#buckysam

bucky's a jealous person. he always has been.

he doesn't like to share, nor does he pretend otherwise. not his kitchen, not his recipes, not his workers, and certainly not you.

he doesnt like it when you're working the front of house, all bright smiles and flirty little laughs, coaxing tips and compliments from men who don't deserve your attention, and it doesn't help that you're walking around in that tiny little skirt and buttering up the customers, it also doesn't help that you're so good at it.

bucky knows it's a part of your job, knows that you do it to survive— but do you really need to be doing all of that? he's sure that if you lean any closer to the guy at table seven, he'll be able to see the lining of your panties, and at this point, he's not even sure if you're wearing any.

the kitchen behind him is organised chaos— pots and pans clattering against the stoves, utensils scratching against ceramic, and shoe soles padding around the linoleum floor.

but bucky doesn't hear any of it. his eyes are locked on you through the serving hatch, where you're leaning over a little too close to the asshole at table seven, your smile soft and sweet as you pour him another glass of whiskey and giggle at something he says.

bucky hates it. you might as well be sitting on his lap and hand feeding his steak to him. hell, you might as well pull down his fancy suit pants and just start fucking him in the middle of the restaurant with everyone watching.

"you're staring."

bucky's jaw clenches as he glances sideways. steve stands next to him at the grill, sliding a seared salmon onto a plate, eyebrow arched like he's just caught bucky with his hand in the cookie jar.

"i'm not." bucky snaps back a little too fast, eyes darting back down to the pan in his grasp. his knuckles are bone white from how tight he's gripping the handle.

steve smirks as he places the seared salmon onto the counter with practiced ease, "y'know, you could just tell her. it won't hurt. you're already staring at her like you've claimed her."

as well as being jealous, bucky's awfully proud. chateau barnes is a renowned high-end restaurant in new york. as the head chef of his own restaurant, he almost has to be. he prides himself on order, control, and precision in the kitchen— every knife sharpened, every pan and pot in its place, and every dish leaving the kitchen exactly as he had envisioned it.

and because of that, bucky would never admit that he loses all control of his mind the second you step out onto the floor. he'd rather die than admit it to steve, who seems to notice everything anyways.

"i don't know what you're talking about." bucky grumbles, basting the steak in butter, eyes fixed firmly on the pan as if it's the only thing that matters.

steve cocks a brow, "you know what i'm talking about."

bucky doesn't respond. he doesnt want to give steve the satisfaction of knowing he was right, and this steak was currently more important than whatever bullshit his sous chef was about to spew.

steve stops what he's doing just to taunt bucky, his voice low enough that only he can hear. "the fact that you wanna bend her over the counter and take her right there in front of—"

"finish that fucking sentence and you're on dish duty for the next month." bucky cuts him off, eyes snapping towards steve. the glare alone would have made an apprentice shit their pants, but it only makes steve grin wider.

"tough crowd." the blonde mumbles. he shrugs as if its the most normal thing in the world, then goes back to slicing into a perfectly roasted duck breast.

there's an annoyed quirk in bucky's eyebrow as he goes back to plating the dish. putting steak down, drizzling the sauce, adding garnish, every detail done with deliberate and precise movements— anything to keep his hands and mind busy. anything to keep steve from seeing how close he'd come to hitting an exposed nerve.

bucky doesnt look up. he knows that if he does, he'll see that rich asshole at table seven still trying his luck, and he'll see you entertaining him like he's paying you a million dollars to do so. both of you would piss him off, and right now, he needs his head in the pan. the butter's foaming and the steak is searing, and focus is the only thing that keeps him from calling a smoke break.

so he keeps his eyes down. baste, tilt, baste again. control. order. discipline. that's what he's good at.

but it's you out there, and that alone stirs up an itch under his skin that he can't ignore. its an almost unbearable urge that picks at him— the urge to just look up. because if its you, then he wants to see. he needs to.

and when he finally gives in— when his eyes drag up from the dish he's preparing to you— you're already prancing towards the kitchen, weaving through the tables with that little sway in your hips, balancing a half-eaten dish in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

it scratches the itch, but now he has to deal with you.

you slide the dish onto the window sill with a small clink, gingerly leaning into the cut-out just enough to make your presence known. you tilt your head when bucky glances up at you, a half-grin tugging at your lips like you're ready for whatever bite he's about to throw at you.

"table seven said his steak is over cooked, james." you say, nudging the dish towards him, "he also said the sauce is too peppery."

bucky keeps his focus on his work, but it's impossible to ignore your presence. he slides the freshly prepared steak onto the window sill with a quick flick of his wrist, but you're staring at him like you can see the control he's trying so hard to cling to. he reaches over to grab another ticket, but he can smell whatever sweet perfume you'd dusted yourself with drifting through the window. it's torture.

bucky's not sure whether he wants you to leave him alone or if he wants you to lean over the window a little more just so he can sneak a glance down your collar.

but he doesn't spare you a second glance. "it wasn't."

you suck your teeth in mock thought, eyes narrowing in on where the steak was ripped open by a knife, "well, he asked for medium-rare, and i'm pretty sure i wrote down medium-rare, so it must've been a performance issue on your end, boss."

"yeah?" his blue eyes snap towards you. his voice is controlled, but you can hear the tension coiling in his throat. "you should probably check that notepad again, doll. the ticket said medium-rare, so i gave him medium-rare."

"that's funny..." you drawl, "because he's still complaining."

bucky's jaw tightens. his grip around the knife tightens like a vice. "why don't you just stick your tits in his face a little more? maybe then he'll stop complaining about the fuckin' steak and start tippin' you like he means it."

his voice is low and rough, and laced with venom that he doesn't bother to hide. he's jealous, and he knows that. his voice cuts sharper than the knife in his hand, but it does nothing to hinder your attitude.

"y'know, he looks a little bit like you." you lean your head on the palm of your hand, your lips tugging into a grin that teeters on the edge of mockery. "a little more clean-shaven... has manners... smells good too. says he's the ceo of a record company or something fancy like that."

god, if you weren't so gorgeous— if you hadn't made every word sound like pure honey— bucky mightve told you to turn around and continue taking orders like the good little waitress you are. his thoughts die in his head the second a particular one hits him— you're being a brat.

"you shove your tits close enough to get a whiff of him?" he spits, eyes ever-so-slightly glancing down at the midriff you have exposed. "you enjoy being a tease?"

you follow his line of sight and roll your eyes, almost instinctively leaner lower, "so what if i do? theyre my tits.”

bucky looks back down to the scallops he's preparing, his lip turnt, "not anymore with the way you're parading them around."

he hears you suck in the tiniest gasp— just audible enough that it makes him huff out a breath of amusement.

you're not necessarily offended by him calling you a tease. you're more offended by the fact that he thinks you're 'parading them around' like some bimbo. you'd argue that you're just doing your job— keeping the customers happy, looking hot while doing it, and making some tips in the process.

you open your mouth to say something, to rip into him without saying something that seriously jeopardises your job— because he is your boss after all— but before you can say anything, steve stops you.

"could you guys stop flirting? its dinner rush."

his voice catches your attention. you shift your weight as you lean over the pass, your elbows resting against the cold metal as you grin at steve. he's cute— everybody knows it— and you've always liked how easy it was to talk to him.

"what, feeling left out, rogers?" you tease with a dramatic pout, reveling in the way steve's ears tint the lightest shade of pink.

"a little." he plays into your teasing, brows raised, "but the tickets are piling up and i'm not likin' how that guy at table five is looking at us."

"oh, those guys?" you turn on your heel, eyes flashing to a large table of around six guys. the man at the head of the table sits like he owns the restaurant, his gaze locked straight on you. "yeah, i'm pretty sure theyre apart of the mob."

steve blinks, "the mob?"

"the mob." you emphasise with a dramatic nod, "they're drinking us dry of our entire whiskey reserve."

"i'll order in another lot tonight. the next lot should hopefully last us a couple more months.” steve nods, already scribbling down a note on the corner of a ticket. he taps the pencil against the pass and shoves the ticket into his pocket like it's already been handled.

then steve's eyes flick up to you, who's standing there with a tired smile. he— very obviously— looks you up and down, slow enough that bucky catches every damn second of it, then he meets you with a grin that's just shy of smug.

"looking good, sugar."

the pet name runs off of steve's tongue like it belongs there, entirely too sweet for a restaurant running on blood, sweat, and tears.

the knife in bucky's hand stills, the blade pressing unnecessarily hard into the scallop underneath. his eyes flick up to look at whatever weird little flirting match you and steve have going on just inches away from him, and he's glaring like he's seconds away from snapping the cutting board in half.

if steve wasn't his best friend, he probably would've stabbed him— no, wait— he'd still stab him anyways.

bucky turns his attention to you to see your reaction. and sure enough, you're standing there, practically twirling a strand of hair around your finger, acting like you've just been complimented by the hottest guy in the world. your lips curl into a grin that you try (and fail) to stifle. but because steve's your friend, you roll your eyes like it's no big deal— like you're too used to his charm for it to get under your skin.

"thanks, stevie. you’re not so bad yourself." you grin, sing-songing as you pull away from the pass, "anyways, i've gotta go. fancy guy at table seven was just about to tell me about rising stars and pop music or... something like that."

and then you're turning away. you toss a small wink over your shoulder as you saunter away— but then you adjust your skirt, just subtly enough to be casual, but bucky can't help the sharp intake of his breath. the curve of your ass presses up against the thin fabric, the faint lining of your panties traced just beneath it, teasing him with more than he has any right to see.

bucky's jaw locks. heat crawls down his spine and coils deep within his gut, dragging low until it settles in his cock. he feels the shift in his pants, and the sudden tightness makes his breath hitch.

focus, bucky, focus. control and order. that's what you're good at.

he forces his gaze down, anything to get over it, but his body aches with the phantom burn of you. the imagine of your body swaying as you walk away is burnt into the skin behind his eyelids, and it's a sight he can't just run from with the repetitive motions of his knife. every slice and every stab only presses it deeper.

he blinks and you're still there. he sees the curve of your ass and the way you tug your skirt lower like it might cover something. the arch of your back as you stretch just slightly, and the press of your tits against the weak buttons of your blouse like they're begging to be let loose. and the worst part— the part that makes his cock twitch in his pants— is that bucky isn't even sure if you're doing this on purpose or if you're just that effortlessly fucking tempting.

"it did look like you just sent out leather, man." steve's voice cuts in like nails on a chalkboard, "you... distracted?"

buck's knife lifts from the board as he slides the scallops on to the plate, "sugar?" he grinds out, not looking up.

steve can already tell. he doesn't need bucky to say a single word. the way his jaw tenses, the way his grip flexes around the handle of the knife, the way he slides the scallops around like he couldn't care less, and the way his eyes subtly dart towards the floor where you're entertaining table seven again.

bucky barnes is jealous, and it's the most entertaining thing steve has seen all night. he wants to laugh, and he almost does, but he holds it in.

"what, you jealous?" steve teases with a shit-eating smirk.

"you can't flirt with the staff." bucky's words are deadpan, like he's been repeating the phrase over and over in his own mind— like he's repeating it again moee for himself than for steve.

"i understand." steve nods, but then he pauses just long enough to be smug about it. "we can't flirt with them, but we sure can eye-fuck them from across the restaurant—“

the cutting board suddenly screeches against the metal counter as bucky pushes it back. steve's still smirking as bucky rips at the knot around his waist, tearing his apron off and tossing it haphazardly over his shoulder with an annoyed huff.

"i'm goin' for a smoke." he grunts, not even sparing steve a glance before he pushes past the other kitchen staff.

the back door slams shut behind him, and steve feels it's only in his best interest as his best friend to follow. someone's gotta make sure bucky doesn't burn down the alleyway with his temper.

the back of the restaurant is quiet. the clanking of pots and pants and shouts of orders fade behind thick brick, leaving only an echo of the chaos inside. the moon is bright and high up in the sky, casting pale white light onto the alley.

bucky leans against the wall, his hand shielding the flame of his lighter from the wind. the cigarette glows, the smoke curling upwards. he takes a long drag of it, letting the smoke fills his lungs.

the cool air does little to ease the burn in his skin— if anything, it makes it worse. every muscle in his body feels like they've been pulled taut, as if the mere memory of you has set fire to his body.

as he exhales, a small white cat slinks out from around a dumpster, moving like a pale shadow in the dark, her delicate paws padding against the concrete as she wanders closer. she's a familiar face that makes bucky sigh.

bucky calls her alpine, a sweet reminder of a trip he once took a few years ago— a quiet winter in the mountains, snow blanketing the world in a stillness he rarely ever witnesses in his line of work. in a way, alpine was his calm in the blinding chaos.

she brushes against his leg, her tail curling, and for a moment, the tension bucky feels in his chest eases, replaced by the memory of calm he almost never allows himself.

steve tucks his hands into his pockets as he leans against the wall beside bucky. he watches his friend for a moment, analysing how his jaw tenses and how his head tilts away like making eye contact with steve would cause every thought in his brain to fall from his mouth.

"you really letting her get to you that much, huh?" steve says, his voice low. he's not teasing anymore— just simply asking.

bucky doesn't say anything. his shoulders are tense as he takes another long drag of his cigarette like it’ll help.

"c'mon—" steve nudges him, "let me hear it."

bucky exhales a long stream of smoke, finally meeting steve's eyes, jaw tight and eyes low, "she just... she gets under my skin. every word, every look, every little movement. i can't—“ he pauses for a second, “i can't stop thinking about her, even when i try not to. i know it's stupid, but—"

he drags in another breath as if he's finally accepting what he feels, "i just... can't look away. i dont want to even if it's killing me inside seeing her kissing up to the customers."

"i mean—" the cigarette trembles in his hand, and a more annoyed expression replaces the forlorn one. "she said he smelt good, steve. can you fuckin' believe that? its like she's trying to get on my nerves."

steve huffs out a laugh, "i mean.. you dont exactly smell like roses and daises, buck. you've got more of a... cooking oil scent—"

"and she said he's clean shaven. what does that even mean?" he runs a tired hand against his jaw, feeling the stubble rub against his fingers, "i shave, don't i?"

the way bucky complains is similar to that of a teenage boy whining about the girl he likes not liking him back. it's boyish. it would be endearing if it wasnt wrapped up in frustration— like he might actually punch through a wall because of it.

"you care way too much about what she thinks for someone who insists they don't give a shit." steve points out, a sincere smile tugging at his lips as he shrugs. "just... ask her out, man."

bucky doesn't answer right away. whether it's because he's not sure how to reply or because he knows steve's right, he doesn't know.

beside him, alpine perks up from where she's curled up next to his feet, ears twisting at full attention towards a noise in the distance. bucky glances down at her— this small, stubborn creature who doesn't leave no matter how many times he shoos her away— and sighs, an uneven trail of smoke trailing through the air.

"i can't." he finally mutters, grinding the cigarette against the brick until the embers die. "what if she's seeing someone? a woman like her would probably have a line of guys out the door."

steve cocks an eyebrow like he has the solution to all of bucky's problems. "last i heard, she's not seeing anybody. hasn't been for a while."

that piques bucky's attention. "where'd you hear that?"

"from mikaela." steve replies like it's obvious.

the name doesn't ring a bell. it's not even in the drawer of names that bucky half-remembers. the cluelessness on his face has steve barking out an amused laugh.

"you don't know mikaela?" he says pushing off of the wall and crossing his arms against his chest, "waitress with the brown hair and blonde highlights? c'mon, buck, you're telling me you don't know mikaela?"

bucky sucks his teeth, shaking his head like the mere idea of knowing waitresses other than you was laughable, "i don't pay attention to front of house.”

"that's a damn lie. you pay plenty of attention to front of house— just not to mikaela or any of the others. you don't know mikaela, but you sure as hell know the one with the tiny skirt and fuck-me-eyes."

bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. "watch it, steve." he warns, but it doesn't land as harsh as he wants it to, because it's true— he does know you. he knows you more than he should. more than he wants to admit.

his job was easier before you were hired— before you started running around the restaurant like you owned it, before you had befriended steve or any of the other chefs, before you had stuck your fingers in every single crevice of his fucking brain.

sometimes he wishes he could go back in time to tell steve not to hire the applicant with a dozen waitressing jobs under her belt and references who did nothing but praise you. but other times, he wishes he was the one who had interviewed you just so he could have weaselled his way into your life from the start, claiming some part of you before anyone else had the chance.

bucky flicks the dead cigarette and stamps it out until it's a grey mess of ash on the ground. his shoulders loosen a fraction as he steps forwards, ready to push his problems away and slip back into the kitchen.

"okay. smoke break's over." steve claps a hand against bucky's back, gently ushering him back into the door. "sam can't run the kitchen by himself."

bucky huffs out a small laugh, low and dry, "he probably thinks he can run it better than both of us."

steve nods, "and some days, i think that might be true."

bucky just rolls his eyes as steve playfully pushes him towards the hum of the restaurant. the doors swing shut behind them, leaving the alleyway and alpine behind, quiet again.

hours pass. the restaurant is empty now, the dinner rush long over.

in the kitchen, pans and knives are freshly washed and stacked and the hum of the kitchen is softer, almost intimate. the harsh fluorescent light overhead has been switched off and replaced by a single lamp that casts an orange light over the counters, which smell of citrus scented cleaner.

in the main room, the lights are dimmed and there's a faint aroma of charcoal and expensive cologne in the air. the energy from hours ago still buzzes throughout the restaurant like an echo. a few glasses are left drying on the bar and there's a few chairs stacked haphazardly on top of each other, but otherwise, the building feels quiet.

it's just you and bucky. it's been only you two for the past hour.

steve had left earlier with a tired wave and a reminder to lock up, but not without shooting bucky a knowing look as he stepped out of the door. bucky ignored it at the time— brushed it off with the same scowl he always gave steve when he thought he was being clever— but now that the restaurant was almost silent, it settles a little heavier in his chest.

bucky's sweeping the wooden floor of the main room. sweeping. he never sweeps. not when there's busboys or waitresses or literally anyone else around to do it. he didn't know what possessed him, and neither did you.

when he had asked if you had needed help cleaning, you had looked at him like he'd just asked if the sky was blue— baffled, a little amused, and even a little suspicious. james buchanan barnes offering to help with front of house duties? it's unheard of.

now that it's just the two of you, he can't seem to sit still. he sweeps and sweeps, pulling dust from crevices that probably haven't been touched since they first bought the restaurant.

he glances at you.

you're leaning on the bar, a pen in your hand and your head in the other. you're staring down at a notepad containing god knows what. orders? inventory? you're honestly probably just scribbling nonsense just to look busy— and if you are, it's working.

a particularly harsh drag of plastic against the wood gains your attention. your eyes move upwards before your head does, catching the broom mid-sweep in bucky's hands. he's tense. you can see it in the way his shoulders are squared and that familiar scowl on his face as he drags the bristles against the ground.

"you keep that up and i'm gonna start thinking you have a secret love for housekeeping, james." you joke, watching in amusement.

bucky falters for a moment, eyes flicking up to you before he cocks a brow and continues his assault against the floor, "just figured the place could use it."

"uh-huh." you nod suspiciously, pen poised but not writing. "what's with the sudden kindness? what'd you do?"

"nothin'." bucky's quick to respond, "pretty little thing like you shouldn't be running around the restaurant this late. might get yourself hurt."

you'd be flattered if this wasn't totally out of character for him, and also because it's bucky. he's calling you a pretty little thing? who flayed james barnes and crawled into his skin?

"pretty little thing?" your lips twitch, trying not to grin at the absurdity of it. you raise your brows, "okay, who'd you kill?"

"what, i can't compliment you? you sure seem to like it when customers do it." he snaps, broom held a little too tight in his grip.

you pause and raise a brow, "excuse me?"

bucky stops. he isn't sweeping anymore. the broom stands neglected in his hand, his new focus being you. the way you're staring at him makes his skin burn.

"don't act like you don't know what i'm talkin' about." he rolls his eyes, lip almost turned into a snarl, "all those fancy assholes throwing compliments at you, and you eat it up. but me? god forbid i say a word."

you scoff as you stand up a bit straighter, arms crossing against your chest as a defence, "so it's a crime to like being complimented?"

"it's not a crime." bucky retorts, "but you goin' around sticking your tits in their faces and practically sitting on their laps? it should be considered criminal. and it's all you can do, isn't it?"

you narrow your eyes, "that's rich, coming from a man who stares at them every chance he gets."

"sweetheart, it's hard not to." he fires back, watching as you shake your head in bewilderment.

"so, what are you saying?" you challenge, eyes glaring daggers into bucky. "that you think i'm an attention-seeking slut who parades herself around for everyone to see?"

you know this is destructive. bucky's your boss, the one who can put you out of a job with two words, but part of you can't stop— can't stop pushing, can't stop poking and prodding, needing to hear him either admit it or deny it. you don't really care which one it is at this point— you just want to hear it from his mouth instead of reading it in his eyes.

he lets out an annoyed sigh, "don't put words in my mouth—"

"oh, come on, james. we both know you think it." you take a step forwards, the space between you two shrinking until the air is electric. "just admit it and we can get this over with."

your voice is quiet, but so full of venom. you don't need to be loud— you're so close to bucky that it felt like if you even thought too loud, he would hear it.

your stomach twists as you step even closer. you're practically chest-to-chest with bucky, your chin tilted upwards just enough to meet his stare head on. his jaw clenches as he stands his ground, like he's testing how far you're willing to go, and you both know that neither of you will stand down.

his shadow swallows you whole. you feel like you've been caught inside of it. there's nowhere to step and nowhere to breathe that isn't him— his heat, his stare, his scent, his unrelenting presence pressing down on you.

he looks down at you, his eyes half-lidded and twitching as you near him, "you've got a mouth on you, don't you, sugar tits?"

the nickname wrings out a dry laugh from your mouth. he's mocking you, taunting you, poking at some sore spot just to see you flinch— and god, it works.

"what, want me to put my mouth to better use?"

you don't mean to sound flirty— you really don't— but with him this close, his scent practically wraps around you like a ribbon, warm smoke and faint cologne threaded through something else that was unmistakably him. his presence swallows up the space between you, heat curling up your neck until you feel it burrowing underneath your skin.

"is that an offer, doll?"

"in your dreams, barnes."

he's practically in your face, and suddenly every word you say is full of a weight you don't recognise. it's suffocating.

and then— just subtly— you watch as his eyes slowly rake down from your eyes towards your lips, lingering for too long. tracing the curve, memorising the way they part when he leans in a little closer. his breath fans over your face, and you feel your resolve completely dissolve.

you let out a little hitched breath, sharp and caught in your throat, and it's just enough to break whatever restraint he's been holding on to. bucky's eyes darken, and then he's on you before you can even think twice, closing the space between you and pressing his lips to yours.

it's not gentle. it's claiming, leaving no room for regret or argument, and the world narrows to the heat of your mouth against his and the press of your body against his chest.

he indulges in your taste— almost intoxicating— drinking you like you're an oasis in the middle of a desert. every press of his lips draws a ragged breath from your mouth, and the tension and anger you'd been holding onto melts into something raw.

bucky rakes a warm hand up your back, the other sneaking around your waist, pressing you closer as if he can't get enough of the feeling of you in his hands. his fingers trace the curve of your spine, sliding beneath the fabric of your too-tight shirt.

you break free from his lips just enough to whine, a shaky hand running against his jaw, almost pushing him away. "james—"

every move he makes is deliberate, and there's an air of want in the way his lips trails down your jaw and how he buries his face into your neck, pressing wet, open-mouth kisses along the tender skin.

"if you want me to stop—" he murmurs against your skin, each word soaked in something tender that betrays the intensity of his touch, "jus' say it and i'll stop."

this is wrong. bucky is your boss. every rational thought in your body is telling you that this shouldn't be happening, screaming at you to just pull away, to push him off of you before this goes too far.

but then he nips at the skin on your collarbone, his tongue swiping lightly over the tender spot, and something in you flips. every rational thought you had is drowned out by the heat pooling low in your stomach.

your silence is the invitation he needs. his eyes flick up to yours, searching for even the faintest signs of hesitation, but finds none.

he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss again. your bodies press against each other, moving together almost instinctively, and he guides you towards a nearby table. without breaking the kiss, you let yourself sink into the edge, the tablecloth cold against your skin as bucky hovers just above, his hands bracketing your face.

your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel the hard outline of his cock straining against his jeans— a delicious yet torturous reminder of how urgent this has become— and it only makes you press against him even harder.

bucky's hands trail down to yours hips, fingertips digging into your sides as he pulls you tighter against him. you grind against him, the friction sending sparks throught your bodies. a whimper leaves you as your hands bunch the fabric of his shirt, tangling the cotton as you pull yourself impossibly closer. bucky pulls away from the kiss, memorising the way you push your hips into his and how you respond to his touch.

you look so pretty and desperate trying to grind against his cock, and he groans at the sight.

"fuck—" he rasps, "you don't know what you do to me."

you whisper, "then show me."

bucky's lips find yours again, harder this time as his hands fall to your thighs. you lean back as his fingers glide under the fabric of your tight skirt, sliding it up until it bunches around your hips, and the sight that greets him is enough to make his mouth run dry.

you're wearing the cutest pair of black lace panties he's ever seen, and the sight alone almost undoes him completely— delicate and teasing, like they were made specifically to drive him insane.

"is this all for me?" the question drips with smugness as his thumb presses against the band of your panties, watching as it cuts into your thigh.

"don't flatter yourself, james." you huff, flustered but defiant, your body betraying you with a small jerk of your hips, "you're not that special."

"not that special?" he raises a brow, eyes focused on the way you lean into his touch, "sweetheart, we both know none of those men were ever gonna get to fuck you. not the suits... not the smooth talkers... not a single one of 'em. if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be sitting here, dripping through this pretty fabric."

you bite down on your bottom lip, because he's right. you would have never given any of these rich guys the light of day. all they were good for was their money and their attention— nothing that made you feel utterly exposed and electric like bucky did with a single word.

he presses the pad of his thumb against your folds, pressing down right over the spot you need him most, feeling you soak through the lace. you gasp at the pressure, back arching just slightly, the soft sound that leaves your mouth almost pathetic.

"look at you. you've been saving this for me, haven't you?" he cocks his head, eyes half-lidded as he watches you squirm. "walking around in this skimpy little skirt and that tiny shirt— practically beggin' me to tear them off of you."

"awfully cocky for a man who hasn't made me moan yet." you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers hook around the lacy fabric on your hips,

bucky scoffs, the way your hips lift for him to drag your panties down your hips betraying your words. "you keep talkin' like that and i'll make sure the whole block hears you."

the lace slips down the expanse of your legs, each second growing more and more agonising with every painful stop bucky makes. when it finally slips from your foot, bucky stuffs it into his pocket. the lace sticks out like a sore thumb— a trophy.

he looks down at your cunt, a low, guttural groan escaping him, and it's almost enough to make you cum right then and there. his eyes flick back up to yours before his lips crash back into yours, the kiss far hungrier and desperate than before.

your hands thread into his hair as the world narrows in on the taste of his tongue and the feeling of his hand sliding from your knee down to your inner thigh. every glide and subtle press of his fingers ignites a fire you can't control.

bucky catches your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it until it burns red. you huff when he pulls just a little too hard, but to make up for it, he runs a finger through your folds, your argumentative grumbles turning into airy gasps before he's pressing his lips against yours again, swallowing any last shred of resistance you have left.

his thumb finds your clit, brushing lightly at first, sending heat throughout your body. your breath hitches and bucky's quick to press harder, drawing figure eights onto the bundle of nerves.

his touch is both punishment and reward, a bitter reminder of how he has you unraveling under his touch. every whimper, every shiver, and every gasp seems to feed him, as if your reactions are what's keeping him alive.

you pull away from the kiss to breathe. you can feel the press of a finger against your entrance, and before you can fully grasp what's about to happen, bucky pushes two fingers into you.

your head tilts back before you can stop it, a broken moan slipping from your throat— unrestrained and humiliating. you can feel bucky shifting against your skin and you already know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.

"what did you say about not making you moan?" he murmurs into the skin just below your ears, smugness dripping off of every syllable.

heat rises up your neck, but you refuse to give him the full satisfaction of watching you submit to him.

"just..." you breathe, your nails digging into the tablecloth as he pumps his fingers into you, "sh-shut up and keep going.”

he hums, "gladly."

bucky's fingers drag in and out of you, curling against your walls with devastating precision. his fingertips brush against all of your sweet spots like he knows exactly where to touch to make you fall apart.

he can tell you're close by the way your eyebrows knit together in concentration and the way you fuck yourself back onto his fingers. he reaches down with his other hand and adds a delicious pressure against your clit, watching as your arms buckle and almost collapse back onto the table.

"c'mon, cum for me." bucky urges, "cum on my fingers, baby."

and you do, your legs quivering as a wave of heat flashes over your entire body. bucky doesn't stop— he continues his assault on your clit and he drives his fingers into your cunt until you're clenching around him, whimpering protests.

he pulls his fingers out and you instantly clench around nothing. your eyes track him as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to taste you. he groans around his fingers, the sound low and almost animalistic as he leans in to kiss you.

you can taste yourself on his lips, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressing him closer to you.

"that feel good?" bucky asks, his lips glistening with your slick.

you huff out a small laugh, "what do you think?"

he rolls his eyes and dips his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble scratchy as he presses kisses to your skin. you lull your head back, lips parting with a shaky sigh, but then your eyes land on the large glass doors of the restaurant— completely see-through and mercilessly reflective.

all rational thought comes crawling back to you, but your next words are already in bucky's mouth, his hands crawling up to slide into your hair.

"shit, jame—" his kiss steals your breath, "james, we can't—" his tongue grazes yours and you whimper, "we can't—" another kiss, rougher this time. "we can't do it in here. people'll—" he swallows the protest whole, "people will see."

it's almost like he enjoys watching you struggle.

"what, afraid table seven'll walk past and see you sitting here all pretty and spread out on his table?" his words come out muffled as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"it's bad for our image, james. if someone walks by—" you grumble into his mouth, but he cuts you off by simply pulling away.

there's a flicker of arrogance in his eyes as he tilts his head like your reasoning doesn't make sense. "i was just knuckles deep inside of you, sweetheart. you're really worried about our image right now?"

"i'm serious." you push at his chest, but it's light-hearted at most. your nails curl into his shirt like you don't want him to stop, "what if steve comes back and—"

bucky just dives back into your neck like it's a five star restaurant, teeth grazing the skin on your collarbone before his tongue swipes over it.

"rogers has a date tonight." bucky pulls back and swipes a thumb against his teeth marks, "he's not comin' back anytime soon."

you glare at him when his eyes flick up to yours, dead serious. "i'm not having sex with you in the middle of the restaurant, barnes."

he rolls his eyes. "okay, okay, fine. whatever the princess wants, the princess gets." he exhales against your throat, the joke falling upon deaf ears when he grabs you by your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the table.

you tense when he wraps a thick arm around your back and his other arm snakes under your thigh, hoisting you upwards. you wrap your legs around his waist and giggle.

he walks you towards the kitchen with ease, eyes closed and face still stuffed in the warmth of your neck. you're almost amazed, but then you remember that he knows this place like the back of his hand and he could probably do this blindfolded.

bucky pushes the door open with one hand and it slams behind you as he presses his lips to yours, swallowing the startled gasp that leaves you. the faint hum of the fridge and the overhead led lights fill the kitchen, but you're far too preoccupied to notice.

he sets you down onto the cold, hard counter, his palms pressed firmly into your thighs and you hiss at the contact. youre pressed flush against his chest, every breath you take tangling with his, like he can't even stand an inch of distance between you. his stubble scrapes along your jaw as his mouth trails to your cheek, and then down your throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

"on the counter?" you furrow your brows, the cold metal searing into the burning skin on your thighs and ass.

he hums, sucking a delicate bruise onto your neck, "on the counter."

"this is such a health and safety violation, james—"

"bucky." he interrupts, voice stripped of teasing or smugness and replaced by something softer— something more sincere. "call me bucky."

you blink at him for a moment. part of you wants to tease him, but another part of you just wants to press sweet little kisses across his face and melt into his arms. you let out a breathy laugh.

“nicknames, huh?” you grin, “okay, i can do that... bucky."

the single word hangs between you, and you swear bucky moans a little bit before he's on you again, lips wet and swollen. every inch of him presses against you, the weight of his body pinning you into the counter.

you can feel his cock straining within the confines of his jeans, pressing insistently against your inner thigh. your hand trails from his neck down to the outline of him, the pressure of your palm dragging out a low, shaky inhale.

"fuck..." bucky mumbles, pressing a kiss to your jugular to hide the sharp intake of air that escapes him. his fingers dig deeper into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.

you can feel him pulsate under your palm, and the way he presses into your hand makes you bite your lip. "do you want me to—"

he shakes his head, "don't worry about me." he murmurs, his hand sliding down and finding the heat that awaits him. "just lean back. wanna taste you."

you swallow and obey. it's almost pathetic how quick bucky can make you listen to him— one moment you're talking back, and the next, he has you spread out like a whore. every thought of self respect and decorum escapes you the moment he lays a single hand on you.

and then bucky's kneeling in front of you like a sinner at an altar, worshipping you like you're the only source of forgiveness in this sorry world. he's looking up at you with half-lidded eyes as he gently spreads your legs open, his lips parting as he leans closer, letting the heat of his mouth hover just above your cunt.

your breath hitches when his tongue presses flat against you, licking a slow line from your opening to your clit. bucky takes your hand threading through his hair as a good sign and presses his face into you a bit more, nose digging into your heat just right.

compared to his hands— rough and calloused, gripping your hips so tight that you're sure they'd leave bruises— his tongue was soft, poking and prodding at your cunt like he's trying to figure out what makes you feel good and how to make more of those pretty little moans fall from your mouth.

"bucky—" you moan when you feel his tongue breaching your hole, the muscle fucking into you, "oh, god."

bucky hums, the vibrations shooting shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire nervous system. you rut into his face, but his hands slide up to hold your hips down, and he only pulls off to breath before diving back in.

you're close, and bucky can tell. the sounds are obscene— wet and sloppy— his tongue sliding over your heat and your moans and whimpers mixing together like an orchestra.

when you finally cum, your legs are clamping around bucky's head, your head thrown back against the wall as you grind yourself onto his face. you don't even care if he's breathing— the muffled moans that leak from his mouth tell you he's enjoying it.

when you finally let him go, he pops off of your cunt with a small hum, looking completely pussy-drunk. he presses his cheek against your thigh, a curious finger pressing against your folds.

"fuck, that was good." you blurt out, still fucked out of your mind.

before you know it, bucky's rising to his feet and unbuckling his belt. you start undoing the buttons on your shirt, the action tedious and repetitive when all you want is his dick inside of you. you're left in your bra— black and lacy to match your panties— and bucky's eyes never leave your chest, even when he fumbles with the loops of his belt.

before long, bucky pulls himself out of his boxers. the first thing you notice is how flushed the tip is after being pressed against denim all night. he's also long and thick, and far bigger than anything you've ever taken before. you're almost scared.

he hums, a teasing smile on his face. "thanks, sugar."

even through your hazy state of mind, you still know what he's talking about— and you're going to kill him. steve called you sugar once, and now bucky's running around throwing the word at you like he's taunting you.

you can't believe he's literally about to be inside of you and you're still letting him torment you. you're lucky he's making you feel good, because if he wasn't, you'd probably say some half-assed insult just to spite him. even in the middle of pressing into you, he can't get steve out of his head.

he presses his tip against your entrance, and you have to hold yourself back from rocking onto his dick. bucky tilts his head, almost amused at your desperateness before something else cuts through his thoughts.

"you sure you want this?" he asks, his voice low, giving you one last chance to back out.

you nod quickly, your hands planting themselves onto his shoulders, "i do. i want this."

"mh-hm." he presses a kiss to your forehead with a smile, all rational thought getting thrown out of the window as he teases, "alright, sugar."

you roll your eyes. "oh, bite me, buck." you grit out halfway through a gasp.

and maybe he takes you too literally, because he does— he quickly undoes your bra and he bites you, hard and wet right into the flesh of your breast. your breath hitches as you drag a needy hand up his neck and into his hair, tugging at the root.

he groans into your flesh as he quickly pushes in and bottoms out. it’s quick and overwhelming, stealing the air from your lungs. you gasp, the sudden breach both burns and soothes all at once, your nails clawing at his shoulders just to get a grip.

but it leaves bucky feeling like something is missing, feeling like he needs more of you— like being buried in you isn’t enough— so he tries.

he tugs your bra off of you and tosses it somewhere on the ground, his hands desperate and greedy as his thumbs graze your nipples before leaning down and taking one into his mouth, tongue flicking and sucking like he’s a man starved. it’s so messy yet so good that you’re almost confused.

"what are you—"

you're cut off when bucky jerks. your hips are already flush, but bucky tries as hard as he can to push into you ever further, the tip of his dick practically digging into your cervix. you tremble in his arms as he pops off of your tit, a string of saliva connecting you.

"god, you taste like pure sugar." he groans, “and you're so tight. you been waiting for me? waiting for me to fuck your pretty little cunt?"

you nod, because what else can you really do? he’s grinding against you like his life depends on it, and the force of it has you turning into jelly in his arms. the drag of his cock inside of you has your back arching into his chest.

his hands are pressing into your hips so hard that you’re sure it’s going to bruise. his forehead is resting against yours, and it feels less like sex and more like he’s trying to claim every single part of you at once.

and then he finally pulls his hips back, his dick sliding out of you slow enough to make your walls clench around nothing before he hammers himself back into you with a force that rattles the counters. he swallows your cry in a desperate kiss before he repeats it again, and again, and again before he lays you down.

the counter makes contact with your bare back, goosebumps shooting throughout your entire body, but it’s nothing compared to how bucky’s driving his cock into you like you belong to him. your hands are reaching for something— anything— before you grab a hold of a rickety spice shelf above you, the metal groaning under the tension. one of the containers threatens to fall with a particularly hard thrust, but you don’t pay it any attention.

you’re sure bucky’s gonna be upset with you later, but you can’t really bring yourself to care when he’s fucking you like he’s determined to ruin you.

the kitchen echoes with you moaning bucky’s name and his groans, the loud wet plapping of his dick driving into you almost drowning you both out. bucky’s touch is electric, his hands sliding up your sides to pinch at your nipples with a shit-eating smile.

"you think that asshole at table seven could fuck you this good?" he grits out as he watched you writhe under his hands, "you think he could have you moaning his name like this?"

"ugh— no. fuck, no— only you." you groan, "only you, bucky."

the sound of his name on your tongue has him doubling over. "fuck. that's right." he groans into your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your earlobe.

your grip on the shelf tightens until your knuckles whiten and the rattling of the jars and containers gets drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. heat coils low in your stomach, and your mouth falls open but no sound comes out— just desperate, broken breaths that tell him exactly how close you are.

bucky feels it— the way your walls flutter and clench around him— and his hand snakes down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with ease, pressing down and rubbing tight circles that make your whole body jerk.

“c’mon, sweetheart, give it to me.” he rasps, and you can feel him coming undone inside of you, “give it to me— wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.“

and you do— the coil of heat in your stomach snaps and your head tips back, hitting the cool metal of the counter. a loud, strangled cry leaves your lips when every muscle in your body goes numb, then shatters into waves of molten pleasure with a final thrust.

he lets out a small laugh when he feels you clench around him, coming on his cock. he twitches in you, nails digging into your waist as he drives himself into you, “fuuuuck—“

“cum in me, buck— please.” you whimper, starting to feel overstimulated. your hands reach up to tug at his hair, pulling him towards you, “need it— need you.”

his hips stutter at your plea, your voice breaking whatever restraint he had that was holding him back. a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he buries his face into your neck, his thrusts turning ragged and messy, almost desperate to fill you.

bucky spills into you, cum hot and thick against your cervix, coating your insides like an artist does to a canvas. you pull him to your mouth, swallowing his groans. he feels drunk on the way you’re clenching around him, his thrusts faltering as you ride out your orgasms.

when he finally stills, forehead pressed against yours, he wraps his arms around you, holding you as if you might slip away. and then his voice comes out, soft and unguarded— sweet.

“you’ll be the death of me, sweetheart.”

you let out an uneven laugh, still shaky from your climax. you press a warm kiss to the edge of his hairline just long enough for him to feel it.

“what a way to go, huh?”

the first thing buckys notices when he steps into the restaurant the next day is that it smells of coffee— and it never smells of coffee. the aroma is strong and oddly comforting, wrapping around him as he takes a deep breath.

the first thing he notices is you. you’re already moving between tables, apron tied around your waist and a small trolley full of cutlery standing idly beside you. the sunlight streaming through the windows catches your skin just right, and bucky can’t help the subtle smile that tugs at his lips.

and then you look up at him, all polite and composed, none of your usual snarkiness coating your voice.

“morning.” you say with a small smile, voice overwhelmingly casual, but there’s a softness in it that has bucky’s chest tightening.

“mornin’.” he replies, eyes flicking to a tray of paper coffee cups that sits idly on the bar counter, “you felt nice enough to buy us coffee?”

you shrug like you’re hiding a secret, “i was in a good mood this morning.”

and just like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you go back to setting up the tables— placing cutlery and plates in their places, smoothing out the table cloths, and straightening up the chairs.

there’s a moment where bucky pauses to study you, his mind racing with the memory of you spread out and arching your back on the table you’re currently setting up, before he clears his throat and moves towards the kitchen.

from the pass, bucky can see steve, already knee-deep in prep work, chopping vegetables with precision. steve glances up at bucky as the kitchen door swings open, eyes already scanning his friend like he’s reading the aftermath of last night before he turns back to his cutting board.

bucky can sense something’s wrong before he even steps through the door. he tucks his bag under the counter and pulls his apron off of the hook, the strap settling into the back of his neck as he fastens it around his waist, preparing himself for whatever smirk and comment steve’s already lining up.

“have fun last night?” steve asks without looking up.

"hmm?" bucky's brow twitches as he opens the fridge and pulls out a tray of prepped ingredients. he tries to look indifferent, but he’s sure the way he tenses his jaw betrays him. “sure.”

he didn't tell steve he was doing anything last night. he just assumed steve would think he went home and sat on his sofa, cooked up some mac and cheese and nursed a beer or three— not that he had fucked you right where he was preparing vegetables.

steve nods like he’s interested, but then his knife pauses. he places it down carefully before he turns to bucky with an inquisitive eye, and bucky doesn’t miss the way steve stares for a moment too long.

“when i opened up this morning, old man pat came by and complained about a noise.” he mentions, his voice even and calm. “said it sounded like a cat screaming and meowing all night long.”

“weird.” bucky mutters under his breath. the memory of you coming undone on his cock plays in his mind on a loop, and you were definitely pretty loud. “probably alpine trying to catch rats near the dumpsters again.”

“yeah, probably.” steve narrows his eyes for a moment before he claps his hands and points to the door with his thumbs, “i’m gonna head over to the grocer to pick up some stuff. you mind watching the stock for me?”

“yeah, sure.”

steve undoes his apron and pulls it over his neck, hanging it back onto the hook. he dusts his hands off and pulls open the kitchen door, but pauses in the doorway.

“oh, and buck?” he calls.

bucky hums as he glances at steve.

“the next time you fuck the waitress in the middle of the restaurant, make sure the cameras are off.“

every muscles in bucky’s body tenses. heat crawls up his neck fast and hot, his eyes instinctively finding you— maybe to see if you heard that steve knows, or maybe to just calm himself down in this moment of immense horror— but you’re there, folding napkins with practiced motions and pursed lips, completely unaware that steve knows your dirty little secret.

bucky blinks, still frozen. he feels like he’s a kid caught with his arm elbow-deep in the forbidden cookie jar.

“and hey—“ steve casually adds as he pulls his jacket over his shoulders, “while you’re at it, next time, invite me.”

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