the universe threw you a bone, let you feel something real, and then ripped it away just to remind you of who you used to be. But isolating yourself in this empty apartment, cutting off Sam, drowning in your own head—that is the worst goddamn punishment you could possibly inflict on yourself.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard, a muscle ached. “I cross lines when I feel things. I get confused. It feels safer like this.”

“No, you’re just a coward,” Raynor said, unfazed by the hardness in his eyes. “You allowed yourself to feel human for a minute, James. You fell in love. Was it appropriate given the circumstances? No. But it proved that the Winter Soldier didn’t kill the man inside. Now you're treating a normal, heartbreaking human experience like it’s a… a Hydra relapse.”

Bucky made a face.

For a therapist, Raynor was terrible with her allegories.

“Solitude isn’t keeping you safe. It’s just a slow suicide. You want to honor what she taught you? Stop. Hiding. In. The. Dark.”

Raynor checked her watch, clicked her pen one final time, and stood up.

“Our time is up. Call your friend.”

After his session, Bucky found himself walking through a nearby park just a few steps away from his apartment.

Children were running around together. Families were eating on picnic blankets. Couples walked hand in hand. And funny enough, there was even a couple getting engaged just a few feet away from him, surrounded by friends laughing and cheering.

He finally found an empty bench to sit on and pulled out his phone, desperate for a distraction.

Bucky couldn’t remember how many times he had brought Sam up to you in your previous sessions. Every single time, you had encouraged him to talk to him. At the time, Bucky had you—he hadn’t seen the need to reach out to anyone else for friendship when he already had you.

But now that you were gone…

With a sigh, he pressed the phone to his ear and let it ring.

“Sam Wilson. Who’s this?”

Bucky’s throat suddenly felt like it was coated in sand. “Sam.”

There was a dead silence on the other end. Bucky shut his eyes, waiting for Sam to hang up on him. He deserved it after having the audacity to call after nearly a year of silence.

“… Bucky?” Sam’s voice came out breathy and surprised. “Man, I—wow. Are you alright? Why are you calling?”

Bucky winced. He knew Sam probably didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory—or maybe he did. Either way, he had earned it.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes drifting up to the sky. He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air in. He thought of the warm string lights, the colorful walls, the beautiful laugh and the gentle advice of the woman he had been forced to leave behind.

Sam sounds like a wonderful person, you had told him once. You should talk to him. You need someone like that in your life.

He was going to try.

For you, he was going to try.

“Yeah. Uh. I just wanted to tell you, I finally listened to Marvin Gaye. Think you got some time this week to catch up?”

There was another pause, long enough to make Bucky’s anxiety spike. Until finally…

“Marvin Gaye, huh? You know, I thought you’d never ask.” Sam said with a light laugh that made Bucky feel a little less tense. “And I don’t want to hear a single thought about it unless we’re talking over a couple of beers. How does Friday sound?”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Bucky genuinely smiled.

“Yeah, okay. Sure.”

It still hurt, knowing that he didn’t have you to look forward to anymore. He had messed up the one good thing he’d had going for him since Hydra—but he had allowed himself to feel. To fall in love. To open his heart to someone else, even if it hadn’t been the right person.

He had to learn to move on. Marvin Gaye was a sap, a man who sang of fantasies entirely out of reach for someone like Bucky. But the man was right.

“It’s good to hear you again, Sam.”

If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.

“It’s good to hear you too, Buck.”

me when i might say something stupid (but the fic is actually buns so this entire fic is just me saying something stupid) i've always wanted to write a tfatws!bucky healing fic of some sort, and what better way to do that than by making the reader his therapist, someone he hopelessly falls in love with which actually plummets his mental health even further! thank you to @houseofhyde and @iamthatonefangirl for beta-reading ily guys

if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the rest of the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!

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ticket one ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.

ticket two ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ Once your situationship with “dirtbag Barnes” becomes more public, everyone around you only seems to widen the gap—filling both your heads with the wrong ideas until communication completely falls apart. And if things weren’t messy before… well, sugar, you’re both going down swinging.

you like the way we kiss in the dark? [prequel] ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ You're not afraid of all the attention. You're not afraid of running wild. But why are you so afraid of falling in love with the campus' dirtbag, Bucky Barnes?

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts.