give me that gold

Ten months.

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

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

You were his loyal fan.

You were there for every single one of his videos.

Hell, your own username was dedicated to him.

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

Naturally, pessimistic thoughts began to fill his mind.

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

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

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

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

You went from being his loyal fan to a ghost.

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

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

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

“Fuck. Been waiting for this all day.”

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

“Good girl,” he muttered without thinking.

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

At some point, imagination alone had stopped being enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As usual, it never did.

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

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

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

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

I would like to know the same thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pleasure_Ring: Love the video!

Bucky blinked.

Was he seeing this right?

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

But no, it was you.

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

He couldn’t believe it.

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

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

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

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I saw the comment you left.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Where have you been?

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

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

Then, his heart leaped.

Pleasure_Ring is typing…

Pleasure_Ring: Why? Did you miss me?

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

But right now, he just felt pissed off.

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

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

Pleasure_Ring is typing…

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

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

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

Pleasure_Ring: Can we exchange numbers?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naturally, it did things to you.

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

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

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

“Where have you been?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ashamed?”

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

Your voice dropped lower as you glanced around the room.

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

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

“So you were embarrassed about sleeping with me?”

Your eyes widened.

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

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

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

There it was.

The sentence Bucky had been dreading.

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

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

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

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

“Teach me how to be better at sex.”

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

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

Instead, he studied you for a very long moment.

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

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

“I know,” you said bashfully.

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

He paused, studying your reaction.

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

You sat there frozen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you say, doll?”

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

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

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

Your breath caught at what was displaying on the monitor.

Your chat history.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Modeled after you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

A slow, patient sigh escaped him.

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky grinned. “Ah, there she is.”

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

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

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

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

“… Teach me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky…” You gasped softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mph!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ohh, shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded with a sniffle. “Y—yes…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt your body growing weaker by the second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to stop, doll?”

Stop?

Your heart clenched, eyes widening as you faced him.

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

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

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

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

“I promise,” he added.

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

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

“That’s my good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head, face blistering from the sensation.

“No, Bucky. There was no one else…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, letting out a pathetic whimper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, fuck—shit—fuck!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two million views.

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

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

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

You made him feel that good.

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

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

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

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

Your brow rose at the last comment.

Gave her a follow?

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

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

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

You couldn’t believe it.

People loved watching you.

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

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

It was pure excitement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hand washing the car on a hot summer’s day was something you would never normally do.

You always let your dad handle a job like that. He’d always tease you for being ‘spoiled,’ always hitting you with the typical line of, “What happens when I’m gone? How will you take care of yourself?”

And every time he hit you with that line, without fail, you would find yourself grabbing the plastic bucket, soap, and sponges out of spite, just to prove a point.

Now, you were outside, drenched in a mixture of sweat and water as the sun beamed down. You were splayed over the hood of the car in a way that looked anything but sexy. You had on a tank top and shorts—natural, given the heat—but despite the porn director approved outfit, you looked anything but pornographic.

Matter of fact, if someone were to come up to you now, they would probably lose interest instantly.

“Hey there,” a familiar, deep voice called from behind you. “Looking pretty hot.”

Normally, you would scramble to make yourself look at least somewhat decent for anyone who approached you in this state.

But it was your best friend—so who cares?

“Steve,” you huffed, raising a leg to balance yourself on the hood of your dad’s car. “Are you going to help me or just taunt me?”

Steve crossed his arms, watching you slip and slide all over the green station wagon that looked like it was ready to fall apart at any given moment.

“Has your dad seen you like this yet? I’m sure if he saw what a poor job you were doing, he wouldn’t ask you to clean it again.

You puffed a strand of hair out of your face. “The reason I’m cleaning in the first place is to prove to my dad that I’m perfectly capable.” You mumbled under your breath, “… He called me spoiled.”

Steve chuckled lightly. “Can’t say I disagree.”

Sneering, you spun around and hurled your wet, soapy sponge in his direction. It landed right in the center of his chest, dampening his snug t-shirt with a dark spot that began to spread. He laughed, catching the sponge before it hit the ground.

“Get off the hood before you hurt yourself,” he grinned, taking a step closer.

You grunted as you slid off the car. As you stood up, your eyes trailed past Steve’s shoulder—something unfamiliar catching your attention.

The house across from yours had been unoccupied for months, but someone had recently moved in. Days had passed, and you hadn’t seen the new neighbors yet. But for the first time since the ‘FOR SALE’ sign was removed, you were finally seeing the man who lived there.

He was tall—maybe around Steve’s height. He had dark hair that fluffed messily at the top, and he was covered in dirt, looking as though he’d been doing yard work all morning. The sun hit his eyes, and he squinted, shielding them with a large hand.

As he looked up, his gaze drifted across to your lawn, and his eyes met yours for a long moment.

A warm, friendly smile tugged at his lips, and he waved. You blinked, a light smile forming on your own face when you realized he was waving at you. You waved back shyly, and his smile grew wider.

“He waved at me,” you pointed out.

Steve, curious, glanced over his shoulder. When he caught the man’s eye, he gave a quick, short nod—a casual greeting between guys.

“He seems nice,” Steve shrugged. “Your new neighbor?”

You nodded, stealing a few more seconds to look at the man across the street. He bent over, his large traps tensing against his cotton tank top as he shoved a pair of gardening gloves over his rough hands. He crouched, his dirty boots and jeans digging into the soil as he began to pull at stubborn weeds.

A man. Hard at work.

The best kind of man.

“He is,” you breathed, looking back at Steve. “And he’s hot, too.”

Steve huffed a laugh, stepping out of your way and towards the car, sponge in hand. “You trying to make me jealous, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a spare sponge from the soapy tub. You stepped up to the opposite window from Steve and began to scrub.

“You know, I’ve seen this play out in movies and stuff—” Steve shouted from the other side of the car. “The girl who washes her car and catches the eye of the conveniently attractive neighbor across the street.”

You quirked a brow. “In movies, or in porn?”

Now, it was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Point aside, you should go for it.” He peeked at you over the roof and nodded in your neighbor’s direction. “You’ve been single for quite a while now. It wouldn’t hurt to dip your toes back in the dating scene.”

You snorted. “Whatever happened to you being jealous?”

Steve shook his head at your comment. “I’m just saying—you’re young and pretty. You could grab that guy’s attention if you really tried.”

Pausing your sponge, you glanced over your shoulder, catching your neighbor’s gaze again. He had been staring at you—for how long, you didn’t know. Either way, your heart did a little flutter in your chest, your face warming at the thought of him watching you.

“You really think so?”

Steve hummed. “Have I ever lied to you?”

Since that day, and with the help of Steve’s encouragement, you found yourself spending more time outside just to catch your neighbor’s eye.

Most mornings, he was already out there working on the front of his house—mowing the lawn, painting fences, or tending to the plants.

The job itself didn’t matter. It was the man behind it all who suddenly made this boring, textbook suburban neighborhood interesting.

Despite only a few days passing since you last washed the car, you miraculously decided to wash it up again the day Bucky was working on the front of his house. How convenient!

Grabbing your tools while wearing a tank top—thinner than the last one—and shorts that rode so far up they were bordering on a wedgie, you stepped out with a confident stride that immediately caught his attention.

He glanced at you from his spot on a ladder, squinting as he smiled.

“Good morning!” you chirped.

“Morning,” he shouted back, nodding to the same car parked on your driveway. “Cleaning again?”

“Oh, yeah,” you smirked, motioning to your bucket. “Just something I like to do every few days.”

If Steve or your dad were here, they would be laughing in your face.

The man’s eyes slowly raked over the car—taking mental note of just how pristine and shiny it already was—before trailing back to you. “Must be a high maintenance girl, huh?”

It was just something about the way he said it—his voice deep and textured with a rasp that made every syllable sound flirtatious. You chuckled softly, your face warming.

“Something like that.”

He chuckled in return before getting back to work.

You dunked the sponge into the bucket of soapy water and got to work. Most of your time was spent focusing more on suggestive poses than actually getting the car clean. You stretched your arms high to reach the roof so the hem of your tank top rode up, then leaned low over the hood, letting your short shorts ride up to reveal the curve of your ass.

It didn’t take long for your clothes and skin to be covered in soap and water. The sun was in your favor today, catching the water as it glistened on your skin and the soap as it trickled down your thighs.

One quick glance over your shoulder made your heart stutter.

You knew you were doing it right because he was looking right at you.

He slowly began to descend the ladder. Before you knew it, he was walking in your direction, crossing the street until he reached your driveway. You had to bite back a smile as the sound of his boots scuffed closer, stopping just behind you.

“I believe we haven’t properly introduced ourselves,” he called out to grab your attention.

You didn’t turn around right away, careful not to make it too obvious. You glanced over your shoulder first, your back arching in a way that felt a bit of a strain—thanks to your usually terrible posture—then slowly stood up, trying not to groan at the sudden soreness.

“I don’t believe we have,” you said, setting the sponge down and wiping your wet hand on your damp shorts. Good enough.

You extended your hand and gave him your name.

He returned the gesture with a smile, his grip warm and rough—the hands of a working man.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Bucky,” he huffed. “Bucky Barnes.”

He looked around, appearing almost skeptical to be standing in your driveway. “You look young,” he pointed out. “Are your parents home? I’d like to introduce myself, being new to the neighborhood and all.”

“They’re on vacation,” you explained. “I’m a student over at Jepsen University.”

“A student, huh?” He rubbed his chin with his left hand. No ring. “A pretty thing like you oughta’ be careful at Jepsen. There are a lot of nasty frat boys roaming around campus.”

You chuckled, a light sway in your movement. “You went there?”

He nodded. “Graduated top of my class.”

Even though there was no ring, you still needed verbal confirmation before throwing yourself at him.

“How are you and the family liking the neighborhood so far?” You tested.

Bucky took it upon himself to lean against your car, making the frame creak slightly. He didn’t seem to care about the soap dampening his jeans.

“Well, me and my girl are liking it so far,” Bucky said. “It’s quiet, and plus, I get a good view across the street.”

You made a face at his explanation. My girl. He had a wife? Or a daughter? He was deliberately flirting with you, wasn’t he?

Bucky caught your expression and laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively.

“My girl Alpine,” he clarified. "She’s the cat loafing on the windowsill in my living room, always staring out.”

You felt your face warm, and your posture eased up instantly. Not only was your neighbor hot as hell, but he was single—and a cat dad! There was a bit of an age gap, but that wasn’t something you couldn’t handle.

You crossed your arms, the movement accentuating your breasts beneath the thin tank top, and jutted your hip out to emphasize your curves. You smiled pridefully, watching as Bucky’s gaze traced a slow path from your eyes down your body.

“Like father, like daughter, then.”

His grin widened handsomely. “What can I say? We like looking at pretty things.”

You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. He was such a natural flirt—and despite all your attempts to grab his attention, your words suddenly failed you when the time came.

Bucky glanced around the driveway as if he were still searching for someone. Then, he asked, “That guy who usually comes over to help you out—” he brought up slyly, still looking around, “he your boyfriend?”

You blinked at his question. The way he was subtly trying to fish for information made your stomach do a flip in celebration.

“Steve?” you asked, your voice coming out breathier than intended. A small, teasing smile tugged at your lips. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”

You noticed the way Bucky’s shoulders relaxed slightly at your words. He was jealous.

“He goes to Jepsen, too?” He questioned.

“Yeah, he’s my senior.”

“Ah,” Bucky drawled. “A frat boy, then?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his endless questioning. “I wouldn’t call him that. He’s my best friend,” you reassured him, watching the way his blue eyes searched yours. “He just comes over sometimes to help out—or more like he comes over to make fun of me while I do all the work.”

Bucky chuckled a deep, gravelly sound that was effortlessly charming. “Best friend, huh?” He pushed himself off your car, taking a step closer to you. Fuck, he even smelled good. “Well, I can’t say I blame him for wanting to hang around. Though, if you ever need a man who’ll actually help instead of just laughing at you, you know where I live.”

He tilted his head toward the house across the street, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before meeting your eyes again.

“You said your parents were away on vacation?” he asked.

You nodded.

“For how long?”

“Just for a couple of days,” you replied.

Bucky hummed, an amused smile playing on his face as he looked at you. He leaned in, his voice releasing a low murmur as his warm breath tickled your skin.

“A couple of days, huh?”

You caught his gaze tracing a path down your tank top before he met your eyes with a devastatingly slow smirk. If he had this much confidence at his big old age, he was definitely a troublemaker when he was in college, that’s for sure.

“Would you look at that? That’s plenty of time for us to get well-acquainted.”

He watched the way your breath hitched and smiled, looking satisfied. He pulled away and turned back towards his side of the street. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought he heard a small whine escape you.

“See you around, neighbor,” he called over his shoulder with a charming smile, sauntering down your driveway and back towards his own.

As he walked off, your heart was beating with excitement—beating far too fast to keep up. And the only thing you could think about was how much you were going to gloat about this to Steve later.

You sat across from Steve at the same dingy diner where you two met every Thursday for brunch.

While you sat cross legged on one side of the booth, Steve sat opposite from you in a crisp navy blue collared shirt with a name tag that read HYDRA’S MECHANIC! and the name Steven on the top right.

“He has a cat, Steve. A cat!” You smiled, dipping your toast into a pool of egg yolk. “Her name is Alpine—and he called her ‘his girl.’ Isn’t that so sweet? I nearly had a heart attack right there in the driveway.”

Steve held a coffee mug in his hand, watching you. He was supposed to be heading into work in twenty minutes, but he was currently occupied with the girl in front of him—and her endless rambling.

“And he’s single,” you continued through a mouthful of toast. “No ring, no wife—just a gorgeous, ripped cat dad with a voice that sounds like it came straight out of a smutty audiobook.” You paused, taking a quick sip of your drink. “I mean, yeah, he’s definitely got a few years on me. He’s a little older, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. It just makes him more…” You sighed dreamily. “Capable.”

Steve didn’t say a word. He set his coffee cup down, picked up a fry, and dipped it slowly into a side of ranch with a lopsided smile.

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you caught his grin.

“Nothing,” he said simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Steve. I know that face,” you pointed out. “That’s your ‘I’ve got something to say, but I won’t’ face mixed with something else. Come on, tell me! What are you thinking?”

Steve chuckled, wiping his hand on a napkin before leaning back in the booth. “I don’t know how I feel about you going after some guy who’s that much older than you. He seems like the type of guy you have fun with—not someone you bring home to your parents.”

Your eyes went wide. “What? You encouraged me to go for it!”

Steve held up his hands defensively. “I know, I know! It’s just… I don’t know. Can’t a guy worry?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his bashfulness. “Aw, you’re worried over little ol’ me, Stevie?” You tilted your head, taunting him.

He rolled his eyes. “You know what? Forget I even said anything—”

“No, no,” you leaned in, resting both arms on the table “Okay, fine. I’m hearing you. What can I do that’ll make you more comfortable in this situation?”

Steve shrugged, lifting the coffee cup and bringing it to his lips. “Could start by meeting the guy, I guess.”

“Okay,” you agreed casually. “He did mention you, actually.”

Steve quirked a brow, eyeing you over the rim of his mug. “Did he?”

You nodded. “He asked if you were my boyfriend.”

He scoffed a laugh. “Boyfriend? He’s already getting jealous? God—how old is he again?”

You gave him a look. “He was just curious, Steve.”

“Sure, and I’m a superhero fighting crime in New York.” Steve set his mug down, dipping another fry into ranch and plopping it into his mouth. He gathered his phone and wallet, quickly tucking them into his pockets. “I gotta go. Shift is starting soon.”

“Wait.” You sat up straight. “My dad won’t stop texting me asking if you can fix the wagon—it keeps making this weird noise and he won’t leave me alone until you look at it.”

“I’m free tomorrow after work. I’ll swing by then. I’ll consider this—” he motioned to the table, where the bill sat squarely in the middle with your name on it, “—payment for the repair.” Steve pushed himself out of the booth, licking the ranch off his thumb before pointing a finger at you. “I’ll text you. And don’t screw the guy ‘til I meet him.”

You couldn’t even get a word in before Steve was already rushing out the door, the bell jingling after him.

“Yeah. Okay, Dad.”

After paying for brunch, you drove home feeling giddy.

Turning the corner onto your street, you spotted Bucky right outside his house, mowing the lawn. This time, he was shirtless.

You purposefully slowed down to get a good look at him, but the moment he looked up and spotted your car pulling into the driveway, he smiled—aiming it right at you through your fishbowl wagon on wheels.

Parked in the driveway, you took a quick look at yourself in the pull down mirror, checking to make sure there weren’t any crumbs on your face or a stray strand of hair sticking out. Smoothing down your top and adjusting your shorts, you stepped out of the car—aiming for casual. But with the way your heart was beating, you were anything but.

Bucky had killed the mower engine and was wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked hypnotizing, his chest and stomach glistening in the afternoon sun.

“Eventful day, I take it?” He nodded towards your car. “Noticed your wagon was missing from the driveway this morning.”

He had noticed you were gone? You tried your best not to smile.

“Oh, yeah,” you leaned against trunk nonchalantly. “I went to have brunch with a friend.”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest—a move that did very interesting things to his biceps that were hard to ignore—and leaned his weight back on one leg.

“Let me guess,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Steve?”

After Steve’s comment about Bucky being jealous, you couldn’t help but bask in confidence. You quirked a brow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Are you jealous?”

Bucky tilted his head, pretending to contemplate the question as he looked you up and down.

“Only a little,” he admitted with that handsome smile of his.

You grinned. “Well, there’s no need to be jealous, I assure you,” you explained, pushing yourself off the car.

Taking a step back, you gestured vaguely to his yard. “I’ll let you get back to it, though. You look pretty busy,” you said, despite how much you actually wanted to pull up a folding chair and just stare.

You turned to head towards your front door, but you didn’t get far before his voice stopped you.

“You know,” Bucky called out as he began crossing the street. “Your car is looking a little dirty.”

You stopped and turned back, your breath catching as you watched him make his way onto your driveway. Shirtless and confident, he looked even more imposing standing on your property than he had the other day. He came to a halt beside the green wagon, glancing at the circle of bird poop sitting right on the roof.

Then, he looked back at you with a smile—as if he already knew you wouldn’t say no.

“Need some help cleaning?”

“I…” Your eyes trailed to his bare chest slicked with sweat. You didn’t know how you were going to control yourself, but despite it all, you swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”

Minutes later, you found yourself grabbing all the supplies needed to get the car cleaned. Bucky stood by the bucket, holding the hose as the water filled the plastic. It took everything in you not to stare at the way the sun was shining down on his tanned skin, sweat and water glistening down the hard lines of his stomach.

His jeans sat dangerously low on his hips, the hem of his briefs peeking out over the top. He hadn’t even started cleaning the car yet, but he already looked hotter just standing there than you ever felt trying to look appealing while washing the wagon.

When the bucket was full, he lifted it by the handle without much struggle. You watched as his biceps and forearms flexed against the weight of it. His eyes caught yours, and you swallowed hard, quickly forcing your gaze away.

Bucky stepped to the passenger side, opposite where you were standing. He didn’t seem bothered by your staring.

Actually, he seemed to be feeding off the attention, especially after catching you several times.

“This is a nice car,” he commented, dunking a sponge into the soapy water. “Vintage. I’m surprised she’s still kicking around.”

While Bucky scrubbed down the passenger side, you kept trying to sneak glances through the untinted windows. From where you stood, you had a perfect view of his chest muscles and his stomach pressing against the glass as he worked.

“Uh—yeah,” you cleared your throat, forcing your focus back. “It’s from the sixties. It’s my dad’s, actually. Steve just helps me fix it up.”

“Your friend Steve,” Bucky mused, peeking at you over the roof. “He a mechanic?”

“Yup,” you nodded. “So if you hear loud car noises coming from across the street tomorrow when he fixes it, you can blame him.”

“This Steve guy sounds like a total catch,” Bucky said with a light laugh. “You sure you’re not dating him?”

You weren’t sure why Bucky was so insistent on you having a secret relationship with Steve. You had your fair share of insecure men who were jealous of you hanging around with someone like Steve Rogers, and you figured that habit died out once men hit the age of twenty five. But with Bucky standing across from you, poking at your relationship with Steve, you were starting to think that wasn’t the case.

“I swear, I’m not dating Steve.” You raised a pinky so he could see it over the roof. “Besides, he’s like an older brother to me.”

Bucky blew a raspberry.

“Poor kid,” he chuckled. “But really, I’m surprised he hasn’t made a move on you.” He bent down to clean the rim right above the tire, letting his eyes trail over your body through the window. “If I had a pretty girl like you in my life... we wouldn’t have been friends for long.”

You felt your heart stutter.

What did that even mean?

Did he mean he would make you his girlfriend?

You wanted to hear him say it—to blurt out the answer himself.

You dumped your sponge in your bucket, letting yourself get damp with the soapy water.

“Is that so?” you challenged, trying your best to play it cool. “And what would we be then?”

He stood up with a low groan, looking at you over the roof. He began making his way towards your side of the car, moving purposefully slow as he dragged his sponge across the hood—hardly even pretending to clean it anymore.

“After watching you wash this car—looking like a woman straight out of my dreams? We’d be a lot of things,” he said smoothly, locking eyes with you as he reached the corner of the bumper. “But ‘friends’ sure as hell isn’t one of them.”

You grinned, allowing him to be the one to approach you as you continued scrubbing.

“So,” you kept your voice playful, a little teasing. “You’ve been watching me?”

Bucky didn’t bother denying it.

He stopped just inches away from you. He let his tongue run slowly over his bottom lip, his eyes traveling shamelessly down your body. He was mesmerized with the path of the soap bubble trickling down your collarbone, sliding between the curve of your breasts before disappearing into the thin fabric of your tank top, where your perky nipples were poking right through.

It was hard for him to ignore. They were practically begging to be licked.

“Hard not to,” he rasped, stepping closer until he was standing directly behind you. He propped one strong arm against the roof of the wagon, locking you in. “Especially when you’re giving me a view like that from across the street.”

You let out a shaky breath—one that you hoped he didn’t catch, but he did. You stared at him through the reflection of the window, and his eyes were on you—tracing your face, leaning in to smell you.

It was this very moment that made you remember the age gap, because he was moving and talking so smoothly, like it was all natural to him. As if he had been swooning women like you for years.

But you weren’t going to let that shake you up.

You pushed your hips back subtly, letting your damp ass press against his hips. You tried not to gasp at the straining bulge that was waiting for you between his legs.

“Well, I’m right here,” you said quietly, staring at him in the reflection. “So, what then?”

Bucky looked around, his gaze sweeping across the street to make sure no one else was near.

With one hand still propped against the car, the other found your hip, giving it a firm squeeze to keep you right where you were with your ass pressed tight against his cock.

“Do you want to know what I love most about being in this neighborhood, aside from the fact that I have a super attractive neighbor living across from me?”

He rocked his hips forward, letting his hard bulge nestle perfectly between the curve of your bottom. His cock was fighting the restraint of his jeans, and just from that small movement alone, you could feel how big he was.

Bucky pressed his lips against your ear, murmuring low and tickling your skin with his warm breath. “I love how quiet it is. There’s rarely anyone outside, or even driving by... so when I touch you like this...” His hand slid up from your hip to cup your breast through your tank top. “No one will even notice.”

You gasped as he fondled your tits, his rough fingers flicking the sensitive peak of your nipple. As he dampened your shirt with his wet hands, the water seeped through the thin fabric, making every bit of friction feel even more sensitive than the last.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Oh,” he let out a low, rough breath. “You’re so reactive. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Bucky’s hand left the roof of the car to wrap around your eyes, pulling you even closer against him. He rocked his hips—back and forth, in a steady rhythm—dry humping you right there against the green wagon in your driveway where anyone could see.

The friction of his denim against your damp, thin shorts made a warm heat pool in your lower belly. Every grind of his hips was met with a hard twitch in his jeans, making your body ache for more.

His hands were everywhere. One hand gripped your hip, tickling the skin beneath the fabric as he gave your flesh a possessive squeeze.

The other continued to fondle your tits, tickling your nipple through the wet cotton. His thumb and forefinger would catch your nipple, rolling it until you were arching your back and whimpering his name.

“Cute noises coming out of you,” he murmured against the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “I wonder what kind of noises you’ll make if someone were to drive by and see what I’m doing to you?”

You shuddered as his hands roamed lower, his fingers playing with the hem of your shorts. He undid the button with just one hand, letting his fingers trace the skin of your mound, grazing low until he found your clit—lightly rubbing the nub of his finger against it.

A moan left your lips as you arched your back deeper against him. He groaned as your ass rubbed against his throbbing cock.

While Bucky’s fingers toyed with your clit—rubbing in deep, circular motions—he rocked his hips, seeking pleasure of his own. You were moaning, breathing hard as you stared down at him playing with you.

“Bucky… I… mph—” you moaned, your voice pitched high. You ground your hips against his hand, fucking yourself onto his fingers.

With Bucky standing right behind you, he looked down at the soapy water trickling over your chest, his cock growing harder by the second.

He wasn’t lying when he said you looked like a woman straight out of a dream. He wanted nothing more than to tear your clothes apart—which he could do easily—and fuck you right on the hood of the car he’d been watching you parade yourself on for the past few days.

He was so horny, he needed to sink into you—fast.

But first, he needed to see how much of him you were willing to take, starting with his fingers.

“Gotta test you, baby,” Bucky rasped against your ear. “See how much your little pussy can take.”

His hand traced down from your clit to your folds. He groaned once his fingers made contact with your slick heat. You were so wet, so easily riled up, and so ripe for the taking, yet he wanted to make this last.

Bucky glanced around one more time—the coast was clear. He shoved your shorts down, exposing your ass to the cool air, and pushed your lace panties to the side. He probed his middle finger against your entrance, dancing his digit in a curling motion to prepare you.

“So wet,” he murmured, grinning at your little gasps and mewls. “Could easily slide my finger right in.”

His middle finger slowly eased into your pussy, the warm flesh of your entrance accommodating him smoothly. There was a bit of a stretch, sure, but he could easily finger fuck you right now with no struggle at all.

“How many can you take?” he asked.

You felt your face warm at his question. “… Two.”

He hummed against your ear. “Two, huh?”

Without warning, his ring finger took a quick drag against your entrance—already stuffed by his middle finger—and slid in slowly. Your mouth dropped as a broken gasp tore from your throat. The stretch was burning. His fingers were long and thick, and having two of them inside was enough to fill you completely.

“Fuck—Bucky!”

Bucky didn’t give you a chance to fully adjust to his two fingers before he started moving—thrusting in and out, curling deep inside you as he searched for every sensitive spot. With his free hand still clamped onto your hip, he humped you from behind, groaning as his denim jeans grew even tighter around his throbbing cock.

He was so hard it was painful.

His need to sink himself inside you was spiraling out of control as he felt his pre-cum soaking into his waistband. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he watched the way your ass bounced against his hand, swallowing his fingers with every move.

“Christ,” he hissed against your neck. He slowed his hand just enough to hook a third finger against your entrance, probing the tight and overtaxed muscle. “You’re squeezing my fingers so tight, baby.”

He looked at you through the reflection of the window, and you stared back, caught in his dark gaze. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nodded with a whimper.

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and without warning, he pressed the tip of his pointer finger against your stretched entrance.

Your eyes flew wide at the sensation as he slowly began sinking that third finger in, forcing you to press your tits and hands into the glass window for support.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “What are you—!”

“Think you can take three?”

He couldn’t even sink his third finger in all the way, your body simply wouldn’t allow it.

The stretch was a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure, your hips going stiff as you struggled to take him in. He was breathing hard against your ear, and you could feel every heavy throb of his cock right behind you.

“Oh my—fuck, Bucky! It’s too much, I can’t—”

He continued rutting his hips against yours, silently encouraging you to accommodate all three fingers. You could tell he was trying to hold back. His fingers stayed there, unmoving, while his hips did all the work.

“Shit,” Bucky cursed, his hand stilling completely inside you. “Three’s a little tight, huh? Come on, baby. Try for me. If you can take three, then you can take my cock with no problem.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to relax the muscles that were fighting him.

Slowly, you began to push back, easing yourself onto those three thick fingers and sinking down until you felt the base of his hand press against your folds.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he felt your tight cunt finally give way to accommodate him. He was hard as hell, his balls growing heavier and his cock thickening against your lower back with every heavy breath he took.

“Fuck. That’s a good fucking slut,” he hissed, his hips rutting in an uneven motion. “Taking all three fingers—God, you’re being so good for me.”

His teeth traced the column of your neck, biting gently to make you gasp. His lips closed against your skin, sucking and marking you as he murmured filth in your ear.

“So fucking tight,” he whispered. “Been watching you for days, thinking you were going to be untouchable—just eye candy for a man like me living across the street.” He curled his fingers, hitting your sensitive spot and making you cry out his name. “Who knew I’d have you right here, pinned against your daddy’s car, being stretched out in broad daylight.”

You watched him through the reflection, your pussy clenching around his fingers at the dark way he was staring at you.

“Oh, you’re such a little slut for your neighbor, aren’t you?”

Your cunt fluttered around him, his fingers fucking you so thoroughly you felt like you could cum.

“Bucky,” you whined, your hips twitching as you tried to clench your legs together. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

“No,” he grunted, his voice deep and rough. “Not yet.”

If he had fucked you for even a second longer, you would have cried out in pleasure and came right there in your driveway.

But instead, he abruptly yanked his fingers out, the vulgar squelch sound following after. You let out a cry of frustration, your body slumping against the window as he left you feeling cold and aching.

Behind you, Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours in the window’s reflection as he slowly licked your juices off his fingers. The act was so unapologetically filthy that your face burned with embarrassment.

“You even taste sweet, too,” he murmured.

He took a step back, his hands fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. He gave himself a quick squeeze through the denim before finally freeing himself.

You couldn’t help it. You looked over your shoulder and your breath hitched.

Now, you understood exactly why he wanted you to take three fingers first.

His cock was massive, thick and pulsing for you. He stepped back into the space between your legs and slapped his cock against your lower back. It was hot, hard, heavy, and already wet at the tip where he leaked pre-cum. His breathing was labored as he grabbed his shaft, rubbing the tip against your bare ass—smearing his slickness and marking you from behind.

Bucky moaned at the sight of his pre-cum glistening on your soft skin.

“What a pretty, pretty whore,” he cooed. He leaned over you, his thick arm hooking around your waist to bend you over while your hands pressed against the window.

He couldn’t wait any longer. He slapped his cock against your wet pussy, making you wince as your body hummed with anticipation.

“Your pussy’s all stretched out now, ready to take me.” He grabbed his shaft, positioning the head right at your entrance.

The tip of his cock nestled perfectly between your wet, aching folds. Just the sensation of it alone was enough to make him groan in pleasure.

It felt as if your entrance was giving him warm, wet kisses, welcoming him home.

“So, it should just slide right in,” he rasped, slowly drawing his hips forward and beginning to sink into you. “Fuck.”

He couldn’t even make it past the head because of how tight you were squeezing him. His face scrunched in a twist of pleasure and pain, his arm wrapping you tight as he fought for control. You mewled and whined so sweetly—the sound of it should have made him feel bad, but it only made him want to tear you apart more.

“Fuck—how the hell are you still so tight, even after everything?”

Every time he tried to draw his hips forward, your body buckled and clamped down, refusing to give an inch more than the head of him.

“God,” he hissed, forehead dropping to the back of your neck as he struggled to breathe. “What a tight pussy fuck.”

He tried to rock into you again—slow and agonizing. He was gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, his cock pulsing as your cunt fluttered around him, desperate to stretch around his size.

“F—fuck, Bucky, I’m trying—” you whimpered.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped, rocking his hips and trying to find pleasure from what little was already inside you. “I already stretched you out. I know you can take me. You’re just so fucking small.”

You looked at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. His face was twisted. He looked almost angry—snarling from how difficult this was for him.

You tried pushing your hips back, wincing from the delicious stretch.

“Is this hurting you, Bucky?” you asked, your voice coming out more timid than you’d like. “Are you hurting because I’m so tight?”

A raspy, deep groan tore straight from his throat. You were asking out of genuine concern, but he took it as a challenge.

“God—you fucking—are you trying to test me?”

Bucky kicked your legs wider, his hands clamping down on your waist. He hauled your body back into his, then completely sheathed his cock into your tight pussy.

The air left your lungs the minute your ass pressed against his pelvis. His dark curls were hot against your skin as he finally, finally buried himself all the way inside you. He was in to the very hilt, but you were still so tight that moving was nearly impossible.

He stayed perfectly still for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he let the sensation of your tightness settle.

In the window’s reflection, it looked as filthy as it felt—a large, shirtless, and sweaty man mounting and rutting into you from behind like an animal, his broad shoulders swallowing your frame as his heavy arms circled you, keeping you pinned close and tight.

“Fuck,” he choked out. “There it is. There you are.”

After a moment of adjustment, he began to rock his hips. He drew in and out slowly, fucking you with deep, hard strokes that made the car creak.

“Christ, look at you,” he hissed, his eyes fixed on your reflection over your shoulder. “Stretched wide open—fucked like a whore for the whole neighborhood to see. You’re taking every goddamn inch of me, aren’t you, baby?”

Your face twisted in pleasure, your bottom lip hanging open as you moaned a litany of words. “Don’t stop... Please, Bucky, please.”

“This was why you were putting your body on display for me, huh? Hoping I’d finally cross the street one day and fuck you.” He fought for his breath as his hips increased the pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, relentlessly making you his. “You’re a smart cookie, too. Made sure your parents were out of town so you could act like a total slut.”

You moaned, eyes rolling back at his filthy words as your body clenched in reaction. “Yes! Yes, Bucky! I’m a slut for you!”

He groaned as he tilted his hips, forcing himself even deeper into your abused pussy.

“Squeezing me so tight... I can only imagine how you’d react if your parents were to drive down the street right now. Imagine them seeing their precious daughter getting split open by her older neighbor—a man they haven’t even met yet.”

He felt your body begin to tremor, your walls fluttering around his pulsing cock. He leaned in even closer, his hot, raspy breath dancing against the shell of your ear.

“Now, what would happen if your poor best friend—Steve, was it?—drove down here expecting to fix your car, only to find you with your tits pushed against the glass, stuffed full of my cock? How would you react then?”

Your knees wobbled and your eyes rolled back at the image. Your body convulsed, your pussy squeezing him impossibly tight at the filthy thought of it.

“Oh, my god—S-steve...!”

Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh, followed immediately by a deep, guttural groan at the sensation of you clenching around him. He didn’t even care that you moaned another man’s name when he had you stuffed.

“Fuck, so goddamn tight,” he rasped, his arms wrapping around you tighter as you shook. “Shit, you like it, don’t you? The idea of getting caught by your best friend? Fuck—what a goddamn nasty whore you are.”

His hips began to blur against yours as he fucked you harder, the car creaking and groaning with every thrust.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how you’re clenching around me just at the thought of him. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him?” He leaned over, biting your shoulder to stifle his own grunt. “Would you let your best friend watch me split you open like this?”

You nodded frantically, sweat beading at your temple from being used so thoroughly. The talk—the idea of it was filthy, a dream that you would’ve never considered doing, but Bucky was fucking you so good that anything he said at this point was hypnotic.

“Yes, yes, Bucky, please! You both can take turns using me!”

“Nasty little slut,” Bucky hissed, his teeth biting gently at your skin again. “Fuck. I’m getting close.”

You nodded hard again, your knees nearly giving out if it weren’t for his big hands holding you back. “Me—me too, shit—!”

Bucky’s grip on your body tightened, pulling you close against his bare and sweaty chest.

After three hard thrusts that bottomed out against your womb, he let out a deep grunt against your neck, his body going stiff as he finally came.

His cock pulsed as cum began to spill out of his tip, pumping you full of his seed and staying completely stuffed inside you until you were filled to the brim. Your head tossed back as a cry left your throat, your overworked pussy clamping down on him and pulsing in a way that milked every last drop out of him.

He held you tight, breathing deep into your back as you both fought for air. “Fuck—you’re draining my balls dry, sweetheart.”

You both started to laugh—deep, tired, and rumbling laughs at everything that had just transpired out in the open, right in your very driveway.

Bucky looked down, pulling out slightly and watching with blown out pupils as his cum trickled out of you and onto the concrete, where it mixed with the soapy water.

“Dirty, dirty girl.”

You spent the following afternoon in your room, going through lectures, though you were hardly paying attention to them. With your cheek resting on your palm, your eyes kept drifting to the open window that gave you a perfect, convenient view of the house right across the street.

Bucky’s house.

The driveway was empty, and the lights inside were off. The blinds were pulled open though, and you could see Alpine—the little cat he mentioned—loafing on the windowsill and staring back at you.

In that moment, the two of you were exactly the same.

Just waiting for Bucky to come home.

The silence of your bedroom was overtaken by the rumble of a truck engine. Sitting up and peeking out the window, you recognized Steve’s battered pickup truck turning into the driveway before the engine cut out.

Steve climbed out of the driver’s seat, looking as exhausted as ever, but he had still shown up for you.

You smiled, racing down the stairs to meet him outside. In the driveway, it was clear that his shift at Hydra’s mechanic shop had done a number on him. His navy blue collared shirt was stained with sweat and motor oil, with dark streaks smeared across his jaw and down the length of his thick forearms.

“Steve,” you breathed with a smile. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Steve shut the door, the truck shaking from the force. “Could never forget about you. Work was just running me late.” He reached for his tools in the flatbed with a tired groan. “How’s your car holding up? Been using it since we had lunch yesterday?”

Your face warmed at the question.

Using it wouldn’t be the right term for it, you thought.

“Not really,” you said, trying to hide the bashful expression on your face.

“Still making that weird creaking noise?” he asked, walking over to the front and popping the hood.

You bit your lip and nodded. “Yep.”

Steve stood over the engine, glancing at wires and mechanical parts that were completely foreign to you.

“How’s it looking?” you asked, hovering over his shoulder.

He didn’t look back as he lifted a straining wire with his pointer finger, examining it closely. “Looks like she’s been through it.”

You had to bite back a snort. You would’ve complimented him on his sense of humor—if only he had known any better.

“Thanks for doing this, Steve,” you said, giving him a pat on his sweaty back. “My dad’s going to be real grateful.”

Steve nodded. “How are you and that neighbor doing?” He still kept his focus on the wires, his voice casual and unassuming. “You two didn’t screw each other after my warning yesterday, right?”

You were so glad he was focused on the engine—the face you made would’ve given it all away.

“What kind of girl do you think I am?” you scoffed playfully, crossing your arms defensively.

Steve glanced up at you with a chuckle. “A good one, I hope.” He brought his tools to the edge of the car, rummaging through the kit. “You two exchanged numbers yet?”

“Do I have to?” you shrugged. “He lives right across the street.”

Steve tilted his head, agreeing. “You make a good point.” He looked back at the engine. “When are you going to introduce me to the guy?”

You leaned against the car with a roll of your eyes. “Steve, you’re sounding an awful lot like my dad. And why are you in such a rush to meet him, anyway?”

Steve shrugged, pulling a wire stripper out of his toolbox before setting it back down on the ground. “I’m your best friend, alright? It’d give any man peace of mind to know what kind of person you’re talking to. Hand me a wrench, would you?”

Crouching, you dug into his toolbox until you found something that resembled a wrench. You handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the tool from your hand. His brows furrowed as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt, the muscles in his forearms and biceps flexed hard, giving you an up close and personal view of a working man.

After the filthy things Bucky hissed in your ear yesterday, you couldn’t help but stare. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him? Even worse was the memory of what you cried out in response. You both can take turns using me!

You wanted to slap yourself for the secondhand embarrassment you were giving yourself.

You wouldn’t consider it—no, you couldn’t. Steve was the person you grew up with, the one who fended off your bullies in kindergarten. Steve was the one who drove you to school every morning in high school. Steve was the one who took you to prom when no one else did.

Steve was family.

But as he stood there, covered in motor oil and sweat, you finally understood why a man like Bucky would be jealous over you hanging out with a man like Steve Rogers.

The wrench slipped, clattering against the frame of the car before hitting the driveway with a noise that made you flinch.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He bent down to pick it up. He stood up straight—reminding you all over again of just how big he was compared to you—and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

While you were having filthy thoughts about your best friend, he was standing there in an increasingly sour mood. Between the long shift at Hydra’s and the oppressive heat of the bright afternoon sun, he looked completely spent.

You didn’t know the first thing about wire strippers or engine blocks, and you felt useless just hovering over his shoulder.

“I’m going to go make you a lemonade,” you said, giving his shoulder another supportive pat. “I’ll be back, okay?”

Steve didn’t say anything. He just gave a single, firm nod to let you know he heard you.

As you retreated inside, a car that Steve didn’t recognize pulled up to Bucky’s driveway.

It was a sleek, black convertible sports car. Steve couldn’t help but clench his jaw at the sight of it. Of course Bucky drove a sports car.

He stood no chance against his rundown pickup.

Bucky stepped out of the vehicle, running a hand through his hair. As he turned to glance at your driveway, expecting to see you, his blue eyes landed on Steve instead.

For all that talk about wanting to meet him, Steve really only cared to do it if you were there, bridging the gap. So for now, until you returned with his lemonade—which he was sure would make Bucky jealous—Steve tried to keep himself too occupied to notice him.

But he kept catching movement in his peripheral vision. Then another. Then another. A stupid, persistent movement that wouldn’t go away, like a goddamn fly.

Steve finally lifted his head and saw Bucky still in his driveway, waving.

Waving?

At what?

Steve turned around, expecting to see you standing right behind him with the lemonade, but you weren’t. The porch remained empty—meaning Bucky was waving at him.

“Need any help there?” Bucky called out from across the street, resting his hands on his hips.

Steve pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “I’m good!” he called back. Short, straight to the point, and friendly enough.

He looked back down at the engine, but it didn’t take long before a bright spark jumped from the terminal with a loud popping sound. Steve jolted back with a hiss, snapping his hand away from the burn. “Shit!”

Across the street, Bucky was already making his way over with a smug grin that Steve caught—and one he especially wanted to wipe off.

Jesus. Where were you?

“Here,” Bucky finally reached him, occupying the small space between the car’s engine and where Steve was standing. “Let me help you with that.”

Before Steve could fight for his spot, Bucky was leaning over the hood, adjusting the wires in a way that made Steve—the man wearing an actual mechanic’s uniform—feel like a fool.

Steve stepped up to the hood, propping his arm against it as he looked the man over. “So, you’re the new neighbor that moved in not too long ago, right?” He already knew the answer, but this was at least him trying for short conversation.

Bucky looked up at Steve, his eyes slowly tracing over his uniform. Steve felt his eyebrow twitch.

Was Bucky silently insulting him?

“Yup,” Bucky drawled with the pop of the p. “And you must be my pretty neighbor’s best friend. The one she always talks about.”

It was getting harder by the second for Steve to go along with this. Bucky acted like the very frat boys at Jensen that Steve had warned you to avoid at all costs—and this man was in his mid-thirties, for crying out loud.

“Yeah. That’s me,” Steve mumbled.

Bucky stood up straight, extending his hand for a shake. “Bucky.”

Steve was wary, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the offered hand before finally reaching out to take it.

“Steve,” he replied with a firm grip.

Bucky stared at Steve for a moment longer—as if studying him—before looking back down at the engine with a huff of laughter. “You know, for a guy who works at a mechanic shop, you’re struggling pretty bad with a simple alternator issue.” He bent over the engine again, examining it. “Are you trying to actually fix the car, or just trying to impress your lady friend?”

Steve let out a dry laugh as he pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. “It’s been a long day, alright? I’ve been dealing with different cars all day, the sun is giving me a headache, and now I’ve got my best friend’s neighbor to worry about—”

He stopped himself before he could spill too much, but Bucky caught it anyway. He chuckled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he looked up at Steve from where he was bent over. “You’re worrying about me?”

Steve swallowed hard, trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m just looking out for her. New guy in the neighborhood, it’s just a habit.”

Bucky hummed, a small, knowing grin resting on his lips as he turned back to the engine block.

He leaned further under the hood of the old sixties station wagon, his fingers moving towards the distributor cap and the fraying ignition wire Steve had been struggling with. Bucky repositioned the stubborn ceramic boot, adjusting the distributor to ensure the connection wouldn’t spark again.

He wiped his hands on his thighs as he stood up straight.

“Since it’s an older model, you’re going to need to buy a specific point and condenser set for a sixties Ford wagon. But this should hold her over for now.” Bucky looked over at Steve. “You got a piece of paper so I can write down the part number you need?”

Steve blinked, surprised and undeniably impressed by how easily Bucky had handled it.

“Oh. Y-yeah, hold on—” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a small, worn notepad and a pen, handing them over.

Bucky took them, resting the pad against the car’s fender as he scribbled down the specifications. Steve glanced up, watching you through the kitchen window where you were completely oblivious, still focused on making the lemonade.

Surprisingly, he actually liked the guy. Despite the age difference, he could see potential in Bucky. He was handsome, owned his own house, drove a nice car, and was clearly respectful and handy. He was exactly the type of man your parents wouldn’t pass out at the sight of.

He was a good man for you—regrettably so.

Bucky finished writing, flipping the notepad shut and handing it back to Steve along with the pen. “Here you go.”

Steve smiled, and this time it was polite and genuine.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “It was nice meeting you, Bucky.” He held up the notepad with a slight nod. “She’ll appreciate this. I’ll tell her you said hi.”

Bucky’s smile widened just slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, catching your silhouette through the kitchen window where you were still occupied with the lemons. His gaze lingered on you for a split second before he looked back at Steve, his expression unreadable.

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky said smoothly, giving Steve a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Remember, I’m right across the street if you ever need help.”

He gave a parting nod before turning on his heel, brushing past Steve to head back to his side of the street.

Steve watched Bucky disappear past his front door. By the time the door clicked shut, you had finally stepped out onto the porch with two glasses of lemonade in your hands. Perfect timing.

“Sorry I took so long,” you said breathlessly, walking down the steps and handing him a glass. “It’s been a minute since I last made it from scratch, so…”

“You just missed him.”

You raised a brow in confusion. “Sorry?”

Steve brought the cold glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tart drink before nodding towards the house across the road.

“Bucky.” He let out a satisfied exhale, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. “He was just here—helping me with your car, actually.”

Your eyes went wide, your head snapping towards Bucky’s house—though he was nowhere to be found. You reached up, trying to smooth down your hair.

“He was? Is he coming back?” You asked, sounding too excited for your own good.

Steve shrugged, taking another sip. “Probably not. Seemed like he had other things to do.”

You looked at Steve, your eyes narrowing skeptically.

Steve caught your look and let out a soft laugh, adjusting the cold glass against his palm. “What?”

“So…” you teased, swaying back and forth subtly. “I assume you two talked for a bit then? How was he? What do you think of him?”

Steve shrugged again, a genuine smile breaking through the tired expression he had on before. “Alright, alright. You know what? He’s not a bad guy. He actually helped me fix your car. I like him.” He handed you back the empty glass, flipping through the crumpled pages to find the note Bucky had left. “He even told me what part we needed to order to get this thing fixed up and working again—”

He froze in the middle of his sentence. His eyes went wide, staring at the page as his words got lost in his mind.

You raised a brow, confused with Steve’s sudden change in demeanor. “Well? What part is it? Is it expensive?”

When he didn’t answer, you took it upon yourself to step closer and peek your head over his arm to look at the notepad. What you saw made your breath hitch, and your own eyes went wide.

There was no part number.

Written in bold handwriting, on the paper was a phone number, Bucky’s phone number, followed by a little message in black ink.

you’re gonna have to call me if you want that part number. xoxo, buck.

Your jaw hung so loose, a fly could’ve flown in at any moment. Steve didn’t know what to say either—if anything, he was standing there frozen, waiting for you to say something first.

“Oh my god,” was all that managed to leave your mouth. You looked up at Steve, your wide eyes meeting his. “Is Bucky…?”

Steve, poor Steve, who remained completely oblivious to the fact that you and Bucky had fucked just yesterday on this very driveway, only felt confusion and secondhand guilt.

He glanced across the street at the sleek, clean Mazda resting in Bucky's driveway, specifically staring at the custom vanity license plate on the back that read ‘BIGBUCK.’

Steve swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing with a rosy shade of pink. Though, he could easily excuse it for the sun.

“Of course,” he mumbled to himself. “He drives a Miata.”

if you were curious to know why a mazda miata specifically, you can thank r/askgaybros for that when i was conducting my research.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”

If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”

If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.

Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.

From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.

No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.

“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.

He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.

There was no sound.

Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.

After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.

There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.

He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.

You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.

“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”

He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.

“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.

When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”

You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.

He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?

Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.

After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.

Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”

Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.

“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”

You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.

“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.

Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”

He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”

“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”

Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.

“You mean the books?”

You nodded.

He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”

“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.

Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”

Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.

“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.

“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”

Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.

Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.

“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”

“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”

He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”

“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?

He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.

“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”

You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.

“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”

That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”

You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.

Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.

He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”

You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.

When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.

“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.

But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.

A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.

He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.

“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.

But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.

“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”

Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?

“No,” you protested weakly.

Bucky tilted his head. “No?”

You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”

Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”

When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.

You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.

“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”

Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.

But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.

Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.

“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”

You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.

“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”

“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”

“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”

He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.

Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.

“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.

He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.

“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”

With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”

He wasn’t leaving.

He was going to fix you.

You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.

Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.

“Lay down, doll.”

The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.

You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.

“Easy, doll. Easy.”

A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.

He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.

Which… in a way, you had.

Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.

“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”

You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.

“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.

Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.

“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”

You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”

Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.

“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”

You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.

“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.

“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”

You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.

Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.

His mind was always on you.

His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.

“Woah, easy there, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.

“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”

Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”

Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”

Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.

“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”

Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”

Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”

Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.

“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”

A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.

It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.

Christ, you were probably starving.

He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.

You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.

He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.

Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.

His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.

“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”

The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.

“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.

“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.

Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.

So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?

“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”

Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”

Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.

“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”

Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”

“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”

Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.

“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”

“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”

Steve let out a long breath.

He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.

He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.

“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”

It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.

The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?

The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.

Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.

But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.

You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.

“Bucky! You’re back, I—”

You stopped.

The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.

Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.

“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”

The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.

Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.

“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”

“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”

You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”

He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.

You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.

“Not poisoned. Trust me.”

He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.

After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.

Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.

Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.

As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.

You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.

It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.

“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”

He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.

“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.

“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”

You stayed silent.

“Have you ever been outside this room?”

Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.

“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”

With each word, he moved closer.

Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.

He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.

“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”

He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.

“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.

“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”

Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.

Ah. There it was.

That was how he could get through to you.

Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.

“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”

You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.

That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.

“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”

You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.

To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.

The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.

Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.

“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”

He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.

“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.

That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.

“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.

He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.

His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.

You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.

“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”

As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.

You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.

Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.

“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”

You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”

“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.

“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”

The air left Steve's lungs.

His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.

Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.

“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”

“I—I don’t—”

“Did he rape you?”

Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.

But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.

“What does that mean?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.

“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”

The door shut quickly as he left.

But the lock didn’t click.

The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.

Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.

You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.

It looked like an obstacle.

You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.

The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.

You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.

Then, a shadow fell over you.

“Going somewhere?”

You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”

The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.

His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.

“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”

He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.

He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”

“I just wanted to see—”

“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”

“No, Bucky, I—”

“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”

You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.

“No one saw me—”

“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.

When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.

“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”

He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.

“You did this to yourself, darling.”

You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”

“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”

You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.

“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”

Bucky didn’t move.

The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.

“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”

“I didn’t—”

“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”

“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”

Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.

“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”

Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.

Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.

The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.

“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”

He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.

“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”

He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”

The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.

“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”

Another whack.

“Ow!”

“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”

Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.

He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.

With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”

He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.

“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”

Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”

Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.

Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.

But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.

“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”

He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.

“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”

Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.

You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.

“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”

Bucky hummed in approval.

He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.

He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.

Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.

You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.

“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”

His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.

“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”

You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.

“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”

“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”

“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”

One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.

Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.

The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.

The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.

“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”

He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.

You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.

You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.

“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”

Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.

His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.

“Oh—my!”

The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.

He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.

“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”

His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.

“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”

He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.

“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”

You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.

The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.

Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”

Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.

He loved you.

Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.

“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”

Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”

He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.

“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”

He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.

“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.

Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.

It was hot. It was too much.

He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Like a clock.

Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.

“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”

The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.

Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.

You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.

Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.

“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”

Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.

“Morning,” he rasped.

A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”

He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”

And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.

But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.

The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.

Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.

“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”

“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.

He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”

The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.

“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”

Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.

Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.

“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.

“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”

Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.

All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.

“Bucky—”

Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.

He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.

“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”

The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.

“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.

“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”

Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.

As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.

He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”

Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.

Was this all your fault?

Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?

“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”

All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.

“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”

Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.

Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.

You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.

With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.

Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.

“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”

And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.

The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.

Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.

“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.

His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.

Bucky hated it.

The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.

“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”

Bucky stayed quiet.

“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”

Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.

“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”

Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.

“What was she to you?”

Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.

“Did you love her?”

Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.

“More than anything,” Bucky replied.

He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.

Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.

It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.

He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?

He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.

He’d find you.

It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”

The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.

“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”

For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.

Insane?

What kind of question was that?

“No.”

anyway how writing this fic found me

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

Power tools were out.

Motorcycles, absolutely not.

Seat belts were nonnegotiable, lawn mowers were "death traps," and trampolines might as well have been medieval siege weapons.

Snowboards, mountain bikes, ladders, roofs.

Jet-skis, regular skis, bagel slicers, box-cutters.

Dogs with too much enthusiasm—every one of them had been blacklisted by a man who had seen too many fractures, too many mangled hands, too many limbs that couldn't be saved.

Even jogging too much had earned a suspicious side-eye from him, Brendon muttering darkly about cumulative joint damage and cartilage wear as if the use of your legs was a personal betrayal.

He had known long before marriage that you possessed a surplus of common sense the rest of the population seemed to mysteriously lack—especially in the realm of mundane, everyday tasks—and part of what had first drawn him to you was the cutting sharpness of your mind.

You were the first woman he had ever met who could truly keep pace with him, match his wit stride for stride, keep him honest, keep him guessing.

You never once allowed him to disappear too far into the polished arrogance of a surgeon's ego without neatly taking him down a peg and planting him back on earth where he belonged.

And yet, somehow, the sight of a mandolin slicer anywhere near your hands still sent his pulse into a frenzy, the same way he used to go visibly pale if you so much as reached for a meat cleaver.

It had always annoyed you—that suffocating, almost absurd protectiveness—because Brendon knew exactly who you were.

He knew you were careful.

Capable.

Sensible.

So for him to look at something as harmless as jogging and act as if your knees were one careless mile from catastrophe, it had always felt, if you were honest, just a little belittling.

But now, given your current situation, you had the creeping feeling that once he found out, he would never let you leave the house again.

"Thirty-two year old female involved in an altercation at a bar!" one of the EMTs piloting your gurney barked, breathless but practiced as the trauma team converged at the threshold of PTMC's emergency department. "Exchanged blows with an adult male, was knocked to the floor during the crowd surge, then sustained a compound tib-fib injury after being stepped on."

Jack Abbot was already at your bedside, gloved hands moving with cool efficiency over your face and splinted leg while Dr. Ellis and Dr. Shen flanked the gurney

"Active bleeding from the right temple, three-centimeter scalp lac. Split lower lip. Bilateral abrasions to the knuckles consistent with closed-fist strikes. Open fracture to the left tibia—visible bone protrusion lateral shin, splinted in field, distal pulse present before and after splint placement, foot warm, cap refill under two seconds."

You groaned, voice slurred but sharp with irritation as you pressed the blood-soaked pad tighter to your temple, "I told you guys to take me to Presby."

One of the EMTs exhaled through gritted teeth, exhausted. "Ma'am, please, this was the closest hospital."

John Shen's brows shot up as he glanced at the shredded knuckles and the blood on your lip, "You got into a fight with a man?"

Despite the temple blood trailing warm down the side of your face, you turned your head just enough to flash a crooked, drunken smirk. "You should see the other guy."

Your friend, Nicole, breathless and disheveled beside the gurney rail, immediately jumped in, "He pushed me off the bar while I was dancing. I was fine—she really didn't have to—"

"Shut up, Nic," you muttered, eyes half-lidded but fierce. "The bastard had it coming."

Jack's mouth twitched into a smirk as he palpated carefully around the temple wound, gaze laser-focused, "I like her."

Ellis leaned in, penlight already out as she held your cheek steady, guiding the light over your pupils, "What about the head lac? Did you fall into glass?"

You huffed a humorless laugh, "No. He clipped me with one of those ugly rings he was wearing."

You shifted, trying to lift the bloody gauze pad from your temple.

"I'm not concussed," you assured. "I just need some water."

"Keep that dressing on, ma'am," the second EMT said firmly, pushing the gauze back against your head.

The first nodded to the physician team.

"Intoxicated but alert and responsive, GCS 15. Oriented to questions. Respiration's normal, O2 sats 99,  blood pressure 128 over 82, pulse 112 sinus tach, likely secondary to ethanol, stress response, and blood loss. Pupils equal and reactive. Denies loss of consciousness."

"Open fracture site dressed with sterile wet gauze, leg immobilized with vacuum splint, bleeding at temple controlled with direct pressure," the second EMT added. "No narcotics administered en route because patient repeatedly stated she doesn't feel any pain and remained hemodynamically stable."

That made Dr. Shen glance up sharply."No pain?"

The EMT gave a grim look, "None. Not even when we aligned the leg."

You shrugged, "I got a high tolerance."

"Yeah, adrenaline and alcohol'll do that to you," Dr. Abbott confirmed.

Ellis's eyes flicked up, "Name?"

Your gaze immediately shot to the ceiling.

The EMT gave a helpless shrug, "She's refusing to state. Friend won't provide it either."

Nicole pressed her lips together apologetically and stayed silent.

You let out a sigh, muttering, "My husband'll kill me if he finds out."

John gave a short incredulous scoff, partly joking, "What, does he work here or something?"

"Yes."

Ellis deadpanned, already reaching for the side rail as they turned toward Trauma One, "That is the least of your worries right now. We need your name."

A drunken chuckle escaped your split lip, "Jane Doe."

Jack huffed a laugh of his own, then his voice snapped back into crisp command. "Let's stabilize the leg, pressure bag fluids, trauma labs, type and cross. Head strike plus temple lac buys her a one-way ticket to CT soon as she's secure."

The team surged forward, gurney rattling down the corridor at top speed.

As they whipped past the central desk, Dana stopped dead in her tracks, expression twisting into one of concern.

"(y/n)? The hell you doin' here, kid?"

At the sound of your name, you groaned, allowing your head to fall back against the gurney as it disappeared into Trauma One.

"Looks like we got a name," Jack smirked, quickly lowering the rail on his side.

"Goddamnit, Dana..." you huffed.

.

.

.

Up at Orthopedics, the air still carried that sterile, metallic chill unique to post-op corridors—chlorhexidine, cautery smoke ghosts, and the faint rubber scent of fresh gloves.

Dr. Brendon Park strode out of the OR like a storm front in navy scrubs, mask already long gone, hair still slick despite the cap he'd just stripped off.

Behind him trailed a small cluster of medical students, all of them bright-eyed in the way only the deeply sleep-deprived and painfully ambitious could be.

Brendon, meanwhile, looked about as thrilled as a man walking behind his own casket.

"Post-op for BKA," he said flatly, voice clipped and fast enough that pens nearly scratched through notebook paper, "is not complicated unless you make it complicated. Serial neurovascular checks of the residual limb. Monitor flap perfusion, capillary refill at the skin edges, temperature, color changes, any duskiness that suggests ischemia."

He calmly turned the corner, gait smooth and to-the-point like that of a dormant predator.

"Dressing stays clean, dry, and intact unless there's strike-through. Rigid removable dressing or immediate postoperative prosthesis if PM&R clears it. Elevation for edema control in the first twenty-four hours, but don't leave the knee in flexion unless you enjoy flexion contractures."

He cut a look over his shoulder so sharp it could have opened skin.

"And if you forget early prone positioning and aggressive hip and knee extension exercises, congratulations, you just bought your patient a future revision."

The residents murmured frantic notes.

Brendon hated this part of the job.

Not the surgery—never the surgery.

The amputation had been clean, efficient, textbook: posterior flap preserved, tibial cut beveled, fibula transected proximal to the tibia, myodesis secure, hemostasis immaculate.

No, what he hated was this.

The teaching.

The hand-holding.

The dead-eyed terror in learners who somehow survived anatomy and clinicals only to stand here blinking like livestock.

Teaching hospital, he reminded himself bitterly. Comes with the territory.

Without warning, he pivoted mid-stride, nearly causing the MS3 closest to him to trip over her own clogs.

"You," he snapped, fixing her with a stare. "Hypothetical. POD one, BKA patient spikes tachycardia, increasing pain out of proportion, tense posterior flap, drainage darkening under the dressing. Next step."

The student froze.

Actually froze.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her pupils went wide.

Brendon stared at her for one beat, then another, jaw flexing.

"Well?" he said curtly. "Go on. Quit wasting my time."

"I—I'd probably increase the opioid dose and maybe loosen the ace wrap to reduce—"

He cut her off with a sharp exhale through his nose.

"No," His tone was dry enough to desiccate tissue. "The next step is immediate dressing takedown to inspect the stump. Assess compartment tension, evacuate hematoma if present, and get the patient back to the OR for emergent decompression or hemostasis if there's any question of vascular compromise. Pain out of proportion after amputation is not treated by loosening bandages."

The student went pink with humiliation.

Brendon had already turned away, uninterested.

They rounded the corner into the Orthopedics charge station, the fluorescent buzz louder here over the drone of printers and distant telemetry alarms.

Charge nurse Sally was just hanging up the phone, expression pinched.

"Park," she called, "ED just called up a gnarly open tibial fracture. Sounds like a grade III, stepped on in some kind of bar fight. They're asking if you want to come take a look."

Brendon scoffed, already snagging the chart from the BKA he'd just finished.

He uncapped his pen and scribbled quick postoperative orders across the margin.

"Tell them to irrigate, start cefazolin and gent, tetanus if needed, splint, and wait." His tone was dismissive, eyes never lifting from the page. "I've got better things to do."

Then the elevator chimed.

A soft, ordinary ding.

But it sliced clean through the station noise.

The doors slid apart.

Nicole stepped out.

Brendon's pen stopped moving.

His head snapped up so fast the residents actually flinched.

His brows drew together instantly, dark and severe, eyes narrowing with a speed that telegraphed something far rarer than annoyance.

Recognition.

And then something colder.

Nicole.

Your best friend.

The two of you were supposed to be downtown right now, out celebrating her birthday.

For one suspended, electric second, the entire floor seemed to go still around him.

What the fuck was she doing here?

The instant Brendon's eyes locked with Nicole's, every trace of color drained out of her face.

Her mouth dropped open.

"Oh, shit."

The curse came out in a frantic hiss, far louder than she probably intended, and then she lunged for the elevator panel, jabbing the close door button with panicked, repeated stabs of her thumb.

Brendon moved before the doors even started to slide.

"Nicole!"

His voice cracked through the Orthopedics floor like a rifle shot.

Every resident at the charge station went rigid.

Sally's brows shot nearly to her hairline.

No one—no one—had heard that much raw emotion in Brendon Park's voice in years.

Not anger, exactly. Something sharper. Hotter.

Something terrifyingly close to fear.

He abandoned the chart in his hand without a second thought, pages fluttering against the counter as he crossed the distance in three furious strides.

His palm slammed between the narrowing doors with enough force to trigger the sensor, metal panels shuddering back open.

Nicole winced.

Brendon's face was taut.

"What the hell are you doing here?" The words came rapid-fire, clipped with fury. "Where the hell is (y/n)?"

Nicole's eyes darted left, then right, like she could physically outrun the question.

"I—I was just looking for the cafeteria," she blurted. "I got turned around."

Brendon's expression somehow got darker.

He leaned in, voice low and dangerous, every syllable razor precise.

"You know damn well that's not what I'm asking." His jaw flexed. "Why are you in a hospital, Nicole? Why aren't you out with my wife like you're supposed to be?"

She clammed up so fast it was almost audible.

Her eyes dropped.

Dodged.

Brendon barked her name again, louder this time. "Nicole."

Her chin lifted in stubborn apology, "I was sworn to secrecy."

Brendon's eyes widened.

"What do you mean sworn to secrecy?! What the hell happened?!" he snapped. "Is she hurt?!"

He stepped closer, voice dropping into something so cold it made even Sally flinch from across the desk.

"Nicole, so help me God..."

But she held.

Not a word.

Not a single word.

Brendon stared at her for one searing, vibrating beat, chest rising once, sharply.

Then he let the doors close.

The second the elevator sealed shut, he pivoted on his heel and stormed for the stairwell so fast the residents had to flatten themselves against the wall to avoid getting clipped by his shoulder.

Sally watched him go, wide-eyed.

The med students stood frozen in his wake, mouths parted.

Now that wasn't new.

This was Dr. Park the brilliant, merciless orthopedic shark who shredded residents for sport.

This was blood in the water.

And he was already hunting the source.

.

.

.

He hit the ED level in a blur of motion that made the elevator look lazy.

Fifteen flights should have left any normal person winded.

Brendon barely seemed to notice.

The stairwell door slammed open hard enough to ricochet off the wall as he strode into the chaos of PTMC's emergency department, eyes cutting through the movement with ruthless efficiency.

He scanned for one thing only:

Dana's blonde hair.

He didn't see it.

As Princess swept past carrying a stack of warm blankets, he turned sharply enough to stop her in her tracks.

"Where's your charge nurse?"

Princess blinked, eyes going wide.

He had never once, in the handful of ortho consults that dragged him down here, acknowledged her existence beyond the patient in question.

The sheer fact that he was speaking directly to her left her momentarily stunned.

Three seconds.

That was all the patience he gave her.

When she still hadn't answered, Brendon scoffed under his breath and moved on.

Across the pod, a cluster of male nurses and a couple of security guards stood in a loose knot, voices low and animated.

The second Brendon's expression came into view, the older nurses instantly read the room and scattered like prey.

Everyone except Ahmad.

New enough not to know better.

He looked up, grin easy. "Hey, man, you want in on the pool?"

Brendon ignored him, using the slightly raised vantage point near the desk to keep scanning the room.

Ahmad kept going anyway.

"Female in Trauma One. Bar fight, won't give her name but says her husband works here." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Abbott's the favorite since he admitted her, but weirdly enough Robby's pulling as a dark horse."

And then Brendon saw Dana.

He was moving before Ahmad finished the sentence.

Dana barely had time to look up before Brendon was in front of her, looming, eyes dark with something far more dangerous than his usual surgical arrogance.

She blinked once, surprised, then smirked, "Sally just called. Said you denied the tib-fib consult."

"I've got something more important," he bit out.

Dana folded her arms. "What can I do for ya, Shark?"

His response was curt, immediate.

"Park."

The smirk slipped.

"Did you admit a woman with the last name Park? Brown skin, brown eyes, curly hair." His throat bobbed once. "About this tall."

He gestured roughly to his own shoulder.

Dana frowned, already mentally running the board.

"No Parks."

His brows drew together so hard it almost looked painful, "Double check."

She held his stare, then shook her head once, firm, "No Parks in the ED today with that description."

For one second, pure frustration flashed across his face.

Then Dana's expression shifted.

"...Though," she said slowly, realization dawning, "there is that woman in Trauma One. Same description. The tib-fib from the bar fight."

The words hit him like blunt force trauma.

Brendon went still.

His heart dropped so violently it felt like it hit somewhere near his knees.

Shit.

You were the tib-fib.

Without another word, he turned and strode hard toward Trauma One, every step faster than the one before, fury and fear now fully braided into something lethal.

Dana watched him go, then slowly turned her head toward Ahmad across the room.

A grin spread across her face.

"Ahmad," she called.

He looked up.

She jerked her chin toward the retreating orthopedic surgeon. "Put fifty on Park the Shark for me."

.

.

.

The doors to Trauma One slammed inward so hard they rebounded off the stopper.

Both you and Jack Abbott jumped.

"For fuck's sake!" you yelped, your hand flying to your chest hard enough to jostle the blood-pressure cuff around your arm.

Abbott looked up from where he'd been checking the gauze at your temple, blatant displeasure flattening his mouth.

"Well," he drawled dryly, "look who finally came down from his ivory tower to join the rest of us."

Brendon didn't so much as glance at him.

His eyes found you.

Then your leg.

And every trace of color seemed to drain out of his face as his gaze landed on the mangled reality of your grade III open tibial fracture—the splint peeled back enough for the jagged cortical edge of tibia to protrude through torn skin and soaked dressings.

"Jesus Christ, (y/n)..."

His stomach visibly dropped.

He was at your bedside in two strides, all sharp motion and barely restrained panic, hands hovering before settling into practiced purpose as he took in the injury.

The second you realized it was him, your eyes screwed shut.

"Nicole," you hissed under your breath, "I'm going to kill her."

Brendon's voice came fast, rougher than you'd heard in a while, "Are you okay? Did you hit your head? Any dizziness, nausea? Can you move your toes? What the fuck happened?"

At the sheer informality of the exchange, Abbott's brows drew together.

Then it clicked.

A slow grin spread across his face.

"No shit," he said, looking between the two of you with delighted disbelief. "This is him?"

Brendon's head snapped around so sharply his curls shifted over his forehead. "What do you mean, this is him?"

And then, against his better judgment, something hot and ugly curled low in his chest.

Jealousy.

You... alone in a room with Jack Abbott for God knew how long, while you were hurt and vulnerable and half-drunk.

Not that he thought you'd do anything.

But Abbott?

He was a psych case with a stethoscope.

You turned to Jack with a pleading look, silently begging him not to say a word.

His grin only widened.

"The ED's been runnin' a betting pool on who her husband is," he said, enjoying every syllable. "Ever since she let it slip he works here and refused to give us her last name."

Slowly, Brendon's stare slid back to you, laser-sharp.

You visibly deflated.

Your glare cut to Abbott, "This is coming out of your patient satisfaction score."

He shrugged with an amused huff, "Worth it."

At the door, he paused just long enough to toss over his shoulder, "I'll take it we've secured that ortho consult."

Brendon answered with nothing more than a grunt.

The door shut behind Abbott.

Silence.

And then Brendon erupted.

"You deliberately omitted your name so I couldn't find you?!"

You scoffed right back, temper flashing despite the throbbing in your temple, "Because I knew this is how you'd react! Brendon, I am not made of glass!"

He took in one short, incredulous breath, anger still sharp but fraying at the edges with fear.

"I have every goddamn right to react like this when I find out from someone else that my wife nearly snapped her leg in half!"

His eyes dropped to the injury again, horror freshening as if seeing it for the first time.

"What the hell happened?!"

You exhaled through your nose, "It was just an incident at a bar."

That somehow made him look more alarmed.

"(y/n)," he started, voice low and serious. "Tell me what happened. Did someone do this to you?"

You held his stare for a beat.

Then sighed.

"Nicole and I were out celebrating. She was dancing on the bartop, we were having a good time, and this random asshole shoved her off."

Brendon's jaw tightened.

"She fell hard," you continued. "Really hard. So I punched him in the face."

His eyes widened a fraction.

"Then we got into it. Fist fight, cops got called, crowd rushed, people started pushing, I got knocked down..."

You gestured vaguely toward the leg.

"Yada yada, here we are."

For a moment Brendon just stared at you.

Then he almost stammered, disbelief cracking through the anger, "You got into a fight... with a man?!"

Your bandaged knuckles and split lip suddenly made awful, perfect sense.

You blinked at him, "Why is everyone so surprised by that?"

"What the hell were you thinking?!"

"I was thinking about my friend!" you snapped. "She could've cracked her skull open because of that guy. You of all people have told me enough stories to know people get seriously hurt from way less."

He shot back immediately, "Nicole isn't the one with the broken leg!"

You folded your arms over your chest and turned your face away.

"I'm not arguing with you about this," you said curtly. "It's already done. So you can either be my husband and leave until I find another doctor, or you can be Dr. Park and do the damn consult."

That hit.

It showed only in the brief tightening around his eyes, the smallest fracture in his expression, but it hit.

He wasn't trying to be that guy.

He'd spent the last ten minutes wondering if his wife was visiting a friend... or lying unidentified in the morgue.

And all because you'd hidden your name so he wouldn't get upset.

He exhaled once, slow and controlled, and forcibly redirected every ounce of emotion into the place he trusted most:

The medicine.

His gaze returned to your leg.

"Alright," he said, tone leveling into pure surgeon.

He snapped on gloves.

"I need you to answer everything honestly. Any numbness in the foot before EMS splinted it?"

"They already asked—"

"Humor me."

At his curt tone, you scoffed, but complied, "...No."

He palpated gently along the exposed margins of the wound, assessing the soft tissue and contamination. "Pain when you stretch your big toe?"

"A little."

He checked distal pulse at the dorsalis pedis, then capillary refill in your toes.

"Good distal perfusion. Toes are warm."

His fingers moved with meticulous care over the deformity.

"Obvious displaced open tibial shaft fracture, likely with associated fibular fracture. Significant periosteal stripping but the posterior soft-tissue hinge looks partially intact. No gross vascular compromise on exam, but I still need to rule out occult injury."

None of that sounded remotely reassuring.

He continued, snatching up the chart Abbott left and glancing it over.

"This needs urgent irrigation and debridement in the OR. Looks like broad-spectrum IV antibiotics were already started, but we'll need repeat tetanus verification, then likely external fixation. We'll also monitor closely for evolving compartment syndrome given the crush component."

You blinked at him.

Half of that might as well have been another language.

He finished the exam, stripped off his gloves with a sharp snap, and let out a breath.

Then his whole posture softened.

"Look," he said quietly.

Your arms loosened a little.

"I'm sorry for how I came in," he said first. "I'm sorry for how I spoke. And I'm sorry that you felt like you had to hide from me to keep the peace."

The anger had burned off, leaving only the truth beneath it.

"You scared the hell out of me," he admitted, voice lower now. "For ten minutes I didn't know if you were in the ED, visiting someone, or downstairs in the morgue. I was furious because I was terrified, and no one was telling me anything."

He rounded the gurney and gently took your hand, his thumb gliding carefully over the bandage wrapped around your raw knuckles.

"You are a strong woman, (y/n). You wouldn't be married to me if you weren't," he murmured. "But strong doesn't mean invincible."

His eyes lifted to yours, steady and sincere.

"And as your husband, it is my job to worry. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you when I could've done something to prevent it."

Guilt curled warm and uncomfortable in your stomach.

Your arms fully uncrossed.

He reached up, cupping your cheek with a careful hand, thumb brushing beneath the uninjured side of your lip.

"But I'll try to be... softer about it," he said, the word sounding begrudging but genuine. "But you can't avoid me. Not in an emergency, and especially not when you're hurt."

You caved.

Slowly, you nodded.

For Brendon, the faint curve that touched his mouth was practically a beaming grin.

"Thank you," he muttered.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

Soft.

Tender.

A world apart from the fury he'd entered with.

You hummed in pleasant surprise against his lips, the corner of your mouth quirking when he pulled back.

"Trying to bring up your patient satisfaction scores, Dr. Park?"

A quiet chuckle escaped him, forehead touching yours.

"Maybe."

.

.

Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.

You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.

Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.

It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.

You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.

With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.

There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.

“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.

He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.

A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”

A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.

There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.

The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.

He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.

Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.

A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.

The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.

Your Bucky.

“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”

A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.

He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”

“Very selfish of you, James.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.

Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.

Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.

“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”

Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.

He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.

He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.

“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”

Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.

“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”

After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.

Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”

You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”

“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”

All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.

“You ladies are unbelievable—”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”

You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.

“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”

Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”

“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”

You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.

Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.

“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”

Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.

Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.

His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.

“You could get us all in trouble.”

“You’re only thinking for yourself.”

But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.

She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.

It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.

“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”

It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.

You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.

“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”

There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.

You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.

“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.

She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”

“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.

Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”

You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”

“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”

You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.

“All finished—”

“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”

You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”

“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”

You truly didn’t know what to say.

You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.

But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.

And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?

“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”

“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”

Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.

Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.

You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.

But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.

You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.

With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.

The Queen’s favorite flower.

You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.

The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.

He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.

“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”

You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.

“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”

Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.

“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.

He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.

“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”

“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”

Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.

He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”

I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.

I want you to stay here with me instead.

“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.

“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”

He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.

“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”

Drown out everything else.

You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.

“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”

Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.

“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”

Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”

“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.

Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.

“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.

He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.

The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.

“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”

“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”

The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”

The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.

“Move along, Sergeant.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.

He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.

Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.

In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.

But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.

With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.

The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.

At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”

Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”

“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.

Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”

Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.

“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.

Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”

You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.

“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”

Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.

“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”

You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.

“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”

“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.

Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”

“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”

John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.

“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”

The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.

“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”

Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.

The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.

“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”

“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.

Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”

You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”

On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.

You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.

With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.

Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.

Bucky was standing right beside her.

And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.

“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.

Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.

“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”

You felt your heart drop.

As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.

“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.

“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”

“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.

“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”

The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”

Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.

“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”

You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.

So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.

Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.

Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”

“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”

He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.

The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.

“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.

“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.

You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.

The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.

“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”

You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.

“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.

“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”

Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.

You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.

“Do you think he finds me charming?”

Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.

“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”

There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.

Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.

She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.

But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.

So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.

“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”

The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.

The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.

Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.

As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.

While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.

By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.

You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.

Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?

Had he forgotten?

Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?

Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?

An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.

You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.

As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.

But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.

“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”

Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.

He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.

“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.

“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.

Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.

“… For how long?”

“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”

Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.

Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.

“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”

You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.

But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.

“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.

You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.

“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”

You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.

It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.

For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.

You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.

“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”

Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.

“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”

You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.

Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.

But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.

“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”

Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”

“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.

“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”

But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.

Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.

He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.

Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”

Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.

“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”

“Hey!”

A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.

He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.

Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.

“James—”

“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.

“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”

“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”

You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.

“James, calm down—”

“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.

“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.

“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Bucky had never spoken to you like that.

Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.

Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.

He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.

“You broke bread with the boy?”

You didn’t dare to speak.

“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.

“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.

Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.

“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”

Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.

“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”

You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”

He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.

“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”

Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”

Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”

“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”

Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.

“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”

He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.

“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.

“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”

He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.

“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”

He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”

Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.

“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”

Bucky was leaving?

You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.

“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.

“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”

Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.

“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”

He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.

“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”

Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.

When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.

He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”

You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.

And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.

He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.

“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”

You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.

He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.

“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”

“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”

Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.

He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”

Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”

Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.

Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.

Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.

“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”

“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”

His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.

“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”

Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.

His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.

“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”

You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.

“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.

Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”

Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.

“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”

With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.

“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.

“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”

Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.

He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.

With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”

You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.

“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.

To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.

“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”

“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”

Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.

The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.

“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”

“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”

“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”

“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”

Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”

The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.

With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.

Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.

“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”

Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.

“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”

You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.

“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”

You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.

“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”

Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.

The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.

“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”

Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.

“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”

“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.

He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”

Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.

Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”

“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”

“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere.

“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.

Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.

Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.

“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”

You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.

Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.

“So perfect,” he mumbled.

You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.

He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.

“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”

Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.

He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”

He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.

The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.

But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.

“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”

He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.

“Right,” you whimpered.

“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”

The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.

“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”

Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.

“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”

The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.

You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.

“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.

“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.

“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”

“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.

“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”

“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”

“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.

As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.

After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.

He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.

You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.

You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.

Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.

Was this a drill?

The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?

As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.

“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”

“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”

“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”

Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.

You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.

But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.

That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.

A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.

“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.

Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”

“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”

You felt your blood run cold.

Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.

“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”

Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”

The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.

Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.

“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.

“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”

She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.

“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”

Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”

As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.

“Nat!”

You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.

A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.

You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.

Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.

You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.

A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.

“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”

Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.

Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.

It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.

Ah, there he was.

Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.

Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.

He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.

You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.

But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.

And that was all that mattered.

In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.

His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.

His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.

Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.

“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”

“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”

“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”

“Barnes!”

Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.

All he cared about was you.

Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.

“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”

You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.

His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.

“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.

“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”

He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.

“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.

“It’s okay,” Bucky cooed, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.

“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”

“Bucky—”

“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”

“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.

As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.

“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.

Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.

For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.

“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”

He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.

“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”

He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.

“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”

Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.

The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.

Bucky kept his promise—and more.

Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.

thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

Brooklyn's Taste opened three years ago on a Sunday when it wouldn't stop raining.

Bucky remembers standing outside in the downpour at 4 in the morning, staring at the sign above the door thinking he was going to throw up. Steve had been next to him, soaked through his jacket, grinning like an idiot. "We did it," Steve had said.

Bucky hadn't been able to say anything back.

Now the restaurant has three Michelin stars and a six-month wait list, and Bucky still feels like throwing up most mornings. Different reasons, though. Now, it comes from wanting something so badly it hurts, from knowing he has it and being terrified he will fuck it up.

He's got plans. Big ones. A whole chain of them someday, Brooklyn's Taste locations in every major city, his name synonymous with the best food anyone would ever put in their mouth.

It keeps him up at night. The planning. The obsessing. The constant loop of what if and what next. That and the fact he can't turn his brain off, ever.

5.30 AM and Bucky's already awake, lying in bed watching shadows move across his ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for Alpine purring somewhere near his feet. She's a small white ball of fur he found five years ago outside his previous workplace. Back when Brooklyn's Taste was still a fantasy and he was working himself half to death at some other asshole's kitchen. She'd been a tiny rain-soaked bundle, hissing and scared. He'd scooped her right up and taken her home. Now she's the only thing in his life that doesn't stress him out.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Steve: You up?

Bucky: Yeah

Steve: Coffee in 10

Steve's got a key to the apartment, has had one since Bucky moved in three years ago. The place is right above the restaurant. It stays sleek and minimal, Bucky's never home long enough to decorate. There's a couch, a bed, a kitchen he barely uses. Photos on one wall. Him and Steve through the years, the night they got their first, second and third stars, Alpine in a patch of sunlight.

Everything else is downstairs.

True to his word, Steve lets himself in ten minutes later with coffees and a bag of bagels. He looks annoyingly awake for this hour. "You look like shit," Steve says, setting everything on the counter.

"Thanks."

"When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"

Bucky doesn't dignify that with an answer. Taking his coffee, he drinks it black.

Alpine's already abandoned him for Steve. The traitor. She's perched between his legs and purring loud enough to echo in the quiet apartment.

"You need to hire someone for the sous position," Steve says, pulling out a bagel. "We're drowning."

"I know."

"Interviews are today, right?"

"Yeah." Bucky grimaces. He hates interviews. Hates the whole song and dance of it, sitting across from people who think they want to work in a Michelin kitchen but have no idea what they're signing up for. Half of them quit within a month. "Got three lined up."

"Try not to scare them off this time."

"I don't scare people off."

Steve gives him a look. The one that says 'you absolutely do and you know it.'

They eat in comfortable silence, comes from knowing someone since you were kids.

Steve's been there through everything. The shitty apartment in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, culinary school, the restaurants that fired Bucky for having a mouth on him, the ones that kept him because he was too good to let go. When Bucky said he wanted to open his own place, Steve had been the first one to say 'I'm in.'

Now Steve runs the kitchen when Bucky can't. Head chef. The person Bucky trusts more than anyone.

"You think about seeing anyone?" Steve asks suddenly.

Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee. It's too much talk for this early morning. "What?"

"You know. Dating. Relationships. Human connection, the sorts."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious." Steve's leaning against the counter, doing his concerned best friend routine. "When's the last time you went on a date?"

Bucky thinks about it. There was that girl three years ago, the one who'd lasted maybe a week before she got tired of him canceling plans because of the restaurant. Then a few one-night things that hadn't gone anywhere because Bucky couldn't turn his brain off long enough to pretend he cared about anything other than work.

Now it's been... a while. Long enough that his right hand and some website with questionable production value have become his primary source of release.

"I don't have time for that shit," Bucky mutters.

"You mean you won't make time."

"Same thing."

"It's really —"

"Steve." Bucky sets his coffee down, runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, past his neck now. He should cut it. "The restaurant is the priority. You know that."

"I know you're gonna burn out if you don't let yourself have something outside of this place."

"I have Alpine."

"Your cat doesn't count."

Alpine meows, like she's offended.

They drop it after that, but Bucky can feel Steve watching him as they head downstairs.

The kitchen's dark and cold, stainless steel gleaming when Bucky hits the lights. This is his favorite part of the day. Before anyone else shows up, when it's quiet and full of possibility.

The kitchen starts filling up around seven. Line cooks filter in one by one, tying aprons and prepping their stations. Bucky watches from his spot near the pass, drinking more coffee, mentally preparing for service. Lunch is in a few hours. Then the interviews. Then dinner service.

Then he'll go upstairs and do it all over again tomorrow.

"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?" Bucky asks Steve, the question coming out of nowhere.

Steve glances up from where he's working. "No. Why?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think about it. Like what if I'd done something else."

"You'd be miserable."

"Probably."

"Definitely." A grin works up into Steve's face. "You're not built for anything other than this, Buck. It's like — you know how some people are good at things? You were made for this. Big difference."

Bucky wants to argue, but he can't.

Steve's right.

The kitchen is the only place that's ever made sense to him. The only place he doesn't have to explain himself or apologize for being intense or obsessive. Everyone here gets it. They're all a little fucked up, all chasing the same high of a perfect plate, a perfect service, a perfect night.

Brooklyn's Taste is his baby. His dream. The thing he's wanted since he was a kid watching cooking shows and thinking 'I could do that better.'

And he has.

The three Michelin stars prove it.

The first two interviews are disasters.

One guy shows up in a wrinkled shirt, can't answer basic questions about technique, kept calling Bucky 'boss' like they're on a construction site.

The second one's a girl fresh out of culinary school who talks about her 'passion for the craft' but goes quiet when Bucky asks her to describe how she'd handle a dinner rush.

By the time the second one leaves, Bucky's temple is throbbing.

He's got one more. Some girl from New England Culinary Institute, resume says she's done time at Rolo's and Per Se. Probably another disaster waiting to happen. He's subconsciously drafting the text to Steve: we're fucked, none of them can do it.

There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Bucky calls, not looking up from where he's scribbling notes.

The door opens followed by footsteps, quieter than the last two. Someone settling into the chair across from his desk.

"Give me a second," he mutters.

"Sure."

Something about your voice makes him look up.

Oh.

Oh.

You're pretty. That's the first thing his brain registers, and it is completely unhelpful. The second thing is that you're sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in your lap, looking directly at him without that nervous energy the other two had. There's a defiance about it, like you're daring him to find fault.

Your resume's in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up at you. "You worked at Per Se," he states.

"For a year."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Wanted something smaller, more control over what I was doing. Plus the exec chef there was kind of an asshole."

Bucky almost laughs. Almost. "And you think I'm not?"

"You probably are. But at least you're an asshole about things that matter."

That does make him laugh.

You've read about him. Obviously. There's this way you hold yourself, confident without being cocky. Like you know exactly what you're worth and aren't interested in pretending otherwise. "What are you looking for in this position?"

"Honestly? A place that gives a shit. I'm tired of working in kitchens where it's all about the image and none of the substance. I want to make food that matters."

Bucky's quiet for a moment. That's... exactly what he would've said. Word for word.

"You know what it's like here." It's not a question. "Three stars means three times the pressure. Every plate has to be perfect. Every service. There's no room for error."

"I know."

"Most people quit all the time because they can't handle it."

"I'm not most people."

Bucky should laugh at this, send you out. If anyone else would've said this, he would've laughed. But there's a challenge in the way you say it, he feels something. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Something he hasn't felt in a while when it comes to potential hires. "Why do you want to work here specifically?" Bucky prodes.

"Because I've eaten here twice. Both times I left thinking about the food for weeks. That doesn't happen often… Also because I want to learn from someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Flattery. But you say it like you mean it.

Bucky's eyes drop to your resume again, scanning the details he'd already read three times. Rolo's, Per Se, a semester in Paris. All good signs. He should ask more questions, grill you on technique, on how you'd handle specific situations, on —

"What happened to your arm?"

That startles and amuses him in equal measure. You're looking at his left forearm, where the scar runs from wrist to elbow, impossible to miss. He did not expect that. "Kitchen accident. Culinary school. Vapour burn."

Everyone has looked at him with pity. Not you. You're looking at it with something closer to understanding. Like you've got your own scars hidden somewhere.

"Does it hurt?" you ask.

"Sometimes."

"When you're stressed?"

Bucky's eyes bore into yours. That's when it hurts. How the fuck did you —

"I've got one on my hand," you say, holding up your right hand. There's a broad scar across your palm. "Culinary school too. Partner spilled oil on my hand. Happens when I'm tired."

There's an intimacy in this, trading scars like secrets. Bucky doesn't talk about his arm, doesn't like when people ask. Where people have been looking at him like fragile and broken, you look at him like you get it.

"You start Monday," he hears himself say.

"What?"

"Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late."

A slow smile spreads across your face, Bucky notices it more than he should. "I won't be."

Standing abruptly, you extend your hand across the desk. Bucky takes it, your palm warm against his, the slight ridge of the thickened skin. When you pull away, he can still feel the ghost of your touch. 

"Thank you, Chef." You walk away with footsteps as soft as they were when you entered.

Bucky sits there for a full minute after you're gone, staring at the door.

If there's a worst day to wake up late, it's Thursday. And Bucky wakes up late on a Thursday. Steve's day off, which means the kitchen is running without either of them there, chaos ensuing already.

He checks his phone — 8:47 AM, fuck — and rolls out of bed, ready to practically run down the stairs. Alpine meows as he rushes past without noticing her.

The kitchen would be a disaster. People scrambling, stations a mess, someone probably crying in the walk-in. Bucky is expecting the worst.

Instead, it's... fine?

Everyone's at their station, prepping quietly. There's music playing low in the background. Was that Jazz in his kitchen?

Standing near the pass, organizing tickets that haven't even come in yet, is you. Unfazed expression on your face when you greet him, "Morning, Chef."

"What —"

"Deliveries came in an hour ago. I checked everything, sent back the fish because the eyes were cloudy. Produce is good."

"It's your second day."

"Third, technically. But who's counting." Your mouth tips, just a little, Bucky notices, though he shouldn't. 

"How did you —"

"I got here at six. Figured I'd get a head start."

Six in the morning. On your third day. When you could've slacked off, could've waited for someone to tell you what to do.

Bucky's eyes land on your lips, not knowing what to say. 

"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality. 

"What?"

"Do you want coffee? You look like you need it."

He does. Desperately. "Yeah. Thanks."

You pour him a cup from the pot near the pass, hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for half a second, Bucky loses sight of his thoughts, the touch electric enough to freeze his brain. 

"Sugar?"

"Black's fine."

"Of course it is." You're smiling again. Bucky's starting to realize that your smile is dangerous. Makes him forget what he was thinking about. Again. 

"Chef, can you taste this?" Bucky's elbow-deep in prep when you appear next to him with a spoon in front of his face, with some kind of herb sauce pooled in it. You're holding it at mouth level, like this is completely normal.

Bucky eyes go from you — your face —, to the spoon, and then back to you. "What are you doing?"

You look confused by the question, head tilting slightly, which will drive him insane if you keep doing it.

The distance between you is too close, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, that same scent that's been distracting him all week. The spoon is still hovering in front of his mouth, attached to you looking at him like he's the one being weird here.

"I can —" He gestures vaguely at the spoon.

"Oh." A shy but sheepish smile blooms on your face, he has to press his lips together so he doesn't mirror it right back. "Sorry, at my last place we always just —"

The explanation makes sense. He knows of places that do it like this. But nobody's ever done it here because Bucky's never allowed it. The thought of someone just… feeding him feels too intimate for a professional kitchen.

But there's no attempt on your part to give him the spoon. The expression in your eyes is soft, makes him confused and mad and wants to let you do whatever you want.

"Right. Yeah. Okay." Just as he leans forward, you lift the spoon to meet him, his mouth. The movement is simple, but Bucky's heart is erratic in his chest. Your fingers are right there, practically brushing his chin. He can see the small scar on your palm.

The sauce hits his tongue and he forgets to think for a second. It's good. Really fucking good. Makes him want another taste immediately.

Pulling the spoon back, you watch his face, like if you do it with intent, you might be able to figure out his thoughts. Bucky really hopes you can't because most of them involve how pretty you look when you're nervous.

"Well?"

"It's good… really good. What'd you put in it?"

You rattle out an endless number of herbs and spices, which does not reach Bucky's ears. He can only see that you're smiling now, pleased with yourself. Somehow, that's even worse for his concentration. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."

Bucky's brain helpfully supplies that he'd probably like anything you made, which is a deeply unhelpful — not to mention inappropriate — thought to have about his new sous chef. "It's perfect. Use it for the chicken tonight."

"Really?"

"Really."

You're beaming at him now. Bucky needs you to stop doing that immediately. He's supposed to be professional and not think about how your whole face lights up when you smile.

"Thank you, Chef." You turn to walk away and Bucky's brain finally catches up with what just happened. You fed him. With a spoon. Like it was nothing. And he took it. Like he was your golden retriever. 

"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.

You turn to look at him. 

"Don't —" How does he phrase this without sounding insane? "The spoon thing. You're not putting that back in the sauce, right?"

Amusement coats your face as you try to mask a laugh. "Of course not. That would be a health code violation."

"Right. J-Just checking." Did he just fucking stutter? 

You're definitely laughing at him now, he can see it in your eyes even though you're still trying to hide it. "Don't worry, Chef. I know how kitchens work."

Bucky's left standing there like an idiot trying to remember what he was doing before you appeared with your spoon and your smile and your complete disregard for his sanity.

"You good, Buck?" Steve materializes at his elbow, with the knowing look on his face that Bucky doesn't appreciate.

"Fine."

"You've been staring at the same onion for like thirty seconds."

Bucky looks down. He has, in fact, been staring at an onion for thirty seconds. "I'm thinking."

"About onions?"

"About the menu."

"The menu. That's what you're thinking about." Steve's definitely smirking now.

"Fuck off."

"Just saying, she's good."

"I know she's good. I hired her."

"That's not what I —" Steve stops, that grin getting wider. "Yeah, okay. Sure. The food's good, alright."

Bucky finishes his notes, checks the walk-in one more time, makes sure everything's locked down for the night. The kitchen empties out slowly. He can hear voices from the changing room, people saying goodnight, the back door opening and closing as they filter out into the cold.

He's putting his jacket on when you emerge. The first thing he notices is that you've changed. Obviously. You're in jeans now and an extremely thin sweater, with your hair down instead of tied back. You look different like this. Softer. Without the chef's whites, without anything to hide yourself behind. 

The second thing he notices — and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't — is that it's cold in the kitchen. The sweater you're wearing is thin, and your nipples are hard.

Bucky's eyes drop before he can stop them. The sweater's fitted enough that he can see the outline clearly, and his brain just... stops working. Everything narrows down to that one detail, that one absolutely inappropriate thing he should not be looking at. He coughs, tries to hide that he wasn't looking at your tits, and looks away.

You're slinging your bag over your shoulder, completely oblivious. "Goodnight, Chef. It was a great day."

"Yeah. Goodnight."  

You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose. 

The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and then you're gone.

Bucky stands there in the empty kitchen, staring at nothing. His pants are getting tight. "Fuck."

This is bad. This is really fucking bad. He's got a hard-on for his sous chef, the woman he hired less than a week ago, the one who's been nothing but professional and competent. And the one who's completely unaware that she's driving him insane.

You're at least ten years younger than him. Probably more. Way too young for him to be standing here with his dick hard just because he saw the hard outline of your nipples through your sweater. He's too old for this shit, too old to be crushing on someone like a fucking teenager.

But no.

Bucky adjusts himself. He needs to go upstairs. Maybe take a cold shower to forget this ever happened. He has to get his shit together before he does something monumentally stupid. Locking up, he heads upstairs to his apartment, thankful Steve wasn't there to witness any of that. 

Alpine's waiting for him on the couch, curled up in a little ball. "Don't look at me like that," Bucky mutters.

She doesn't look at him at all.

Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt, heads to the bathroom. The shower has to be ice cold, to kill whatever this is before it becomes a problem.

But he shoves his pants and boxers down in record speed, and his hand's already on his cock.

Fuck it.

He's has been half-hard since the kitchen, and it takes almost nothing to get fully there. When he closes his eyes, he sees you, in that sweater, the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold. He wonders what they'd look like without the sweater, without anything.

His hand moves faster on his dick. He imagines peeling that sweater off you. You'd be in just your jeans, bare from the waist up. Your nipples would be hard peaks, he thinks. Taut and hard, begging to be touched, to be sucked. "Fuck."

In his head, you're in his apartment, on his bed, looking at him with that same defiant confidence you had in the interview, daring him to touch you. He'd start with his hands, palms cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped. And then he'd use his mouth, tongue flicking over each peak, sucking them until you were squirming beneath him.

Would you be loud? Or quiet? Would you arch into his touch or try to stay composed?

His grip tightens. He's leaking slick now, desperate to blow. He imagines you on your knees. That's what breaks him, the thought of you looking up at him with those eyes while you take him in your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, tongue doing things that should be illegal.

Or maybe you'd be on your back, legs spread, letting him taste you. He'd make you come on his tongue first. Wouldn't even touch himself, just focus on you, on making you fall apart.

Then he'd fuck you. Slow at first, just to watch your face. Then harder when you ask for it. And you would ask for it, he's sure of that. You're not the type to stay quiet about what you want.

The image of you underneath him, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath coming in gasps —

Bucky comes with a groan, spilling over his hand and onto the floor. The orgasm hits hard enough that his knees almost buckle, that he has to brace himself against the wall. He just stands there, breathing hard, covered in his own cum.

Then reality crashes back in. He just jerked off thinking about his sous chef. The woman who works for him, who trusts him to be professional. "Fuck."

The water's cold. He stands under the spray and tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This isn't going away. Whatever this is — this desperate want, this intense need — it's not going to disappear just because he got off once. If anything, it's worse now. Now that he knows what it feels like to imagine you, to picture you in his hands.

Bucky has been in a shit mood all day, snapping at people for things that wouldn't normally bother him. The fish is fine but he sends it back. When a line cook asks him a question, he bites their head off. Steve keeps giving him looks from across the kitchen, which says 'what crawled up your ass and died', but Bucky ignores him.

The problem is that he jerked off last night thinking about you. Now every time he looks at you, his brain goes straight back to that moment in the shower, and he hates himself for it.

You're his sous chef. His employee. Off limits in about a hundred different ways. Still doesn't stop his dick from getting interested every time you walk past him though. 

Service goes fine. Better than fine, actually. You're good at your job. Great, even. And that somehow makes it worse. Now he can't even pretend you're incompetent to convince himself to not want you.

Post-service debrief happens in the kitchen like always. Everyone gathers around, tired and wired, waiting for Bucky to tell them what they fucked up and how exactly. He's halfway through talking about the timing on table two when he realizes you're not there. Bucky stops mid-sentence, scanning the group. "Where's my sous?"

Everyone looks around. Blank faces.

"She was here like two minutes ago," Steve offers.

"Well she's not here now. Nobody leaves before the debrief. That's the rule."

"Maybe she went to the bathroom?" one of the line cooks suggests.

"I don't care if she had to take a piss. She waits."

Steve gives him another look. Bucky ignores it and finishes the debrief quickly, distracted now, annoyed that you'd just disappear without saying anything. That's not like you. You've been nothing but professional since you started. "Alright, we're done. Good work tonight." He dismisses everyone and heads for the back door, needing air and also needing to figure out where the hell you went.

The cold hits him immediately when he steps out. And there you are standing with your back to him, still in your whites. Bucky's about to lose his shit.

You missed the debrief to stand outside?

"Are you fucking serious right now?" The words come out harder than he's ever used with you. "You just left?"

When you turn around, Bucky's brain stutters to a halt because Alpine's in your arms.

There's genuine panic on your face. "I'm sorry. She — She almost got into the kitchen and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her walk in there."

Fuck, you weren't ditching the debrief. You were keeping his cat from causing about fifteen health code violations.

"I — Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't — I shouldn't have yelled at you." Bucky can see that Alpine's purring, completely content in your arms.

You're holding her carefully, one hand under her butt and the other supporting her back. "It's okay. I should've told someone, but she was about to go through the door and I just grabbed her."

"No, you did the right thing." Bucky's close enough now that he can see the way the cold has settled on your eyelashes. "I'm sorry I screamed at you."

"You didn't scream."

"I raised my voice."

"Barely." You smile a little, Alpine headbutts your chin. "Besides, I get it. The debrief's important."

"Not more important than —" Bucky gestures at Alpine. "You probably saved me from getting shut down."

A soft laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't let that happen to you, Chef." There's no hesitation in your voice, none at all. It catches him off guard, tight, right in his chest.

"She's really sweet." You're scratching under Alpine's chin. "I didn't know you had a cat."

"Yeah. Five years now."

"What's her name?"

"It's a he," Bucky doesn't know why he says that, only that he can't help himself, a smile slipping past.

"Wait, he?" You look down at Alpine, mortified now. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I saw the white fur and just assumed —"

"I'm kidding." Bucky's full-on grinning, a rarity. "It is a she. Her name's Alpine."

"Oh. You're terrible."

"Sorry."

"Nope. You're not."

Alpine meows, and you adjust your grip on her. She's not a small cat, Bucky's been feeding her too much. He can see the way you're starting to struggle with her weight. "You must be freezing," he says. He just wants you to get you in first, take Alpine off your hands. But his eyes drift lower. Can't help it. Your whites are barely thicker than that sweater from yesterday, but it's still cold enough here that he'd be able to tell if —

Nope. No. Fuck. Not doing this again.

"I'm okay," you say.

"You're in kitchen whites. Those aren't meant for standing outside in the cold."

"I've survived worse."

Bucky wants to ask what that means, wants to know everything about you actually, but Alpine chooses that moment to squirm in your arms. "I can take her… If she's getting heavy."

You pull back like you're offended, your acting mediocre at best. "Excuse me? Heavy? You take that back right now."

"What?"

"She's perfect. She's the perfect amount of chunky." There's a smile on your lips, and Alpine's looking between you both like she's enjoying this.

"I didn't —"

"No, the damage is done. Alpine and I are very offended."

"Are you two ganging up on me?" Bucky laughs. He can't help it. You're standing there in the freezing cold, holding his cat, giving him shit about calling her heavy, and he's laughing for the second time today. Both times because of you.

Alpine's staring at you with this dreamy expression, the same one she gives Bucky when she wants treats. Looks like he's not the only one developing a crush. "She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She doesn't usually take to people this fast."

"Well I'm very likable." You say it with a straight face. Bucky has to bite back another smile.

The back door opens and Steve sticks his head out. "Oh good, you found her." When he sees Alpine, his eyebrows go up. "What's Alpine doing out here?"

"Almost went into the kitchen. She caught her," Bucky explains.

Steve looks between you and Bucky, sort of an understanding crossing his face. "Right. Well, I'm heading out. You two should too. It's late and we've got an early morning."

"Yeah, just — give me a sec."

Steve's smirking as he goes back inside. Bucky knows he's going to hear about this tomorrow. When the door closes, it's just you, Bucky and Alpine in the cold. "He's right though. You should get home. It's late."

"Yeah… here." You seem reluctant, but you step closer to hand Alpine over. The transfer is awkward. Your hands brush his as you manoeuvre the cat between you, and Alpine protests the movement with a loud meow. For a second you're both holding her, your fingers tangled with his in her fur, close enough that Bucky can smell your shampoo again. Then Alpine's in his arms and you're stepping back. "Goodnight, Chef."

Bucky just nods. Anything else feels like it'd come out wrong.

The door swings shut behind you, the sound lingering in the quiet, as you head back inside. He's still standing, Alpine heavy in his arms, her tail flicking lazily against his chest like nothing just happened. Bucky exhales, a soft sigh, shifts his grip on her without really thinking about it. He can still feel the warmth where your hands brushed his a second ago, like it didn't quite leave with you. "I'm so fucked," he mutters, more to the cold air than anything else.

Alpine just purrs, completely unbothered. "Yeah, real helpful," he adds, scratching under her chin anyway.

Rushing back to his apartment, he makes a beeline to the window. But you're already gone. The buzzing of his phone brings him back to the room. 

Steve: You're in trouble

Bucky: Fuck off

Steve: She's pretty Steve: And she saved alpine Steve: And you looked at her like she hung the moon

Bucky: I said fuck off

Steve: Good luck buddy

He's not attracted to you. He's not. You're his sous chef and you're young and you're off-limits and he's not doing this. But…

You're working on your station, breaking down vegetables for the service, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky's at the stove testing a new recipe — you think —, his sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Forearms are on full display, tanned and muscular with veins running up under the skin and disappearing into the fabric bunched at his arms. There's the scar, cutting across his left arm. When he stirs the pan, his forearm flexes, the tendons shifting under skin, distracting you from whatever the hell you were just doing. 

You've seen arms before. You work in a kitchen. Everyone's got their sleeves rolled up and everyone's got arms.

But this is different. This is Bucky's arms, and you're staring like you've never seen a man cook before in your entire life. He reaches for something on the shelf above the stove, the muscle making its existence known again. You almost make a noise.

But Bucky glances over and your eyes meet. 

Did you moan out loud in the kitchen? Fuck.

He caught you. He absolutely caught you staring at his arms like some kind of pervert, eyebrows doing that thing where it quirks up slightly. Turning the heat down, he starts walking towards you. Your heart's trying to break out of your ribcage.

"You good?" he stops right next to your station. Close. Too close.

"Yeah. Yep. Totally fine." The words make their way out faster than it needs to be.

"You sure? You look a little flustered."

"It's hot in here."

He's not even pretending he doesn't know. "Is it? Could've sworn we fixed the ventilation."

"Must be coming down with something."

"Right." Bucky leans against the counter, crossing his arms to the front. That just makes it worse because now the veins are even more pronounced. "You were staring."

"I wasn't —"

"You were definitely staring."

Your mouth opens and closes, brain scrambling for literally anything to say that won't make this worse. "You have veins."

Bucky's eyelashes do a slow dance as he blinks, like he didn't hear you right. "What?"

"Veins. On your arms. They're very — I've never noticed them before. The veins, I mean. I've noticed your arms obviously because you have arms, everyone has arms, but the veins specifically are —" You're spiraling. You know you're spiraling, can't stop though. "It's the lighting in here. Makes them more visible. Or maybe you're dehydrated? You should drink more water. Hydration is important —"

Bucky leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear, making your entire body go rigid. "You're just digging your grave deeper, sweetheart."

Like he didn't just stop your heart, he's gone. Walks back to the stove, leaving you standing there holding a knife and a half-cut carrot, unable to move.

Service is a blur. You go through the motions, with your brain stuck on the way Bucky's voice sounded in your ear. Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.

That's not a chef thing. That's a thing thing.

By the time service ends and the kitchen's cleaned down, you're wound so tight you might snap. You change quickly, needing to get out of here before you do something fucking dumb.

Like jump your boss.

You're heading for the back door when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

When you turn, Bucky's there. Changed out of his whites, wearing jeans and a dark henley that you immediately want to take off. "Hey."

"You rushing off?"

"Just — long day."

"Yeah." He's got his hands in his pockets, there's a nervousness about the gesture, kind of insane because Bucky Barnes doesn't get nervous. "So — uh — Alpine misses you."

If there's a loading screen on your brain, you just wish it doesn't show up on your face. "What?"

"Alpine. She's been sitting by the door all week waiting for you to come back."

"That so?" You can't help but smile.

"Yeah. Won't stop meowing about it." He shifts his weight, you wonder ig he really is nervous. "Thought maybe you could come say hi? If you're not too tired."

This is a terrible idea. You know it's a terrible idea. Going to Bucky's apartment, alone, is possibly the worst decision you could make. But there's no hesitation when you answer, "sure." 

Bucky's face breaks into an expression you've never seen on him. Relief? "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, can't leave Alpine hanging."

"Right. For Alpine."

"For Alpine," you repeat.

There's a beat where you both just stand there.

"C'mon… She's upstairs."

You follow him through the kitchen and up the back stairs you've never been allowed to use before, the ones that lead to his apartment. Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.

Bucky unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The apartment is somehow exactly what you expected. Minimal with large windows overlooking the street, couch, a kitchen that looks barely used, and some photos on the wall. It doesn't help that it smells like him. "It's nice," you say.

"It's —"

Alpine comes tearing around the corner, meowing loudly, making a beeline straight for you.

"Oh my god, hi baby." You crouch down as she headbutts your hand. "Did you miss me? I missed you too."

Bucky's watching you with this expression you can't read, soft and a little awed. "She really did miss you."

"I can tell." Alpine flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs, you comply immediately. "She's perfect. Aren't you perfect? Yes you are."

"I'm starting to think she likes you more than me."

"Well, I am very likable."

"So you've mentioned."

"Bears repeating." You scratch under Alpine's chin as she stretches out longer, completely blissed out. "So, does she have a story?"

"Found her outside a restaurant."

"And she just — came home with you?"

"She didn't have much choice. Was soaking wet and scared." Bucky moves to the kitchen. There's the sound of cabinets opening. "She hissed at me for like three days straight. Eventually she warmed up. Now she's spoiled rotten."

"As she should be. You're living your best life, aren't you sweetie?"

When you glance up, Bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter with two glasses of water, watching you play with his cat, the usual look in his eyes replaced by softness.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." He crosses the room and hands you a glass. "You looked thirsty."

"Thanks." Your fingers brush when you take it, the electric feeling you've been feeling shoots up your arm.

Bucky sits on the floor next to you instead of on the couch, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. "She never does this with anyone else."

"Does what?"

"The belly rub thing. She barely tolerates Steve."

"Maybe she has good taste."

"That she does."

Alpine rolls over to climb into your lap, circling twice before settling. The weight of her is warm and grounding.

"I think you've been claimed," Bucky smiles, it makes him look younger.

"I'm okay with that."

You're sitting on the floor of your boss' apartment with his cat in your lap, with him close enough to touch. An excuse to flee the scene should be on the tip of your tongue. The reality is anything but as you find yourself leaning into Alpine more. 

"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.

"Mhmm."

"Earlier. In the kitchen… What were you looking at?"

"I —" 

"Because you were definitely looking at something."

"I wasn't — okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's — you were cooking and your sleeves were up and I don't know, it was distracting."

"Distracting," he repeats, like he's pleased with your answer.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Sound so smug about it."

"I'm not smug."

"You're absolutely smug right now."

Bucky laughs, and you risk a glance at him. He's closer than you thought. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him, smell him, see those little flecks of grey in his blue eyes.  

"For what it's worth, I think it's cute." His voice is barely a whisper.

"What is?"

"That you were staring. That you got all flustered, started rambling about hydration."

"I wasn't rambling."

"You were definitely rambling."

"I was making valid points about water intake —"

Alpine pads off toward her food bowl, offended she's not getting enough attention, leaving you and Bucky sitting on the floor with nothing between you. The space feels smaller suddenly, or maybe he feels closer. You're hyperaware of every detail, how he's looking at you, how his hand is resting on his knee just inches from yours, how you're alone with him in his space and your brain won't shut up about it.

When Bucky shifts, your eyes drop to his mouth without permission. You look back up to see he's staring at your lips too. "Can I —" He gulps, building courage. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes." It comes out way too fast, borderline desperate, but you can't seem to care.

One second, you're a safe distance apart and the next, his hand is cupping your jaw and he's kissing you.

Oh god, he's kissing you.

His lips are soft, sure. It's everything you've been thinking about for weeks. You kiss him back, probably too eager, definitely too hungry, and he makes this low noise in his throat that goes straight between your legs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, let him tilt your head exactly how he wants it, let him kiss you deeper, let him take whatever he needs. When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.

"Fuck. I've wanted to do that for weeks." He kisses you again, shorter this time. "Since the interview."

"You hired me and immediately wanted to kiss me?"

"Something like that."

"That's very unprofessional, Chef."

"Don't care." He's moving before you can answer, hauling you up and then higher, until your balance goes and you're grabbing onto him just to steady yourself.

"Bucky — I — "

"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall. 

He sets you down on the bed — his bed — and immediately his mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he'll die if he stops. His hands find the hem of your sweater, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. "Lie down."

You obey. You'd probably do anything he asked right now.

Bucky follows you onto the bed, settling between your legs as he starts kissing down your neck, sucking little marks into your skin, dragging his mouth over your collarbones and the soft swell between your breasts. His hands work your jeans open, you lift your hips to help him slide them down.

"These too," his fingers hook into your underwear. A soft whimper slips out of you, making him smirk. He strips them off and tosses them somewhere behind him. He's pressing hot, open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, stubble scraping your skin as he works higher toward your aching pussy.

Your brain finally catches up to what's about to happen. "Oh my god."

"Relax," Bucky murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you." His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, your hips bucking into his face involuntarily.

The first slow, filthy drag of his tongue through your slick folds makes you gasp, back bowing off the bed. He groans like you taste good, like this is doing something for him too, then he's devouring your cunt with single-minded hunger, tongue fucking deep before switching to tight circles on your clit. 

Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the strands. That doesn't faze him in anyway, he just keeps working you with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles that make your thighs shake.

He pulls back just enough to speak. "Fuck, your pussy tastes so goddamn good, sweetheart." His mouth attaches to your clit this time, making you cry out. He's ruthless about it, sucking hard on your swollen clit while his tongue lashes it. When you try to close your legs at the overwhelming sensation, he keeps them spread with his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you.

"I can't — Buck — It's too much —"

"You can take it. C'mon, baby. Let me feel you cum."

Two fingers slide inside your soaked cunt. It's immediate how your breath stutters to come to a halt, the tight coil in your belly snapping without warning, pleasure rolling through you in waves while Bucky works you through it with his mouth and fingers. It goes on forever, ebbing and flowing, until you're boneless.

When you can finally think again, Bucky's kissing his way back up your body, chin wet with your slick, looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.

When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue, impossibly hot. Your hands find his shirt and start pulling at it. "Off. This needs to be off."

Bucky sits back and yanks it over his head in one smooth motion, and you get your first full look at his chest. Broad and muscled with a trail of dark hair leading down to what you most want now. 

He's working his jeans open now, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock is rock hard, flushed, and leaking precum at the tip.

"Oh my god."

"What?" He's smirking.

"That's — you're —" Your brain's stopped working again.

Bucky wraps a hand around himself and gives a slow stroke, and you watch like you're hypnotized. The veins running along his length stand out, prominent and thick. Like he's read your mind, "how about the veins on my cock? Like 'em?"

If you could, you'd hide yourself. "Bucky!"

"What?" He's fully grinning, looking way too pleased with himself. "You seemed interested in veins earlier."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"I really — oh —"

He's positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance by coming close enough, but not quite in. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

"Still hate me?" he asks, this time bumping your clit with the fat tip.  

"Y-yeah."

"I'm so glad you cook better than you lie, you're a terrible liar."

He taps his cock against your clit once more and you nearly come off the bed. It's too much and not enough and you need him inside you right fucking now. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me. Please fuck me."

"Well — Since you asked so nicely."

He pushes in slowly, the stretch perfect. You're so wet that he slides in easy, inch by inch, until he's fully seated and you're both groaning.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. "You feel — fuck."

You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move. 

The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes you see stars. By the third you're moaning openly, not even trying to be quiet. "That's it," Bucky snaps his hips to yours, his cock . "Let me hear you."

Bucky fucks you like it's the only thing on his mind. Deep and perfect, dragging his cock along your most sensitive spots. One hand is braced by your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you'll probably bruise. "You're so tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect." Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck — Do that again."

Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours. 

"Fuck — you feel incredible, sweetheart."

Bucky shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks.

"There — fuck, right there —"

He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm —"

"I know. I can feel it." His thumb finds your clit to run frantic but perfect circles over it. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock."

The combination of his cock, his thumb and his voice is too much. You come apart, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, just keeps going until you're almost sobbing from how good it feels.

"Where?" he grits out.

It takes you a second to understand what he's asking. "Inside. I'm on birth control — inside, please —"

Bucky groans and buries himself deep, pulsing until thick ropes of cum floods you, saying your name over and over again. Without pulling from you, he collapses next to you. "Holy shit."

You turn your head to look at him. He's looking at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked.

He reaches over to pull you close, your body finds his willingly, curl into his side like you belong there.

You wake up to Alpine sitting on your chest, staring directly into your soul. For a second you're disoriented, brain trying to catch up with where you are. Then, it does. The arm draped across your waist belongs to Bucky, who's still dead asleep next to you, face buried in the pillow.

Alpine chooses that minute to meow, loud enough that you're worried she'll wake him.

"Okay, okay," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from Bucky's hold. He makes a small noise of protest in his sleep but doesn't wake. Instead, he reaches for the pillow you were using and pulls it close to his chest.

It's stupidly endearing.

Alpine leads you straight to her food bowl. Like she knows you'll give in. Which you will, because you're weak for both Barnes in this apartment.

The food's in the cabinet above the sink. You've stayed over enough times that you know where everything is.

It's been two weeks since that first night, and you still haven't talked about what this is and what you're doing. You just keep falling into bed together after service, wake up tangled in his sheets and pretend everything's normal while you're at work. It's easier that way. Safer. Putting a name to this thing between you, feels dangerous, like it'll make it real in a way you're not sure you're ready for.

Alpine crunches her food happily while you stand in Bucky's kitchen at six in the morning, barefoot and wearing his shirt from yesterday, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this feels.

"You're up early." Bucky's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, shirtless, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on. His hair's a disaster, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The most breathtaking thing about this is that he has a smile on his face.

"Your cat's very demanding," you say.

"Yeah, she gets that from me." He crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around you from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. The weight of him is familiar now, comforting, making you lean back without a second thought, without hesitation.

This is the part that scares you. How easy it is. How right it feels to stand here in his space while he holds you like this is something you do every day, like you belong here.

"You staying for breakfast?" His voice is still rough with sleep.

"I should go home. Need to change before work."

"You could keep clothes here."

The offer sounds casual, practical. But you know what he's really asking. If you'll stay. If this is more than just convenient.

"Mhmm, don't like seeing me in your clothes?" Deflection comes easy to you.

"I think I love it a little too much." His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of his shirt.

"That so?"

He presses a kiss to your neck, right below your ear. You have to close your eyes against the rush of warmth that floods through you. "Looks good on you."

"Everything looks good on me."

"Can't argue with that."

You turn in his arms, his hands settling on your waist. "I'll think about it." The clothes thing. The staying thing. All of it.

The walk-in freezer is a blessed relief from the heat of the kitchen, even if you're hunting for duck at eight o'clock on a busy night. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you scan the shelves, fingers already going numb. There's a faraway sound of the door opening and clicking shut behind you. 

"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots —" you call over your shoulder, to whoever it may be.

A hand lands firm on your ass. "Found something way better than shallots." Bucky's voice is smug behind you. When you whip around, he's standing there, looking at you like you're what he wants to devour.

"Are you insane?" Heat floods through you despite the cold. "We're working."

His hand slides to your hip, over the kitchen whites. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't tell your boss."

There's a little smirk playing at his mouth, it makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "You're the worst," it comes out breathy.

"Yeah?" His other hand joins the first, sliding down to cup your ass properly, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Doesn't seem like you mind."

You think about pushing him back. There's staff right outside and this is wildly unprofessional even by your standards. It doesn't stick, though. Your hands bunch in his coat, pulling him closer.

Bucky grins, his hand draws back and cracks across your ass. The yelp that escapes you is mortifying. So is the way your pussy clenches at the sharp sting, the way you lean into him instead of away. He does it again, other cheek this time, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making another sound. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Everytime you looked at me during service."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

The audacity of this man. Leaning on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Hard and graceless, you taste the coffee he'd been drinking, he kisses you back, returning the same ferocity.

His hands knead your ass through your work pants, making you aware of how empty you feel, how badly you want his fingers, his cock, anything to fill the ache that's been building between your legs. Your hand drops down to palm him through his pants, already hard, thick and straining against the fabric. The groan he makes against your mouth goes straight to your heat. 

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. His hips rock into your touch, shameless in its pursuit. His own hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through the layers, but it's not nearly enough. You find yourself grinding against his palm like you've lost all self-respect, chasing the friction.

"Jesus, you're soaked already." His fingers press harder, rubbing over where your clit throbs. "Can almost feel it through your pants. You been walking around the kitchen like this all night? Drippin' wet for me?"

Ever since he brushed past you during prep, you've been aching for him. It's pathetic how easily he gets you like this.

"Answer me, sweetheart." He nips at your jaw. Your hand works him faster through his pants while he grinds the heel of his palm against you. "Tell me how wet that pussy is."

"So wet," you gasp out, head falling back against the shelf. "Bucky —"

"Want me to fuck you right here? Bend you over, make you scream where anyone could walk in and hear what a mess you are for me?"

Your fingers slip against his belt, not as steady as you want them to be. "Yes, please —"

Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open. 

"Hey Buck, we need you on the — Oh my god." Steve stands frozen in the doorway. You watch in real time as his brain tries to process what he's seeing.

Bucky's hand is between your legs. Your hand is on Bucky's cock. Both of you look disheveled and panting. For half a second, it says that way.

Steve's face goes bright red. "I'm — fuck —I didn't—" He's backing away, hands up like he's been burned. "I'm leaving. Leaving right now. I didn't see anything. Bye."

The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves, just stillness remaining. Bucky's pressed into you, forehead to your shoulder, shaking for a reason you don't yet know. 

"Oh my god. Steve just — he saw us —" you gasp. 

"Yep."

You owe Steve an apology. Probably several. Maybe a bottle of expensive whiskey. "Your bestfriend is gonna think I'm corrupting you."

"You are corrupting me."

"Shut up."

The difference in testing new recipes at Bucky's apartment is that his kitchen is a bit smaller than the one at the restaurant. Which means you're constantly in each other's space, brushing past each other to grab ingredients, hands colliding, his arm pressing against yours while you work side by side at the counter.

You're supposed to be perfecting a glaze for the spring menu. Something with honey that'll complement the duck without overpowering it. Bucky's doing the actual cooking part while you handle the sauce. 

Everything's going fine until you try to pour honey from the jar into your saucepan. The jar, heavier than you thought, drips the golden stream of honey onto your hand, your skin, more than the saucepan. Like any sane person, you decide to clean yourself. 

Angling your hand over the sink, you're trying to wash the honey off, when Bucky appears next to you. He grabs your wrist to bring it to his mouth, lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking the honey off, tongue swirling around your skin. Heat shoots straight between your legs. 

His eyes are locked on yours the whole time. As he moves to your next finger, you forget how to breathe. He takes his time with each one. Licking. Sucking. Making sure he gets every drop of honey while you stand there trying to remember your own name. When he finally releases your hand, his voice comes out rough. "That tastes so much better than regular honey."

"It's — It's the same honey," you reply dumbly. 

"No. It's not." 

"Bucky —"

"I need more." The hunger, the possessiveness in his voice goes straight to your cunt. "Get on the counter."

There is a brief second where you wonder if reminding him would be better, that you're both working, that you have to get this sauce done before anything else. But your body has other plans, complying itself as he lifts you onto air and places you on the counter. 

The granite's cold against your thighs. Bucky positions himself between your legs, and reaches for the honey jar with one hand, while the other stays rooted to your hip. Like you'd move if he moves. You won't. "What are you doing?" you ask, even though part of you already knows.

"Testing a theory." He dips two fingers into the honey and pulls them out, watching the way it drips. "About whether everything tastes better on you."

Honey coated fingers move across your throat, right over the dip of your collarbone, pulling a gasp out of you. Bucky leans in to lick a long stripe across your skin, following the honey trail with his tongue. "Fuck. I was right."

"Bucky — "

"What?" He has the audacity to look innocent. "This is an experiment." He's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it over the barstool. Your bra follows seconds later. What's left is you half-naked in his kitchen while he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

"This is not an experiment."

"Sure it is." More honey on his fingers, he drizzles it just above your breasts. "Hypothesis: you make everything taste better."

Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue tracing the path of honey across your skin. He's meticulous about it, making sure he gets every drop. The combination of his tongue and the sticky sweetness has you squirming on the counter. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?" He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "Tell me what you want."

"More. I want —" The words die on your tongue when he drizzles honey between your breasts, watching it slide down your skin.

"Want this?" He leans down and licks up the valley.

"Yes —" you whimper.

"You taste so fucking good." He's lost to it now, completely focused on chasing every drop of honey on your skin. "Better than anything I've ever made." That's probably the highest compliment you'll ever receive. 

"That's —" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck —"

The honey sticks to the peak, driping down the curve of your breast. Bucky catches it with his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his lips to suck.

"Bucky —" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please —"

Your back arches, pushing your chest more towards his mouth. He relishes in the invitation, tongue flicking over your nipple while he sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make you grind towards nothing in search of friction. "Oh my god —"

Bucky chases every drop with his tongue, until you're making sounds you've never made before. That doesn't seem to affect him, he casually moves to your other breast and does it all over again. More honey. More of his mouth. More of that devastating tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he says against your skin. "Could do this all day."

"We're supposed to be working —"

"We are working." He bites down gently on your nipple, making you cry out. "I'm working very hard right now."

Your laugh turns into a moan when his hand slides up your thigh. "These are in my way." He's working your shorts open. You lift your hips to help him shove them down along with your underwear. Completely naked on his kitchen counter, with him fully dressed and kneeling between your legs, Bucky speaks, "spread wider."

The way he looks at you, at how wet you already are, makes you clench around nothing. Bucky angles you so that your back is planted on the counter, and drizzles honey on your inner thigh, high enough that with the help of gravity, it drips down toward where you're aching for him.

Leaning in, he starts at your knee, working his way up with a patience that's going to kill you. His tongue is hot against your skin, chasing the trail once again. By the time he gets halfway up your thigh, you're ready to beg. "Bucky —"

"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.

"Oh god —"

"Just me, baby." The smugness in his voice is a thing you'd like to hate, you would try if you weren't already too far gone. 

"Please — Buck — touch me. P-please touch me."

"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.

"You — You know what I mean —"

He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh — you think — but something in you snaps right before. Lifting up your body with purpose and determination, your hand shoots out to grab his collar. "If you don't fuck me right now —"

"But, I'm not done —"

"Barnes." You use your other hand now, pulling him up to your eye level. "Shut up and fuck me."

His mouth pulls into a grin that's all teeth, enjoying this a little too much. "Yes ma'am."

While he's working his belt open, you're pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. His cock finally springs free, a moan escaping you from just seeing it. "This what you want?" Bucky fists himself, giving a slow stroke that makes your mouth water.

"Yes. God, yes —"

"How bad?"

"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds —"

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait more, he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect and exactly what you needed.

Both of you groan at the same time, relief spilling past shamelessly. "Fuck — You feel — Jesus fucking Christ —"

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hitting your cervix, making you scream. He's so deep like this, deep inside you, that your vision blurs.

"That's it," he groans against your neck. "Let me hear you." Bucky is fucking you in earnest, while you hold on to his shoulders and try not to fall apart. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is mixed with your desperate noises and his low groans.

"Been thinking about this all mornin'," Bucky pants. "Watchin' you work, being all professional about the sauce — wanted to — fuck — wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad —"

You love his dirty talk. God knows you love it. But there's this intense need to be filled up, and his talking is currently slowing his dick. "Less talking," you gasp. "More fucking—"

Smirking, he shifts the angle, suddenly hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, makes you sob. "Right there?" he asks, but he knows, could tell from the way you're clenching around him.

"Don't stop — please —"

When his thumb finds your clit, you nearly come off the counter. Between that, his cock and the filthy sounds he's making, you're not going to last. "I'm close, Buck — I'm so close —"

"Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? C'mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

His words and one more thrust sends you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him. Bucky fucks you through it while cursing under his breath. Not long after, he buries himself deep. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up.

There's something dripping down your thighs, you don't know if it's honey, cum or sweat. Probably all mixed together, but you can't bring yourself to care.

When Bucky pulls out, you both wince at the loss. He looks down at the mess you've made, there's honey smeared on your skin, cum dripping out of you onto his counter. He lets out a breathless laugh. "We're disgusting."

"Your fault."

"My fault? You're the one who told me to shut up and fuck you." 

"You're the one who started the whole honey thing."

"You're the one who spilled it."

"Accidentally."

"Sure. Accidentally." He kisses you, slow, sweet. You kiss him back, tasting honey off his tongue. 

You should probably be mortified of the scene Alpine might walk into, but all you can think about is how you want to do this again. "We really need to clean up," you try being the responsible adult despite what you're feeling.

"Probably." But he's kissing your neck again. "In a minute."

"Bucky —"

"Just one more taste."

"Alpine, no — that's not food." You're trying to rescue a hair tie from Alpine's paws while Bucky makes coffee in the kitchen.

It's early enough that the sun's barely up, that grey-blue light filtering through the windows of his apartment.

"She thinks everything's food," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Found her trying to eat a receipt yesterday."

"She's going to make herself sick." Alpine bats at your hand, completely unrepentant. "You're a menace. You know that?"

She meows like she's arguing with you.

Bucky appears with two mugs, handing you one before sitting on the floor next to you. Alpine immediately abandons the hair tie to climb into his lap. "Traitor," you mutter.

The coffee's perfect. He's figured out how you take it. Same way you know he likes his black. "What time do we need to leave?" you ask.

"Hour. Maybe less if we want to prep early."

"We always prep early."

"Force of habit." He's scratching behind Alpine's ears, that absent-minded gesture he does when he's thinking. "You staying tonight too?"

The question should feel loaded but it doesn't. It's Bucky asking if you're staying, like he wants you to, like he's gotten used to you being here.

"If that's okay."

"It's okay. I like when you're here." His voice is soft.

You think about your apartment across town. How you haven't slept there in forever. How your fridge is empty and your bed feels too big and too quiet. How this feels more like home than anywhere you've lived in years.

"I like being here," you admit.

He pulls you closer with his free arm. You lean against his shoulder, coffee warming your hands, and let yourself have this.

"We should go soon," you say eventually. "Delivery comes at seven."

"Five more minutes."

"Bucky —"

"Five minutes. Please. Just want to sit here with you."

Alpine whips her head towards him, a 'did I hear that right?' look plastered on her face.

"And you too," Bucky admits, pulling you both closer.

"I'm just saying, the timing's convenient for her." The words make you freeze with your hand on the door. Jason's voice carries from somewhere near the dish station. It's so casual, the way guys get when they think they're being clever.

"What timing?" That's the new line cook. Miller? You can't remember his name and right now you don't care.

"Come on. Hired on spot? That's fast even for someone good."

"Maybe she is good."

Jason laughs like he doesn't care about what he's saying. "Oh, she's good. Question is what she's good at." The new guy laughs too, your stomach dropping straight through the floor.

"Oldest trick in the book," Jason continues. "Want a job in the best kitchen? Fuck the chef. Worked for her."

"Barnes seems smarter than that."

"Barnes is a guy. And you've seen her."

You probably should walk away. The opposite direction of all of this. You should not stand here and listen to them talk about you like you're not a person, like you're just a body that fucked its way into a position you spent years working toward.

But you can't move, can't breathe.

"Either way, smart play on her part. Get on your knees, get ahead."

They're still laughing when you finally force your legs to work, turning and walking in the opposite direction before they can see you, before they can know you heard every fucking word.

Your hands are shaking when you reach the prep station. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribs and pulled them taut. Pressing your palms flat against the counter, you try to breathe normally.

Three weeks. That's all it took for people to start talking. To start assuming. To start reducing everything you've accomplished to who you're sleeping with.

And the worst part is if anyone finds out about you and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will look at your position and assume you earned it on your back. They'll question Bucky's judgment, his professionalism, and whether he's running his restaurant based on merit or based on who's warming his bed.

You can't let that happen. You can't be the reason Brooklyn's Taste's reputation gets dragged through the mud, can't be the reason people stop trusting Bucky's decisions. Which means this thing between you — whatever it is, whatever it was becoming — has to stop.

Your throat burns but you swallow it down. You force yourself to get through the rest of prep, to plate during service like your world hasn't just shifted sideways. It almost kills you to smile and pretend everything's fine when Bucky catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths 'you okay?'

All you can do is nod. It's a lie. He probably knows it's a lie from the way his eyebrows pull together, but there's service and no time to get into this.

You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.

But when later comes, you're slipping out the back door before Bucky can corner you and ask what's wrong. You can't look him in the eye and pretend you didn't hear someone reduce your entire career to a transaction.

Bucky catches you by the lockers after service the next night. There's a doubt in his tone, like he already knows the answer. "You comin' up?"

"Can't tonight." You're pulling your jacket on, trying very hard not to look at him. "I'm not feeling great."

"What's wrong? Do you need —"

"Just tired. Long week."

It's Wednesday.

Bucky doesn't point that out but you can tell he wants to. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, his hand comes up like he's going to touch you and then falls back to his side.

"Okay… feel better, okay?"

You leave before the guilt can stop you. You'll break down and tell him everything if you don't walk, the confusion in his eyes will kill you. 

Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your clothes are still in his closet. There's a drawer full of your shit in his dresser, your shampoo in his shower and probably a hair tie on his bedside table.

But you can't go back, can't step foot in that apartment again. If you do, you'll crack. You'll tell him what you heard and he'll say it doesn't matter and you'll believe him because you want to believe him so fucking badly it hurts.

But it does matter. It matters that people are already talking, that your relationship could damage his restaurant — his life. It matters that every time someone questions your abilities, they'll be questioning his judgment too.

So you go home to your empty apartment and try not to think about how Alpine's probably waiting by the door for you.

It gets easier after that. Or maybe it gets harder and you just get better at it. You start showing up to work right on time instead of early. You make excuses when he texts — headache, early morning, catching up on sleep. All technically true, all curated to create distance.

Bucky notices, of course. He's not stupid. "What's going on with you?"

You're in the office doing inventory counts, and he's standing in the doorway looking at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll figure out what broke.

"Nothing's going on."

"You haven't stayed over in a week."

"I've been tired."

"You're avoiding me."

"I'm not —"

"You are." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. The small space suddenly feels smaller. "Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it."

You did everything right, you want to say. He made space for you in his life. In his home, his bed, his routine. Now that space is a liability, ammunition for anyone who wants to question whether you earned your position or fucked your way into it.

He looks so worried, so confused. All you want to do is cross the room and kiss him, tell him it's not his fault, scream about Jason and the new guy and the sick feeling that's been living in your stomach for days.

But you can't. Telling him means admitting the relationship is a problem, and admitting it's a problem means either ending it or ignoring it. You can't do either.

"You didn't do anything. I just need space."

You watch Bucky's face change, as he tries to hide the hurt, nod even though you can tell he doesn't understand.

When he leaves, you sit there staring at inventory sheets you can't read anymore because your eyes are burning.

Bucky brings Alpine to you a week later. You hear her distinctive meow that makes your heart clench, before you can even see her. When you turn around, he's holding her like an offering. "She missed you."

Alpine's purring, looking at you with those big blue eyes. You want to take her and bury your face in her soft fur, breathe in that familiar smell and pretend everything's okay. "Bucky —"

His voice is soft, pleading. "Just for a minute… please."

You wipe your hands on your apron and take her before you can think better of it. She immediately curls into your chest, purring loud enough to vibrate your whole ribcage. Your hand runs down her back automatically, that familiar motion you've done a hundred times in Bucky's apartment. "Hey, baby," you murmur. "Hi, sweet girl."

When you look up, Bucky's watching you, eyes glassy. There's so much longing there, so much confusion and hurt, and you can see him trying to understand why you're doing this. Why you're pulling away, why you won't talk to him.

"I miss you… Alpine's not the only one."

"Buck —"

"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just — I hate that you're not there."

The apartment must feel so empty without you, frozen in time waiting for you to come back. Except you're not. You can't, not when being with him means people will assume the worst about both of you. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"That's not an answer."

Alpine headbutts your chin, demanding attention. You focus on her instead of the way Bucky's looking at you.

"Something's wrong," he says.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Everything's wrong!" An octave rise in his tone, desperation bleeding through as frustration. 

Alpine meows softly, like she can sense the tension. You hand her back to Bucky before you do something stupid like cry. "I need to get back to work."

"Wait —"

"Please don't make this harder than it already is." You walk away before he can respond. You cannot see the devastation on his face, you will completely fall apart in the middle of the kitchen.

Behind you, Alpine meows again, sad and confused, and you hear Bucky's quiet, broken, "I know, baby."

Bucky looks like shit. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair's a mess like he didn't bother combing it, and he's wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, a small stain on the collar from the sauce he was testing last night.

He barely looks at you during prep, barely speaks except to call out orders. And when Steve asks him a question, Bucky just stares at him for a solid five seconds before answering like he forgot how words work.

You did this. You're the reason Bucky looks like he hasn't slept in a week. The reason he's moving through his own kitchen like a ghost.

You're in dry storage counting inventory when Steve finds you. "We need to talk."

You don't look up from your clipboard, you can't. You can't lie to one more person. "I'm working."

"So am I. And part of my job is making sure this kitchen runs smoothly, which it's not doing right now."

"Everything's fine."

"Really? Because Bucky's been a mess for three weeks and you look like you're about to cry every time you're in the same room as him. So either tell me what's going on or I'm going to assume the worst."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Bullshit."

"Steve —"

"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable —"

"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's — it's nothing like that."

"Then what?"

"It's personal."

"Personal is affecting professional. So it's my business."

Looking at Steve is hard. Talking about this is hard. So you turn back to the shelves. "Can you just drop it?"

"No."

"Steve —"

"He's my best friend. I've known him since we were kids and I've never seen him like this. He won't eat, he barely sleeps, and yesterday I caught him just standing in his apartment staring at nothing. So no, I'm not going to drop it."

Words refuse to come out, but you force them. "He'll be fine."

"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, you're both miserable and too stubborn to do anything about it."

"You don't understand —"

"So, help me understand. Explain it to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's complicated."

"Try me."

You slam the clipboard down on the shelf. "Because if people find out about us, they'll think I slept my way into this kitchen. Happy?"

Steve looks at you with confusion. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Who the hell would think that?"

"Everyone, Steve. Everyone will think that. Woman gets a competitive job? Must've fucked the boss." A laugh comes out, it's anything but humourous. 

"That's — no one here would —"

"They already are."

Steve goes very still, like he cannot believe his own ears. "What?"

You shouldn't tell him. You should probably keep your mouth shut and let this go. But you're so tired of carrying this alone, so tired of pretending it doesn't hurt.

"I heard Jason and that new line cook talking. About how convenient the timing was. How I must be 'good at my job', if you know…" Your voice cracks, a hiccup in your words, you can't help it. "They laughed about it. About me." Tears well up in your eyes.

"Son of a bitch. When was this?" Steve's knuckles go white, even though he doesn't have anything in his hand. Purely from rage.