#bwa

You were completely mesmerized by the video playing on the screen. The image of a large and strong muscular figure rutted his hips up into the silicone, slick with his precum and lube—the poor toy looking like it was on the verge of tearing apart in his large hands. 

After stumbling across the account Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917, you were immediately hooked. 

He never showed his face, but you didn’t need to know what he looked like to be entranced. His grunts and moans were engraved in your mind like a song you knew by heart. You were enthralled by the sight of his broad, sweat-slicked back, every movement etched into your memory. The sheer length and size of him held you captive, hypnotized. You had memorized the rhythm of his patterns right before he came, you knew it like the back of your hand. 

His moans would rise slightly higher in pitch. His breathing would get heavier. He’d curse and grunt out, “fuck, fuck.” or “shit, fuck.” 

And then it happens. 

With one final thrust, he filled his toys to the brim with his cum, always thick and a creamy pearlescent white. 

You had one hand tucked in your panties, rubbing at your clit as you came just in time with him. You tossed your head back against the pillow, panting and sweating from the aftermath of your self-lovemaking. 

You withdrew your hand, catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded. Moving lazily, you wiped your fingers clean before reaching for your phone. Just as always, you began typing out a comment—first in line the moment his new video drops. 

Pleasure_Ring: Great video as always! It made me feel really really good! I can’t wait to see the next!! 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Thanks, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That one was for you.

A minute passed by and another notification popped up on the bottom right of your screen, but this time, it was a direct message.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I just read your comment. You’re always so supportive. I wish you were here. I’d be fucking you instead of this flimsy toy. 

Your face flushed after reading his message. He was always so quick to respond, and although he was pretty responsive to other commenters too, you couldn’t help but feel like his replies to you were always a bit more personal than the rest. 

Pleasure_Ring: I really wish I was there too! But I admit, I’m a little scared just thinking about it haha. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Scared? How come? 

Pleasure_Ring: I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex before. 

Most people would find it pathetic to be flirting through a porn site. Even more would say it’s worse to be tangled in a para-social attachment to one of the biggest stars online.

And sure, maybe they're right. You were hooked on the mysterious man with the ridiculous username. But this was your ritual, your private indulgence, the part of yourself you never let anyone else see. Besides, you knew it would never be more than flirtatious comments flashing across a screen. 

Men like him always had plenty of women waiting in their inbox.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: A virgin, huh? That’s cute. What’s a sweet little thing like you doing watching videos like mine?

Pleasure_Ring: Because yours are the only ones that actually satisfy me. Any woman would be lucky to spend even one night with you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart… I don’t think you could handle a night with me.

Your heart thumps faster in your chest at his response. As much as you wished you could stay up and keep chatting, reality always kicked in. You had responsibilities, so conversations with him were usually cut off after midnight. 

Pleasure_Ring: I don’t think I could either… but I’d still like to try for you.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s getting late, and I’ve got a shift in a few hours. Have a great night, Bucky. And thank you for another wonderful video. <3

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: So soon, doll? I was just starting to enjoy our little chat.

You stared at the screen, tempted to type something back to keep the conversation going. Glancing at the clock, you let out a reluctant sigh. 

You logged off before you could second-guess yourself, because you knew that if you responded, you’d be up for hours. 

And when Bucky refreshed the page, impatiently waiting for a response, your username was already gray and your status was offline. 

Bucky laid back in his chair, finishing the last line of the description before hitting upload. He has never been great with captions—or usernames, for that matter… but lately, his descriptions weren’t just filler text to satisfy his fans. They were subtle messages, written only for you.

Need my pleasure ring to come help me out instead. Getting tired of using my hands and toys. Enjoy.

Once everything looked right, he clicked post. Same ritual, same time. Every three days.

The moment his upload went live, he sat up straight in his chair. The glow of the monitor lit his dark room, his eyes glued to the screen. Eleven minutes—that’s how long the video ran. By his calculations, you should already be online and commenting in twelve. 

Two minutes in, he refreshed. Another two more minutes, he refreshed again. Over and over, because he knew. He knew you’d be the first one there in his comment section without fail. 

You always were.

At this point, it’s been well past eleven minutes with zero notifications. In Bucky’s eyes, this was more than enough time for you to receive the notification, watch the video, and send a comment or a message like you usually do. 

So why the hell weren’t you doing it? 

He dedicated this video to you, goddammit. Actually—he dedicated all of his videos to you. But this one especially was planned, recorded, performed with you in mind. And yet, your account still showed offline.

He pumped himself for the first half of the video—his face nuzzled into the softness of his pillow. His groans and grunts were muffled as he fisted himself, his leaking tip grazing against the smooth fabric of his bed sheet, leaving a wet stain every time he grounded and bucked his hips. 

Then about halfway through, he reached for the clear silicone toy. He positioned the camera against the headboard, sitting up straight as he started fucking himself with the toy—the clear silicone squelching and spreading wider as he rutted into it like an animal. 

“Fuck, yes baby,” he groaned in the video. “S’fucking good, taking all this cock in your tight little virgin pussy.” He said. 

And God was that line especially meant for you. 

It was a damn good video—he was so fucking proud of himself. Which only made it harder for Bucky to understand why your account still showed offline.

With an annoyed sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm, and refreshed one more time for good measure. When nothing changed, he clicked on your profile and began to lurk.

For all the attention you gave him, your account was practically a ghost. No videos. No profile picture. No caption. No name. You were only following one account—his. And you had one follower, too… also him.

Bucky never followed anyone else. 

He scrolled down a bit, and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen. 

Your account was linked to your social media profiles—your Instagram and TikTok.

In order to create an account, you had to attach a phone number or email address. During sign-up, there was also the option to link your social media—tied to that same phone number or email—a small popup buried among the usual flood of terms, agreements, and permission requests that appeared in sequence.

So either you let it slip past you, your finger tapping carelessly just to get it out of the way.

Or… you wanted him to find you.

The cursor hovered over the link. Bucky sucked in a breath, clicking on your Instagram. When the screen finally loaded, his eyes immediately widened and his heart skipped a beat. Your profile was public. Your name was right at the top, and there you were in your profile picture—smiling, front and center.

Aside from his secret porn account, Bucky didn’t do social media. He couldn’t be bothered figuring out how it works, but he knew enough to recognize that Instagram was all about pictures and videos. And that was exactly what he needed.

Finally, he could see you.

His number one fan. His pleasure ring. 

He scrolled down, coming across a mix of photos. Selfies, your eyes bright and innocent with a sheepish smile. Food. Didn’t care. Landmarks. Didn't care. Pictures of family and friends—he only looked for you. 

There were beach shots, carefree and playful, your body posted in a skimpy bikini glowing in the sunlight. 

His breath caught in his throat. His pants grew tighter. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust the growing pressure between his legs. He leaned closer as he looked through every picture, careful not to accidentally leave a like in his wake. 

“Damn, baby,” he muttered, staring at your pictures, unable to tear his eyes away. 

He scrolled down, saving every single image that displayed your face and your body—each one feeling like a treasure.

All the pictures of you were seemingly innocent. Even in your bikini shots, you weren’t trying to show off. You didn’t jut your hips out or pose provocatively. Your pictures weren’t screaming for attention. 

It was cute. 

But it just made him want more. Need more. He would’ve loved to see you bend over just a little bit. Maybe even press your arms together to accentuate your cleavage.

God. He would’ve loved to see that. 

His dick throbbed in his pants as he scrolled further down your Instagram. More selfies of you just meant more photos in his special folder. With one hand rubbing himself steadily and the other on the mouse, he hovered over your TikTok link next. 

Once your page loaded, he felt his heart drop in his stomach. 

There were only two videos, both of them being with your friends. It was some stupid trend you were doing—Bucky never understood the whole appeal of trends—but you were dancing to them, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest as he watched, captivated. 

Your dancing was… pretty bad to say the least. Actually, it was awful. 

But Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away because he got a full view of your body. Every movement of your body, even the clumsy dance steps, had him entranced. The rhythm was completely off, but it didn’t matter. It was the way you moved, the curve of your body in each frame. 

His cock was completely hard, poking and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. He was palming himself for so long, his warm hand rubbing up and down against his throbbing clothed shaft—he didn’t even realize the precum leaking through his pants until his fingers grazed against it. 

“Shit,” he grunted. 

There was something about watching you—his once mysterious, loyal viewer and commenter—right here, in his monitor. Dancing. Your body on display, completely unaware, yet captivating in every move.

He grabbed the hem of his sweatpants and brought it down to his thighs, freeing his cock from the suffocating fabric. His hand encircled around his shaft, his grip tightening just slightly as he began pumping himself. He dragged his thumb over the wetness of his tip, smearing it over the head. 

Bucky let out a low groan, his breathing growing heavy as he fucked his hand to the sight of you. With the other hand, he kept switching through your photos, moving faster as his cock throbbed helplessly in his grip. 

He grunted and groaned, staring at his monitor with half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself. He stopped at another picture of you, a top down selfie with a low cut blouse. Your eyes—wide and innocent, batting up at the camera, the curve of your breast straining against the shirt. 

A low moan rumbled from his chest at the sight. His hands moved faster and eagerly against his cock, precum leaking down from the tip to his shaft as he pumped and worked his throbbing dick. 

“Fuck, baby. I want to cum all over that pretty face,” he breathed. “Gonna paint your face and tits with my seed—shit.” 

Everything was overwhelming his senses right now. Your pure and clueless eyes, the way your lips—soft and plump—curved up into a smile. 

Everything about you screamed ‘innocent.’ 

And the best part of it all, was that you were a fucking virgin. A helpless, clueless, little virgin. Perfectly ripe for the picking.

His cock throbbed hot and heavy in his hand, each pulse bringing him closer. He could hardly believe it—your social media, left wide open, public and linked straight to your account. Like an invitation. 

Like you wanted him to see.

His fist worked faster, the slick sounds of his own hand echoing in the dark room. He was right there, teetering at the edge, when another one of your videos caught his eye. A casual clip, nothing special—just you laughing with your friends, the camera panning across a storefront in the background.

His heart lurched in his chest. He knew that place.

He blinked hard, his other hand flying to the mouse as he replayed the clip, pausing on the sign. His pulse roared in his ears. That store was only a few streets away. Which meant…

You were here. In his town.

“Fuck—” 

The word ripped out of him as his body jerked. His cock erupted in his fist, hot streams spilling over his knuckles and thigh as he shook, riding the wave of release harder than he had in years. Harder than he had in any of his videos. The excitement, the discovery, the sudden nearness of you—it all came crashing into him, tearing his orgasm from the very pit of his stomach.

He slumped back against his chair, chest heaving, eyes still glued to the frozen frame of your smiling face. 

You weren’t just his number one fan anymore. Fuck, you were real. You were so close, and now, he knew exactly where to find you. 

He was still catching his breath when he switched tabs, his cock softening in his hand as he scrolled deeper through your pictures. Every shot held him captive. Was this how you felt when you watched his videos—entranced, unable to look away?

A few minutes had gone by when he heard a ping! sound from his other tab. He switched over, and there you were. Your account, blank as ever, no profile picture, no name, but now a message glowing at the bottom of the screen.

Pleasure_Ring: Loved your new video! It was amazing as always. I can’t believe your toy isn’t broken yet!

He felt his heart stutter in his chest. A needy grin curled at the corner of his lips. You were late to his video, but that’s okay. He had your videos and pictures to keep him at bay for now. His fingers darted across the keyboard, replying almost too quickly. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Glad you liked it, doll. Took you longer than usual to show up tonight.

His fingers hovered over the keys, debating if he wanted to send this next message or not.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Had me wondering if you forgot about me. 

You took longer than usual to respond, and even though he was coming down from his post-release haze, his heart was still pounding anxiously in his chest.

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I know! I’m sorry. I got distracted cooking dinner. 

Pleasure_Ring: But I could never forget about you, Bucky. 

His grip on the mouse tightened, and he felt his cock twitching again. God, he loved when you said—typed—his name. But the longer he stared at your words, the more restless he felt. He needed more. 

He needed you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Dinner, huh? You had me worried there for a second. You’re usually the first one here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you forgetting me.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You know… I don’t even know your name. What should I call you, sweetheart?

He already knew it, of course. 

He could say it out loud, taste it on his tongue right now if he wanted. But he wanted you to give it to him. To hand it over willingly. 

He saw you typing, then stopping. Typing again, then stopping. The little dots taunted him, making his jaw clench. He hated this. He hated playing the waiting game—especially now that he knew you were just a few minutes away, living in the same town as him.

Pleasure_Ring: Do I really need to tell you my name? I kinda like being your little secret. <3

Pleasure_Ring: Besides… I think you like calling me doll, don’t you?

Bucky’s brow twitched in mild frustration, his cock throbbing in his lap again as his eyes traced your text over and over. You were a teasing little minx—taunting him, torturing him. He knew you were obsessed with him just as much as he was with you, so why the hell were you playing so damn hard to get?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. Don’t be like that. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You touch yourself to my videos every night, and yet you can’t even share your name? Don’t make me beg for it. 

He dragged in a sharp breath as he waited for your reply, his hand lazily stroking his half-hard cock while he leaned back in his chair, tension swimming through every vein.

Pleasure_Ring: You’re so silly, Bucky. 

Pleasure_Ring: Why ruin the mystery? I kind of like it this way… just you and me, no names needed. <3 

His cock was rock-hard again, straining for a second round. He wrapped his fist around it as he split his screen in two—one tab open to a photo of you smiling sweetly, the other to your chat box on the site. His strokes were slow, shudders slipping past his lips as he teased the sensitive flesh. Every pulse in his palm matched the flick of his gaze between your face and your words.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You won’t give me your name, but I bet you’d spread your legs wide and let me fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.

He was playing a dangerous game with that message. It was too direct, maybe even a little mean. He might even risk scaring you away. 

But with your picture staring back at him, soft and innocent, how the hell was he supposed to hold back? 

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I would do anything you’d want me to if you were here. 

His heart stopped. His cock throbbed violently as the words sank in, repeating it in his mind like a prayer. A sweet little virgin like you, so naive, so unknowing, willing to let a man like him do anything to you?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have said that. 

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He stroked himself faster, pressure coiling hot at the base as he pumped his length with desperate need. Groans tore from his chest, hips jerking up into his fist as pleasure overtook him.

In his mind, it wasn’t just his hand—it was you. You on his bed, camera capturing every angle as you wrapped those innocent lips around his cock. You moaning, trembling, surrendering that precious virginity to a filthy porn star like him.

Pleasure_Ring: Maybe. But I really would do anything you’d ask me to.

And fuck, you lived in the same town as him. You actually lived in the same town as him. 

It would be so easy to find you. To claim you. To stuff your tight, untouched little holes full of him until you were stretched and dripping, used just like one of his toys.

The thought alone was enough to make him come a second time. With his head tilted back, a low growl-like moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered wildly as his release tore through him in sharp waves of pleasure, hot seed spilling over his fist until his hand was a sticky, soiled mess.

He slumped back in his chair, breath ragged as he wiped himself clean with hurried, clumsy hands. His fingertips grazed the keyboard, already halfway through typing his next message. 

He couldn’t let the moment die, he didn’t want to lose you just yet. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

But then your text bubble popped up first.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s late, so I’ll be going to sleep now. I’m sorry our conversation got cut short. But thank you again for your video! I’m already looking forward to the next one! <3 Nighty night, Bucky!

And just like that, your status flickered gray. Offline. Gone.

His hand froze over the keys.

What? 

That’s it? 

You showed up online extremely late, give him a few teasing words that leave him aching, and just… log off? 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. You can’t leave like that. Aren’t you having fun? 

He knew you were offline, yet he sent the message anyway—clinging to the hope that maybe your status would flicker green and you’d answer him right away, being his number one fan and all. 

A minute passed. Then another. And another.

He sat there, staring at the empty chat box, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. When it finally sank in that you weren’t coming back, he closed the porn tab with a long and disappointing sigh. Dozens of comments waited for him on his latest video, begging for his attention—but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered.

All he wanted was you. 

Your picture still glowed on his other monitor, your smile taunting him. He pulled his pants back on, leaning forward as his mind spun. You were so close—he could feel it. And with your account still open, still public, still inviting, he knew he wouldn’t stop.

He would find you.

And once he did, you would be his.

It had been three days since you last commented on his videos. Three days without your little messages, without your sweet words that fueled him through the long and lonely nights. 

Bucky was restless. 

He kept checking your account, refreshing the page, waiting for that familiar username that was dedicated to him to pop up in his notifications list again. But instead, you were busy elsewhere. 

Your Instagram was suddenly so active. Story after story, pictures of food, photos of crowded streets, little story clips of you laughing with friends. They were all innocent things, but to him, they were breadcrumbs. 

He looked closely at the background in your stories, taking screenshots and zooming in on shop signs and store logos. Most of these were ones he recognized. He compared timestamps, piecing together your routine slowly.

Each update you shared felt like you were inviting him in, pulling him closer without even realizing. 

And no—he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. Sure, he scrolled through all your socials, jerked off to your pictures, learned your full name, the area you lived in, who you spent time with. 

But that wasn’t stalking.

That was devotion. 

He was your number one fan. Just like you were his.

Your cart wobbled against the tiled floor as you turned into the produce aisle. Today was your weekly grocery restock. The store was busy, noisy, and packed with people trying to weave in and out of each other’s way. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and snapped a quick picture of the cotton candy grapes piled high in their cartons. 

They were your favorite, and this was the only grocery store near your area that carried them. 

Try these! They taste just like cotton candy! 

You added the caption and posted it to your story, sliding your phone back into your bag before moving on. A few minutes later, as you rounded the corner towards checkout, someone brushed past your shoulder.

You glanced up, and a man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low, achingly familiar. “Didn’t see you there.” 

You smiled politely, brushing it off. “No worries.” 

You went back to your cart, but for some reason, your gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. There was something… familiar about the way he carried himself, about the way his words came out and how he looked.

You shook the thought off and pushed the cart forward, but you didn’t get very far when he stepped behind you, resting a gentle yet heavy hand on your shoulder. 

You glanced over and paused. The same man was staring at you, his eyes locked on yours with a look like that feels unsettling. You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. 

“Uh… can I help you?”

His jaw tightened, his grip on your shoulder pressing just a little harder.

“...Pleasure ring?” 

Those words rang back in your ears like a loud bell. Your eyes went wide and you felt like your heart dropped in your stomach. Your gaze darted quickly around the aisle, checking to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. 

“I—I’m sorry? What did you just say?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” 

The longer you stare at this man, the realization hits you all at once. The thickness of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders. The sheer size of him, impossible to mistake. You’ve seen this frame before—night after night, on a glowing screen.

You leaned in slightly, whisper-yelling, “You’re Lord of The Rings nineteen-seventeen? You’re Bucky?” 

The ridiculous username felt even more absurd now that it left your lips.

He didn’t even look around or even seemed to care about his alter ego being mentioned outloud. All he cared about right now was having you, right in front of him. 

“...You haven’t been watching my videos,” Bucky said instead. His thumb brushed once across your shoulder, subtle but possessive. “Are you okay?”

The words should have sounded caring, but instead they struck you like an accusation. Your pulse quickened, panic rising up your throat. 

He was watching you that closely? 

He noticed? 

How did he even find you here? 

“I—uh—yeah, I’ve just been… busy,” you muttered. 

You knew you should step back and pull away from his touch. This man was stalking you. Yet, your body betrayed you. The deep rasp of his voice sent a warm sensation trickling down your spine, curling in the pit of your stomach. 

Creeped out or not, your body remembered him. It remembered his moans, his growls, the way he spoke dirty to the camera like he was speaking only to you. 

“I’ve missed you in my comments,” he continued, his hand moving from your shoulder to the ends of your hair, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ve missed our cute little chats… haven’t you?” 

You sucked in a breath. 

The loud chatter of customers and grocery carts dimmed into the background noise. You should pull away, God you should pull away—but your body swayed just slightly towards him instead. 

“Y-yeah,” your voice was soft and shaky. “I… I do too.” 

The moment the words left your mouth, your stomach curled with dread. Yet, your body didn’t match your fear. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You hated the way a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside you when he stepped closer. 

Bucky’s mouth curled into a faint smirk, like he knows your own body is betraying you. He gave your strand of hair a gentle, teasing tug before letting it fall. 

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes tracing every curve on your face, studying you, taking you in. 

You pressed your lips together, you stared back at him, captivated. He never showed his face in his videos—only his body, hands, and voice. You had always wondered what the man behind the camera looked like, and now here he was, inches away. He was unbelievably handsome. His gaze was intense. His voice was magnetic. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried.

“Are you nervous?” 

You blinked at him. “What?” 

A small chuckle escaped his lips, his hand lifted up to your cheek, cupping it softly and making your skin tingle. 

“You teased me in your texts,” he reminded you, his voice deep. “Told me you’d let me do anything to you if I was with you.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly, almost soothing. 

“How true does that still ring?” 

Your eyes darted nervously around the aisle. A few people passed by with carts, sparing you both brief, casual glances. To them, it probably looked like nothing more than a man grocery shopping with his girlfriend, caressing her cheek tenderly.

But you knew better.

“I…” your lip trembled nervously. “I-It’s still true…” 

His mouth curved into a slow, smug smile, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you—how easily your knees wanted to give beneath you. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “My number one fan.”

You felt your stomach tighten. Every inch of your skin felt hot under his gaze. This was dangerous—you knew it. You were untouched, inexperienced, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice reached your ears, only made the ache between your legs grow heavier.

“How ‘bout we go back to your place,” he leaned in slightly, voice getting lower and dangerous, “and you do your grocery shopping later?” 

Your heart felt like it could burst out of your chest. You glanced down at your cart, the cotton candy grapes you’d been so excited to buy, and then back up at him. The way he held you, the way his eyes burned into yours, the very offer you’ve been secretly dreaming of despite your nerves…

It made the idea of staying here feel like hell. 

“Okay,” you breathed out. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go back to my place.” 

A small, approved hum escaped his lips. He pulled his hand away from your cheek and trailed his hand down to your bare arm, down to your hands—interlocking his fingers with yours. 

“Lead the way, princess.” 

This was wrong. So dangerously, undeniably wrong. But you had spent countless nights dreaming about this man, the pornstar with the ridiculous username, and now he was right here, holding your hand.

He led you out of the store with a smile on his face, already looking proud to have you by his side even though you guys just met. 

“I can’t wait to see your place, princess,” he murmured smoothly, stopping just outside the sliding doors. His gaze dropped down to you, quiet and expectant, waiting for you to take the lead.

“There are so many things I want to do to you.”

By the time you reached your front door, your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest. 

Your hands trembled so badly you could barely fit the key into the lock. Bucky stood behind you, his presence comforting yet demanding as he waited for you to open the door. 

The door finally opened, and you felt an insane wave of embarrassment as soon as he stepped inside. Your apartment wasn’t exactly ready for company. You had shoes littered near the door, laundry draped over the arm of the couch, your desk drowning in clutter.

He looked around and let out a low and amused hum. 

This was a terrible idea, inviting a stranger into your home. You’ve never done this before. But he’s not technically that much of a stranger if you two have been talking online for months now… right? 

“Show me your bedroom, sweetheart,” he said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for disobedience.

When he sensed your hesitation, his chin tilted subtly toward the hallway, like he already knew exactly where your bedroom was. That smug smile never left his lips.

“Go on.” 

You swallowed hard and turned toward the hallway, each step feeling heavy and anxious. You were nervous, extremely nervous. But the excitement of having a man in your home, this man you’d been secretly attracted to for months, sent a shiver of arousal down your spine.

You led him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind you. Pausing at your door, you glanced back over your shoulder. His smile widened, eyes glinting.

“You gettin’ shy, doll?” 

Your cheeks burned, and with a shaky exhale you pushed the door open.

Embarrassment hit instantly. The bed was undone, white sheets tangled in a mess, with clothes scattered lazily across the mattress. He stood in the doorway, his silence madly deafening while you stood there nervously with your hands clasped behind your back, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he stepped forward, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

“I like your room, princess,” he said smoothly. He stepped up to the edge of your bed, his fingers dragging lightly across the wrinkles in your blanket.

“Is there where you watch my videos?” he asked. “Do you touch yourself right here, in this bed?” 

“I—I… do sometimes,” you confessed. You pointed your finger toward the desktop in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I watch… on my laptop.” 

His head turned to follow your finger, a smile tugging at his lips. He strode toward the desk, fingers grazing over the surface.

“Yeah? This is where you chat with me?” his fingertips trailed slowly across the top, pausing over the chair. “You sit here, spread those pretty legs on this chair, and put your fingers in that tiny little pussy of yours?”

You fiddled with your fingers, too flustered to meet his gaze. “Y-yes…”

He came back to you, steps steady and eyes locked on your face. When he reached you, he took one of your hands, gently prying it from the other, holding it in his much larger one. His palm stroked against yours, tender in contrast to his words. Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressing  a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes half-lidded and dark.

“How did you find me?” you asked softly. 

He exhaled, rubbing soft circles against your skin. “You stopped commenting on my videos. You stopped chatting with me. And I know it was only a few days…” his voice went softer, “…but doll, I missed you.”

Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, your face hot and warm. The ache between your thighs pulsed with every word he spoke.

“I missed you so damn much. Couldn’t stop thinking about you…” he continued, pressing another kiss to your hand, then brushing your knuckles along the slight stubble of his jaw. “I couldn’t help it. I started looking through your account.”

You sucked in a breath, looking up at him as he continued.

“Your account was blank. No name. No picture. Nothing.” His voice dropped lower. “But your social media was linked, all public and left wide open.” His smile deepened, almost smug as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours. 

“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you?”

His voice was so raspy and so hungry, it made your whole body shiver. You couldn’t trust your voice, especially not when you were so afraid it would crack and betray how timid, how inexperienced you really were. 

“I-I… didn’t know—”

“Oh, but you did,” he cut you off, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other cupping your cheek. “You wanted me to find you. I bet you hoped I’d click, hoped I’d follow the trail…” 

He spoke so confidently and so sure of himself—but the truth was something else entirely. You didn’t realize that your social media was tied to your account and you didn’t bother to check. You had only made that account to interact with Bucky’s videos only. 

You should have been afraid. The way he tracked you down, the way he admitted to stalking your socials—it should have terrified you.

But it didn’t.

It only made your body burn with excitement, your core clenching with a hunger that only he can satisfy. 

“You teasing little slut,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. “But you’re not a slut, are you? You’re a virgin—isn’t that right?” 

You nodded. “I-I am…” 

“And you’d still do anything for me? Anything at all?”

You paused for a moment. You knew exactly what he meant. He hadn’t followed you home for small talk. 

Your body screamed yes, aching for him, but your mind shook with hesitation. You've seen his videos. You knew how rough he could be. How brutal his thrusts looked, how the silicone toys bent and threatened to snap beneath his strength. The way his grip tightened until his muscles flexed and strained—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating. 

Could you really take him? You weren’t sure. 

But God, you wanted to try.

So you nodded.

An approved and low growl escaped his lips. He leaned closer, pausing right before your lips. 

“There are so many fucking things I want to do to you, princess,” he rasped. “First, I’m going to kiss you—then I’ll teach you how to really please a man. And after that…” his mouth curved into a wicked smile, “I’ll show you how a man properly pleases his woman. You understand?”

“O-okay.” 

His lips pressed against yours. 

It started off soft, patient, exploratory—until his hunger took over. The kiss deepened, his mouth grew reckless, his tongue desperate. His hands roamed greedily, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. He broke away only to tug at your clothes, then immediately slammed his lips back against yours like he couldn’t resist you. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned into your mouth. “You taste exactly like I imagined—maybe even better. Shit.” 

Bucky was getting harder by the second, but truthfully, he’d been aching since the moment he laid eyes on you in the store. But now, with you trembling in his arms, he finally had you. 

He caught your hand in his, guiding it down until your palm pressed against the thick bulge straining against his jeans, you shuddered at the contact. Your fingers started moving without you thinking, rubbing against him in small, and timid strokes.

He let out a low chuckle. “Look at you, baby. You want it so bad, don’t you?” 

Your breath hitched, and you could only nod, meek and shy. 

He moved your hand along his clothed length, forcing you to feel every ridge of him. His lip caught between his teeth as he let out a hiss of pleasure. He was so hard for you—so desperate—that he started to feel himself leaking just from the friction of your trembling palm.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, ripping your hand away from his crotch. 

You blinked up at him, startled and confused.

He reached in the back of his jean pocket, pulling out a small camcorder. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were dark. 

“Baby,” he rasped, voice needy. “I want to record this. I want to see you undress for me… capture every second of it.” His fingers trembled as he flipped the device open, eyes half-lidded, fixated on you like a starving man.

“Bucky…”

“What do you say, baby?” he pressed, taking a slow step forward.

You bit your bottom lip, nerves tying your stomach in knots. You weren’t ready for this—not at all. But the thought of being behind Bucky’s lens, of being admired and captured the same way you had admired him through his videos, made your skin warm with anticipation. 

He grabbed your hand gently. “I won’t upload it,” he promised. “This one’s just for me—to keep, to look back on. Think you can give me that, doll?”

His words were soft yet strained with a lust and desire that he was desperately trying to hold back. The ache between your legs pulsed harder with every word, and deep down, you already knew you couldn’t say no.

“…Okay,” you whispered. “I want to be put on display for you, Bucky. I want to be yours.”

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.”

He nodded toward the bed. “Stay there, at the edge. Watch me.”

You stood frozen, captivated, as he began to strip down. Shirt, jeans, everything—gone in moments, until his bare and large body stretched against your sheets and rested against the headboard. With one hand, he steadied the camcorder, and with the other, he reached for himself slowly.

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered, the red recording light blinking as the camera pointed straight at you. “I want every second of this. Give me a show, baby.”

Heat climbed your chest and neck as you began lifting your shirt, pulling it over your head. You glanced at him—and your knees nearly buckled. He was already stroking himself, precum glistening at the flushed tip, his chest heaving with each desperate pump.

“Good girl.” 

You pushed your pants down, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your bra and panties. Your hands fidgeted nervously at your sides—not knowing what to do with them next.

“D-do you… want me to keep going?”

A dark chuckle slipped from his lips, almost mocking. “Oh, baby. You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” his hand pumped slow and hard, his cock twitching under his touch. “Yes. Keep going. Take it all off, nice and slow for me…”

Your fingers trembled as they hooked around the strap of your bra, sliding it off your shoulders before unclasping it. The straps fell loose, and you let it slip from your hands. The cool air rushed against your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. 

“Panties, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “Get rid of ‘em.”

Slowly, you eased them down your legs, stepping out of them until you stood completely bare before him. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, trying to hide yourself.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a smug grin. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re too pretty to cover up.”

Your arms dropped hesitantly at your sides, and his grin only widened.

“Good girl,” he rasped. He shifted against the headboard, spreading his legs wider, the thick length of his cock pulsing as his fist pumped it. “Now crawl to me, princess.”

“C-crawl..?” 

His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around himself. “That’s right. On your hands and knees. Crawl over here like the sweet little virgin you are.”

Your breath caught, and for a second you thought you wouldn’t be able to move at all. But his hungry stare made your body obey before your mind could catch up. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and lowered yourself onto your hands and knees. 

Slowly, you crawled toward him, the soft sheets brushing against your bare skin, your heart beating fast in your chest. 

Bucky let out a low and approving growl, the camcorder following your every move. 

“That’s it, baby… fuck—” he groaned. “You look so perfect like this. Like you were made to kneel for me.” 

You swallowed hard as you approached him, staring at his cock—thick and hard, flushed at the tip. Your lips parted as you let out a soft gasp—the sheer size of him made your throat go dry. 

“Have you ever had a dick in your mouth, baby?” he asked. 

You can only shake your head no. 

He let go of himself, his free hand sliding into your hair, guiding you closer to his lap. “Open that pretty mouth for me, doll,” he coaxed. “I want to be the first man you taste.” 

How could something that big possibly fit in your mouth? His grip kept you steady, urging you forward. 

“There you go,” he smirked, watching your nervous little breaths. “God, you’re trembling. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll teach you exactly how to do it. All you gotta do is listen to me.”

“Stick out that tongue—yeah, just like that. Such a good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth before pressing down on your lower lip, opening you wider. “Mm, look at you. Never done this before, huh?”

You shook your head, embarrassed, but he only chuckled.

“Of course not. My innocent little fan, saving herself for me,” he guided you closer until the blunt tip of his cock brushed your tongue, smearing precum across it. The taste was strange, salty and thick, and you whimpered softly at the unfamiliar sensation.

His laugh was low and condescending, but not cruel. “That’s it, baby. Don’t pout so cutely like that… only makes it harder for me to hold back.”

He stroked your hair, petting you like you were some pet while his hips gave a subtle roll forward, testing you. 

“Just wrap those lips around me nice and slow. I want to see that sweet virgin mouth stuffed full of cock for the first time.”

Your lips closed timidly around him, sealing over the tip as your tongue flicked against it, tasting more of that salty, musky flavor. Your jaw ached instantly, but the way he groaned, deep and guttural, made you shiver with pride.

“There you go,” he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. “God, look at you. My perfect little virgin, already learning how to please me.”

You tried to sink further, taking more of him in, but the sheer thickness made your throat tighten. You gagged softly, tears threatening to well in your eyes, and pulled back with a desperate little gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your damp cheek. “That was good, baby. So fucking good. Just relax your jaw, take it slow. You’ve got such a tiny mouth—I didn’t expect you to take all of me your first try.”

His hand guided you down again, inch by inch, your lips stretching around him as drool began to slick your chin. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the headboard.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. God, you don’t even know how sweet you look right now, doll. Choking on my cock like you were made for it.”

You felt his cock pulse on your tongue, thick veins throbbing against the roof of your mouth. 

“Fuck—baby—” he growled, his breathing ragged as his cock twitched violently. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum down your throat—”

Suddenly, his hand yanked you back, pulling your mouth off him with a wet pop. You gasped, spit stringing between your lips and his swollen tip, confused and dazed.

“W-what…?”

“Not yet,” he panted, his hand flying to his cock and holding it still, trying to calm himself down. 

His chest heaved, his eyes glazed and hungry as he stared at your flushed, ruined face. “Not wasting my first load on your mouth, princess. I’ve been waiting too long for you.”

“Bucky…” 

He leaned forward, thumb smearing your spit across your swollen lips. “No… I’m gonna be the first man to cum inside this virgin cunt.”

He adjusted the camera in his hands, sitting up straighter. “Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”

His words were so filthy and vulgar—it made your face burn—but still, you obeyed. Lowering yourself onto shaky arms, you crawled forward and eased your chest against the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you raised your ass for him, baring yourself under his gaze.

The arch felt awkward, your back straining from holding the position. But the low, hungry sound that escaped from his chest sent a shiver of pride racing through you. You pushed yourself even higher, desperate to please him.

“Look at you. My shy little virgin, already posing like a whore for me,” the sound of the camcorder’s little beep made your body tense—he was recording this, capturing you in such a vulnerable position.

The mattress dipped as he shuffled closer, his large palm running over the curve of your ass. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets in embarrassment.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand. “You nervous, baby?”

You nodded weakly, voice muffled against the pillow. “Y-Yeah…”

“Mmm, but you’re already being so sweet for me,” he rasped, his thumb gently pressing against your wet, slit folds. “Your pretty little cunt is weeping just for me, sweetheart.” 

You let out a soft gasp, the camcorder beeped again as he adjusted it to get a better view. His grin widened with hunger. 

“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you. Gonna stretch this virgin pussy nice and slow… and make you put on the sweetest show for my camera.”

He teased your pussy, thumb rubbing over your entrance and his finger rubbing against your clit. You were already so wet—embarrassingly so.

“God, baby… you’re dripping,” he groaned, the camcorder beeping softly as he angled it lower. “All this for me?”

You whimpered into the sheets, trembling as he shifted his hand and pressed a finger, testing your tightness before slowly sinking inside. 

You gasped louder, your whole body jolting forward against the mattress even though it was just his finger. “B-Bucky!” 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning close. “Just my finger. Gotta test this tight little pussy before I give you more.”

He moved slowly, letting you adjust to his finger as you writhed against the sheets, your walls already fluttering helplessly around him. He slowly eased another finger inside, drawing out a desperate moan from you. 

“So tight,” he groaned so low, almost like he was talking to himself. “So fucking tight—baby. Can’t wait to put my cock inside you…” 

When he finally slipped his finger free, you sagged against the bed in relief—but then you felt him shifting behind you. The camcorder beeped again, and the feel of his heavy, thick cock pressed against your entrance—hot and throbbing.

You suddenly remembered how his toys would stretch helplessly around his thickness—literally on the verge of tearing. Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure if you could take him fully. 

“B-Bucky…” your stomach started twisting with nerves. “You’re too big… I don’t think I can—” 

“You can, baby,” he interrupted softly, steadying himself with a hand at your hip. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He pushed forward before you could say anything. The thick tip pushed past your virgin walls. You cried out at the burn, your hands gripping the sheets.

“I know, I know,” he soothed, though his voice shook with restraint. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so big, I know—but you’re doing so fucking good for me.” 

The stretch hurt, but it also made a strange heat bloom low in your belly.

He kissed the back of your shoulder, keeping himself still while you trembled beneath him. “Breathe for me, princess. Let me in nice and slow… I promise—it’s gonna feel so good.”

Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you let out a high, broken moan.

“Shhh, that’s it, baby,” Bucky rasped, his voice thick with both lust and control. “My sweet little virgin… finally getting split open by a real cock.”

You shook your head against the mattress, gasping. “B-Bucky—it’s too big, I can’t—I can’t take it—”

He hushed you softly, his hand sliding from your hip to rub comforting circles against your trembling waist. 

“Yes you can, doll. You’re made for this—you’ve been watching my videos every night. Studying me. Practicing with your pretty little fingers and wishing it was me, isn’t that right?” His cock inched deeper, slow but relentless, his breath hitching at the unbearable tightness of you.

“That’s my girl,” he encouraged, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Ruinin’ this sweet little virgin pussy nice and slow…” 

A sharp moan escaped you as he sank another inch inside, your body trembling around him.

“God… you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he groaned, teeth grazing your shoulder as he adjusted the camera with one hand, angling it to capture the stretch of his cock sliding in and out of you. The red light blinked, recording every second of your first time.

“Such a sweet little thing,” he moaned, condescending but tender. “Crying on my cock like you don’t love it—but listen to yourself, baby. You’re moaning like a slut already!”

Another desperate cry left your lips, and he groaned low in his throat. You adjusted your hips slightly, moving your back a bit to try and get comfortable. The slight movement made his hard cock pulse and throb inside you uncontrollably—the sensation unbearable. 

“Oh, fuck—” he cursed, his breath catching. “Fuck. If you keep moving like that, doll… shit, I’m not gonna last.”

You shuffled your hips back, desperate for more, for him, even though the stretch burned.

“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan. “You’re so big… too big… f-feels so good…”

That praise alone made him groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as his cock twitched inside your tight heat. His hand squeezed your waist, trying to stay in control, trying to savor it, but every little shuffle of your hips threatened to undo him completely.

“Fuck, doll,” he grunted. “You keep saying that—calling me big while you wiggle on my cock so cutely… I’m gonna lose it.”

You moaned again, arching your back to push into him, the words tumbling out between gasps. “Want you, Bucky… wanna take you all… please, you’re so big, fill me up, please…”

That was it.

A sharp growl ripped from his chest as he tossed the camcorder aside, the device landing forgotten on the sheets somewhere. Both his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice laced with hunger. “You asked for it.”

With one rough, needy thrust, he drove himself all the way inside, stuffing you full until his hips were flush against your ass. The sudden fullness made you cry out, your walls clamping down on him so tight it pulled another curse from his lips.

“Jesus Christ—this tight little virgin pussy’s gonna kill me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. “You feel that, doll? That’s me—every fucking inch of me—buried inside you.”

Your cry broke into a helpless moan as he bottomed out, the stretch almost unbearable, but your body clung to him desperately. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock made Bucky curse low and vicious.

“Fuck—look at you,” he growled against your ear, pulling back only to slam in again, harder. “Taking me so deep, squeezing the life outta me. My sweet little virgin, getting ruined on my cock.”

“Bucky—ah—s’too much—” you whimpered, though your hips still rocked back to meet him.

His laugh was dark, breathless. “Too much, huh? Then why’s this greedy little pussy dripping all over me? You’re lovin’ it, doll. You’re lovin’ how I’m stretchin’ you out.” 

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, every inch of you unraveling under his relentless pace. He held your hips so hard you knew he’d leave bruises, pounding into you like he wanted to brand himself inside your body.

“Good girl—fuck, you’re my good girl,” his hips moving rougher and sloppier. “Fuck. So much better than the videos, huh?” 

“Oh my god,” you cursed, your face pushed up against the pillow. “I… can’t—gonna… gonna cum—” your walls fluttered and clenched down on him so tightly as you let your release take over you. 

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—” he snarled, hips snapping erratically as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, fuck! Shit… fuck.” His cock pulsed deep inside you, and with a final shuddering thrust he spilled into you, filling you full with hot, warm and thick seed. 

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged moans and his guttural curses, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.

Bucky slumped forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing the side of your damp and sweaty neck. “That’s it… that’s my girl. Took me so good.”

You were still trembling, your body sensitive and aching, when Bucky finally eased himself out of you with a slow, careful pull. You whined softly at the loss, burying your face into the sheets.

“Easy, doll,” he hushed, his voice husky but gentle. His big hands smoothed over your hips, down your thighs, rubbing away the tension he’d left behind. “You did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”

You turned your head slightly, catching his smug little grin as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your damp temple.

“Messy bed, messy girl,” he teased lowly, though his tone held nothing but warmth. He brushed your hair back from your flushed face and tucked it gently behind your ear. “Knew you were my number one fan for a reason.”

Despite your exhaustion, a shy laugh escaped you, your chest fluttering at his words. 

“You’re… so full of yourself,” you mumbled weakly. “H-how did I do…?” 

“You did so fucking good, sweetheart. Shit, I remember when I was a virgin too, baby,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I was a whimpering, sensitive mess. But fuck, I had so much fun ruining you.” 

Your face flushed hot, nuzzling your nose in his chest out of embarrassment. 

He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “Get some rest, princess. We’ll go back for your groceries later.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh again, small and breathless, before your eyes fluttered shut, comforted by his large hands on your waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours.

Days passed, and Bucky kept his promise. The video never showed up online. 

He went back to posting his weekly content, but this time, there was something different. In one of his recent uploads, a faint audio clip played in the background as he stroked himself for the camera.

Your moans.

His grunts.

He never showed the footage on screen, but the audio was enough. Enough for you to recognize yourself, enough to leave you trembling in your chair, your fingers buried between your thighs. The thought of him getting off to your body, your sounds, over and over—it made you fall apart embarrassingly fast.

You slumped back in your chair now, thighs trembling, breath uneven as you dragged your hand away from your thighs. For a moment you just sat there, dazed, staring at the frozen video frame on your laptop.

Then a notification blinked in the corner of the screen. 

You clicked it.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Hey, doll. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Can’t stop watching that little video we made. But I dropped the camera right before I got to stuff your pussy full of my cum.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: How about we try filming another one? 

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.”

The night wound down without issue. These days, it’s considered to be a blessing. With the streets constantly bustling through the darkening nights, you found peace in the routine; shout for last call, close out the tabs, argue with drunkards who wouldn’t leave, count the register, pocket your underwhelming tips, say goodbye to your boss and the security guard, and head home.

Truthfully, you never imagined this life for yourself. When you moved to the city, you were warned with stories from everyone back home. Danger supposedly lurked in the alleyways you used as a short cut on the way home. Strangers followed your every move without you ever being aware until it was too late. The city swallowed good girls like you whole, only to spit you out without a single care.

You’d yet to encounter such tall tales in the time you’d spent here. You’d been one of the lucky ones, or so everyone had said. It was much more likely for someone like you to have been robbed on your way home, to have encountered some sort of gang related violence, or had their home broken into. It’s why you kept pepper spray easily accessible on your keychain, and a small switchblade that would probably hurt you more than it would hurt any attacker. 

Except, here you were, feet planted to the ground like roots had burst through the floor and taken hold of you. 

It’s not the bite of the wind that makes you freeze in place. It’s not your thin jacket, ill picked for the change of the seasons. It’s not even the rats that scurry in darkened corners, threatening to send a chill up your spine as you imagine how close they might be.

No, your terror comes from something else. Someone else.

He stares back at you, pinning you in place with eyes made from ice itself. He’d meant to hide, clearly, from his position behind the trash cans. It’s like he’s daring you to make a sound, to give his hiding spot away. 

Still, it was hard to miss him– hard to miss the gun that lay on the cement beside him, hard to miss the way his hand presses against his side in a lousy attempt to stop his blood from soaking through his shirt. 

He’s unsurprisingly pale, breaths labored and shallow as he shoots daggers from his eyes right back at you. 

Air doesn’t find you fast enough. Your mind swims with fear, gripping you with every passing second. Your thoughts are a tumultuous mess, and you’re one moment away from passing out.

Then, he shifts from his place on the ground. He doesn’t stand– doesn’t even attempt to– but the slight movement is enough to snap you out of your paralysis. And you run. 

Back down the alley came from, rushing around the corner and towards the familiar safety of your workplace. The backdoor doesn’t open fast enough for your liking, yet still grants you temporary shelter as you slam the door behind you.

Your hands tremble and shake as you reach for your phone to call someone. Once more, you freeze. Who are you supposed to call in a time like this? 

If this man was dangerous, calling the police would only put a target on your back. He’d seen your face clearly. That man was probably already on his way to you, stumbling through the back alleys to find you. 

An ambulance was out of the question. He was looking for a shadow to lurk in while he caught his breath. Even with the wounds he had, paling his skin and depositing him at death’s door, he had made the decision to hide.

Maybe you’re an idiot– scratch that. You know you’re fucking stupid.

Still, you can’t help it as you rush back to where that injured man is, now equipped with the half filled first aid kit that you stole from the staff bathroom. You pray to whatever God there is that he’s still there. You’re certain that he couldn’t have gotten far even if he tried to relocate.

And you’re right.

He’s a few feet away from the trash cans you originally found him behind, now standing and using the brick walls of the alley as support. This man notices you right away, head spinning to you immediately.

You stop, holding up your hands in an attempt for peace. He looks like a wounded animal, one that is on its last breath, but somehow still retains enough energy to pounce for a final time. 

“I just– I want to help you, sir,” you whisper, voice shaking.

The man’s eyes narrow at you, suspicion clearly written all over his features. His gaze darts from your face to the kit in your hands, then at the way you’re still trembling. 

“What help can you give me?” he grunts, voice thick and strained. “You can’t even stop shaking.”

“You’re bleeding.” You swallow, then take in another breath. “I can help you– I– I have a certification in first aid.”

He stares at you. Then, he laughs— an action he clearly regrets a moment later judging from the pained groan that exits him. He doubles over nearly immediately, barely finding the strength to brace against the wall.

You surge forward, grabbing onto his arm. Slowly, you help him to the ground, and find yourself kneeling beside him. 

You’re definitely way over your head as you open up the kit. There’s hardly anything for the wound that you know is hiding beneath his hand, but there’s at least some butterfly bandaids to help close the site up until he can get some real help.

“Can you– You need to move your hand, sir,” you tell him, meeting his eyes once more.

He was already staring at you, assessing you, trying to find your motive. All he could see was the terror so clear in your eyes, along with a hint of worry for a stranger that you just met. You were harmless– someone that couldn’t put him in a position worse than he found himself in.

The sticky sound of his hand pulling from his shirt makes you cringe.

“Go ahead,” he says, and it almost sounds like a dare. No, it’s mocking. “Show me what your first aid certification can do.”

“I could’ve left you here to bleed out,” you immediately shoot back.

“It’s not that serious,” he scoffs, then winces. 

“Yeah. Sure.” Sarcasm is thick in your voice as you slowly peel his shirt away from his skin. 

The sight before you makes your head dizzy– a deep gash runs along his side, blood slowly oozing out of the opening. You don’t want to know what could’ve caused this, don’t want to know who could’ve caused this. You’re still not even sure why you’re here to begin with.

You reach for the cleaning agents first, soaking gauze with the solution before returning back to his skin. His eyes never leave you, feeling heavy against your skin as you rush to clean his wound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hiss with pain as the antiseptic seeps into his body. 

He must not be a real person, you decide. You have to be dreaming. You’re certain that even seasoned warriors would have to have some sort of reaction when 90% isopropyl alcohol is doused onto an open wound. This all has to be a long winded nightmare– one that you can’t wake yourself from. 

“What’s your name?” 

Your hands pause with the question, and you dare to look back up at him. He looks curious. There’s amusement swimming in those blue-gray eyes of his, and you find yourself wondering how he can be so lax when he’s bleeding out.

“No,” you reply, dropping your gaze back down to his side. For the most part, you managed to clean him up enough so you can fully see the extent of his wound. You’re no professional, and you’ve never had to deal with something like this, but you’re hoping the TV shows you watched held a candle of truth in their wound care. 

“No?” he repeats as you smear ointment onto the gash. “Your name is No?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you mutter, rifling through the first aid kit. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for. “You’re a stranger. Why would I give you my name?”

“You’re the one that came back here with a shitty first aid kit,” he points out, and you hate that he’s right. 

“It’s not smart to just give my name to someone I just met.”

“Why? Afraid I’m someone dangerous?” 

You can hear the mirth in his voice as you work, but you still don’t reply. You don’t give him the answer he’s looking for, nor do you acknowledge the fact that you’re terrified of this man. You can’t even help your gaze from darting towards the firearm in his possession every few moments. 

But he is right. You don’t need him to confirm whether or not he is a dangerous person–  you already know he is. Normal people don’t get into these situations. Normal people don’t hide in the back alleys when they’re injured. Normal people don’t do this.

“I’m Bucky,” he tells you as you press gauze against his side. He offers you his hand– the one that doesn’t have his blood drying and crusting on the palm. “Bucky Barnes. Don’t gotta call me sir to get my attention, sweetheart.”

“Really?” you ask, feigning disinterest. The act you put on might be convincing, if only you could suppress the shaking of your hands. “Fascinating.”

A short chuckle escapes his lips when you don’t take his hand. It drops loosely to his side, like the amount of strength it took for him to raise it was almost too much for him. Though you don’t look, you know his eyes are on you. His gaze is heavy, forcing you to lower your head more than it already is, and to work even faster than you already are.

The trembling in your body slowly subsides the closer you get to finishing your task. You’re more than certain that the terror will return if you focus on the blood soaking your hands– blood that isn’t yours. In a last ditch attempt at keeping your nerves at bay, you take the last of the gauze to try to wipe away the bodily fluids on your hands.

“Is there someone coming to pick you up from here?” You manage to speak without your voice shaking. 

“And you assume that there’s people looking for me?” Bucky asks, raising his eyebrow at you.

You take in a deep breath as you finish dressing his wound. “You look too important to be left to die in the middle of an alley.”

From just his clothes, you can tell this man has money stacked in his account. Honestly, you’re certain that the shirt with his blood has a price tag larger than your yearly salary. If you included the jewelry he’s wearing… You don’t want to think about it. 

“So? Is there someone coming or do I need to call you a taxi?” 

He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re awfully concerned for someone that won’t tell me their name.”

“You should really go to the hospital,” you say, ignoring him. “Get stitched up or something like that. I don’t think the bandage and gauze will hold up for too long.”

“Are you saying that the skills your certification shows are useless?”

Heat flares in your cheeks. You said those words in the heat of the moment, to try to disarm him from whatever violence he might’ve unleashed on you, and it’s backfired on you more than once already.

“It’s better than you using your hand to stop the bleeding,” you argue.

“Hm,” he hums, and rests his head back against the brick wall. He shuts his eyes, and pulls in slow, deep breaths. “No, doll. Don’t need you to call me a taxi. I have people coming to get me. You should get out of here soon, actually.”

You bristle at the implication. “Are your people going to hurt me?”

“No,” he answers, and you don’t believe him. “But I’m trying to save you from an interrogation.”

You stand slowly, taking one more glance over his condition. Though color has yet to return to his face, the look of agony you saw earlier had dissipated into a serene calm. Perhaps that was something to be more afraid of– for someone like him to be relaxed and unguarded. 

“Be safe. Don’t get yourself into another… situation… like this,” you murmur softly, backing away slowly.

A smile cracks over his features. “No promises.”

One week passes without any problem. Then a second. And a third. Your life returned back to its normal speed, as if nothing had ever happened to begin with. 

The first couple nights after, you looked behind the trash cans again. Somewhere deep inside you, you were worried to find a dead body hidden in the dark alleys you frequented. Yet, you never saw a trace of him. In fact, there wasn’t even a droplet of blood left where he had found refuge, though you’re certain he had smeared the cement with his 

Part of you is beginning to wonder whether or not that night was actually real. 

There was nothing that remained as a memory of the incident. Even the clothes you had worn that night were immediately washed. You didn’t check over the garments to see if there were stray droplets of his blood staining your clothes– you just threw them into a dark corner in your closet to forget about what happened. You hope in the future, you’ll pull out those same clothes and no longer associate it with the man you saw that night.

The only clue left to remind you of that night was the first aid kit. Rather– the lack of. 

None of your coworkers noticed its disappearance. No one will, either. That is, until someone slices their finger just deep enough to need a bandaid. From there, they’ll find nothing, and your boss will replace what is missing. 

You don’t tell anyone of what you encountered that day. You shove the memory deep into the recesses of your mind, hoping that it doesn’t come back to bite you. Creeping thoughts of danger keep looming behind you– you still have no idea who that man is.

Yes, he told you his name, but there wasn’t anything that you could find off of that. If anything, you’d be surprised if you could find a fucking LinkedIn account just for him. He lives in a different world, away from your soft and quaint one. You only hope that it won’t come back to haunt you in the form of his enemy coming to pop your head off as retaliation from you helping him.

The thought sends shivers down your spine, and goosebumps raising on your skin. You shake it away as quickly as you can, and continue with wiping down the counters in front of you.

The night is nearly over. Once more, you’ll leave through the backdoor, and you’ll head home in the same direction you always have. You won’t stumble across people that could be criminals, and you won’t have to cover your hands in blood that isn’t your own. 

For now, you’ll busy yourself with taking care of some pre-closing duties, and hope that the patrons clear out faster than they usually do.

“What top shelf whiskey do you have?” 

You can’t help but snort, shaking your head slightly. You don’t bother to turn around to face the voice, continuing to organize the tabs you have. “Jack Daniels. Take it or leave it.”

“Neat, then.”

You reach for a glass out of habit, ready to pour. “Single or double?”

“Feeling like a double tonight, doll.”

The single word causes you to stop in your place. A moment later, the sound of his voice finally registers in your mind– baritone, low enough to feel the air around you tremble, but smooth enough to trick you to believe that you’re safe. 

Once more, he sits before you. This time, not on death’s door. 

Bucky looks like a regular person. Well, as regular as someone like him could look. His hair is styled carefully back, unlike the disheveled appearance you had in your memory. He’s in a suit, similar to what he wore that night, but he looks more relaxed. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, and his blazer is wrinkled just slightly from wear. 

You steady yourself, careful to not let the shock take over your features. You finish filling his glass, and slide it over the counter with a napkin. 

“That’ll be $15. I’d ask if you want to open up a tab, but the last call will be in about ten minutes.”

Bucky hums, more to himself than to you, as he reaches into his pocket. A crisp Benjamin is immediately produced, placed right in front of you. “No need for a tab,” he says, reaching for his glass.

You swipe the bill, and turn towards the register. “I’ll be right back with your change, sir.”

“No need for that either. It’s yours.”

The till opens up with a ding! and you pause for a moment. Your body works on autopilot as you take the bills out of the register, then finally you turn back to him. 

“Pardon?” 

“It’s not that big of a tip, sweetheart. No need to look so stunned,” he tells you, a smile playing on the corners of his lips as he takes another slow sip of his drink.

The bills feel heavy in your hand, but you know he’s right. You’ve received bigger tips in the past, and though they’re not frequent, it’s still something you shouldn’t be too alarmed over. Either way, you watch him silently. 

Bucky keeps his eyes directly on you. There’s something in his gaze, but you can’t tell what it is that he wants from you. You’re certain you should’ve been dead much sooner if he had an issue with you. You’re not even surprised that he found your place of work– the two of you met not too far away from here. 

“What do you want from me?” you ask, placing his change in front of him.

“Do I need to want something from you? I’m just here to enjoy a drink. Another patron of your bar.” He shrugs slightly, like you two were talking about the weather. Like this was a casual conversation. 

You’re going to be sick.

You lower your voice, and cast your gaze downward. “I didn’t tell anyone what I saw, if that’s what you’re worried about. I haven’t breathed a word about your condition or anything like that.” The words spill out of your lips in a hushed whisper, desperation clinging thickly to your voice as you speak. “I– I don’t know anyone like that– no one that would want to cause harm to you or to… do anything. I promise, I haven’t done anything.”

The glass hovers midair. Bucky’s eyes narrow at you. There’s confusion on his face for just a brief moment before he scoffs. “You think I’m here to silence you?”

You swallow thickly, unable to lift your gaze. One wrong move, and you could be dead where you stand. “What else would you be here for?” 

“Doll, if I wanted you dead, you would’ve been dead that very night.”

You bristle, and you lift your eyes to meet his. He lacks the same playfulness that he had just moments before. There’s no joke. Even without knowing who he is– what he can do– you know he’s telling the truth.

When you don’t respond, he sighs. In one swift movement, he downs the rest of the alcohol with practiced ease. “And here I thought, we could be friends.”

“Friends?” you repeat, and the thought is enough to make you pale. 

“Relax, sweetheart.” Bucky stands, pocketing his hands as he does. He doesn’t throw you another glance as he starts towards the door. “You’ll warm up to the idea.”

You spent many nights trying to decipher his words. During those same nights, Bucky would be at the bar. Except he didn’t try talking to you again. 

He comes in at the earlier hours of the night, keeping to himself at the corner edge of the bar he has chosen to occupy. He orders from your coworker the same drink he had the first night he came– a double shot of whiskey, neat. He’ll nurse the glass, making the single order last for as long as he can. Only when his glass goes empty does he speak once more, but only to your coworker. 

On the busier nights, women will come up to him. They’ll rest their hand on his arm, press themselves against him, and smile prettily. They try for a long time, but he never cracks. Not once does he remove his gaze away from you. The weight of his eyes follows you throughout the entire night. 

Whenever you finally built up the courage to look back at him, he wouldn’t look away. He would hold your gaze, steady and unchanging. There wasn’t a challenge in his eyes, no, but rather an invitation. It was as if he was beckoning for you to come closer, to fall into his trap, and to come lose yourself in him.

You always turn the other way without acknowledging him. 

Bucky was usually the last of your customers to leave. He’d silently watch as you closed down the bar, closed out tabs, and threatened to call the police on some of your rowdier guests. Only when he saw you were fine did he leave, but never without dropping another crisp hundred dollar bill onto the counter.

You should’ve felt nervous. A little scared, even. Truthfully, you should’ve quit your job and moved back home in order to avoid the man.

There would be others buzzing around him— not the women, not other patrons of the bar that attempted striking conversation with him. No, they were different. Different like him. 

Very rarely did he acknowledge them, other than a curt nod here, and a scoff there. Whoever they were knew to leave him alone, skulking off to a different corner of the bar and enjoying themselves there. 

Time felt unreal with him there. His gaze was a constant presence that you couldn’t ignore, but it was never uncomfortable. Not once did his eyes make you tense up, and want to take an early fifteen minute break in order to collect yourself. You never had to give yourself a little pep talk before the start of your shift. If anything, you had started to look for him.

You lost track of how many times he’d come in by now. Sometimes, you’d be glancing at the clock, wondering where he was if he wasn’t in yet. Thankfully, he never left you waiting for too long. 

The nights felt long. Strange.

You weren’t sure what compelled you to do so, but your feet had a mind of its own, carrying you towards the side of the bar that he sat at. 

At first, neither of you said a word. There was a silence in the form of background noise– the music that you normally drowned out that played in the bar. The sound of people shuffling around the room, conversing and interacting with each other. Glasses clinking and people drinking. 

But you were finally in front of him again, and you couldn’t focus on anything else. 

Lucky for you– you had his full attention.

“How can I help you?” 

You don’t answer for a few moments. There aren’t many thoughts that race through your head in the heat of the moment. Panic and fear doesn’t have you by the throat like the first night that you met him. No, you’re calm. Collected. And curious.

“What is it that you want from me?” you respond. Your tone isn’t unkind, but it’s also not friendly. It’s somewhere in the middle, to let him know that you’re serious. Despite it, he smiles. Smiles as if you’re the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, and he just can’t wait to dote on you.

“I told you, doll,” he starts, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a gentle rotation of his hands, “I just want to be your friend.”

You can’t help the scoff that exits your lips. “I don’t think that’s an option.”

Bucky a single eyebrow at you. “And why is that? I’d love to know what’s barring you from being closer to me.”

This time, you don’t answer. You don’t make a noise. The way you’re looking at him is enough– the distrust is so clear on your face. You have no idea who he is other than a name, and an inkling that he is someone of high power in a realm that you know nothing about.

He doesn’t need your words. He nods slowly, almost in approval. “You’re afraid,” he says. It should make you pause, make you run away from how easy that he’s reading you. But still, you stay.

A smile finds its way on his face. One that looks almost too prideful. Not of himself, but for you.

“Good,” he tells you. “It’s smart to be cautious during times like this.”

“Times like this?” you repeat, unable to help yourself.

Bucky waves a hand in the air dismissively. Like with just a single motion, problems and questions disappear. For him, maybe that’s true. You don’t doubt the power that this man has. And he’s right– you are afraid. 

“Why don’t we play a little game?” he offers you, placing his glass back down on the counter. He crosses his arms, leaning forward– leaning closer to you. “Twenty questions. Let’s get to know each other, since you’re so wary of me.”

“Would I be wrong to assume you already know everything about me?” 

His smile widens just a little more, and he tilts his head ever so slightly. “What do you think?”

What do you think? You think you want to smack his stupid fucking grin off his face– of course he knows everything about you. You just wish he’d be less cryptic about it. Wish he’d just tell you straight up without a game.

“Next question, sweetheart,” he hums.

A breath exits through your nose, almost heavy. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until now. Several questions rack through your mind– some too vague to be worth asking, some too dangerous to even whisper. Finally, you settle on something easy.

“What’s your job?” 

Bucky clicks his tongue, and leans back into his chair. He’s drawing a line between the two of you– creating space. A flash of anger flashes through you as the realization dawns upon you– this man will take what he wants, and give nothing in return.

“No can do.” He busies himself with circling the rim of his glass with a finger. “Got a different question for me?”

“What’s the point of this middle school game if you won’t even answer what I ask?” you demand from him, placing both hands on the counter to steady yourself. Irritation is building too quickly.

“And I will answer your questions. In due time, of course. For now… I think you’d run if I told you the truth.”

You shake your head. “This is not how friends work, Barnes. You don’t pick and choose.”

The man before you shrugs too noncommittally for your liking. He takes his time as he picks up his drink once more, and polishes it off with one easy gulp.  

You hope he chokes.

“If you say so,” he finally says, glass back on the counter. He slides it closer to your side, and gives you a devastating smile. “But your lack of interest doesn’t stop me from coming back here.”

He’s wrong. Bucky Barnes is wrong, but you don’t tell him that. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing your true feelings– feelings that make you want to strangle yourself for even falling for his stupid game.

If anything, you have never been more intrigued. You want to know more. Without even meaning to, you’re being sucked into a black hole that you know nothing about. If you’re not careful, you’ll dive straight into a place that you aren’t prepared for.

You don’t know if you’d ever be prepared to jump in. 

He’s not here.

He wasn’t here yesterday, nor the day before.

 Your body has internalized the time that he normally arrives at your little bar at the edge of the city, and you start looking for him when his normal time of arrival comes. Like a dog waiting for its owner, you perk up every single time the bell at the front door rings.

And it’s never him. Even the crowd that he brings with him hasn’t been around– the men that look too scary to approach, but too handsome to say no to. If you were being honest with yourself, they didn’t compare to–

Stop.

You can’t allow your mind to wander to these thoughts– you won’t allow it. Despite your best wishes, your actions contradict what you desire for.

No one is allowed to sit at his seat. The very last stool at the end of the bar, right beside the wall. Your own jacket hangs at the back of the seat, marking its occupation by some unknown entity. When other patrons flag you over and point at it, you brush it off. Tell them that they can’t sit there.

It becomes a second job to watch the clock. At this point, you can hear the soft ticks of the seconds going by, and every day you’re being driven closer and closer to insanity.

It’s unsettling. You had spoken to him not too long ago, and now he’s gone. After all his bravado and pride, he’s disappeared on you. Maybe that’s the part that’s making you pull your hair out from the roots. The sheer audacity– that has to be it. There’s no other reason you find yourself searching nooks and crannies during your walk home.

Unfortunately, you fear for his safety. You fear finding him in the alleyway again, bleeding out and suffering by himself, running from something that you will probably never understand. A newly purchased mini first aid kit has found a home in your purse, waiting to be used in the event that you stumble across him once again.

To Bucky’s credit– it’s not just him that’s messing you up. 

There’s a new patron at the bar. A man that appeared when Bucky vanished. You know his name, though you really wish you didn’t. You had caught it when he gave you his card and ID the first night he came, starting a tab that was so lengthy it made you nervous.

Thankfully, relief quickly flooded through you when you closed out his tab that night. It was instantly approved without any issue. 

John Walker is loud. He’s rambunctious and a nuisance, but he never crosses the line that forces your security guard to throw him out. If anything, your regulars love him. More specifically, they love the free rounds that he will randomly purchase for everyone at the bar. 

At first, you ignored him. He tipped well every single time he came, and he didn’t come every night like someone you know.

You should’ve paid him less mind. Should’ve ignored him longer.

The smile he gave you when he realized you remembered his drink orders made a shiver run down your spine. There was a glint in his eyes as he stared at you that night, like he was finally seeing you for what you were. 

“You remember everyone’s drink order, or is it just me?” he had asked, swiping a hand through his hair in what you can only describe as a poor attempt of being cool.

“You’re a regular,” you brushed off, hoping that he would understand. “It’s my job to remember.”

It was your fault for thinking he was smart enough for basic comprehension. “Still. I must be special,” he chuckled as he took his drink– rum and coke– and gave you a wink before he walked back towards the billiard tables.

From there, you would give him polite laughs. Small ones that the normal man would realize was just a defense mechanism to flirting advances, but he kept pushing his luck. 

John returned to the bar more frequently. At first, he was easy to manage. His flirtation was something that you could brush off easily as you had more than enough patrons to juggle at the bar, waiting to order something elaborate and crazy. There was always a new trend online, after all.

But his visits increased. Normally, he would come on Friday and Saturday nights. These days, he’s added Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Slower days throughout the week where only your most dedicated patrons came to unwind after a hard day at work. 

Coincidentally, you were regularly scheduled on those days– though it wasn’t a coincidence.

“Came by yesterday,” he told you on one Wednesday. He feigned hurt, eyebrows stitched together before he gave you a smirk that you wish you could forget. “You weren’t here.”

You wanted to scream, wanted to bash your head into the wall. Instead, you smiled, then excused yourself to the back for an impromptu break.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t run forever. You still were on the clock, still trying to make money to pay your bills and keep your stomach full. You suffered a barrage of personal questions every single time that he made himself home at your bar.

Where did you go to school? You graduate from university?

How far do you live from here? Can’t be too far right?

It’s a shame you’re working here instead of somewhere else. He’d whistle lowly, and look you up and down. You should become a model. You don’t belong in some dump like this.

Do you have a boyfriend? Sorry– I’m assuming you don’t have a fiance, seeing as you don’t have a ring on your finger. And he laughed so hard, like it was the funniest joke he’s ever said aloud.

For the most part, you get away with pleasantries. You begin to have your boss take over whenever John comes to the bar, so that you could do something else. You clean glasses that were already shining, and scrub at nonexistent dirt on the counter. There was no limit to the sudden list of chores you give yourself when John came to the bar.

At the end of the day, he’s just annoying. He’s just a man– someone that can’t get the hint, with or without alcohol in his system. John hasn’t crossed any lines, your boundaries clearly and strongly upheld by you. There’s nothing you can do when he’s a paying customer, especially considering the fact he’s the bar’s highest spender in a long time. 

It’s when John drawls on and on to you that you realize it.

You miss Bucky. Miss his quiet presence at the end of the bar, watching your every move carefully like he was trying to memorize your habits. If you were being even more honest with yourself, he was the reason you knew peace for so long at the bar. Whenever he was around, you found yourself devoid of creeps like John that didn’t know how to leave you alone.

Maybe it’s the way the air shifts around him– how he takes space without even meaning to. His gaze was always sharp towards others, but it softened for you. Even the way he put down his glass a little harder than usual would cause others to look the other way, bowing their heads and tucking their tails between their legs as they backed off.

You were scared of him, yes, but not scared when he was around. 

More than once, your thoughts spiral back to him without fail. You would think of his wellbeing. You still checked every corner that you came across during your walk home, hoping to find him there. Hell, it would’ve been okay with you if he was injured again. At the very least, that meant he was alive. Alive, tangible, and in front of you once more.

Much to your disappointment, you always come up empty. You discover nothing other than garbage cans belonging to the other businesses in the area, or homeless folk that decide to take the dark corner to rest in for the night.

Usually, you walk home without any issue. Your heart feels heavy, and worry increases. 

Except tonight. 

You peer around another corner, a sigh building in your chest at the empty space. You don’t get the chance to release the breath– not when someone is right behind you.

“You waited for me? So sweet of you.”

This isn’t the voice that you want to hear. This isn’t the low baritone, smooth yet somehow gravely spoken words that pull you in with each syllable.

You turn sharply, hair standing at the back of your neck. John was close– closer than you would have liked, and he’s looking at you with something close to predatory. A scary realization falls onto your shoulders in these quick seconds.

John isn’t drunk. You know for a fact that he isn’t– you only filled one glass of beer for him before he spent the rest of the night attempting to chat you up. He’s fully conscious of his actions, fully sound of mind, and still walking towards you in a dark alleyway.

You don’t even get the chance to speak before he opens his mouth once more. 

“You know,” John starts, “you’ve really been hurting my feelings lately. Always brushing me off, never giving me the time of day… lying to me.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you take a slow step backwards. Something nearly unnoticeable,  but enough for you to brace yourself, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. 

He continues, “You said you live at the apartments across the street from the bar. So I’ve been waiting outside the front door so I could walk you home– come to find out you skulk around these alleys after work.”

Your mouth is dry as you part your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re gonna say– an excuse, maybe? An apology– a second nature response drilled into every woman in fear of enraging an unpredictable man. Once more, he doesn’t give you the chance to respond. He holds a hand in the air to halt you from saying a word.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to lie anymore,” he tells you with a small hum. A smile spreads across his face, and he looks forgiving. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. I found out where you really live, after all.”

John is monologuing. His lips are moving, his mouth is opening and closing, but you don’t hear a single word he has to say. You note that he looks proud of himself– he’s probably in the middle of telling you his elaborate plan to get you by yourself. Whatever he’s saying– nothing is registering in your mind. 

All that you hear is the sound of your blood as it rushes through your entire body. Your vision is moving– the scene before you thumping in cadence with your heart. You count the beats; one, two, three and four– 

You’re running by the fifth. No– you’re sprinting.

Adrenaline courses rapidly throughout your body, pumping strength into your legs. Your lungs are burning as you take in sharp breaths, desperate to supply your muscles with more oxygen. 

John laughs behind you. A mocking, cold laugh as you run. Before his laughter dies, you can hear his heavy footsteps behind you. Panic grows quickly through you as you hear him call after you, telling you your struggle is futile.

Maybe it is. Maybe this is the end of everything. You sure as hell won’t let him take you away without a fight.

The alleyway isn’t that much of a maze. You know every single exit towards the main streets from several different routes. You cut corners, rushing around them while praying there is no one on the other side to box you in.

You don’t know what you’ll do when you reach the street. The city is dead at this time of night– half past two in the morning. Maybe it’s closer to three. You’re not sure.

Your phone is tucked securely in your purse in some unknown crevice. Rifling through the shit you have in your purse will only slow you down more than you are comfortable to allow. Very briefly, you recall the lack of battery in your phone. Will that piece of shit device last long enough for you to even connect with the emergency services? Will the police be able to locate you? 

You’ll have to try regardless of your situation. Fortune favors the bold, and you’ve lived long enough to gain her blessings. It’s what you tell yourself as a scream rips through the air for half a second before it cuts off, muffled by another’s doing.

At first, you couldn’t even tell where the scream came from. Was it down the block? Maybe it was behind you. You couldn’t even register your own voice as you fought with all your might, kicking and digging your nails into John’s skin as he pulled you back, farther and farther awat from the street that was so close.

Futile. Your resistance means little against this man– you’d overheard him brag to others about his background. A star football player back in his younger days, then went straight to West Point fresh out of high school. The man had been through several wars and survived every single one, seeing horrors that you only read about. 

Tears begin to blur your vision as reality settles in. 

What is this man going to do to you? Will he drag you into a corner, and steal you for all your worth? Maybe you’ll wake up in a dark, decrepit place with a door that locks from the outside. You don’t know. You don’t know anything besides the fact that you’re still conscious– still awake and breathing. 

Still, your muscles burn beneath your skin as you fight as hard as you can. You can feel them pull and tear with every single one of your wild movements, but there’s nothing else you can do. Perhaps he’ll figure that you’re too much trouble than you’re worth, maybe even decide to have a sudden change of heart as God Himself strikes him with wisdom. 

Something quiet zips through the air, whizzing by fast enough to produce a sharp noise. It’s loud enough for you to notice despite your adrenaline, but soft enough that those in the street or apartments across the road wouldn’t be able to hear a single thing. 

Then all at once, the pressure on your body disappears. You stumble forward from your own momentum, barely catching yourself before you eat the cement in front of you. Behind you, a heavy thud catches your attention.

Slowly, you turn with your throat stuck on something thick, something that won’t swallow easily. 

John Walker lays in a growing pool of his own blood, staining the cement beneath him in crimson. You can’t see his chest moving up and down in shallow breaths. No— he’s gone. His lifeless eyes stare up at the light polluted sky, close to glazing over as the cells in his body give up.

Not too far away, tucking his gun back into the inner pocket of his jacket, Bucky Barnes stands. A mixture of irritation and a hint of concern paints his features as he clicks his tongue.

“You should start using the sidewalk, doll,” he tells you, sarcasm and jest lightly lining his voice. “Avoid the back alleys from now on.”

It’s not funny. He’s not funny, at least not right now. In fact, nothing happening to you right now is safe to be laughing about. 

But at the end of the day, you’re safe. The danger is gone, and your savior is walking towards you. You should be happy. You should feel relief. You should be laughing, even if it was out of disbelief.

There’s nothing but dread in your chest as your knees hit the ground, the blow promising you dark purple bruises that will take a couple weeks to heal.

The pool beneath John spreads. Once more, your clothes are stained with blood that isn’t yours. Yet, you can’t do anything but stare blankly. Hot tears continue to stream down your face as you try to make sense of the last ten minutes, but you can’t come to a conclusion that makes the slightest bit of sense.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice cuts through the air, and your head snaps up towards him. It’s only then that you realize he’s made his way right in front of you, squatting down before you to block your vision from the body that lays behind him. His eyebrows are pulled together, worry all over his face. “Are you alright?”

What a stupid fucking question. One that you would scoff at if you could find your voice, then demand if he thinks that you’re doing okay. 

Instead, “You killed him,” exits your mouth.

A frown finds him, and his head tilts just a few degrees. “Did you want me to keep him alive?” 

When you don’t answer, his expression softens. Bucky watches as your tears continue to flow, falling down your face in fat globs that you can’t stop. He reaches for you, fingertips barely brushing against your shoulder before you flinch wildly, falling straight back on your ass. 

Bucky’s hands fly up in surrender, and he looks regretful. This time, he stays silent. He lets you think, lets you finally register the weight of your situation. 

A sob breaks through your throat, and you curl in on yourself out of instinct. You hug yourself– only to stop and pull your hands away from yourself at the feeling of sticky warmth clinging to your sweater.

It’s blood. John’s blood. It’s all over you, on your knees, on the back pockets of your jeans, and now smeared on the sides of your top. Your breaths turn frantic– the rapid breaths doing little for your body.

Bucky says something that sounds like it comes from a place of concern, but you don’t hear it, can’t hear it over the sound of you throwing up. 

He collects your hair quickly, not letting the ends of it brush against the mixture of blood and vomit in front of you. He lets you take your time, rubbing a hand slowly against your back in an attempt of comfort.

It’s when your breathing finally evens out that he speaks once more.

“Let me take you somewhere safe,” he whispers, like a volume any louder would make you break once more. 

When you look up at him, you find him staring right back at you— just like always. His eyes drop down to your lips, and he swipes his thumb at the corner of your mouth. Very vaguely do you realize he wiped away remnants of your own throw up. He didn’t even flinch, as if this was just second nature for him.

Briefly, you try glance behind him despite your better judgement.

You can’t see his body, not with the broad mass of Bucky blocking your view. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way it looks. Maybe you’ll have nightmares for the rest of your days, remembering this moment, and–

“My people will take care of this. Don’t worry about a single thing,” Bucky tells you, cutting through your thoughts before it can go to an even darker place.

Your throat feels raw as you manage a response, “Is this normal for you?” You stop only to swallow, the action feeling scratchy and dry. “Kill… Killing people?”

“Killing people?” he repeats, then nods. “Yes. But saving people? That’s not normal for me, sweetheart.”

You can’t help yourself. You know it sounds ungrateful, but the words still leave your lips in a breathless whisper. “Why me?” 

“Told you: I want to be your friend, and I’m working on it. How the hell can I achieve that if you’re dead in a corner or locked away somewhere I can’t reach you?”

So, for his own gain. He did it for himself.

Still, you can’t be mad. You can’t find yourself being upset with him as he continues to coax you to stand, then ultimately leads you out of the alley and towards his car. 

Bucky holds the passenger door open for you, motioning for you to go ahead and board his car– a vehicle that looks too expensive for you to dirty with the amount of shit on your clothes, but he doesn’t bat a single eye. He takes your hand, leading you closer until you finally step in. You’re lifeless as he buckles you in, then shuts the door for you.

The late night city lights blur in your vision. Maybe he’s driving too fast for you to register individual lights, or your tears are once again hindering your eyesight. Either way, you don’t know how much time passed before Bucky pulled into a building– a house. His house.

Ever the gentleman, he quickly exits the car and rushes to your side. Just as he helped you enter, he’s helping you exit.

This time, he doesn’t let you walk. He scoops you into his arms,  and carries you inside. 

Immediately, you’re assaulted with his scent. Everything smells like him– something woody, a hint of honey, and gunpowder beneath it all. His home is minimalistic. Neutral colors, and very little decor. Something tells you that he doesn’t spend a lot of time here.

Your feet touch the floor once more in the bathroom. Clean marble and tile surrounds you as you stand there, watching as he pulls out a fresh towel from the closet and places it on the counter. No words are exchanged between the two of you. Bucky simply nods at you once before he exits once more, leaving you to take the time to clean yourself.

On something akin to autopilot, you move. You peel the dirty clothes off your body, letting them fall into a pile on the floor. You figure out how to turn his complicated shower on, and you scan his products. They’re expensive, a brand that you can’t pronounce, but it doesn’t matter. It’s soap to clean you, to rid you of the night that you just had.

The water is pink as it swirls down the drain. His blood must’ve soaked through your clothes, you realize. Maybe it’s in your hair, or somewhere else that you can’t reach. You keep scrubbing at your skin anyway, frustration building within you as you keep at it– the water won’t run clear. It’s still stuck in a pink that feels like it’s mocking you, reminding you of everything that had happened and more–

You gasp sharply as your hands are ripped away from your body, and you’re face to face with Bucky once more.

He’s upset. Something tells you that he’s not upset with you. Just upset in general. You stare at him in silence, waiting for him to explain, to tell you what’s bothering him so bad.

A deep breath leaves his nostrils as the grip on your wrists loosens. “Let myself in,” he murmurs. “You were crying, and you wouldn’t answer me when I was knocking…” Bucky shakes his head, and your name exits his lips in a soft whisper, “You’re hurting yourself.”

You swallow, blinking away water that runs down your face. Or maybe it’s your tears. You don’t know. “There’s so much blood,” you tell him, voice cracking. “I– I’m trying to clean it all away.”

“Doll, no,” he says, almost like he’s trying to comfort a child. “You’re scratching yourself. This blood is yours.”

You look down at yourself– you’ve scratched yourself raw under the spray of the shower. Only now do you realize that you’re standing before him, soaked to the bone from the shower. Self inflicted wounds decorate your skin from how hard you tried to clean yourself.

Your lip trembles as you close your eyes. “There’s still so much blood,” you whisper.

“That blood is on my hands.” Bucky’s thumbs rub gentle circles into your wrists. “You don’t have to hold that over your head. It’s my burden to deal with.”

Maybe you’re stupid, out of your head insane. Just the other day, you were arguing with yourself over the logistics of trusting this man who had vanished into thin air. Now, you’re nothing short of vulnerable before him, allowing him to take over the task of cleaning you up.

Bucky’s touch is careful, almost like he’s dealing with a flower rather than a human being. Your hair suds up with shampoo thanks to him, and he’s careful when he passes soap over your skin once again. Then, he washes away everything diligently. The water is finally clear by the time he leads you out of the shower.

You’re wrapped in a fluffy towel, dried down carefully before he reaches for you once again. He smears a mixture of lotion and ointment onto your skin, making sure that everything settles evenly over your wounds before moving on.He blow dries your hair, carefully combing his fingers through the tresses to make sure not a single knot survives in his wake.

Once again, you’re lifted into his arms as he carries you out of the bathroom. He brings you to a bedroom– one that you can only assume is his from the sheer size of it. 

You touch the plush sheets as he sets you down, then turns away only to go for his closet. Within a few seconds, he produces a clean t-shirt and a pair of shorts for you to wear, laying them out on the bed beside you. 

“You should get some rest,” he says, taking a few steps back from you to give you space. “I’m gonna–”

“Will you stay with me?” you cut him off, your voice small.

Bucky pauses for a few moments. Then, he pulls in a tight breath. “I’m going to clean up,” he says, continuing his earlier sentence. “And I’ll be right back. In the meantime, get changed. Comfortable. Whatever you need to do.”

His words are the only thing that you can trust right now– you can’t even trust your own mind. For now, you listen to his words without another question, and find yourself underneath his sheets.

You’re still staring up at the ceiling blankly when he returns to the room.

Bucky’s changed into clothes similar to the ones that hang loose on your body. His body emits a heat that you can feel– maybe lingering effects from the shower? Or maybe he’s just built like that. You don’t know, but you still focus on the way the bed dips beside you as he lifts the sheets up and slides into the space beside you.

Darkness engulfs the room as he turns out the lights. The only thing you can focus on is the sound of his breathing evening out slowly. You can’t feel his gaze on you, but you don’t need to. Not this time.

All you need is him beside you. His presence is more than enough to give you some form of safety. His presence is more than enough to let yourself start crying again. This time, your tears aren’t backed by fear or pain. It’s relief. 

The bed shifts once more as Bucky moves. He’s slow in his movements, giving you all the time in the world to move away or shove him off of you, but you don’t. You allow yourself to be wrapped into his embrace, diving deeper into the warmth that he brings.

Neither of you say a word as you cry into his chest. Bucky rubs your back slowly, tucking your head beneath his chin. 

Sunlight kisses your eyelids, gently coaxing you from rest. 

You’re not sure when sleep finally found you last night. Your body still feels as heavy as it did before you fell asleep, but your mind is refreshed.

And Bucky is nowhere to be seen.

You hear him instead– the sounds of sizzling coming from outside the bedroom door along with a few pots and plates clinking around. It doesn’t take long before you finally get up, muscles screaming in protest as you do. 

The contrast is strange, you decide, as you watch him in the kitchen. From seeing him bleeding out, to the strange mystery he exuded at the bar, to seeing him take down an aggressor without batting an eye. It all feels unreal as you watch him in such a domestic setting.

Bucky acknowledges you with a small nod and a hum as you take a seat at the island counter. The silence stretches comfortably between the two of you. Sizzling and hissing from the pan fills in the lack of conversation. Soon enough, pancakes are plated beside strips of bacon and eggs. Your helping is placed right in front of you as Bucky slides into the seat beside yours. 

You take a few bites, and you can only believe that the food tastes good. Not all of your senses have returned to you, it seems.

“Do you feel better today?” Bucky finally speaks in between bites. 

It baffles you how normal he is. It should frighten you, fill you with enough fear to run away completely when you remember that just last night, he took a life. And now, he’s eating scrambled eggs with gusto. 

“I… don’t really know,” you answer truthfully, stabbing your fork through a piece of bacon.

Bucky hums in understanding, something that also feels strange. “You did nothing wrong– I hope you know that. There’s creeps all over the world that like to prey on pretty girls like you.”

It’s so casual, the way he speaks. Would you have preferred it if he was more… formal with his approach?  Another thing to add on to the list of things you’re unsure of. 

“Thank you.”

Bucky makes a small noise akin to laughter. A chuckle, perhaps. “Don’t have to thank me for the compliment, doll. It goes without saying that you’re pret–”

“Not for that,” you cut him off quickly, turning to look at him. He meets your gaze a moment later, mouth full of pancakes. The sight makes you smile, even just a little bit. You take a breath and continue, “For saving me. Thank you.”

Bucky chews slowly before swallowing, clearing his mouth. He nods a few times, casting his eyes downward to his plate. His fork pokes around at the food, almost shyly. “Don’t gotta thank me for that either.”

Bucky meets your eyes once more, and offers you a smile. A genuine smile, like he meant it. 

Maybe it’s the heat of the moment. Maybe it’s the fact that he looks so different like this– hair mussed from sleep, wearing simple clothes instead of the expensive fabrics you recognize on his body. He doesn’t exude intimidation or authority at this moment. 

Or it’s because he’s your savior. You might be patient zero for the nightingale effect. 

Either way, you don’t stop yourself as you lean towards him, lips pressing against his own. 

His response is almost immediate. He presses deeper into you, so utterly relaxed and helpless against you. You move with him in a slow, almost steady kiss as if this wasn’t the first time that you’ve had each other.

All at once, he’s gone. 

Your eyes fly open as he stands up, quickly creating distance between the two of you. Dread fills in the deepest part of your stomach as you watch him run both hands through his hair then catch onto his neck as he takes in deep breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” you quickly say, almost breathless as you clamber onto your feet. “I– I should go. I’m going to go home–”

You barely turn away before he’s right there again, grabbing onto your wrist to stop you from leaving. As fast as he held onto you, he was quick to loosen his hold, reminding you that you weren’t being held captive by him. 

“It’s not that I didn’t enjoy that,” he murmurs softly. He rubs his thumb against your skin, just as he did the night before. His jaw clenches and relaxes a few times before he lifts his eyes to meet yours. “I just don’t want you to regret whatever you’re doing because you’re confused– your emotions are all over the place. I don’t want you to look back on whatever you do now and think that it was only because you feel safe with me. I don’t want that.”

“What do you want?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he quickly rejects, shaking his head. 

“I– I don’t want to think right now,” you stutter out, voice timid. “I just… I don’t want to focus on everything that happened.”

Bucky shakes his head, still being the rational one between the two of you. “This isn’t what you should do, regardless of that. There’s other things we can do, other ways we can–”

Once more, you cut him off. This time, the words spilling from you like water broken from a dam. “Friends kiss, don’t they?” Bucky stares at you, a flash of confusion shooting across his features. You swallow and continue, “You said you want to be friends with me, right? I think that friends can kiss without strings attached.”

A soft laugh fills your ears as he smiles at you. He looks boyish and so devastatingly soft. “I don’t do no strings attached, sweetheart.”

You should take the out that he’s giving you. Rational thoughts are knocking down the door to your brain, but you don’t let them in. You move closer to him instead, and you don’t fight Bucky when his hands rest on your waist. You don’t stop yourself as your arms wrap around his neck, and once more– you’re leaning in. This time, he meets you halfway. 

The kiss isn’t as cautious as the first one was. No, this one is filled with desperation from both of you.

You, needing something to hold onto, won’t stop pulling him deeper into you. Him, unable to let you go now that he has you. It’s a dangerous mix, one that is only elevated as your back presses into the edge of the counter, now trapping you against his body.

The kiss is everything that you need– ravenous, passionate, tender. His teeth nip and pull at your bottom lip, requesting an entry that you immediately provide for him. His tongue is warm against yours, licking into your mouth and claiming every space that it can reach.

Bucky’s hands leave your waist, reaching behind you. He shoves the plates of food away with one single swipe– one of them sliding all the way off the counter and shattering against the floor. He doesn’t give you time to react, but you don’t care enough to even acknowledge it when he’s lifting you up and onto the counter. He settles easily between your legs, hands roaming up your legs and beneath the fabric of your shorts. 

He leaves your lips in favor of pressing open mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. A soft moan fills his ears as he sucks against your neck, and he returns your passion with a groan of his own. 

Bucky leaves a fire burning beneath your skin wherever he touches. He’s leaving you lightheaded from just his kisses mixed with his hands dipping beneath the clothes that you wear– his clothes.

Slowly, he lowers your back down against the counter, then tugs at the tight knot that you tied at the waistband of your shorts. He doesn’t struggle, undoing it quickly and hooking his fingers on the fabric.

Only now does he stop, and catches your eyes once more. You’re a sight to behold– leaned back onto your elbows, lips swollen from just the few kisses you shared, skin flushed and hot. He doesn’t ask anything. You don’t tell him to stop, either. He takes your silence, and bares you to him. 

A hiss exits from his teeth as he looks between your legs– core already glistening and waiting for him. 

Bucky doesn’t waste another second, descending upon you. One knee gets hooked over his shoulder, while the other leg is securely held up by the back of your thigh, spreading you open for him as his tongue meets your wet heat.

The two of you moan in unison– your eyes falling shut as his tongue parts your folds. His eyes flutter shut, savoring both the taste and scent of you. He’s in heaven between your legs– or maybe he’s in hell. He’ll die a happy man here, even if he burns for the rest of his life. 

“Fuck, doll,” he grunts from between your legs. He swipes his tongue against your clit, pulling a whimper from your lips. “So good for me, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer him. Can’t answer him, actually. He descends upon you once more, a man starved for water and you, a lake. He pulls more and more noises of pleasure out of you as he figures you out, learning what exactly makes you sing for him.

The tip of his tongue circles your clit, sending shockwaves throughout your body that makes your legs tremble beside him. You can feel him smirk against you as his tongue flattens, licking a hard line up your folds, then returning back to your aching core. It’s when he forces his tongue into your walls do you cry out for him.

A hand flies to his hair, shaking ever so slightly. You can’t decide whether or not to push him away from the overstimulation, or to pull him even closer so he can’t dream of leaving you.

Thankfully, he decides for you, pressing his tongue deeper into you, only to quickly pull it back out and replace it with his fingers. 

Three thick digits spread you open for him, sending stars into your vision as your head falls back, hanging loosely as he quickly figures out where you like him best. He’s not careful in his exploration, almost like he’s desperate to know every single part of you.

His fingers curl inside you at the same time he closes his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks. You cry out something akin to his name, but it’s too hard to decipher from the whines that follow straight after.

Bucky doesn’t stop his movements throughout your entire high, moaning against you as you coat both his fingers and mouth with your essence. Only when you begin to push on his head lightly does he part from you, keeping his fingers buried in you.

You can barely push yourself up off the counter, sitting up again. He stands up straight, immediately meeting your lips in a hot, wet kiss. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, but you can’t find yourself to care as his thumb reaches for your clit next, rubbing lazy circles into you.

When your heart finally slows back down, he pulls his fingers from you. A whimper follows, and he tuts ever so slightly.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl. I’m not gonna leave you empty for long,” he promises, voice husky and thick with desire. 

Bucky tugs you off the counter, and spins you around. The counter is wet against your chest as you lean over it, but you can’t find yourself caring about it. He bunches the hem of your shirt up to your waist, and sighs softly at the sight of you.

Then, you feel him.

The tip of his cock nudges at your pussy, moving up and through your folds to coat himself in your cum. Your forehead drops onto the counter, as you plead, “Fuck, Bucky, hurry.”

Bucky chuckles behind you, somehow finding amusement in your impatience as if he isn’t leaking, mixing his precum with your juices. He finds purchase at your hips as his cock catches at your entrance, the thick head prodding and testing.

“You made me wait so long to be your friend, and you’re the one getting testy here?” he teases you, pressing ever so slightly into you.

You let out a cry, trying to push back into him. He holds you steady in his hands, not allowing you to take him without his permission. Frustration boils inside you as you lift your head, looking at him over your shoulder.

Pleas, words of desperation, and whines are about to fall from your lips as you make eye contact with him. He steals the air from your lungs as he slides home in one single stroke.

Bucky curses behind you, his breathing growing heavy as he adjusts to the feel of you– tight walls squeezing and already fluttering around his engorged dick– he’s not sure how long he can last wrapped in your heat.

Still, he would rather be damned than make the most out of his time buried deep in you.

Skin slaps against skin as he finds a pace pleasurable for the both of you. Moans are your only form of communication as all your senses focus on him– his cock sliding in and out of you in a vigorous pace, the feel of his balls slapping right against your clit with each thrust, and the feel of his hands squeezing hard at your hips to let you know that he’s just as affected as you are. 

“God,” he moans from behind you, “You take me so well, baby. Like you’re made just for me.”

You can only whimper in response, drowning in your pleasure. 

Stupidly, you reach behind you to grab onto his wrist, desperate to have more of him than you already have, only to have both hands pulled right behind you. Bucky tugs you off of the counter and back towards his chest, one hand snaking to your front and up to your throat. His hand closes around your neck, your heartbeat thrumming right beneath his fingertips. 

He still fucks right up into you, the angle pressing him deeper and deeper into your pussy. Your head falls back against his shoulders as you let himself hold you up, damn near limp in his arms.

“Poor thing,” he chuckles in your ear. “Can’t focus on anything but my cock, huh?”

You barely manage a strangled moan before his hand leaves your throat, moving downwards. He stops right beneath your navel, and sucks in a sharp breath as he presses his hand against your tummy.

“Fuck,” he curses, more to himself than you. “You feel that, doll? It’s me– god, I’m just ripping you apart right now, huh?”

If you were of sound mind, you’d agree, tell him Yes, I’m so full of you, stuffed more than I could ever comprehend. But you’re not. All you can give him is a soft cry, one that makes him press a sweet kiss to your temple.

“Need you to see this,” he mutters, and lets go of your hands. 

Quickly, you’re being pushed forward towards the counter again. This time, you have one forearm bracing yourself to keep yourself standing while he picks up one of your legs, hooking your knee at his elbow. You can see his face now– see the way his skin is flushed and how sweat glistens at his neck. He fucks you fully, pulling back just to leave the tip of his cock sheathed before closing the distance between the two of you. His thrusts are hard, precise, and full of sin.

And you can see him inside of you– a bulge poking at your stomach with each thrust of his hips against yours.

Just the sight alone is enough for you, pussy squeezing his cock in uneven flutters as you cream all over him, moans falling unabashedly from your lips.

Your entire body shakes, and it’s a miracle that you can still stand on one leg. Even so, he’s still supporting most of your weight, his other hand on your waist for leverage as he continues to fuck you. He’s careful in his transition, fingers digging into your soft flesh as his thumb reaches for your clit.

It’s almost too much for you– without a break, falling apart back to back, you can’t stop the tears that begin to form in your eyes or the wrecked sobs that claw its way out of your throat.

“There we go,” he mutters from above you, leaning closer to you. His lips press against your eyelids, tears catching onto them. He swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, a soft groan leaving him at the salty taste. 

You barely can see him through your blurry vision, but you swear you see it on his face– a fucked out, blissful smile on his face as he doesn’t let up a single action.

“I prefer you crying from how good my cock feels in you, baby,” he coos at you softly, a stark contrast from the hard thrusts of his hips, “Gonna make sure you only shed tears outta pleasure from here on out– that sound okay to you?”

You barely manage a nod, a sob mixed with a moan being your only verbal response for him. He accepts it with a groan of your name, eyes rolling back slightly before he catches your lips with his once more.

He surrounds you with ease, swallowing you whole. You can’t even kiss him back. If he minds, he doesn’t say it aloud. Instead, he swallows every single pretty noise that you give him, and doubles his efforts each time, like your cries fuel his drive to fuck you silly. 

The tight rope builds within you quickly. After two times, he’s recognized your tells, recognized how your pussy tightens around him gradually– and he finally lets himself relax.

Your body stiffens beneath him, your lips parted in a soundless moan as he buries his face into your neck, heavy moans muffled into your skin. You can feel his cock pulsing and jumping in your soaked cunt– he’s giving you all that he has, ensuring that he seeps into the deepest parts of your body. 

Gradually, his thrusts slow into shallow pumps, desperate to just stay sheathed within your warmth. Your breaths mingle as you attempt to catch your breath once more, utterly spent. 

Inside you, you can feel him still. Hard, thick, and barely getting started. 

Bucky carefully pulls your legs around his waist, holding your body against his. He’s still deep inside you, the bulge in your tummy now pressing against his own skin as he carries you out from the kitchen, and to his room. He catches your lips with his once more, and you can only melt right back into him.

Dark, purple marks litter Bucky’s skin by the time he gets back to the kitchen. They blossom on different parts of him— his neck being a popular spot, but a few stray ones trailing down to his collarbone and chest. He swears you bit his shoulder more than once, too.

When he stretches, he can feel the sting of scratches on his back– the result of your nails digging into his skin whilst deep in the throes of pleasure. Still, he welcomes the sting with a smile. 

The plate and the food is cleaned up with a whistle– such things can’t put a damper on his mood when he reminds himself that you’re still here, sound asleep in his bed from the activities you indulged in. He watched you for longer than he wanted to admit, taking in the sight of your peaceful face. That, and the proof of himself on your skin. He left his own markings for you to find later, too.

He reaches for the fridge once more, pulling out different ingredients this time. He’ll make you lunch, since the two of you ruined your breakfast. 

The sound of his phone buzzing against the counter catches his attention. Briefly, the smile on his face falters, and is replaced with irritation as he reads the notifications on the screen. 

Without responding, he turns off the device, then haphazardly tosses it to the side. 

Bucky’s busy right now. Even if he wasn’t preoccupied, he wouldn’t respond to that asshole’s texts unless he was already dead.

[Unknown, 2:47pm] Hey boss! This is John. How did everything go with your girl last night?

[Unknown, 2:53pm] Hope everything went well… Sorry if I scared her too bad. I’m still getting that bonus, right?

[Unknown, 3:02pm] This is John by the way, haha. John Walker.

bucky barnes taglist: @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @umbreoni @iamthatonefangirl @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @bckyslover @duacruel @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels  @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian @overwintering-soldier @kjmonster111  @bbyanarchist @buckmybarnes @avgdestitute @angryoilslick516 ⤷ to be eligible for my taglist, you must have your age stated somewhere on your blog!

𖤐 — ghosted by @barnesonly

sexting / giggly sex / uniform ( oct. 1st )

who says halloween night has to feel lonely? your super soldier boyfriend might be “on a mission,” but that doesn’t mean you can’t haunt his inbox… just make sure not to ghost him, he gets impatient very easily.

𖤐 — love at first fright by @wildflowersandvibranium

enemies / matching costumes / forced proximity ( oct. 3rd )

after getting stuck in matching costumes with your sworn enemy— bucky barnes— you both end up finding something scarier than the dark of the corn maze, falling in love.

𖤐 — head over heels by @heldbybarnes

ass play / suit / cum play ( oct. 5th )

every halloween, whispers say the headless rider returns to claim what’s his. you’ve always thought it was just a story—until hooves thunder through the fog and a cloaked figure finds you on dyer’s trail. one bargain, one word, and you’re swept into a night of haunting ritual, velvet shadows, and a mark that lingers long after dawn.

𖤐 — love bites by @blowingbarnes

massage / thigh riding / biting ( oct 6th )

it's halloween and your boyfriend is an actual vampire. fuck trick or treating, bucky is taking his treat... and giving you some too.

𖤐 — to have and to hold by @unificsation

cockwarming / hickeys / lingerie ( oct. 8th )

as a one-year anniversary gift, you propose that you and your husband divorce. he decides to teach you a lesson: that the king of new york doesn’t give anything up, least of all his darling wife.

𖤐 — show and tell by @bckyslover

feminization / sex club / spanking ( oct. 10th )

without you even knowing, your best friend drags you to a sex club in hopes to fix your dry spell. when you get there you’re surprised to see you’re surrounded by nude people; females and males all doing various activities. she books you a room and unbeknownst to you, you’ve already caught the attention of the owner of the club just across the room.

𖤐 — predators by @its-in-the-woods

rewards / dirty talk / knife play ( oct. 11th )

humans have been terrified of near human-like monsters for as long as we've existed. vampires, werewolves, ghouls, wendigos, bigfoot. they make our skin crawl, things that are legends, cautionary tales to keep kids inside at night. while the real monsters, humans, lurk in the dark. at least that's what we've been told.

𖤐 — belong to you by @chateaubarnes

pearl necklace / collar / makeup ( oct. 13th )

when you found out that your boyfriend, bucky, was a werewolf, you didn't panic—you just wanted to know how you could help. the answer was a collar to help keep him chained up during full moons, to keep him safe. to him, it was more than just a collar—it was a symbol of your love for him. he wanted to get you something in return, something that proved that you belonged to him, too. a collar of your own. yours just happened to be made of pearls.

𖤐 — dive into you by @juniebjonesin

skinny dipping / praise / edging ( oct. 17th )

for as long as you'd been with bucky he'd never been much of a social person, not that you ever minded, but when he suggested the two of you go to Tony's annual pool party out of the blue you couldn't help but feel there was an ulterior motive at play.

𖤐 — shut up and drive by @flockoff-featherface

teasing / car sex / overstimulation ( oct. 19th )

bucky barnes, your high school sweetheart and the absolute love of your life, tries to plan a halloween date night, just like old times. whatever could go wrong...?

𖤐 — greedy by @iamthatonefangirl

ball gag / mirror / voyeurism ( oct. 24th )

this isn’t the first time you’ve been caught like this, being fucked within an inch of your life by your boyfriend, john walker. it might be the first time you’ve set up the scene on purpose, expecting, waiting to be caught.  by none other than bucky himself.

𖤐 — 𝓙OIN ME (IN DEATH) by @umbreoni

blood / dirty talk / exhibitionism ( oct. 25th )

when your supernatural lover turns you into one of him in an emergency, you’re left mentally stranded— unused to the life of the undead. but when bucky, now your creator, sees your condition, he tasks himself to teach his fledgling the ways of the night.

𖤐 — incu-bust! by @houseofhyde

virginity / incubus / somnophilia

between creaky floorboards and squeaky doors, a creature lurks in the darkness of your new home. waiting, watching, lusting for the right moment to smudge the air of purity that surrounds you.

𖤐 — there's something in the woods by @54nboo

pheromones / monsterfucking / biting ( oct. 29th )

bucky barnes and steve rogers have hunted every cryptid around the globe except one— you, the elusive mothman. now that they’ve found their way to west virginia, they’ll stop at nothing to find you.

𖤐 — boo!-ty call by @superbassbuck

phone sex / first time / closet ( oct. 30th )

bucky barnes is, in steve and sam's words, a “loser virgin with a hopeless crush on a phone sex operator.” when they finally convince him to tag along to the frat's annual halloween party, they promise him it's the perfect chance to finally lose that precious v-card he's been clinging onto. everyone else appears to be getting lucky, but for some reason, bucky can't seem to get fucking laid. that is, until he hears a voice at the party that sounds strangely familiar.

this collab is proudly brought to you by the cult of bwa. get ready for pearl-clutching and heart-fluttering fics. and, hey, maybe charge your vibe <3

❝ 360 ❞ by @houseofhyde — Sun, June 28, 2026

fleeing from a messy situationship, you embark on a journey to travel across the globe and discover the hidden beauties earth has to offer. you find the rarest beauty of all in him, bucky barnes. honey eyed, smooth-talking, and capable of working just about every job under the sun. as you continue to crash into him with every country you travel through, a chilling thought starts to take hold of your heart: is fate pushing you together, or is something darker chasing you?

❝ Club classics ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 1, 2026

If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.

❝ Sympathy is a knife ❞ by @tw1sters — Sun, July 5, 2026

Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.

❝ I might say something stupid ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 8, 2026

While Bucky Barnes is back in New York navigating his feelings, love unexpectedly becomes one of them. It’s a beautiful, natural emotion—something a man like him never thought he would get to experience again. But he can’t. Not when the person he’s falling for is his therapist.

❝ Talk talk ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, July 11, 2026

What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. There are plenty of ways to talk.

❝ Von dutch ❞ by @houseofhyde — Wed, July 15, 2026

one brand campaign. two models who hate each other’s guts. three months of torture, bickering, and looks that linger. bucky barnes might have a pretty face, but his heart is rotten to the core and his ego is larger than life. his need to make his dislike of you know is borderline obsessive, never failing to keep your name in his mouth... so maybe it’s time he just confess it: you’re his #1.

❝ Everything is romantic ❞ by @heldbybarnes — Sat, July 18, 2026

when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.

❝ Rewind ❞ by @tw1sters — Wed, July 22, 2026

Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.

❝ So I ❞ by @firingstars — Sat, July 25, 2026

notorious for a reputation he worked so hard for, bucky barnes is certain the world is his. he has it all- money, good looks, a fraternity that hangs on his every word; what more could he possibly need? ah, that's right. the pretty girl he met back in freshman year of university that refuses to give him time of day.

❝ Girl, so confusing ❞ by @danysdaughter — Wed, July 29, 2026

bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.

❝ Apple ❞ by @54nboo — Sat, August 1, 2026

after hundreds of years of corrupt ruling and tyranny your family had wrought upon your kingdom, a disease wipes out half of the continent. as the last remaining royal in your family, the crown finally falls into your hands. with your council plotting your deposition, you are left with only your knight to support your claim to the throne. can you fix the years of ruin your ancestors had left to you, or does the apple not fall far from the tree?

❝ B2b ❞ by @barnesonly — Wed, August 5, 2026

as a rising singer, signed and promoted by Barnes Records, you try to find your way through the overwhelming whirlwind that is LA. Little do you know, your producer, Bucky, is determined to do everything to keep you as his biggest star.

❝ Mean girls ❞ by @iamthatonefangirl — Sat, August 8, 2026

it seems as though everything is finally falling into place for you: you’ve just won your first Oscar academy award for your film Rendezvous, and you’ve just scored your first deal with the world-renowned film studio, Piston Pictures. it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more. that is, until the leading actor in your new film, the up-and-coming Bucky Barnes, makes a grave mistake that completely destroys your carefully crafted reputation overnight. except the mean girls of Hollywood can’t stop you from honing your craft, and they certainly can’t keep Bucky Barnes away from you, no matter how hard they try.

❝ I think about it all the time ❞ by @unificsation — Wed, August 12, 2026

bucky makes you think about having a child all the time. but the funny thing about time is it always, always runs out.

❝ 365 ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, August 15, 2026

There are eight million people in New York City. Statistically, you shouldn’t keep running into the same man. You definitely shouldn’t keep fucking him.

── .✦ due to outside circumstances, our beloved @/spdrveil & @/artficlly cannot take a part in the collab. but don't worry, they're out there bumpin' that .ᐟ

Plants are quiet. 

In that way they way they're actually better than people.

When you lay down in a meadow the grass curls around you, bristles tickling your skin as if to hug you hello. Wildflowers fight through soil and emerge from the long abandoned farm on the far side of the valley. They grow tall and proud, tilting in your direction as if offering themselves for your admiration.

Plants are considerate, gentle, ever present. 

Before a storm, plants will speak. Their leaves will rustle with wind and that breeze will carry their whisper to you. We will survive. They say, with the certainty only known by beings older than time itself. We were here before you, we will be here after. 

Plants exist outside of time.

They will continue their slow climb toward the sun, long after your bones become soil and your blood fertilizer. Until all that's left of you exists within stems and leaves. When all of humanity is gone, green will fight through smog and ash and burst free, starting the cycle anew.

After all, there must always be a tree from which Eve can pluck her apple. 

You think about Eve a lot these days. 

How did she make that choice? Just how tempting was that fruit she so callously plucked? 

Was it perfect? Shiny and ripe for the taking. Dangling from its stem with a tease of come take me.

Was it more subtle? Did Eve's sin have time to fester and build until it was a coil pulled so tight inside her that it wasn't just one simple act at all. It was an explosion. 

Did Eve stare at her sin across an overgrown field, uselessly clutching her pencil and pathetically empty sketch book? Watch as he toiled with dirt and shined under the suns abuse? Would she laugh at you? Remind you that your fruit isn't forbidden, just unknown. 

For you, it feels like one and the same.

Still, you can't seem to look away.

You're not sure how long you've been watching him. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty. You're not especially good with time though, could be an hour for all you know. 

It would just be really pathetic if he's been struggling with the same root ball for an hour. 

His face contorts to something unsatisfied, brows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line as he stares down at the already wilting green. It's almost comical as he looks back towards the crate of plant waiting for him, and the three he's already got in the ground. 

His smushes it between his fingers, harsh and grabby as he pinches it to smithereens. He doesn't stop until there's nearly nothing left, a few sad roots dangling limp in his palm as he places it in a much too deep hole.

Bucky Barnes is like a hosta. He grows sturdy, undeterred by shady spots, of lack of water. Honestly you think if Bucky could build a tent around his entire crop he would. As another bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, caught on a thick forearm and wiped away before it can reach his eyes.

From far away he's gorgeous, lush and thick. Eye catching without even trying to be, naturally spell binding. He crept into your garden slowly. An offer to let you study the plants on his farm, which then turned to you giving him fertilizer that you made with your research. 

Nearly six months since his sudden and unceremonious arrival, it's as if he's taken up all the room in your flower bed. 

Larger than life, than your experiment's and hobbies. Than your rather unfavorable feelings about other people and longstanding habit of avoiding them. 

Like a stubborn root you can't seem to get rid of him either, try as you might.

Your voice echoes before you realize you've even decided to speak.

"You're mutilating them." 

Bucky jumps his broad shoulders go taut, entire body freezing. 

You don't notice, eyes locked on the strangled rootball in his big hands.

"I'm sorry?" He asks, swiveling his head until finally he finds you. 

You walk through weeds the toward him, having to lift your legs a little more to clear the dense grass and knotted foliage. You take your time, carefully stepping over mushrooms and dodging dandelions.

You feel his eyes on you throughout, piercing and curious, and probably part offended. You've never been especially good with people either though.

When you're finally close enough, only a few feet away, you speak again. 

"I said you're mutilating them." You repeat, this time gesturing to the poor parsnips at his feet. 

Bucky pauses, following your gaze with similar disappointment. "Oh."

His hands, which you can now see aren't even covered in gloves, come to sit as his hips. Dirt smudges onto his white tank top, even catching the tops of his jeans. Looking lower you're even more displeased at the state of his shoes, what probably used to be light color sneakers. 

Not bothering to ask, you pick up one of the plants from the crate and take it in your hands. It's misshaped from the stores planter, nearly a perfect rectangle. "Poor thing." You whisper. 

Gently, you begin to massage the rootball. Slow, steady squeezes until it begins to soften in your palm. You wait until it's limp, then get on your knees and dig a hole in the same row Bucky had started. 

You only dig a few inches down, enough to hold to the root. "Loosen the dirt, don't dig." You tell him, using the hand shovel to create a sort of crater in the hole. "The roots need something to grab onto." 

You place the parsnip in the dirt, gently filling the sides until you're satisfied with its security. 

You wipe your hands on your overalls as you stand, brushing off the excess soil and finally returning your attention to Bucky. 

"You try." 

Bucky nods, using his forearm to wipe some sweat from his forehead.

He grabs another plant, and stares at it for a moment, as if begging it to cooperate.

You can't help your sigh when once again digs his fingers directly into the rootball and starts to pull it apart. 

Sensing your frustration, Bucky freezes. 

"What?" He asks, sounding more worried than upset. 

With a huff you move to stand in front of him. 

You surround his hands with your own, cupping the plant in his palms. 

"You want to massage it." You tell him, applying just enough pressure to feel the plant give under your combined touch. "You need it to be relaxed." 

Bucky hums, "Like foreplay." He says.

You can't help the way you go taut, hands pulling away as if burned. 

He says it so casually, as if sex is something you talk about. As if it something you do, something you do with him. As if letting another person be that close to you isn't a nightmare in and of itself.

Although you suppose if that nightmare had brown hair and blue eyes and the prettiest pink lips you might not be so opposed.

"Sure-" You stammer, already taking a handful of steps back towards the direction you came. "Yeah exactly like foreplay." You voice betrays you pitching an octave higher on the last word.

Bucky's staring at you like you're a question, that same furrow from before back between his brows. His hands have stopped moving, as if you're more important than anything else he had been busy with. 

Mercifully, he doesn't push. "Thanks," he says instead. "Find anything good today?" He nods back towards the section of the field you had been taking residence in.

You nod, face still burning with embarrassment. "Yes actually-" you start before you can stop yourself, the words flowing like an avalanche. "I found a plant, well it's actually a kind of weed but there's this plant phalaris arundinacea or um, some people call it canary grass. Anyway it usually only grows by rivers but you have this whole cluster of it which is really weird because it's like a hundred feet from your little pond and the rest of the soil around it is pretty dry and-" you catch yourself.

Your mouth feels like cotton because of fast you had started talking, your tongue swelling with embarrassment as you realize the extent of your ramble. 

"Sorry." You mutter, "That's actually super boring."

Bucky shakes his head, finally beginning to return to his parsnips. Slowly he gets on his knees, bending one leg at a time and giving you a truly gratuitous look at his thighs. 

"I think it's interesting." He says, "besides if everything else is out of place than maybe I'm exactly where I belong." There's a lilt at the end, like he had intended for it to be a joke but the punchline got lost in truth. 

It makes your heart pull tight, a feeling you normally reserve for trampled flowers and injured birds. 

"Maybe," You say, "Or maybe the plants just know better than us." 

You shrug, watching as Bucky carefully copies what your had done in the dirt. You cringe as it gathers under his nails, catching in the crevices of his knuckles. You have an extra pair of gloves, maybe you ought to drop them off one morning. You could slip them in his mailbox, he'd never even have to know it was you. If he's serious about this farming thing he'll need good gloves or he'll destroy his hands and gosh they are good hands-

You force yourself to look away, eyes averting to literally please anywhere else. "Its not the only one." You change the topic, "I mean only spot."

Bucky hums, "with weird plants?" 

"Yea." You nod a little too quickly as you say it. "Up on the mountain, there's Sunflowers growing from cracks between the some of the rocks and I figured it was an anomaly but now that there's two of them I think they could be connected."

Bucky finishes pushing the dirt back in around the last root ball and reaches for another. "How can you tell if they are?" 

You chest does a little jump, eagerness sparking. He asked! He asked a question about your plants! 

"Well since they're different plants I can rule out it being a strain or breed thing." You rationalize, "So I'd have to start with the soil, but I need to samples and I'm not allowed to hike alone anymore-"

"Wait what?"

"-and no one ever wants to go with me!" You steamroll right over Bucky's question, completely obvious to the alarm in his eyes. "They all complain about how much I go off trail but it's not my fault! All the best stuff is, I mean I once found an entire patch of wild potatoes!"

"Wild potatoes?" 

"No one complained that time! Everyone had fries for a month thanks to me, but no-" you drag out the 'o' sound, rolling your eyes as you do so. "- You get lost one time and suddenly it's a problem. So I have to wait until someone else plans a hike and I can convince them to let me come." 

Bucky finally stands, huffing with effort as he does so. 

"I could go with you." He offers, shrugging his shoulders. "I uh- hike."

His voice pitches an octave higher on the word 'hike,' surely just in enthusiasm. 

"Really?" 

"Yeah." Bucky insists, "sounds like it's important." 

You're not sure what to do with yourself, heart slamming hard against your ribs as if trying to crack them open and escape. You're used to being shut down, waved off, your thoughts and hypotheses disregarded. 

Yet here is your hosta, shoulders broad and jaw set. Something in his eyes that makes you almost believe he genuinely doesn't mind doing this for you.

You nod, the movement tight. "Okay." 

Bucky hums, returning his knees to the dirt. "Okay." 

A plan is made between mumbles, meet here at six tomorrow morning, hopefully be through the worst of the hike before the heat of the day. You offer to make sandwiches and Bucky begrudgingly promises to wear something other than jeans. 

Once all is set you finally retreat. Settling back into the grass a few yards away and returning to your (still empty) sketchbook and woefully unimpressive notes. Ignoring the pang of disappointment when Bucky goes back to silence too. 

The wind blows around you, swishing through the weeds and singing something like laughter. You wish it would tell you what's so funny. You wonder if the tree laughed at Eve.

You're no stranger to the strangeness of nature.

Sure, you've dedicated most of your life and free space in your brain to figuring out some of its strangeness, but even you know there are things beyond even your comprehension. 

Like the way it seems to pick and choose when it's alive. 

Not alive in the green leaves and turning toward the sun sense. No, alive as in conscious. 

There are times when it's as if the plants hear you, like petals have turned to tiny listening devices. Times when it's like they manipulate themselves to create a new reality. Soil becoming an instrument in their greater plan as they rearrange it to suit their needs. 

Like the first time you met Bucky. 

Truthfully, you'd been trespassing on his land for years with no idea that it even belonged to someone. You knew it like the back of your hand, the sad parcel that everyone avoided. Quiet and calm and perfect for anyone trying to stay away from civilization. 

It fascinated you too, the way it had reclaimed the fields and land. After years of being worked over, you admired the chaos that bloomed when left to its own devices. Left over crops that persevered, wildflowers that seemingly appeared from no where, vines that wove themselves around old fence posts as if trying to pull them from the ground.

The day he arrived the same plants you'd become so acquainted with, threw you into him. 

You'd be just about ready to leave, bag tucked into your shoulder and samples in hand. You hadn't even seen him yet, the bulking figure standing at the foot of the porch. Never one to notice people, you didn't even see him. In fact you had nearly walked completely past him, nose buried in your samples when suddenly your foot caught on a root that certainly hadn't been there when you arrived that morning.

It sent you, your bag, and your armful of foliage flying. 

It was two leather clad arms that caught you, a subtle 'oof' muttered as he took the force of your fall. 

Few weeks later it was a present from the weeds. A tiny little white thing that tracked muddy little paws all over your notebook one after noon. 

A kitten, a teeny little one that purred louder than a plane engine and meowed in your arms until you were standing on Bucky's steps.

"Is this yours?" You'd asked, scratching under its chin.

"No." He'd grunted, glaring at the ball of fur in your arms as it were a loaded gun. 

"Oh." You'd whispered, confusion only growing. Of course you didn't know everything that lived in the woods, but in all your years in the valley, you'd never once seen a stray cat. Certainly not the two it would have taken to bring the one you holding to fruition. "It just showed up out of no where, walked right up to me like it was asking for directions." 

Bucky shrugged, unconvinced. "You gonna keep it?" He asked.

You mouth was already half way open -about to explain that as much as you'd love too- you couldn't, when the cat jumped out of your arms. Landing on the wood by Bucky's feet, it immediately drew a figure eight walking between his legs. It's little tail curling up as much of his calves as possible. 

"Think it wants you to." 

Sure enough, Alpine was wrapped around Bucky's finger in week. Sending him running to your door with a nervous question at least every other day (Can cats eat strawberries? I found her passed out by the vines with pink all over. Yes Bucky, probably just snaked herself into a food coma). The now spoiled and fat cat sneaks off the farm and ends up at your door nearly as often. Forcing you to walk with her all the back to Bucky's.

Worst of all was about a month ago. Their most egregious attempt yet. 

You'd been knee deep in a cluster of a flowers, some wild lily's in a color you'd never seen before. Your hands buried in the soil as you collected some so you could test the PH later. 

Then Bucky had sauntered up behind you, the sudden pitch of his voice throwing you off balance and directly into a pile of flowers. Only you weren't punished with thorns, no pollen. It erupted around you in an angry yellow cloud, plumes of dust spiraling into the air. 

The entire mess leaving you covered in bright yellow. 

"Shit." Bucky had cursed, already walking forward to help you when you stopped him with a single raised hand. 

Ever so careful not to breathe any in, got up, and darted toward the pond. You ripped your clothes off as you ran, abandoning your shirt on a rock and then your jeans at the end of the dock. You hardly heard Bucky yelling after you as you jumped into the freezing water.

When you surfaced, pollen covered the entire pond, swirling in murky yellow bubbles around you. At the end of the dock stood a breathless Bucky, pink cheeked and wide eyed as he stared at the water.

Wordlessly, he stretched out his hand again, and this time you took it, letting his strength lift you from the frigid water. He only lets go once you're safely on the wooden planks, dripping onto the boards as you exhaled a sigh of relief. 

"Thanks." You whispered, equally as breathless.

Bucky however, just nodded, his throat bobbing as he took the state of you in. 

Bra, panties, and embarrassing white ankle socks. All of which were now soaked through and borderline see-through.

He choked out something about a towel, shaking his head as he started off towards his house, cursing under his breath. Leaving you to wait by the pond, alone with the pip-plop of the water dripping off you and buzzing of frantic bees collecting the pollen you'd stirred up. Even softer, you could have sworn you heard giggling.

Now, as you lead Bucky on the familiar trail, you can't help but watch every leaf a little bit closer.

It's been silent for the better part of the hike, quiet companionship as you slowly work your way up. Bucky's a few feet behind you, lingering close enough for you to hear his footsteps, but far away enough for you to not worry about if he can hear your labored breathing. 

Still, heaving chest aside, excitement stirs inside you. A fluttering of joy in your stomach as you take in the mountain around you. The rustles of leaves as birds sing above you, the way your boots crunch on the gravel , a symphony of mother nature's finest. 

"Is it supposed to rain today?" It's the first thing Bucky's said in an hour, or grumbled is perhaps more accurate. 

You'd checked the weather station three separate times, clear skies.

"No." You gesture to the crystal blue above you. "Looks fine to me."

Bucky grumbles something behind you, unintelligible. 

"What was that?"

"Just said it feels like it is all." He repeats, you can hear his arm whirring in protest as he moves it, machine fighting him. 

You're struck with a sudden worrying thought. "Oh- is it not water proof?" You concern is instant, enough to make you stop in your tracks and turn around to look at him. 

Bucky stops too, and for the first time since you started you actually pause to take him in.

He's glossy, not quite sweaty but enough to make him shine under the bright sun. The jacket he'd started the hike in had been discarded unbeknownst to you, leaving him in a tight black tank top. 

The arm hangs low at his side, fist clenching and clenching. 

"No, it is." Bucky assures, "Pretty sure this thing could survive just about everything. I don't know I just got a feeling." 

"A feeling?" You repeat, skepticism clear. 

"Yeah." Bucky nods, looking up at the sky with a glare. 

He doesn't say more, you don't find the courage to ask. Instead you keep hiking, turning back to the trail and continuing the trek. 

"We're almost there." You shout towards Bucky. "At least I think we are." 

The gravel starts to get loose beneath your feet, forcing you to push your heels down harder with every step. 

"I mean this all feels familiar." You add, nervously suddenly desperate to fill the silence. "I probably should have written down where exactly they were but I didn't have a pen and everyone was yelling for me to keep moving-" 

A rock catches you the toe of your boot, cutting you offer with a swift trip flat on to your face. 

The rest of your sentence is lost in a gasp and pained 'oomf' as you fall. Your hands try to catch your weight but between the pack on your back and your typical shit luck they do little to soften the blow. 

It stings everywhere, your knees, your calves, your arms and hands. Like your entire body was dragged along the trail until every inch of exposed skin was kissed by a stone.

Bucky's rushing up to you right away, shoving his bag off his shoulder and sliding onto the ground beside your head. 

You can hear a him chuckle, low and good humored. You know he doesn't mean to laugh at you, well he does but not that like that. Still, it stings, more than any scrape. 

"I know you like dirt, but you don't have to kiss it sweetheart." He jokes.

Your eyes start to sting too, tears burning at the corners. You stay staring at the ground, hands screaming as you brace yourself on them. 

Don't look up, don't look up. Don't let him see. You're fine it was stupid you're fine. You're normal-

"Oh shit wait-" Bucky's voice softens, his hand coming up to cup your cheek and turn it toward him. "Hey, hey, hey, you're okay." He coos, thumb rolling over your cheek.

Any humor is gone from his face, fully replaced with worry. It's almost worse.

Fuck.

The tears spill, first one then two. Building until you're close to sobs. 

Then the blubbering comes, "I'm sorry-" you gasp, sitting up and doing your best to push him away. "This is stupid I'm sorry." 

The words are wet and small, pathetic like this stupid plant and your stupid flowers and you, and God, why can't you just take a joke? Why is your skin so paper fucking thin?

"Hey quit that." Bucky whispers, forcing himself close once again. "Nothing here is stupid, but my bad joke. Okay?" 

His hands are back on your face, warm and big enough to dwarf your entire cheek. "I'm sorry." You whisper again, hiccuping as you lean into his touch. 

"Who made you think you need to apologize all the time?" Bucky asks, "Did nothin' wrong sweetheart."

Slowly, things level out, your breathing evens and the tears finally start to slow. Bucky doesn't move an inch, his eyes locked on yours as he wipes the tears from your cheeks until they finally stop.

"You okay?" Bucky asks.

You nod, not trusting your voice. 

He pulls his hands back from your face, taking your wrists instead and using them to turn your hands up so he can see.

"Got yourself good." He says, gently scraping the stuck rocks off of your palm. They're a mess, bloodied and covered in dirt. "Need to clean these." 

The whimper that escapes is unconscious, a half baked protest that only makes embarrassment curl harder in your chest. 

"I know." Bucky says sympathetically. "I have stuff in my bag." Hes already reaching behind him, grabbing the strap of his pack when a clap of thunder echoes. 

It's barely a warning, hardly enough time for your look up in surprise when suddenly the sky opens. 

At first it's hardly a drizzle, one or two drops landing on your nose. 

Then it's a downpour. Sudden and violent as it washes over you. You're soaked in an instant, clothes wet through to the bone.

Bucky's back to cursing, any softness replaced with stony determination. One second he's pulling his bag over his shoulder and the next he's sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other under your back. 

You can't even hear your surprised yelp over the rain, the rapid putter-patter of the drops cancelling out anything that might've escaped when Bucky suddenly stands. 

Understandably, you jolt against him, arms wrapping around his neck as you fight to hold on. 

You're too disoriented to notice much of anything, between the rain, the cuts, and the feeling of Bucky's arms around you, nothing makes sense. 

There's movement, the rise and fall of a jog. You can almost make out some of the words Bucky's trying to yell to you. Something about being right, and did he just say cave?

Calling it a cave was being generous. 

Alcove is more appropriate, just enough room for you and Bucky to escape the rain. 

Not enough room for you to sit without touching, your legs all but in his lap as your curl against the wall. 

You're both breathing heavy, a come down from the adrenaline as your bodies try to catch up to every sensation. 

Bucky's staring outside, looking at the rain with furrowed brows, as if it's offended him someone by daring to fall. 

"How did you know?" You ask, turning yourself further in towards him. 

Bucky shrugs, "My shoulder," his hand comes up to touch it, kneading over the exposed scar as he speaks. "It aches when it's gonna rain." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah it's like my nerves can tell? I don't know it's weird, but it's never wrong." 

You hum, his gaze is still towards the outside so you let yours fall on him. He looks unreal this close, high definition Bucky. 

You wonder if you stared long enough could you could his stubble? It's short, neatly trimmed. As if he just did it this morning, fresh edges under his jaw. 

Unthinking you reach out and touch it. With your chest already pressed into his shoulder, what do you have to lose? 

Bucky startles at first, jumping under your touch before immediately relaxing. Well, at least as much as you can imagine a man like him does relax. 

Slowly you trace your thumb over it, dragging it across the seam of where hair meets skin. Even after the rain you can smell his after shave, deep and musky. He must have just don't it this morning. How early did he have to wake up to shave? Why was it so important for a hike?

"We didn't have to do this today." You offer, even though it's useless now. 

"What-" Bucky's already protesting, turning his head to look at you fully. Your hand stops, landing just next to his Adam's apple and holding there. 

"If I'd know you were hurting, I mean we could have waited." 

Bucky shakes his head. "No I- I wanted to. I was," his throat bobs, you have to fight the urge to shiver at the way it feels under your fingers. "I was looking forward to it."

You can't help but giggle. "You were excited to hike?" 

It's dim in your little shelter, but even with the lack of light you can watch Bucky's cheeks turn just a little pink. 

"With you." 

Your pulse stutters, and for just a moment the fact closeness hits you. Bucky Barnes pressed against you. Bucky Barnes' pulse beneath your fingers. Bucky Barnes gritting his teeth through shoulder pain to spend time with you.

Those last two words echo, bouncing around your brain as if delighted with themselves. 

With you. With you. With you.

It's your turn to jump when Bucky touches you, jolting you out of your spiral when hooks a finger under your chin and lifts it up. 

"Got yourself good." 

His thumb rubs over what must be a cut, another spot where a stone was unlucky enough to catch you. 

You try to swallow around your nerves, around the way every feeling you've buried seems to rise up the back of your throat. 

"I did?" You manage to whisper.

Bucky nods, eyes fixed on the spot. 

"They're gonna wrap me in bubble wrap at this rate." You try to joke, choking on the tension instead. 

"No." Bucky shakes his head, eyes darting up to look at yours for just a moment before dropping. This time not as far down as your chin. "I'll just catch you next time."

"Yeah?" 

He nods and you can feel the weight of his gaze on your lips.

"What if I fall in town?" 

"I'll be there." His hand shifts, palm moving until it's holding your cheek again. 

"On the beach."

"Yup." His thumb curves lower this time, the pad of it at the edge of your lips. 

"In the mines?"

"Why are you in the mines?" His gaze falters, back to your eyes for a second. 

"There are mushrooms down there that don't grow anywhere else. They're purple and I think they might have some health benefits like improved energy levels and some vitamin gaps-"

"Anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?" Bucky interrupts.

You nod, embarrassed smile moving his thumb as your lips curve. "All the time actually, a lot of people think I better shut up before it gets me in trouble." 

"Don't you dare." Bucky's voice has gone the lowest you think you've ever heard it, raspy and almost unfamiliar. 

"Get in trouble?" 

"Shut up." Bucky clarifies, he's so close now you can feel his nose against your own. His eyes are half lidded, barely open enough for you to make out his blown pupils. "Love hearin' you talk." 

It's something no one's ever said to you before, something you had honestly figured wasn't possible. Someone who savors your voice not the absence of it. 

Like Eve, the one thing you never knew you wanted has been served to you on a silver platter, how could you not bite the apple? 

Bucky's lips are chapped, rough against yours the way your expected them to be. Torn skin catches against yours, making your tongue roll over them to soothe, as if applying a balm. 

Bucky's hands are everywhere now, as if your kiss gave him permission he had been waiting for. First it's your face, both cheeks held in his large palms. Quickly it escalates, one dropping to your throat to mirror your own touch. Meanwhile the other falls to your waist, grabbing at the soft flesh there in a half-grope half-pull.

One second you're resting on cave floor the next you're being positioned over Bucky's thighs, hips angles until finally you're encouraged to sit. A pat on your hip telling you to lower your weight. 

You drop right over Bucky's thighs, the very tops where his stomach pudges out just a little over his belt and his tank top has been pulled down. 

Bucky doesn't let down until he's satisfied he has your full weight, letting out the most delicious groan against your lips as you settle. 

"Stupid." He whispers, spitting the word against your lips as if tastes bad. "Sweetheart the only stupid one is me for not doing this sooner."

This time it's your turn to push, your lips harder into his, your chest as tight as possible against him. Your hands finally roam, curving over the detailed path of his body. The rough scar on his shoulder, gentle and slow. Then the slope between his pecs, dragging down hard enough for the tip of your nail to draw a red line. Finally over his ribs, where your fingers slot between each divot. 

It's as if the flood gates have been opened, every word you've agonized over, each action you second guessed disappears and is replaced with white hot want. Molten lava in your belly that you never even knew you possessed. 

Bucky gasps into your mouth, opening further into your assault. 

"Wanna make a map of every spot that makes you sound like that and memorize it." You whisper into his lips. 

Bucky nods fervently against you, using his hands to drag you over his crotch, pressing the hard line of bulge to your tingling cunt.

"Whatever you want." He offers, "Study me, dissect me, yell at me about how I'm planting the flowers wrong I don't care." He drags you over him again, swallowing the whimper that bubbles from your lips at the sound. "I'll donate my body to science."

Your brain is slowly falling apart, melting and dripping out of your ears for sure. The rain explodes outside, its downfall turning deafening as the kiss deepens, as if its trying to match your intensity.

Bucky kisses you like it's an attack and a thank you all in the same breath. something between worship and hunger. 

Your body feels the most alive it's ever been, for the first time years its as if you're actually in the moment instead of watching it from the outside.

Thunder roars again outside. This time less like a roar and more like the clicking of pieces sliding into place.

It's not until your lungs start to burn that you pull away, lips bruised and kiss bitten. Your chin sore from where the cut caught on stubble. Your body floaty where it rests in Bucky's lap.

The only thing that matches what you feel is the smile playing on Bucky's lips, a subtle curve just sharp enough to make your pulse stutter.

Finally, the rain stops. Tempering off completely within a minute of the last thunderclap.

When you come out of the cave, this time hand in hand, a warm breeze washes over you. Like praise from the life surrounding you.

You can only imagine their glee when Bucky drags you inside his house later, tripping over the stairs in excitement. 

There are a few simple reasons you like Bucky. 

He likes you for one, that's a pretty good one. If his mumbles when he's balls deep inside you and half drunk on pleasure are to believed, he actually loves you. 

He's quiet, but never the kind that makes you feel judged. He's quiet like the plants, always listening, and always ready to offer you the best solution he can find. 

He's weird, you might even think he's worse than you are. He's read lord of the rings three times and still refuses to watch the movie. He lights up when you suggest growing plums. Walks into town holding your hand and when people ask if you're dating he just shakes his head. "No," he says, completely straight faced, "I'm being studied." 

thank you so much for reading!!!!! I love youuuuuuu!!!

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Drip.

Drip. Drip.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Drip.

The tears of angels, sorrowful in the heavens, did nothing to soothe his soul, as yet another day of work drained on. The wind howls past him as he drags yet another breath from his cigarette. Savouring the taste, he slowly exhales into the wind’s mournful howls, before flicking it away. He runs a hand through his hair, attempting to ease the tension, or stress stuck up there. It briefly dissipates, melting away with the pitter pattering all around him. Yet when he remembers what those idiots had just done, he finds himself raising the bat once more.

THWACK!

Birds scatter, quickly escaping the scene, and a lonely crow finds itself in the middle of the mess, sorrowfully cawing out in misery. Thick, sangria liquid pooled over rough gravel, hidden from the hustle and bustle of the city via an alleyway. He looked down at the crow, flailing about below him. He pulled back the bat, lowered by his side, coated in the very same liquid, each crack stained by pain and suffering. He hands it over to another, pulling off his gloves and handing them over too, sighing and tutting as he does,

“I’m gonna be fuckin’ late because of these thick idiots. Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, Steve, finish up f’me, yeah? Gotta fuckin’ meet Stark, too.”

He almost turns and leaves, but spins back on his heel one last time,

“You better fuckin’ think twice next time y’even consider stealin’, got that? Fuckin’ idiots, c’mon Sam.”

And then he turns to leave, with Sam holding his umbrella above him. After all, Bucky Barnes always got the last word, no matter what.

Bucky Barnes. The man, the myth, the legend. Rose through the ranks as an enforcer, only to take over the family business once his father passed away. Known, revered and feared, Bucky Barnes was cruel, harsh and unrelenting. Tales of his cruelty, of his punishments travelled through the streets of New York, establishing himself as the somewhat unofficial King of New York. A.K.A., someone not to be fucked with.

So you can imagine just how angry Mr. Barnes is, when he’s whisked away from his regular business, to deal with some absolute idiots, who had the bright-fuckin’-idea to fuckin’ steal from him. Fuckin’ pricks, the lot of ‘em.

He continues muttering and grumbling the entire way to the car, as he slips his rings back on. A sweet, modified pitch black Mustang, Boss 429, 1970. In the rain, each droplet rolls off smoothly, from the hood to the ground, pooling down into the sewer grates. Moody, low headlights barely announce themselves. The car itself, just like Bucky Barnes, is very much an imposing force of nature. The driver waits patiently for his acknowledgement - you didn’t just do things around Bucky Barnes. No, you waited patiently, for his instruction. He turns back to Sam, running a hand back through his hair again, eyebrows furrowing in anger once more,

“I mean really, what fuckin’ idiots, huh? What family were they, Wilson’s? He’s a wack-ass piece a’ shit anyway, but he wouldn’t go this fuckin’ far.”

Sam sighed, pinching his own nose before he continued. No matter how he answered - whether he told Bucky or not - he’d be mad. Better tell him, rather than wait for him to find out, huh?

“Nah, not Wade’s. These were.. that new one, ya know?”

“Fuckin’ Rumlow’s? That fuckin’ bitch. Not even three months in this city, huh?”

“...”

For a moment, they stood quiet, in the hellish downpour. Bucky huffed, leaning against the car. Sam continued to stand as he was, umbrella covering the two of them as Bucky continued his quiet grumblings. Sure, people walked past - but didn’t stop. One quick glare from either man was more than enough to halt questions. Eventually enough, Bucky stood back up, rolling his shoulder back into place as he smoothed down his suit.

“Better fuckin’ hope Stark’ll listen. Uppity bitch.”

He finally acknowledged the driver, allowing him to open the door and let the two of them in. Bucky first, as he relaxed into his seat, and Sam second sat opposite. Sam pours the two of them a dram of whiskey each, and the car roars to life, reversing out smoothly into the dark, moody streets of seedy New York. The very same moody low lights now announce the King’s own arrival, as the driver drives, ensuring the journey is as smooth as possible. One can only imagine what would happen if the driver hit a pothole, and James Buchanan Barnes threw whiskey on his suit. No, no, one shudders at even the thought of such a situation occurring.

By the time the two have finished strategising and conversing over the potential issues and situations that could occur in the next hour or so, the car slows down to a smooth stop, parked neatly into a parking bay. The driver steps out, waiting patiently for both men to finish their conversation and give him the signal. Inside, though,

“Yeah, I got that stone ya wanted. Why you’d go to lengths for a fuckin’ stone, is beyond me, boss. But here, give it a once over, yeah?”

Sam hands over a smooth velvet case. Bucky looks up at him, before slowly opening the box. Inside, a polished, perfectly cut, smooth 143 carat Ceylon Sapphire, straight from Sri Lanka, won in an auction. Bucky would’ve gone himself, but business kept him busy, forcing him to send Sam, naturally.

He carefully held the stone in his hands. How was it, that something so pure, beautiful and perfect sat so sweetly in the palm of his hands? His hands, stained with blood, pain and anguish, wrapped round the stone. He held it up to the car’s light, taking the time to appreciate each and every glimmering line, cut and shine, before carefully placing it back in the box. He throws an appreciative nod in Sam’s direction, before tucking the box away,

“Business calls, Sam. Let’s move.”

Sam raps his knuckles against the window, once, twice and thrice, before the driver opens the door, waiting. Sam steps out first, umbrella already opening as Bucky makes his way out. Bucky steps out slowly, adjusting his suit, tie and cuffs as he walks away from the car, leaving the driver to take care.

The rain hadn’t stopped.

In fact, it was almost like the rain had worsened, attempting to wash Bucky Barnes free of sin.

The umbrella acted as a shade, yes, but it also hid Bucky Barnes. God’s light didn’t shine in his corner of the world. Not here, not there, not anywhere. The bright neon sign of the restaurant shone bright tonight, the rain blooming round it,

“Chateau Barnes”

Sam stepped forward, opening the door for him. Bucky wiped his shoes along the small mat, before stepping inside. Warm, cozy, but still expensive enough to eat at your wallet. Not your wallet being spent though, is it? His eyes flit round, looking for the familiar goatee-sporting man.

And there he is, leaning back in a booth, waiting. Once the two’s eyes meet, the atmosphere suddenly shifts around them. Electricity, sharp and stinging, in the air as Bucky walks over, Sam falling in step with him.

“Barnes.”

“Stark.”

“And you brought Wilson, hmm?”

“Well. You brought Banner. Only fair I bring one of my own, hmm?”

“Tou-fuckin-che.”

The two sit down, eyes barely skimming over the menu. A waitress saunters over, taking their drink orders. An old fashioned for both Sam and Tony, a Manhattan for Bruce and a boulevardier for Bucky.

“And do you know what you’d like for food, or should I come back after drinks?”

The four exchange glances, before rattling off their usual orders. She walks away, orders in hand.

“Well. Now that food’s sorted, business?”

“Slow down, Stark. Let a man get his drink, before y’start throwin’ shit at me.”

“Alright, alright. Drinks first. So, horrible weather, hmm?”

“Tell me ‘bout it.”

Though from his tone, it is explicitly, undeniably clear, that he wants him to do anything but that. Stark holds his ability to.. irritate, or push buttons in high regard, though, and ignores Bucky’s dry, barely responsive tone.

“Fuckin’ downpour out there, pissin’ itself more than a grievin’ mother”

“Jesus Christ, Stark? Ever heard of a normal fuckin’ sentence? Fuckin’ hell… Just. Nothin’ ‘til we’ve got drinks, yeah? Fuck me..”

Tony only laughs in response, leaning back as the waitress returns, drinks in hand. She hands each drink over, and Bucky doesn’t miss the weird look she gives him. Not a bad look, more a ‘I’ve-seen-you-somewhere-haven’t-I’ look. Nothing out of the ordinary for him. Finally, he gets a chance to savour his drink. Sweeter than his usual drink, for sure, but still hitting each taste bud, as he swirls it round his mouth, savouring the taste. All four men take a minute to appreciate their drinks, before Tony starts,

“Fuckin’ Rumlow. Y’seen his bastards yet? Fuckin’ dickwads, lot of ‘em. Shit, Barnes. We gotta show ‘em who owns-”

“Yeah. One thing at a time, Stark. Rumlow’s bitches first, then we’ll sort everythin’ else, yeah?”

“Now, now Barnes. Y’not scared I want your area, hmm?”

His eyebrows furrowed again, his eyes darkening. Sam inhales and exhales deeply, beside him, almost as a reminder of where he is. A moment passes before he relaxes again, drinking his drink and leaning back too.

“My part? Stark… don’t forget I still collect ya debt. Don’t forget who fuckin’ runs this shit, hmm? Still, Rumlow’s a fuckin’ problem. And I’m willin’ to give some o’my men to help… sort him out, hmm?”

Tony grumbles slightly into his drink, about to retort when the waitress returns, with four very different plates. One for each man and his tastes. Tony gets a fancy steak and mash, and Sam gets a steak and chips. Bruce ordered a plate of truffle-topped tagliatelle, and Bucky receives a ravioli, filled with only the best lobster. The waitress pauses before leaving, nodding in Bucky’s direction,

“Chef sends his regards.”

He nods back, after taking a moment to appreciate the plate in front of him,

“And send ours back, hmm?”

She nods, and walks away again, leaving the four of them to talk business over their meals. Each man takes their time to appreciate the high-end meals placed in front of them. The effort, attention to detail, exquisite-ness of it all is not left unappreciated, as they strategise and plan exactly how to handle Rumlow and his.. situation.

“...So, I’ll send a few a’my men. They’ll be more than capable, capiche? An’ before y’say - yeah, I fuckin’ know y’got this. But I gotta deal with it too, y’know?”

Bucky sighs, running a hand over his face, and Tony sits, quietly contemplating. Bruce leans over, whispering into his ear, provoking Sam to lean over and whisper too,

“...I got nothin’ t’say, jus’ wanna look like we’re strategisin’ an’ shit.”

Bucky nods back, attempting to hold back a smile, before making eye contact with Tony again.

“Okay, Barnes. Okay. But only because Rumlow’s a fuckin’ bitch of a problem, yeah?”

“Thanks for co-operatin’ - ‘preciate it, Stark.”

By the end of dinner, all four men pay for their meals, leaving a generous tip behind. The waitress comes by to pick up their dishes, and Bucky sends her back with a message,

“Compliments to our chef, hmm? Wonderful dinner, and wonderful drinks, as always.”

And with that, all four men depart off, to their separate cars. Sam and Bucky wait just long enough to see Tony and Bruce leave, before walking back to their car. Bucky resists the urge to light a cigarette, knowing he’d have to put it out sooner than he’d want. Instead, he brushes his hair back with his hand, shaking his head,

“Keep an eye on Stark, Sam. He’s got somethin’ planned. Don’ like it.”

Sam nods, and keeps the umbrella held, shielding Bucky from the Heavens.

“Fuckin’ Hell, the rain, huh? Can ya do somethin’ ‘bout the rain, miracle man? Can ya fuckin’ make it pretty f’me? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, all it fuckin’ does in this fuckin’ city is rain. I mean, really. Fuckin’ A, this stupid weather.”

Sam chuckles quietly, shaking his head. But he knows better than to respond. Bucky Barnes wasn’t the kinda man you casually joked with, nor was he a man to be taken lightly. They both stand around a while, the only noise being the pitter patter of rainfall, surrounding them. By now, the doom and gloom of dark grey clouds had disappeared, leaving behind a dark blue sky, almost rivalling the sweet sapphire in his pocket. Where the Moon should shine bright tonight, glowing and glittering amongst the blanket of stars, she had instead run off, chasing after the Sun, and his warmth, and glory. And left behind, in her place, was an empty void of blue, filled with drab clouds in between. Truly, the skies mourned her absence, with just how much they cried. He tutted, stamping away at an awkward piece of gravel under his shoe, before giving the signal back to the driver, who opened their doors once again. In they sat, leaning into the cool, grounding leather of the seats.

Only one last stop for the night.

There you were, sat in your dressing room, halfway through getting ready for the night. It’s a nice, comfortable room, draped with the finest silks and most extravagant lamps. You wear a long, somewhat scandalous, yet still classy, sanguine-red gown draped itself across your body, accentuated by a cheeky-high slit up your thigh. You adorned yourself with dazzling gemstones, set in gold, across your neck, arms, on your ears and a barely visible one round your right ankle.

Your make up was just about almost done for the night, with only some eyeliner and mascara left - which you were concentrating heavily on, pulling a face as you carefully lined your eyes. Your eyeshadow sparkled, in all the right places, and your blush bloomed just perfectly. Your lips were just soft enough, for the sweet, sweet songs of the night, and your hair was just tousled enough to be stage-worthy.

You slip on each ring, taking the time to appreciate how they looked on your hands, and to remember how each one got there. A small smile on your face, you move over to perfume.

Being a singer of your level, you had access to all the world's needs, riches and comforts, of course. It wasn't always like this, and you remember the days where you'd beg, day after day, for even one performance. But the Hotel Continental takes care of its own, and since joining, you've been kept well.

Yet you find yourself reaching for the very same perfume. From all those years ago. It didn't really matter up on stage, which perfume you wore. Only for you, and there's only one that you adore. An old bottle, name barely visible with how often you used it. And as always, it complemented your body oil, outfit and make up just perfectly. You spritz some on, before carefully placing it back down in your perfume cabinet.

The time. What time was it? You turn round to the clock behind you-

8:03 pm.

27 minutes. In 27 minutes, you'd be up on stage, as you would most nights, performing. In 27 minutes, you'd perhaps search the crowd for old familiar faces. In 27 minutes, it'd be just you, and the music. stage, and the music.

You finish getting ready, as Winston’s ‘25-minutes-left’ knock rattles on the door.

“Come in!”

He carefully opens the door, a cup of chamomile tea in one hand, and a warm hug from the other. The door shuts softly as he walks over, setting the cup down on your table. He opens his arms wide, and you immediately accept the warm hug. Winston’s always been so sweet, just like a father to you - your saving grace in the city that never sleeps. He gently pats your back, before pulling away, a hand softly smoothing your hair,

“You ready? The stage awaits you again, my dear.”

You sip your tea slowly, swirling the taste round in your mouth, nodding back,

“Yeah. Just.. the usual jitters, you know?”

“Really? All these years, and you still get nervous?”

He tutted and chuckled, earning a smile from you. He’s always been good to you, both him and the hotel. The Hotel Continental was a luxurious place, filled with everything the rich man needed. A grand lobby, an extravagant lounge, perfect room service - truly New York’s best of the best. Unbeknownst to most attendees, though, the Hotel Continental hid its own secrets, too.

For starters, any and all mob business was to be abandoned on the steps of the Continental. There is to be no business conducted inside, nor blood to be shed. After all, not the Continental was a safe haven for many a character, but the Continental had its own reputation to hold - the risk was too high.

Second, the Continental had its own.. connections to New York’s underground. Common knowledge, amongst those involved. But this, much like the first point, was never to be exposed. Exposing the Continental in such a manner would result in excommunication, from the High Table. And who would risk excommunication, in such a world?

Third, was the hotel’s own speakeasy. Not easily accessible, mind you, but the Hidden Note was well known, at least amongst New York’s worst. And within the Hidden Note, was the Continental’s final secret.

You.

New York’s best jazz singer, sought after by everyone and anyone, hidden away in a speakeasy.

You inhale deep and exhale fast, smoothing down the wrinkles on your dress, a well-disguised stress-managing mechanism,

“Yeah. All these years, and the nerves still get me, huh? It’ll be okay when we’re out there, though.”

It always is.

“Speaking of out there, I hear a certain.. someone has been.. attending more recently, hmm? You know anything about that?”

He shoots you a knowing glance as you busy yourself with switching your earrings, favouring the drops over the smaller studs,

“I have no idea who you’re on about, Winston! Besides, it’s all good for business, hmm?”

You wink back, before checking the time. How have 15 minutes passed so soon?

“Is that so, hmm? So a certain.. blue-eyed man hasn’t been frequenting our hotel, has he?”

Winston makes direct eye contact with your reflection in the mirror, and suddenly, it’s very hot in here. He shakes his head, placing an affectionate hand on your shoulder,

“Be careful, little dove, hmm? That’s all.”

You look back up at the clock, adorned with sweet cherubs, playing the lute and the harp, singing their sweet songs all up the marbled pillar, round the clock face itself - time always passed quicker before performances.

“Now, now. Don’t get all panicky on me - I need you at your best for tonight, hmm?”

Sighing, you take a moment to centre yourself, breathing in and out, closing your eyes. Any and all thoughts leave your brain as you focus on the task at hand: tonight’s performance. Opening your eyes again, you find Winston’s hand outstretched towards you,

“You’ll be alright. Shall we?”

You nod back in the mirror’s reflection, turning and taking his hand as he (the very same as he does every night you perform) leads you through the back, helping you sort out last minute touches and such. It’s less of a necessity, and more of a pre-show ritual, at this point. He offers you whiskey, and you refuse. He knows you’ll refuse, each time, but he also knows you need it to be the exact same, every night. He knows, and ensures your pre-show ritual continues as smoothly (or chaotically, depending on how you view it) as it did, the very first time you performed.

“Right. 3 minutes left now. It’s all you, hmm?”

“Gotcha. Same as always, Winston.”

And with that, Winston leaves you, presumably to go sit with the highest of the highest out in the audience. Your audience. Here, waiting just for you. Stood behind the curtain, you make your way up on stage, finally smoothing down your dress one last time. You crack your knuckles, adjust your mic and mentally prepare for the night to begin. You can hear Winston out there, introducing you,

“And now, for New York’s best kept secret, our very own Siren of The Night, here at The Hotel Continental’s own, Hidden Note!”

Winston walks off the front of the stage, as the curtain slowly parts, revealing you, and the musicians behind you. A warm light hits you, and you smile, your jewels dazzling round, bouncing off the walls. A round of applause fills the room, as all eyes land on you. You take a minute to look around the room, seeing newer faces (is that the CEO of that one really big record label? Strange.. he looks awfully familiar), and old ones too.

But there’s only ever one pair of eyes you seek out.

And there they are, fixated on you.

You close your eyes, as the band behind you starts to play. Old hits, and some new ones too, smoothly playing behind you. You sway with each note, and by the time you begin singing, the audience is entirely enchanted, by the sweet notes dancing around them. Your voice, smoother than honey, builds a sweet tension, with each note climbing above the other. And when it snaps, all eyes are on you.

Each song holds emotion, intensity and passion, as you put in your all into every note. Small movements across the stage become dramatic flairs, here and there, and your nerves easily dissipate into a raw confidence. Your dress billows out, flowy and following each and every movement. Even the light follows you round the stage, as each movement casts a different pattern across the walls of the room.

The thrill of the performance only pushes you, as you reach the very climax of your performance, with a note that holds each and every audience-members eyes and attention. It’s long, powerful and intense, and only speaks to just how strong a singer you are.

Eventually, you lower your arms, finishing your performance the same as always, with a sweet bow, smile and a wave. You scan the crowd again, searching for those familiar cloudy blue eyes, once more.

They’re not there.

You collect yourself, smiling and waving once more, bowing with the band, before you head back off-stage, back into your dressing room, where you sit, quiet.

Thinking.

Meanwhile, Bucky Barnes was pissed. 

You see, he’d been sat, nicely, calmly, in his seat. Enjoying the performance. Winston, owner of the Hotel Continental, sat with him, Sam, and some other fucking chump. But he’d been calm. For the sake of the rules, at the very least. And it’d started out fine. He made the regular small talk he needed to. Winston talked to him about regular, normal things. The weather, how it manages to piss it down, every, fucking, day. How business was going, how family was. Winston was like that. Good, kind. Normal. He is the godfather of the underworld here for a reason, after all. Bucky (entirely unwillingly) had found out the idiot’s name was Barry. Who the fuck is Barry, anyway? Who the fuck cares? But he’d been nice, and calm, and normal anyway. Turns out, this was Barry’s first time here (again. Who the fuck cares?). Some rich-prick’s son-in-law, and he just had to see what the Hidden Note was hiding away, in its exclusive clutches.

And Winston? He knew Bucky. He knew Bucky, and he knew exactly how he’d handle a bitch like Barry. And Bucky knew exactly what Winston was doing, as the older gentleman looked back at him with a look that could only be conveyed as saying ‘Not-On-Continental-Property’. Sam stifled a small laugh behind a cough, and Bucky rolled his eyes to the side, not wanting to interrupt the performance.

So when Barry, the bitch, piped up with a,

“I’ve heard better than this fuckin’ shit! I mean c’mon? The fuck is this?”

Bucky Barnes was beyond pissed.

And when Winston looked over with a warning glance, once more in his direction, all he could do is grit his teeth and nod (and pray that somehow, somewhere, Barry, the bitch, would leave. Let him get his hands on him. Somehow.), unwilling to cause a scene in Winston’s kind hospitality.

So when Barry (the Bitch) made a huge fuss, specifically toward’s the end of your performance, of needing a smoke, Bucky Barnes was more than happy to oblige. Especially, when Winston offered over one of his own cigars for him. Picture, if you will, the image of bright, neon green lights, blinking around in his brain.

Bucky leads him outside, into an alley just behind the hotel. Explicitly not Continental property. On his way out though, he sneaks a glance at you. At how gorgeously each and every light shines off you. At how you, and only you, shine brighter than any diamond, ruby and sapphire. At how you smoothly move round the stage, your sweet voice stunning and fascinating everyone, and everything that dared even breathe in a presence as angelic as yours, and grumbles about missing it under his breath,

“Yeah. This fuckin’ way.”

Taking twists and turns, past the Continental’s.. shadier business, (including a room of slightly dodgy.. accountants, operating an old switchboard) they finally make it outside. Sure, the hotel has its own little smoking room. But that’s hotel-owned property. Bucky Barnes can’t beat the shit out of Barry (the Bitch) on hotel-owned property. And Barry (the Bitch) has no fucking idea what’s about to happen.

Stepping outside, the rain has not stopped, not at all. It’s almost asking him to reconsider - is this really a good idea? But he cares not for what the heavens think. Nor the winds, as they scream in an attempt to warn the other man. And he most definitely could care less for the little birds in the air, cawing and crying as they fly past. In the madness of the rain, he finds himself getting angrier by the minute, only for the Bitch himself to start speaking too,

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, her fuckin’ voice droned on, huh? I mean, a guy comes all this fuckin’ way, for some good fuckin’ shit, only to sit through that?”

His eye twitches slightly as he briefly considers the gloves. But then, the sting of the rings won’t quite hit him the same, so he puts them away, and waits patiently for the idiot to turn around. It’s a sign, then, from the heavens themselves, or some devil, somewhere, that out of the corner of his eye, is a metal pipe.

A metal fuckin’ pipe.

It’s practically Christmas Day, as Bucky Barnes’ eyes light up!

Seriously, if you had seen him right here, right now, you’d presume he’d just won the fuckin’ lottery!

But no. A metal. Fuckin’. Pipe.

He holds the metal pip in his hands, feeling the rain trickle off, over his palms. Tossing it lightly, he feels its weight, completely ignoring whatever fuckshit Barry (the Bitch) had to say.

“-back in Gotha-”

THWACK!

He falls to the ground, blood quickly pooling round his head, mixing with the rain. Bucky drops the bat, grabbing his head in one hand, and winding up with a punch from the other. Each punch that connects is only accentuated by the tears of heavenly bodies, slapping the man’s bleeding face. Each ring connects, scrapes and pulls at his skin, as bloody bits dribble down. But Bucky sees not blood, nor does he see him. He sees rage, sheer, unadulterated rage, as he continues to punch wildly. A fire rages within him, as he unleashes a wild, flurry of blows upon this man. Each punch burns more and more, and the rain only worsens it, the sting of each punch sizzling with each harsh droplet, off like smoke and ash from a burning fire. 

Eventually though, Bucky stands back up. His own hands stained with the blood of an imbecile, the fire still rages, as he spits back at him, finally lighting up Winston’s cigar. The bright orange of the lit cigar lights up his face briefly, in the muddy, blue-grey rain. It’s a somewhat peaceful moment, in the hellish landscape of this godforsaken city.

He pauses to take a nice, long drag of the cigar, enjoying the flavour as he puffs out a shape into the rain. He watches as it floats out, before dispersing into the tears of Heaven itself, sighing as he did,

“You fuckin’ idiot. You fuuuuuuckin’, idiot! Y’come to the Hotel Cont’nental. The Ho-Tel-Fuckin’-Con-Tinen-Tal. Ya fuckin’ dog. Y’eat our food. Y’sit with us, like ya belong here. Ya fuckin’ don’t! And y’have the fuckin’ nerve to cuss her out? Fuckin’ dickbag. Let this be ya fuckin’ lesson, ya ragin’ sack a’shit!”

He kicks him, the final wisp of fire rushing through his foot as it connects with his face, and finishes off by spitting back at him again, as the other man mumbles and grumbles through a face full of blood.

Bucky tosses the old metal pipe into some bins, conveniently located to the very side of the door they left from. Now, the bins themselves were Continental property - but the rules never mentioned disposing of used tools.

He stood in the rain briefly, brushing his hair back once more before he walked back inside, leaving the fool outside. Someone would check him. Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Perhaps.

Then again - that’s not Bucky Fucking Barnes’ problem, is it?

Walking back through the shady corridors of the Hotel Continental, he pauses at the administrative office, producing a gold drachma from his pocket. Tossing it over the desk, he leans over, whispering quietly,

“I’m orderin’ a hit.”

The lady sat behind the desk barely looks up from her typewriter, puffing out a small cloud of smoke to the left,

“Name?”

“Brock Rumlow.”

She continues typing away, and he waits. He knows how this game works.

“Reward?”

“2.5. Mill.”

“Very well, Mr Barnes.”

He raps his knuckles on the desk, nodding and turning away. As he walks off, he can just about hear her turning to other employees, placing the “hit” on Rumlow. He pauses, turning back quickly,

“Actually - is he available? Wick. Family friend and all, you know how it is.”

She sighs, and nods, retyping up the instructions,

“AMEND: Hit to be offered to Mr Wick first. If not Mr Wick, then the High Table decides. Does that work for you, Mr Barnes?”

“Yes. Perfect, thank you.”

“Enjoy your stay, sir.”

Speaking of, he had one very important, final meeting to get to.

Let’s hope he wasn’t too late, hmm?

Back amongst the expensive, yet lonely, decor of your dressing room, you sat curled up on the mockingly large bed, teasing your unchosen solitude. The tea, that Winston had brought over earlier, remained half-drank, cold and dull.

And it wasn’t really long before a knock came by your door. But not the knock you had desperately waited for.

“Oh, little dove? It’s just me, thought I’d quickly come by, may I?”

Winston. Of all the times your dear godfather had to appear, now really wasn’t the best time, was it.

Not when you were busy sulking.

Still, you rise from your.. depressing form, and open the door ever so slightly. Outside, stands Godfather Winston, with a velvet pouch in one hand. He raises his eyebrows in concern, at your somewhat despondent state, and you sigh and conjure up a small smile for him. You notice now, he’s hidden a hand behind his back, and slowly raises it forward,

“Oh, a blueberry muffin! Ohhhh, that’s just what I needed tonight!”

“Still the same little dove, hmm? Well, I think this’ll be me for the night, hmm? You’ll be back in day after tomorrow - take the day for yourself.”

You take the muffin, gratefully, and wave him off. And now you’re left again, all alone, with a blueberry muffin and cold, chamomile tea. Slumping into a corner, you slowly chew through the muffin. It’s.. strangely comforting, and each bite warms your heart ever so slightly more.

So when a second knock comes at your door, the more familiar pattern of four, you find yourself mumbling a soft,

“Come in, if you like.”

He pushes the door open, and takes note of your smaller form, sat in a corner. Internally, he makes a face, and sighs. Ahhh, Bucky Barnes has really done it this time, hasn’t he?

He makes his way over, joining you in the corner. You turn your head (petty, huh?) away from him, huffing quietly. He exhales softly, before whispering,

“Hey, doll.”

It’s soft, sweet and reverent. Nothing like he was before. No, this wasn’t the Bucky Barnes the world knew. This was the sweet, gentle ‘James’, that only you knew. Your James. The side he reserved, only for you. He reaches out to your hand, and you frown. You know he can’t see it, but you also know he can feel it, through how you shift slightly. He tries again, his heart melting with just how unresponsive you are to him. And he knows exactly what caused it, too. It doesn’t matter why or what caused him to leave - he should’ve stayed, and waited.

But how does he explain, that he could not bear to sit through that idiot’s each and every stupid word? Especially, specifically when he spoke of you, in such a manner?

He gulps back his guilt, and reaches for your hand. This time, you feel you’ve been petty enough, and let him hold it. His rough, calloused hands run over your smooth, pretty ones. He pulls you in closer, his other hand reaching for your face, softly turning you in, towards him. You sigh, and press your forehead to his, letting him pull you by the waist now, closer in. As you do, he exhales a breath he didn’t even know he had held, shaky and vulnerable,

“Hey honey. Missed ya.”

His every word comes through mumbly and quiet. To anyone else, it might’ve sounded like shame, or fear, but you know this voice well. It’s reserved, just for you, his soft, sweet voice, dripping in your ears. You push your face forwards, your nose brushing past his. His lips meet your cheek, dropping down to your lips with a smile,

“Take it you missed me too, huh?”

You shuffle your body forwards again, and practically fall into his arms. He pulls you into his lap, properly this time, with your legs swung together over his left, and his arms supporting you up against him. He leans you away briefly, just enough to rake his eyes over you. The dress, hugging you tight and perfect, falls just short of exposing you. And matching red gloves tuck under the edges of your ‘off-the-shoulder’ sleeve, wrapping round your hands. Your dress flows out, like a smooth river of red, over his legs, and around you. He pulls you in again, pressing his lips up against your neck, and kissing up to your ear,

“I take you liked the dress? I know I do.”

You hum in response, and sigh as his lips slowly wander round your neck, pressing little marks here and there, like new jewellery,

“James..”

“Yes, dear?”

“Still mad, by the way”

You feel his eyebrows furrowing as he mulls over your words, sighing into the crook of your neck. He readjusts you, now straddling him, and slowly lowers you down, fixing your dress around you. His hand still supports you, as though you were fragile, and even the lightest touch could break you,

“Well. However will I make this up to you, hmm?”

You make a face, whining and pulling him closer. He chuckles, shuffling off his blazer, and pressing himself closer to you, unable to bear the thought of being separated from you. He inhales deep, memorising your scent once more.

“You still use that same perfume? Pretty girl.. I bought you so many others..”

“But that’s still the first one you bought, my love.”

You play with his hair, soft fingers dancing through his scalp as he tuts softly. Was he in your embrace, or you in his? Who knows? Your other hand trickles up and down his back, soothingly as he remains still, unmoving but for his slowed breathing.

If anyone were to see this sight - the most feared man, in all of New York, lying in the most sought after jazz singer’s arms, muttering sweet nothings into her neck? One can only imagine the scandal, the gossip, the floundering arms and legs!

But none of that mattered, at this moment. All that really mattered was Bucky, and you, tangled up in the low, warm light emanating round the room. The singular, vintage lamp (a 2-month anniversary gift, Bucky had insisted upon), working overtime as it provided the softest, most perfect light for this moment. He pulled back briefly, to appreciate you once more. Where once, the harsh stage-light had you shining, glittering and bright, now, the softer, warmer light radiated off you, softening your sweet gaze on him. 

He had truly no choice but to bask in your heavenly glow, a sweet angel, in his arms.

Which reminded him, of his hands. Still stained with the very same sanguine colour wrapped around your body, still reminding him of his sins. How was it, that something so pure, beautiful and perfect sat so sweetly in the palm of his hands? How was it, then, that you wanted him? All these years, you had been his, and only his. The Siren of The Night, yet the only one privy to your sweet voice was him, and him alone.

He leaned further back, and you whined again, begging him closer. He leaned forwards, only to press a sweet kiss to your forehead, before hooking his arms under you, lifting you up. You moan softly, only for his ears, and if someone were to stop, just outside the East side of the Hotel Continental, and look up to the third floor, perhaps they’d see just a glimmer of red, brushed up into a sweet, tender embrace, as the rain rejoiced, just outside the window.

And he slowly walks over to your bed, your soft, silken sheets awaiting the weight of two intertwined souls. Each step, accompanied with another sweet kiss, a nibble here and there, a sweetened gasp in the air. He lowers your body onto soft sheets, and slowly climbs over you, nuzzling his nose against yours, oh so lovingly.

Who would’ve thought James Buchanan Barnes was such a lover boy?

The harsh contrast between the thundering rain outside, cold and unforgiving, and the sweet warmth of inside is not lost to either of you, as he continues to trail his hands along your body, barely tickling your sides. You respond with sighs of content, and relax briefly, before lifting your head, making direct contact with his stormy blue eyes, littered with droplets of rain, hailing down into your own eyes. It seems he’s gotten your.. meaning, as he lifts himself upwards, hands trailing round the back of your dress, eagerly searching for the sweet strings of fate themself. And when his cool, cold hands touch your warm, soft back, you can’t help but gasp. He presses another kiss to your neck, in an attempt to soothe the suddenness of it all, and takes the time to pull each string out. Your dress begins to fall but he holds it up himself, leaning you back on your pillows.

He takes your right hand first, slowly slipping the glove off. He kisses each finger, before gently placing the glove on your bedside table. This was his ritual. He takes your left hand next, mirroring the right. He pauses on your ring finger, kissing the ring that had blessed your hand two years ago.

“My love, mine.”

“Just as you are mine, James.”

“Always.”

He sits back up, ushering you to lay down. Grabbing a pillow, he shuffles it under your hips, readjusting you the way he knows you like it. You wiggle your hips slightly, and his hand rests on your waist as he pulls himself over you, again.

Except, he doesn’t quite realise how close to your face he is, and only really acknowledges it when he finds himself staring back at your eyes,

“Oh. Hi, you.”

“Hi, you, too.”

“Horrible weather today, hmm, love?”

You can’t help but to giggle and push your head against his, lovingly. Always lovingly. How he finds a way to make you giggle and laugh, each and every time, you still have no clue. He uses the opportunity to lift you up, finally peeling the dress away from you. With each new inch revealed, Bucky’s eyes light up, as though he was unwrapping his gift on Christmas Day (Note to Self: Perhaps wrapping yourself up for him on Christmas might be a good present…). He presses his lips against your collarbone, before lowering himself further down your chest, across your stomach and finally resting his head just above your core.

You’ve laid back down, allowing yourself to become comfortable once more. And he’s fully removed the dress at this point, his hands circling patterns across your stomach. Just as you close your eyes, his sweet kisses lulling you to sleep, he nips at your hip, earning a shocked yelp and grasping of his hair from you,

“Sorry, my love.. couldn’t help it..”

You sigh, releasing his hair again. He lifts his head back up and frowns. You mirror his frown, tilting your head sideways,

“What’s wrong, Jamie?”

“...”

“James?”

“My love, you’re not… wait..”

He stands up, crossing the room with ease. You curl up, immediately missing the warmth of your oh, so sweet husband laying across you, and wait patiently. Whatever he had in mind would be worth it, after all. He unlatched your jewellery cabinet, searching through various drawers, organisers, draping necklaces over his fingers, anklets and bracelets and bangles gently held in his metal hand. He returns, not without relatching the cabinet, and begins with the bracelets and bangles.

Adorning you.

Adoring you.

Because at the core of it all, below everything, that was what James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes did.

Each bracelet and bangle gliding onto your wrists sweetly and smoothly. Each one accompanied by an adoring kiss, pressed into your wrist and sweet murmurs. Next, the necklaces. Each one, a differing length, layered across your chest. He loops each one round, and presses a kiss at the apex of each necklace, lowering down to your sternum. He clasps each one with care, brushing your hair away, ensuring it never traps in the intricate mechanisms.

And finally, your anklets. He lifts your right ankle, brushing his lips past the anklet he had gifted you, when the two of you started dating five years ago. A smile graces his face, as he lifts another, draping it over, and carefully clasping it, sealed with a kiss. He repeats this with your left ankle, before reaching over to kiss your lips once more,

“There. Pretty, gorgeous and ready f’me now, my love.”

He was always careful with you, and around you. Where he could care less how he spoke with quite literally, anyone else, he was always careful with you. Even in his words, he put effort to ensure you truly got the best of him, always. His hand drops across your face slowly, pulling you in for another sweet kiss.

And each sweet kiss is soft, gentle and loving. You can feel him holding back (though you know he won’t, not for much longer) as he gently guides your head into place, both of your lips moving with sweet harmonies. As he moves you back, into his lap, each piece of jewellery now adorning your form rhymes and jingles. Yet he never pulls away from the kiss, only pushing deeper.

His tongue brushes your lips. Now, if you told anyone that had happened, naturally they’d have seen this as his need for you. A level of possessiveness over you, which was only to be expected from a mob boss. But you know better, as his tongue gently pushes over your lips, he begs. He begs to be let in. And you part your lips, ever so slightly, in time with his. Just enough for him to slip in.

Anyone else would expect a horrible battle for dominance, greed and lust.

Instead, he slowly explores your mouth, inhaling and exhaling through his nose as he does. His tongue softly travels over each tooth, before kissing the roof of your mouth as he pulls back. The sweet string of honey, dripping from either of your lips as he doesn’t dare to breathe in your angelic presence, dribbles down, leaving a sweet trail for him, across your chest. His tongue immediately darts down, refusing to even let a single drop go to waste. He slowly drags his tongue back up, past each necklace, over your neck, and leaving one chaste kiss on your lips.

“Perfect. My sweet, perfect angel. My everything, and anything.”

You hum in response and he moves backwards. You know what’s next, lying down in preparation. He pulls your knees up in preparation, nuzzling your inner left thigh with a sweet kiss. He presses another kiss to your lacy, red panties, matched to your dress. He pauses, quickly removing his rings and tucking them in your bedside drawer. He returns, and drags his finger along your wet core,

“Look at you, wet and ready, all f’me?”

“Always you, my love, always you..”

He hooks a finger under the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down and off. Placing them with your discarded gloves, he slowly licks a sweet stripe up, pausing at your sweet spot, and circles it with his tongue. Out of sheer need, hunger and want, your back arches, and you throw your head back, mouth agape. Each movement he makes causes more and more heat to pool in your core.

Bucky seizes the opportunity, plunging his tongue between your folds. Instinctively, your thighs threaten to shut round him, trap him and hold him there. But his arms hold either thigh pinned down, forcing you to feel each and every stroke as Bucky absolutely devours you, as a man starved, hungry and needy. Each stroke accompanied with your sweet, sweet notes, harmoniously bouncing off the walls of the room. He quickens his pace, here and there, and slows as you come closer and closer, teasing you, pushing you. You whine and make a face, and he complies, quickening once more.

“B-Buck… Jamie…. M'close!!"

He responds with a sweet hum, which only serves to push you over the edge. The metaphorical spring in your core coils tighter and tighter until it snaps, and you buck upwards. He continues to hold you down, his tongue still darting round your folds. Eventually, he lets go of your thighs (finally), and you immediately wrap round his head, as he continues on, through your release. 

There’s a sudden revelation you have, as you work on your comedown, of the situation you’re in. The idea of Bucky Barnes, mob boss, between your thighs. You absent mindedly fiddle with your wedding ring, your grasp on the soft sheets slowly loosening. Outside, the rain continues pelting down with a sense of vengeance, disguising your sweet sins from the horrors of the world surrounding you. It’s bittersweet, how two individuals tangled in the grimy, filthy underworld find themselves sweetly, honestly and truly in love with each other.

It’s almost poetic.

And when he’s done, and had his fill, he taps your thigh, snapping you out of your lost trance, and prompting you to finally set him free. As you do, a sorrowful emptiness in your core mourns his loss as he pulls back, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You drink in the sight, of Bucky Barnes, beard, mouth and face covered in your sweetened honey. You sigh, the sound sweetly ringing in his ears, and his hand finds your face once more, slowly stroking your cheek.

For a brief moment, the two of you remain like this, soft and sweet, with the only sounds being the rain, still thundering outside.

He pulls you forward and kisses your lips sweetly, and your tongue pushes through his lips, exploring his mouth, this time. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and find yourself moaning at the taste, which is only followed by his own sweet moans, tugging on your tongue.

As he pulls away, his lips lower down to your chest, wrapping round one nipple and pulling, twisting, sucking and loving, teasingly. You whine and shake your head, softly calling out his name as his metal hand reaches up for your other one, playing around in his hand. The cool touch against your warm, soft skin only excites you more and more, and he switches over, attentive to your every need. His other hand wraps behind you, pulling you closer to him as he takes care of you.

And when he’s done, he follows the trail of stones up your chest, kissing the middle of each and every necklace again. He pauses at your neck, nibbling at where it curves, and becomes your shoulder. You attempt to softly push him back, and he shakes his head, tightening his hold on you. Tight as his grip may be, he never hurt, nor harmed you. He could never imagine causing pain to you, let alone actually doing it,

“Sweet girl, what’re you doin’?”

“Jus’ wanna take care of you too, y’know?”

“No, no, I’m makin’ it up to ya. C’mere, we’re celebratin’ early this year..”

“Bucky! There’s still.. time.. anniversary’s tomorrow!”

“Mhm, and? What’s wrong with celebratin’ early, hmm? Or d’ya not wanna..?”

You shake your head, and he finally starts to strip, just for you. Shirt and tie first, and he maintains full eye contact with you the entire way. He even pauses to let you trail your hands across his torso, up his chest, teasing his nipples gently. His belt next, clanking onto the ground beside your bed, slacks joining it. And finally, you reach forward, tracing his outline through his briefs. He attempts to stifle back a groan, only for your perfectly acrylic nails to begin pulling them down - releasing a somewhat needy noise from the back of his throat.

You giggle, as he kicks off his briefs, and he pulls one of your legs over his, around his back. You follow along with your other leg, wrapping round his back and locking him in place - not that he’d want anything different. 

He lowers you back, allowing you to get comfortable again, as he lines himself up, holding you by the waist. He rubs small circles into your waist, slowly pushing in, past your tight walls, as he keeps eye contact with you, the entire time. With each passing inch, he kisses your neck, chest, your ear, your cheek, your other cheek and finally, as he bottoms out, briefly whimpering as he leans in to kiss your lips, holding you, suppressing sweet moans with his tongue. He pulls away again, slowly pushing in, and then out, your walls always ready for him. You feel every push and pull past your folds, and he lowers a hand to your sweet nub, rubbing soft circles. You whine, and moan, and arch your back, and each time he pushes in, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

Love.

That’s what this was.

Pure, unadulterated, sheer love.

He quickens his pace, his thick girth being just perfect to satiate your each and every needy whine, and your perfect nails dig into his back, leaving loving marks across his skin. His own fingers dig into your waist slightly, with enough strength to bruise. The feeling has you even more excited, heat only increasing as his rough fingers bruise your hips.

And the gentle, amber light bounces off each item of jewellery, still adorning you, bouncing round the room with a soft, warm glow. Each movement made causes a sweet jingle of noise, matched by your own sweet moans, his gentle groans and the constant downpour outside. It’s lewd, sweet and soft, all at the same time, and it’s everything you’ve missed.

As you both approach your climax, he angles himself just right, hitting each and every angle just perfectly. He pulls your hips further down, and you find yourself a sweet, babbling mess. He continues through your sweet release, as your hands and legs weaken slightly, and holds you up, flush to his body as he joins you, ropes and loads filling your insides. And even when he’s done, he pushes down with his hand on your belly, feeling exactly where you wrapped round him,

“There we are, pretty girl. Feel that? Feels good, hmm?”

In your somewhat sweet, yet fucked out state, all you can offer in response is a soft hum. He presses his forehead against yours, grounding you as you both even your breathing once more. Eventually enough, he attempts to pull out, and you whine again, pulling your arms around the back of his head.

“Stay..? Gotta make it stick… lover boy..”

He sighs happily, unable to ever deny his sweet girl, and remains just a little longer. Both of your hands roll up and down each other’s bodies, and before long, he’s switching positions. He pulls out softly, and you whine in his ear as he moves you both around,

“Shhh, pretty girl, y’wanna make it stick? Only one way, baby..”

-manhandling you sweetly, into his arms. He stands up, with you, sitting back on the floor, in front of your long, floor length mirror. He’s behind you, now, with you in his lap, your legs swung over his left arm. The air hits your folds, now exposed to the air, and you gasp softly as he tilts back you head, kissing you sweetly. Once again, his hand finds your folds, playing around as he lifts you higher,

“Ready, sweet thing?”

You nod feverently from need, and want and desperation, and he chuckles in response, as he pushes up into you. The new position only feels better, as he kisses your walls, filling you fully as he does. Instinctively, you pull up, and he keeps you pulled down, eyes focused on your own in the reflection of the mirror,

“See that, pretty girl? Takin’ me s’well… made jus’ f’me.. an’ I’m made jus’f’you.. feel s’good baby..”

His eyes are laser focused on where the two of you join, where you become one together. Yours, attempt to meet his, or follow his, but with just how sweet he feels in you, your focus is slightly lost.

Each push up into you is joined by a sweet kiss to your shoulder, and a soft moan or groan from either of you. As he quickens his pace once again, he throws his head back, mouth agape as unrestrained moans and gentle whimpers, only for you, stutter out of his throat. In response, you gasp and moan and whine and drag your hands and nails across the arm holding you in place. His other arm holds your stomach, rolling circles into your skin. As you both chase your high together, he pushes his face into your shoulder, and each sound he makes vibrates through your skin, as shivers trickle down your spine.

He fastens his pace, slamming up into you. Despite that, it’s not harsh, or painful, and you attempt to move and meet his pace. His lips move to your ears, whispering sweet nothings and occasionally nibbling at your skin, illiciting sweeter noises from your throat. Soon enough, your clenching your walls around him, and he’s pushing through your tight walls, painting all over them.

And as the two of you sweetly climax once more, he slows his pace, before finally coming to a stop, still entirely buried in you. He stays there, waiting for the two of you to relax again, testing the waters by slowly moving (only for you to clench again, to which he responds with sweetly nuzzling his nose into your neck). Ten slow, sweetened and very well appreciated minutes pass, as he rakes his eyes over your soft body, joined with his so perfectly, before very, very slowly pulling out. Suddenly empty, you sigh, and he presses another kiss to your forehead, making his way over to run a bath for the two of you.

He finds your batch of rose petals, bath salts and bath oils, combining them just perfectly in the bathwater, before making his way back to you.

“Bath’s almost full, pretty girl. I’ll carry you over, wait.”

He hooks both arms under you, lifting with practiced ease, before lowering you carefully into your marble tub and settling in behind you. You tip your head back onto his chest, humming old songs and lying comfortably in your safe space as he wraps his arms round your waist. He traces small patterns into your skin, muttering sweet nothings into your ears before dropping his head onto your shoulder. It’s mushy, sweet and entirely unlike the persona he puts on.

The fire from before finally quietens down, each softening ember glowering gently, calmly basking in your warm presence.

“I suppose you’ve made up for your.. mistake.”

You can feel his smile, pressing into your shoulder as he muffled a response, causing you to turn ever so slightly,

“What was that, Buckaroo?”

“Ohhhh.. baby no… Y’killin’ me with that! Buckaroo? Really?”

He shakes his head, with that sweet, sweet smile you fell in love with, all those years ago. You sigh and smile back, raising a hand to push his hair out of his face,

“I said, I’m awful glad. Could’n’ imagine my beautiful girl mad at me.”

You swoon, his words never failing to warm you, and he pulls you back in, brushing your oh, so swollen lips for one last, deep, loving kiss.

A few hours have passed since your and Bucky’s… rendezvous. He’s helped you redress, into a soft, expensive, silk robe, and fed you grapes as you both lazed across your bed. He’s called for the driver, who waits patiently in the still pulsing rain, still plundering down outside, and quietly leads you through the hotel. You’ve passed Winston, who pauses to ask the two of you about your sweet one year old, who waits at home, nesting softly in Sam’s arms. He’s mentioned coming by on the weekend (after all - who’s to stop her great Godfather from spoiling her?) and you’ve nodded sweetly, before making your way out. He hasn’t commented on the glow on your face, nor the slightly out of place grin on Bucky’s, but a man like Winston knows better.

Stepping out, Bucky grabs a complementary umbrella for you, leading you over to the car. The driver immediately opens the door for you, waiting for you to sit in and get comfortable, before moving around to open the door for Bucky too.

Bucky’s hand naturally finds your thigh, squeezing it softly,

“My love, you are truly the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

Your hand trails over his, and you lean into his warmth, as the driver finally drives out, taking the two of you back home. He looks over at you, his eyes melting as they meet yours. Truly, Bucky Barnes was the moon, to your bright, warm sun. And he was more than happy, chasing his sweet sun, catching your sweet embrace in his arms. And you, were more than happy, falling into his grounding, soft arms. Perhaps, you were the only thing, warming the stone, cold heart of the… notoriously stone cold mob boss.

The sun.. to his moon.. yeah, he liked the sound of that.

Sure, the winds and the rains and numerous heavenly bodies may weep and mourn and attempt to wash away his sins, to convince him to turn, to change his ways. They may howl, day after day, begging he find his soul. But his soul was never his.

And what is the will of the Heavens in comparison to his sweet, darling wife?

For Bucky Barnes was a mob boss second, but a devoted, loving husband first.

Forever, and always.

post credits

The car finally pulls up to a comfortable, somewhat secluded area, stopping outside large gates. Bucky leans out, holding his hands up in a sign, and the gates open slowly. As he leans back in, he pulls you slowly over his lap again, careful as ever. Now, you had fallen asleep on the way home, the warmth of his shoulder serving as a perfect pillow for your sweet face.

The car slows even more, rolling along to the front door. Bucky tosses two gold coins into the front’s cup holders. The driver lowers his hat, tipping it in respect, and waits patiently. Another man walks up to the door, and Bucky nods, letting him open the door. Bucky steps out, with you asleep, in his arms. He walks up the steps of your shared, grandiose, albeit secluded, home, and the same man who opened your car door, returns to open the front door.

Sweet cinnamon and pine waft past his nose, as the dimmed lights of the home softly welcome you both home. From the living room, he can hear Sam reading yet another story to your oh, so eager little one, still up and awake, and very much unwilling to sleep. He sets you down on a couch, before sliding next to Sam, and scooping her up into his arms,

“Hey there princess - miss us?”

In response, she babbles back, dropping what might sound almost like words, here and there. Sam stands up, cracking his back as he does, and nods over to you,

“Have fun?”

Bucky pulls your daughter to his chest, nodding back,

“Yeah. See y’in two days, hmm?”

“Copy that, boss. Happy anniversary.”

With that, Sam makes his way out of the humble mansion, likely on his way home. Bucky settles next to you, and you instinctively cuddle against him. He opens up his left arm, letting you nuzzle up onto his chest, and with the other arm, guides your daughter to rest just opposite you. She reaches out to your face inquisitively, and Bucky gently guides her hands into his, redirecting her attention to ensure you could sleep.

With Bucky’s tender hands, and your soothing form, her eyes start drooping. He catches this, humming sweet lullabies, sending her off to sleep with sweet sheep, and goats, and perhaps a slightly over-protective Uncle Sam and Uncle Steve. Soon enough, both you and your daughter are fast asleep, the three of you now splayed across the couch. His left arm naturally rubs soothing circles into your back, and his right holds your daughter close, safe and sound.

And as the three of you lie there, and the clock quietly strikes 00:00, finally hitting your anniversary, he finally has a moment to himself, softly whispering a 'Happy Anniversary, prettiest girl' into your hair. He finally has a chance, to think quietly, all by himself. And in the quiet of the night, all he can think is-

Four weeks. You'd managed to avoid working with Bucky Barnes—'the best linebacker' on the football team —for four weeks. Twenty days of complete bliss. 480 hours of not hearing his whining and complaining about how your friend allegedly cheated on Steve Rogers. It was a whole big deal where Bucky took Steve's side and you took your friend's side. Naturally. They kissed and made up, but you and Bucky; well, you couldn't get past the misunderstanding. So here you are, at each other's throats while Steve and his girlfriend are living happily ever after.

Steve isn't in this class, but John and Sam are. They make a ruckus over the fact that you and Bucky are lab partners, because why not? John's always kissing Steve's ass, trying to secure his spot as the back-up quarterback, and Sam constantly teases Bucky over every single aspect of his life.

"Gentlemen, enough," the professor says, raising his voice to cut through the chaos. "This is a biology lab, not the locker room. I would appreciate it if you treated it as such."

The commotion dies down, but you can still hear John and Sam's hushed voices.

This is exactly why you don't talk to anyone outside of the music department. It's a landmine of passive agressive comments disguised as small talk.

You avoid the jocks at all costs. They're a loud, obnoxious presence wherever they flock to. Their entire personality is Liberty Knights this, Liberty Knights that, never knowing when to shut up about Brooklyn Western Academy's football team. It truly feels like they peaked in high school and make it everyone else's problem.

But having to work one-on-one with Bucky? Impossible. The worst. He hates your guts and never takes anything seriously—a horrible combination, really.

You're trying to take notes on the professor's lecture, but your thoughts are on an endless loop, drowning out his procedures. You start to doodle in your notebook, hoping to take your mind off of Bucky, but you can't help but feel like someone is watching you.

You sneak a peek over at the jocks and Bucky is staring at you. Fuck, why is he staring at you? He never looks at you. Actively avoids it, actually. Does he really hate that he has to work with you that much? Is he trying to find a way to switch partners because he can't stand the thought of being next to you?

This is going to be a long two weeks.

"Okay, Barnes, here are the ground rules," you start when you both meet at the lab table. He cocks an eyebrow. "Rule #1: I'm not doing all of the work in this lab. You have to contribute your share." He opens his mouth but you barrel over him. "Rule #2: I'm going to get an A on this, so you better lock the fuck in. Rule #3: We need to set a strict schedule of when we work on this lab. I don't care if it's during your…" you gesture toward the table Bucky and his friends were sitting at. "whatever you guys do. We need to stay consistent."

"Consistent… Well, what days work best for you, princess?"

You blink at him twice, your brows furrowing in disbelief. "Did you just call me princess?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know. Did I?"

A flush spreads across your cheeks, hot and intruding. You know what, we're not gonna deal with that right now.

"Most mornings between 9am and 11am," you say after taking a breath. "Don't even think about nights. I have rehearsal."

He groans, rolling his eyes, the icy blue eclipsed by flesh. "Rehearsal. Right. Well, I can't do mornings."

You cross your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes at him. "What, cause you're too hungover? Or do you have 'practice' at that time."

"No, I have class in the morning." He pauses. "Then practice."

"Well, when are you not busy?"

He thinks for a moment. "The weekends?"

"The weekends."

"Yep. That's when I'm free."

"Can you give me a time frame or…?"

"How about you give me a time frame and I'll work around it." His tone is condescending. And you don't like that.

"Fine. 10am to 5pm. Either day. Can you work around that?" you ask, the words dripping with sarcasm.

"Anything for you, sweetheart." Gonna punch him in his perfect teeth. "Saturdays at 2pm."

"Perfect." You start to gather your things. "Guess I'll see you—"

"We should exchange phone numbers or something." He clears his throat. "For the lab. For easy communication."

"I check my email daily. Email is fine." He should also be checking his email.

He's silent for a moment. You can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. "My notifications don't always show up right away on my phone. Wouldn't want to leave you hanging if something comes up."

"Okay… Do you use Instagram?" you ask him this knowing damn well he does, his profile always popping up in your recommended accounts. "We could use that."

He shrugs, pulling out his phone. "That works. What's your username?"

You give it and he friends you. The request notification pops up and you accept it. His profile is public, of course.

Another notification appears.

[jbbarnes] sup

"There," he says, pocketing his phone into his varsity jacket. "Now you can message me whenever." Hopefully it isn't always this dry.

"Mhm, yup." You stuff your belongings into your bag. "Whenever…"

Ever since you friended Bucky on Instagram, the app taunted you. It's not your preferred social media choice—you mainly downloaded it to keep in touch with friends and family—but you use it enough to warrant the amount of storage it takes up on your phone. A post will appear once every three months or so, something to show your mom that you're not dead, but that's about the extent of your profile.

There's nothing exciting about the pictures—you don't bother with the filters, the captions are basic—so why are you now worrying about each post at 1am? Why are you wishing that you'd taken the extra five minutes to choose a filter or two?

You tap the direct messages icon. The top message stares at you.

[jbbarnes] sup — 14h

It's unopened. Which is fine. It's not like there's anything else to it, right? You watched him type it. It took a second, maybe less. Case closed.

Yet your finger hovers over his username. What if he put something else? What if he included some important information that you've missed for fourteen hours?

You should check it. Just one tap… It's harmless; he sent you it for a reason. Just. Open. It.

With a shaking finger, you tap the screen.

sup

One bubble. One word. Nothing more, nothing less.

You throw your head back and groan, the cement wall doing nothing to help the headache that's been simmering for an hour. Why is one message bothering you so much? Let alone one from Bucky Barnes?

It's fine. Just swipe out of the conversation and move on. Time to put Instagram away.

You tap on his username instead. What are you doing?? Put. the phone. down. Nothing productive will come out of this, and you know that.

You stare at his profile.

James "Bucky" Barnes no pen or paper but i still draw attention BWA class of '27 sc: jbbarnes

Oh, this is the worst. This man seriously wants to be a physical therapist? You roll your eyes. There's no way. No way he'll make it past undergrad. Not with the way he's constantly partying and at practice and lifting weights and—

A picture catches your eye. It's the third post down where he's laid down on the bench press seat, mid-rep, and holy shit he's ripped. You tap on the post and bring your phone closer, counting each ab muscle adorning his torso. One, two, three… How the fuck does he have an eight pack?

Then your eyes travel down farther, down to his gym shorts, where he's…

All of the moisture in your mouth dries up as you stare at the outline of his dick and travels straight down to your core. No, this isn't… You don't like him…

You shift in bed, the creak of the cheap mattress frame assaulting the stillness of your room. You don't like him. Any other person would have the same reaction. Especially since he's very… large…

Enough of that. It's really getting late and you have class tomorrow.

You click on his most recent post. A team photo with 'the boys.' Steve is in the middle, his signature golden boy smile beaming and Bucky next to him with a smirk, holding up bunny ears behind Steve's head. Sam is arm in arm with Joaquin; John is behind them, trying desperately to push his way in. By some miracle, Pietro is stood still, pointing finger guns at the camera. And to round it all out, Thor, the Norwegian exchange student, is holding up Bob with one arm, his bicep fully flexed and on display. You're unsure as to why Bob is there—isn't he the water boy?

And the caption: someone call the weatherman cuz we making it rain

God, where does he find these?

You click into the comments.

captain_rogers: best team in all of brooklyn

jbbarnes: best team in all of new york

captain_walker2: i think u forgot to tag me barnes

wingmanwilson: my boys 😤

jbbarnes: the boys of bwa

captain_walker2: barnes, can i get a tag?

cucumber_bob453: omg im part of the boys now??

jbbarnes: you've always been part of the boys bob

captain_walker2: tag?

A chuckle escapes your lips. It's entertaining how much John is trying to fit in with them all. It shouldn't be that hard, but there's just… something about him that doesn't mesh with the others.

You scroll down to the next post. Bucky's smiling at the camera—eyes crinkling and a small dimple formed on his right cheek—with his arm around Sharon Carter.

A strange feeling tugs at your heart. Seeing him there with Sharon. You shake your head, erasing the thoughts faster than they arrived.

You scroll through his posts faster now, catching glimpses of more muscles and smiles and football games. He's not… unattractive. The dimple is cute. He's got nice facial structure. Middle of the run nose. And his eyes… Piercing blue. Almost green in some lighting. He's the opposite of unattractive. Not like you'd actually admit any of this to anyone.

You turn off your phone with a groan. You're not attracted to Bucky Barnes. He's annoying. He's a jock, of all things.

But your heart is racing, your pulse pounding in your ears. And there's another body part that's pounding—

Enough! The phone is off. The thoughts need to be turned off. Go. to. sleep!

You sigh and pull the covers up around your shoulders, ignoring—but failing—to think of the boy with piercing blue eyes and shaggy brunet hair.

Bucky's not sure when you started hating him.

No, that's a lie. He knows when you started. He's just unsure as to why you still do.

After Steve and his girlfriend made up, Bucky thought that the two of you would go back to mutually watching each other from the football field. He'd watch you in the stands, laughing at something the person next to you said, and couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips.

You were infectious. Not in a diseased way, but in the way you laughed. The way you smiled at everyone while walking across campus. Except for when he passed by and you'd avert your eyes quickly, finding a leaf or pebble to stare at on the sidewalk.

But the times your eyes would find his? When you'd brush the hair out of your face after playing the school song and see him on the field? It felt like magic. Like he could survive off of your gaze and nothing else. He would drop everything to go up there and say something that made you smile. He would take any punishment from his coach to drop the ball and pull you over the railing and kiss you.

The only issue: you still hate him.

It's the Saturday after you two were paired up as lab partners.

He opens the door to the seemingly empty biology, immediately hit with the sharp smell of alcohol and sterilizing agents.

You're already at the counter, stacking the petri dishes and gathering the swabs for the lab. He looks at his phone, checking the time. He wanted to get here a couple of minutes early to ensure everything was in place, but you beat him.

"When did you get here?" he asks, watching your diligence over the lab materials.

You jump and whip your head toward him, sending the petri dishes clattering along the counter. "Christ, Barnes, where did you come from?" you shriek, gripping your chest.

He glances at the entrance to the lab. "Last I checked, the only way to get in was through that door."

Your eyes roll. "No shit, Sherlock. You just, fuck, you scared me. Do you have silencing shoes or something?"

A chuckle. "Nah, I'm just agile. It comes with the training."

"Agile. Noted."

He nods and a smile creeps up on him again. Get it together, Barnes, or else she's going to think you're a creeper or something.

He clears his throat and moves closer to the counter, grabbing the dishes and stacking them the way you initially organized them. "So what's on the agenda for today?"

You watch his hands, almost transfixed with the movements, then realized he asked you a question. You blink up at him. "Wh-What? Sorry, what did you say?"

"What's on the agenda for today?"

"Oh, well, we have to check the dishes from Thursday, record those findings, then start the next batch."

"Got it. I can start on the batch from Thursday if you want to start the next batch?"

You nod. "Just don't mess it up."

"Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin, bringing his hand up to his forehead in mock salute.

You roll your eyes again and turn away from him quickly, burying your head in your spiral notebook. He swears he sees the flushing of your cheeks but doesn't want to get any closer. It seems like you're opening up to him and he doesn't want to ruin that. So he'll tread carefully. He can be patient.

The two of you work in silence. Bucky brings his own lab notebook to check on Thursday's batch, while you diligently swab the new bacteria. The silence is comfortable; not tense, not demanding, just there. A soothing rhythm of pencils scratching against paper, the clink of plastic, and each other's breath.

"So, uhm," Bucky starts, finishing up his writings. "Are you excited for next week's game?"

You look up at him and nod, humming in response. "Of course. You?"

He smirks. "Of course. It's my favorite day of the week."

The corner of your mouth tugs upward. "Makes sense."

"Well, that's my entire personality, right? Might as well stay consistent."

He walks closer to you, tossing his notebook down on the counter. "As they say, consistency is key, Barnes."

He pauses for a moment. "Tell me, what's the instrument you play? The brassy one?"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "'The brassy one?' Thanks for the specificity. So helpful."

"Okay, you can't blame me. I don't know the instruments. Just trumpet, brass, flute…"

You laugh. A genuine laugh that makes him want to grab you by the waist and dip you into an earth-shattering kiss right in the middle of this biology lab.

"Ah, yes, the three instrument families: trumpet, brass, and flute."

He smiles, unable to hold back the joy that's been aching in his heart for weeks. Months, even. "Please just tell me. Put me out of my misery already."

You wipe a tear from your eye, small laughs escaping here and there. "Mellophone. I play the mellophone for pep band, but french horn for concert band."

"Mellophone," he says, tasting the way it feels on his tongue. "Hmm. And french horn? A woman of many talents, I see."

That almost-blush from before returns, dusting the tips of your ears pink. "It-It's basically the same. Nothing too fancy about it." Your eyes flick away from him now and you busy your hands with the collected samples.

No, don't look away he wants to say. He wants to see the way your eyes light up when you talk about playing your instrument. He wants to make you laugh again, hypnotizing him with the way it pitches up first and then comes back down. He's an addict and he needs more.

"Earth to Barnes," he hears, a hand waving in front of his face. "Hey, are you in there? Did you get lost?"

His vision focuses back on you, your figure sharpening in front of him, now standing. "Sorry, yeah, I'm here. Did you say something?"

"Yeah. I said do you think we're done here? I've got all the samples we need and I assumed you finished up over there." You raise your eyebrow again, a small smirk playing on your lips. "Did I bore you with my music talk?"

"No, no, not at all," he says, shaking his head vigorously. The exact opposite, actually. "I was just.. Also thinking about the fact that we're done here." But he really, truly doesn't want to be done here. Would you say no if he asked you to go to the cafe on campus? Probably. The last thing he wants is for all the progress he's made to be for nothing. One step forward, two steps back?

"Great. Yup. All done here…" you say, dragging out your words a little too long. "I'll, uhm, I'll see you on Monday? For class?"

Your tone sounds reluctant, like you maybe don't want to go either?

He should just do it. Just ask. He opens his mouth, about to say it. Saying it… Asking you to go to the campus cafe…

"Yeah, for sure. See you on Monday."

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Barnes, you fucking idiot!

All the muscles in your face relax into… disappointment? Goddamnit, Barnes. Save it. Save this. Don't make her frown.

You just nod solemnly and shuffle out of the lab.

And he just watches you leave like a fucking idiot.

Whoever invented brass instruments clearly forgot to take into account that it might be played outside. And the fact that prime marching band season is, in fact, during September, one of the hottest months of the year.

Whoever that person is, you'd like to have a nice, long conversation with them, because your mellophone keeps slipping out of your hands and almost hitting the turf beneath your feet.

Because of the heat, marching band practice has to take place at 8am on a Sunday. You'd much rather be anywhere else than the football practice field at 8am on a Sunday, but such is the life of a music major.

"Okay, everyone, gush and go!" your director calls from the bleachers on the megaphone.

In an instant, 150 band members are running to their water bottles on the sidelines of the field and chugging as fast as they can. You almost crash into five separate people on the way to your bottle, but you get there eventually and spray the stream into your mouth.

"Did you save any for me?" Natasha asks as she walks up to you, her tone light and teasing. Even with the 80 degree weather, she somehow hasn't broken a sweat.

You take a breath after drinking and say, "I sure hope you brought your own. If not, rookie mistake."

She smirks. "Oh, I did. I just like to keep you on your toes."

"Ha ha," you deadpan, wiping the corners of your mouth. "But seriously, don't scare me like that."

"Like I said, I gotta keep you on your toes. Expect the unexpected and all that jazz."

You take another long swig before your director calls out again. "Times up! Back to set one!"

Natasha salutes to you and you salute back before running to your respective sections; one flute, one mellophone.

The drum major commands the band to attention and blows their whistle, signaling the tempo of the first song. Your instrument is up—lips to mouthpiece—and you take a breath on the fourth whistle.

The band moves for the first eight bars, completing the drill without a hitch. Then the next eight bars are played with no movement—a rest during the hardest part of the song.

You're about to transition into the next set— your eyes straight ahead and body aware of the people around you—until a blur of movement pulls you from your focus.

The first rule of marching band: don't let distractions mess up the set. (At least, according to your band director. Is it true? Who knows.) Focus is key or else the entire set goes to shit.

Any other time, you'd ignore the blur. Students go on runs through this part of campus all the time. However, this blur looks familiar. The body type, the backwards baseball cap, the kinesiology tape wrapped around the left shoulder. You've seen this body in plenty of Instagram pictures.

Focus. You have to focus. One diagonal step at a time.

Your heart rate picks up as he gets closer and you notice that he's shirtless. Eight pack out and visible for everyone to see. Glistening pecs and pumping biceps. This is different than seeing a still picture. This is real. He's right there.

Before your feet can catch up with your brain, you miss a step. You trip over your own feet, one ankle crossing over the other, which sends you hurtling toward the mello player next to you.

The second rule of marching band? Protect the instruments at all cost. Especially since you're liable for any damage done to the instrument while in your possession.

Don't let it smash into the ground, please, please, please.

You lift the mello up as high as you can while crashing toward the turf, hoping and praying that anything but your instrument is damaged. You'll take a broken bone, a scraped knee, even a brusied ego, but your lack of funds cannot take mellophone damage.

The fall rattles your bones, sending shockwaves from your hip and throughout your body. Somewhere on the way down, you squeezed your eyes shut. You didn't want to bear witness to any damage to the precious piece of metal in your grasp.

This is not happening. Nope, not at all. There are not people crashing around you. There are no grunts and gasps traveling throughout the mellophone section and into the trumpet section. How could there be, when your eyes are shut?

You're going to just stay here. This patch of the turf? Your new home. What a comfortable spot. It's lovely, isn't it?

Your band director is calling your name. Or maybe this is a hallucination. Maybe you fell asleep and you're taking a nice nap in the sun, the rays beating down and warming your skin.

You've almost convinced yourself until the weight of your mellophone is no longer being held up by your hand. You pry open an eye, preparing for the worst possible outcome—your band director towering over you—but instead, you're met with the unexpected.

Bucky Barnes is stood in front of you, setting down your instrument gently on the turf. You open your other eye, taking in the full image. His chisled body is absolutely drenched in sweat, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. You can see your frazzled reflection in his sunglasses and cringe. Your hair is plastered to your face and somehow also sticking up on the other side of your head. Your face can best be described as a tomato.

But, by some miracle, Bucky extends his hand out to you. You can't quite see his eyes through the sunglasses, but if you had to guess, he might look concerned.

You stare at his hand. Do you take the help and be mortified forever? Or do you suck it up and stand on your own?

Bucky doesn't give you the chance to decide, and instead takes the hand that you still haven't put down. His skin is warm and calloused—lighting up the nerve endings of your palm—yet he touches you like you're glass. Like one wrong move could cause irreparable damage.

He's helping you up now, his other hand a warm presence on your hip as you stumble. "Hey, it's okay. I've got you," he says, quiet enough for only you to hear. Your heart skips a beat, unsure how to process the gentleness of his tone.

"Th-Thanks," you stutter, your voice almost as unstable as your legs. "I'm good now. You can let me go."

He chuckles a bit and shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You're shaking. Let's get you to the bleachers."

You look down at your hands and, sure enough, your fingers are moving uncontrollably.

"It's fine, I can make it—"

Bucky cuts you off by moving, the hand at your hip gripping ever so slightly. "Just let me do this, sweetheart. Let me help you."

Oh, God. Sweetheart. Sweetheart? This sweetheart is different than the one from the lab earlier. His voice is soothing, sweet, tender, where the first one was nothing but sharp around the edges. Mocking.

You might just melt by the time you get to the bleachers.

"My instrument—"

"Ava will get it. I've got you."

You sigh, finally giving into his touch, leaning into it just a bit more.

You let him walk you across the field and set you down gently on the bleachers, his warm touch replaced with the aggressive bite of the metal.

His reaches toward you for a moment before recoiling back. "You gonna be okay?" he asks, concern laced through each consonant and vowel.

You nod and swallow quickly, finding your voice as his naked torso comes back into view. "Thanks, Barnes."

It's his turn to nod—a quick bob of his head—before he runs off, returning to his previous route.

Before you can say anything, you're swarmed with a hoard of people. Your director, the drum major, section leaders, the whole nine yards. They're asking you questions, but you don't hear them. All you see is Bucky's retreating form, jogging away from the field with long strides.

"School song everyone! School song!"

At the drum majors command, all band members clambor from their seats, fumbling with instruments and flip folders until the school song is found.

The Liberty Knights scored the winning touchdown for Brooklyn Western Academy. The crowd went wild, cheers erupting throughout, the parents of the players hugging and pumping cardboard cutouts of their faces.

To continue the celebration, the pep band plays the school song at top volume. It might not sound like a symphony, but tone quality is not the main focus here. This is about pep and energy, and with a large band, that is more than delivered at the end of the game.

The school song is played with an intensity unmatched to previous games. Excitement is at an all-time high! The boys of BWA will be advancing to the playoffs! Who wouldn't be excited?

"Are you pumped for the next game?" Kate asks you as you both pack up your instruments.

You shrug, shutting your case closed and snapping the latches shut. "It's kinda like every other game, right? We play, we play some more, we watch a game we pretend to know, we play, then the team wins. Then onto the next one." You grab the handle of the case and pick it up. "Don't get me wrong; I love playing pep band. It's a great time. But football? Not as much of a great time."

Kate shoves you playfully and looks at the field. "You're not having a good time staring at Barnes's ass?"

Your face flushes hot. "I don't— I'm not—" She's laughing as you sputter. "Okay, fuck you, Bishop. Not funny."

"It's kinda funny—"

"Not. Funny."

She holds her hands up in surrender, her case swinging back and forth from one. "Okay, okay, fine. Not funny. Apologies." Another giggle escapes. "But maybe you should make your staring less apparent if you don't want people to notice."

You glare at her. "That's it. Friendship over. You can play the 2nd horn parts by yourself now." You walk away from her, starting your descent down the bleacher steps.

"Wait, wait, I'm sorry!" she calls after you, scurrying to follow. "I take it back. I have noticed zero staring. No staring ever. On my life."

You look over your shoulder and grin. "Apology accepted. Friendship back on. 2nd horn partner reinstated."

"Phew! Don't scare me like that. I don't think I'd ever recover."

You let out a short laugh, reaching the bottom of the steps. Natasha is waiting there for you, her purple and gold uniform gleaming under the lights.

"Nat! We missed you!" Kate calls, giving her a hug. "I still would love to know how you never break a sweat in that uniform."

Natasha smiles. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you. I'm sworn to secrecy."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, Miss Mysterious. We get it. You've been blessed with perfect genes. No need to rub it in our faces."

"But where's the fun in that?" She holds her hand out, gesturing to your case. "Here, let me help you."

Your eyebrows furrow. This is out of the ordinary for Natasha. "What? Why?"

"Barnes is waiting for you behind the bleachers. He said something about a lab project?"

Your heart does a flip. It's been almost a week since the marching band practice fiasco. You've interacted with Bucky during biology, but nothing more than working on your samples in a class full of students. Therefore, you haven't had a moment alone since causing a crash in the middle of the practice field.

"Lab project… Right. Okay." You hand her your case. "Take care of her, okay? I'll hunt you down if you don't"

"Oh, I know you will." She lets out a small laugh. "Okay, go. You know how impatient he is."

Did you though? She said that like you've been friends for ages.

"Alright, alright. Going."

You round the corner before you hear, "Text me later!"

This is sounding more and more like a setup.

Underneath the bleachers, Bucky is leaning up against one of the supporting beams, arms crossed and one foot pressed against the beam. His protective gear is off, leaving him in his jersey and those ridiculously tight pants.

When he spots you, he pushes himself up and walks over to you. "Hey," he says, almost breathlessly.

You quirk up a brow. "Hey," you say, your doubt creeping into your tone. "Nat said something about our lab project?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that…"

"Barnes, this is not the time to tell me that you have some event or practice or whatever that has suddenly come up and you can't finish the lab so I have to do it myself."

His hairline shoots up. "No! No, it's not that. Fuck, it's not that…"

You cross your arms over your chest, frustration oozing out of your skin. "Okay, then what the fuck is it?"

"I… Well, I've been thinking—"

"A feat for you, truly—"

"About— hey, wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

You shake your head. "Just spit it out already."

"Fine, whatever." His hand goes back to his neck, then says your name. "I was thinking… Would you maybe want to, I don't know… Go on a date or something?"

Did you hear that correctly? "A… date?" He nods. "You're asking me out…" He nods again.

After a few long moments, a laugh bursts out of you. "Oh— You're kidding right? This is a joke." You wipe the corners of your eyes. "Barnes, you're funny. You're hilarious. Who put you up to this? Was it Sam? Steve wouldn't be the type to do this… Oh, I know. It's John. Am I right? John bet you to ask me out. Is this what will finally get him into the cool kid club?"

Then, you look at him. He's not… Oh, shit he's not laughing. Your stomach drops. He almost looks hurt. Like you just kicked his puppy and laughed until your stomach ached.

His eyes travel to the ground, searching for something to latch onto. "You know what, just— Fuck, just forget I asked, okay?" He turns and starts to walk away, but you can hear him muttering to himself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid…"

Shit, you gotta fix this and fast. "Hey, hey, I didn't mean to— Barnes, wait!" you call out to him, running after him. You grab his hand and give him a tug so he faces you. "Are you being serious? Is this serious?"

He catches your eyes for a moment then looks down.

"Bucky, I— I thought you hated me."

This brings his gaze back up to yours. "You thought I hated— I thought you hated me!"

"Because I thought you hated me."

He blinks once. Then twice. "I don't. I mean, I did just try to ask you out…"

You're at a loss for words, staring into his eyes and searching for an answer. "But Steve and… You hated me for taking her side." You shrug. "I hated you for taking Steve's, but that's besides the point. You really don't hate me?"

He scoffs, dragging his hand over his face. "Fuck, I'm an idiot. I should've just said something. Stupid, stupid—"

His rambling is cut off with the softness of your lips on his.

You pull away for a moment and murmur against his lips. "Shut up and kiss me, Barnes."

His lips crash against yours—hard and relentless—his tongue running along the seam, begging for entrance. You part them, welcoming the intrusion with open arms.

The kiss is electric. His lips are as soft as you imagined them, softer than any other man you've dated. He's intoxicating and you can't get enough.

In a flash, he's pushing you up against the beam he occupied earlier, pressing up into your body like he needed it to live.

"Bucky, fuck—" you manage to gasp out between kissing, moaning as he moves to your neck. Your hands grip his arms, nails digging into the rigid muscle. "Bucky, what if someone sees—"

"Then let them," he mutters into your skin, the vibrations sending heat down to your core. "I've waited too long for this, sweetheart."

A gasp escapes your parted lips as his hand slides down your stomach and under the waistband of your pants. "What are you—fuck," you hiss as his fingers run over your clothed folds, then pressing gently onto your clit. "Bucky, this is a bad idea."

He sucks at the pulse point on your neck, pulling another moan from your mouth. "But you want this, right?" He looks up at you, eyes glazed over with lust. "Tell me to stop. Say the word and I will."

You don't. You don't want him to stop. That's the last thing you want him to do. But he chose a really poor place for it to happen.

You return his look, panting down at him with swollen lips, and don't say a word.

He grins and presses against your clit again, harder this time. You moan and buck your hips forward, searching for more pressure. "Gonna make you feel good, okay? Gonna take care of you."

He pushes your panties to the side and slips two fingers into your folds, collecting some of your slick and spreading it upward. "Fuck, you're already wet for me?" You nod, delirious from his touch. "Of course you are, baby. You've wanted this all along. Wanted me."

"God, Bucky, yes," you groan, growing impatient. "Please, I want you."

"Alright, sweetheart. Gonna take care of you…" He plunges a finger into your cunt, grinning at the way you clench around him. "Oh, s'that what you want? You want that, baby?" You nod vigorously. He pushes in another finger, making you hiss at the stretch. "You're takin' it so well, doin' such a good job for me…"

"More, Bucky, please…" you beg, rolling your hips until his thumb hits your clit. "Th-There, please. Want that too…"

"Don't you worry, I'll make you feel good. You want it like this?" His fingers start pumping inside of you while his thumb rubs circles over your clit.

The moan that comes out of you is loud. Loud enough that Bucky covers your mouth with his other hand. "Shh, baby, gotta stay quiet. Don't want anyone hearin' us."

He pumps faster, each drag of his fingers pulling a needier moan from your covered mouth. You clench around him, feeling your release getting closer and closer.

"Bucky," you moan against his hand, but it comes out muffled.

"That's it, baby. You gonna come for me?"

"Mhm…"

He increases his speed, soft squelching coming from your cunt. You're gripping onto him like a lifeline, afraid that if you let go, you might lose yourself all together.

You squeeze his arm twice. "Buck."

He looks up, concentration etched on his face, and sees your face contorted in pleasure. "You ready to come for me, baby? Gonna come around my fingers?"

He lifts his hand up enough for you to speak. "Yes, Bucky, fuck, I'm— Shit, fuck, I'm gonna—" The band in your belly is threatening to snap. "Jus' like that— Fuck, yes! I'm gonna—!"

White, hot pleasure floods through your veins as Bucky fingers you through your release. Your thighs are trembling, your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers.

Bucky says your name, whispering it against your skin. "Yes, sweetheart. You look so pretty when you come…"

After you're done and spent, you rest your head against the metal beam, panting heavily as Bucky removes his fingers. You whimper at the loss, a soft moan escaping your lips.

He wipes your slick on his pants and uses his other hand to move the hair covering your face, kissing your forehead once it's out of the way. "You did such a good job for me… Fuck, please let me do that again."

You let out a breathy laugh. "Maybe on a bed next time?"

He grins. "A bed would be great."

A moment passes filled with breath. Your heavy, gulping ones and his soft, warm ones against your skin.

"Alright, Barnes," you say once your lungs are working normally. "Pull down those skin-tight pants."

"Wh-What?" he sputters, eyes going wide. "What do you mean?"

You gather up your hair behind your head and wrap a hair tie around it. "You want me to return the favor, right?"

He stays frozen for a second longer, then his thumbs start pushing his pants down.

Not two seconds later, Steve rounds the corner of the bleachers. "Buck, where the fuck are you?"

You and Bucky's eyes meet, both pairs widening. He yanks his pants back up and tries to pull his jersey down to cover his growing boner.

When Steve finally spots the two of you, his eyes narrow at Bucky. "Buck. What in the hell are you doing back here?"

"Well, we were.. we were talking about our lab project! Right?" He turns to you and says your name. "Biology lab project."

"Mhm, yup," you say, trying to stifle the laugh bubbling in your chest. "Biology lab."

Steve looks between the two of you, taking in the flush across your cheeks and Bucky's failed attempt at hiding his boner. "I—I'm just not going to ask. But Buck, we need you for the team picture."

You press your lips together, the laugh threatening to escape.

"The picture, right… How could I forget?" Bucky sends you daggers with his eyes. "Let's get to it then, Rogers."

It takes every cell of your being to withhold your laughter until the two of them round the corner. Then, and only then, do you release it.

And damn, does it feel good.