[ladymiseryy]

𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ danny | 27 | she/her ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

requests are open! please read the guidelines first ꨄ︎

i write almost exclusively for bucky barnes.

masterlist | fic recs | taglist | writing tag | ao3

this blog is 18+ only! minors dni. ageless blogs will be blocked.

this is a sideblog! i follow from @queen-helaena

dividers by @cursed-carmine

[theoracleofsin]

hi, little sinners. we all know we've been entertaining a very special individual who has been targeting dddne accounts for the past few days. i've kept them unblocked until now because it's honestly amusing to see someone be so convinced they're right when they're incredibly in the wrong.

however, the moment you start threatening people with sexual assault is the moment the whimsy fun is over. what you're not going to do is threaten real people with abuse over fictional characters/stories. not on my blog. not on my comments. funtime is over.

[ladymiseryy]

jealous brother!bucky x reader coming soon to a theater near you ✨

[stantastic-association]

Hey Barbie!! I've been looking for you everywhere!

Calm down, no need to stress! You look perfect as always Barbie! I'm sure every person in the house will be drooling over you as soon as we walk in.

How many Boys? Well, when I scooped the scene, there were eighteen bedrooms to choose from!

Oh please, that's nothing! Mojo Dojo has like- a bazillion bedrooms, now come on! They're waiting for us inside!

April 10th✶⋆.° The Hand Plants, The Heart Reaps @buckytakethewheel

౨ৎ Paring: Landscaper!Bucky X Home Owner! Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: You never planned to return to the quiet countryside, let alone inherit your late grandmother’s weathered cottage and overgrown garden. Stressed and city-worn, you hire local landscaper Bucky Barnes to tame the chaos in order to honor her memory. But what begins as a simple restoration blooms into shared stories of loss, second chances and a path to starting over.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) strangers to lovers; slow burn; she falls first/he falls harder

April 13th✶⋆.° Silver Linings @ornateglass

౨ৎ Paring: Miner!Bucky X Well Off!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: A lucky strike sets your family in the lap of wealth, drawing you into a world of status, expectations, and away from your childhood friend, Bucky. As a worker in your father’s mine, he knows he’d never have approval for your hand. Will his feelings stay buried? Or will love find its silver lining?

౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Set in 1885, friends to one-sided enemies to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn hurt/comfort

April 14th✶⋆.° Earned It @phoenix-in-writing

౨ৎ Paring: Massage Therapist!Bucky X Client!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.

౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Vacation fling, porn with zero plot, inappropriate use of massage oils + towels

April 15th✶⋆.° Slippery Slope @stanmarvelous

౨ৎ Paring: Ski Instructor!Bucky X Student!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes likes order on the mountain: organized lessons, predictable guests, and smooth days on the slopes. Unfortunately, one woman spends the day unintentionally getting in his way. When they finally meet at an après-ski party, he challenges her to prove she’s more than just a tourist with a camera.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) pushing professional boundaries, strangers to lovers.

April 16th✶⋆.° Jungle Fever @ornateglass

౨ৎ Paring: Zoo Keeper!Bucky X Horticulturist! Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: Two shy, clumsy people secretly in love with each other and a bottle of pheromone spray. What could possibly go wrong?

౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT)Sex pollen, friends to lovers, mutual pining

April 17th✶⋆.° Smartest In The Room @colettebarnes

౨ৎ Pairing: Substitute Teacher!Bucky X Student!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb : James Barnes, the substitute professor no one asked for, seems determined to prove you’re nothing more than predictable. You think he's condescending. And yet somehow, every argument between you feels less like an academic debate and more like a problem neither of you wants to solve. Because whatever this is, it has an expiration date.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) Academic rivals dynamic, bantering/arguing as flirting, slow burn

April 18th✶⋆.° Taste Test @metal-armed-muse

౨ৎ Paring: Chef!Bucky X Sous-chef!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.

౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Inappropriate workplace relationship, power imbalance, grumpy!Bucky to soft for reader!Bucky

April 20th✶⋆.° The Long Way back To You @phoenix-in-writing

౨ৎ Paring: Veterinarian!Bucky X Best Friend!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: After years of traveling abroad, you are called back to your hometown to help settle your grandmother's estate. You expected to quickly sell the house and return to your life in the city, but an injured bunny leads you straight back to your high school sweetheart...and a life you thought you wanted to leave behind.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) childhood friends to strangers to lovers, second chance love, a jealous boyfriend, slight hurt/comfort

April 22nd✶⋆.° Dead Stop @buckytakethewheel

౨ৎ Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky X Mechanic!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes doesn’t do favors. Everything has a price; that’s how he’s kept his garage and himself intact since the end of the world. Then there’s you, the rival mechanic down the road who refuses to take a single scrap of bread for a radiator flush. But when a freak storm destroys his workshop, Bucky's left with nowhere to go but your grease-stained bay and forced to face every choice he's never allowed himself to make.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) apocalypse au; enemies to lovers; forced proximity; mentions of death & end of the world

April 23rd✶⋆.° Love, B @winteryn

౨ৎ Paring: Librarian!Bucky X Professor!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes falls in love with you, his gorgeous literature professor, on his first day of college. Four years and a degree later, he’s one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now there’s nothing stopping him from asking you out… If not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. That’s when his colleague, several romance books and a pen come to his aid.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) younger man x older woman; college au; secret admirer trope; public indecency

April 24th✶⋆.° Taming Bullet @elixirfromthestars

౨ৎ Pairing: Ex Racer!Bucky X Childhood Best Friend!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: James Bucky “Bullet” Barnes hasn’t taken a proper break from his racing career in years. Feeling homesick and a little lost in life, he decides to take an extended break and go back to his hometown. What he doesn’t expect to learn when he gets back, is that you and his sister Becca are no longer best friends. Not only that, but no one’s heard from you in years. And Bucky fears his biggest regret, a mistake he made years ago back in his college years, is the cause of that.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) childhood friends to enemies to …?, ex best friend’s brother, second chance romance, reunion & revenge

April 25th✶⋆.° Vital Refractions @sheriff-bodecker

౨ৎ Pairing: Paramedic!Bucky X Coworker/Bestfriend!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: You and Bucky have always been close, close enough that everyone else noticed a spark long before you did. But after a shift leaves you both strung out, comfort blurs into something heavier, then when guilt tells him to pull away, you’re left fighting for the truth of what you did and what it meant.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) (first; not overly detailed, second; full on), fluff & angst, traumatic shift (not detailed), miscommunication, friends to something to lovers, arguments!!

April 26th✶⋆.° Human Nature @sunday-bug

౨ৎ Pairing: Ranger!Bucky X New Ranger!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: Just when Ranger Barnes thought he was done mentoring rookies, he’s stuck with you: the eternally optimistic newbie with a knack for baked goods and novelty hiking socks. You’re looking forward to a memorable first season in the park, and you’re determined not to let the grumpy, albeit handsome veteran ruin it for you.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) grumpy x sunshine, age gap, he falls first

April 27th✶⋆.° Slow Ride @barnes-babydoll

౨ৎ Paring: Tow truck driver!Bucky X Rich girl!reader

౨ৎ Blurb: James Buchanan Barnes. Charmer. Tow truck driver. Oh, and someone who completely grinds your gears. You hope your first encounter with him is the last. Until…the accident. Accidents happen. No biggie. You didn't break anything when the airbag deployed. Maybe your ego is a little bruised, but you'll be just fine. The worst of it isn't even the damaged car; it's the fact that when you call for a tow, that same man with the annoyingly perfect smile and ego the size of Jupiter shows up to help you. It seems like the universe is either out to get you or trying to push you and Bucky together.

౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, minor injuries

April 28th✶⋆.° La Petit Mort @miraclediviner

౨ৎ Paring: Mortician!Bucky X Lady Death!Reader

Blurb: With 13 years of private practice experience under his belt, Bucky had built a solid routine for himself. Be in the building by 5:00 am, meet families through the mornings, take care of cremations through midday, and embalm bodies through the evening. Its stability, he's never strayed from it. That is, until an unfamiliar companion lurking in the mortuary's halls visits him in the dead of night.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) Strangers? to lovers, angst... , unexpected visits, death, public sex

April 29th✶⋆.° Drive You home @navybrat817

౨ৎ Paring: Taxi Driver!Bucky X Passenger!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.

He can’t help but fall for you.

But he’s just a taxi driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.

He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.

He wants to be someone you can come home to.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) Pining, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, sick family member

April 30th✶⋆.° Classroom Management @ladymiseryy

౨ৎ Paring: Coach!Bucky X Teacher!Reader

౨ৎ Summary: Coach Barnes is everyone’s favorite. The students love him, parents love him, you love him. How could you not? He’s kind, funny, undeniably, tragically handsome. And your best friend.

You only wish you loved him a little less. Maybe then you could move the fuck on.

౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) friends to lovers, jealousy, pining, not so unrequited love

April 31st✶⋆.° South of the Sun, East of the Nile @miraclediviner

౨ৎ Paring: Archaeologist!Bucky X Archaeologist!Reader

౨ৎ Blurb: Between early morning, dust behind your eyes, and uncomfortable cots, your dream job is turning out to be different from what you hoped. Lucky for you, a fresh opportunity has fallen into your lap. You're being sent to the Temple of Bastet with new technology to look for lost artifacts. Bad news, the co-leader of your expedition is the infamous Bucky Barnes. Casanova to some, shit head to others. A career-defining opportunity lies before you. Do you have what it takes to get the job done?

౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Co-workers to lovers, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, one bed trope

So Barbie, what do you think? Pretty hot right!

*Sigh* So many boys to choose from, so little time. That's alright, we'll just have to handle this buffet-style!

Hey! Sharing is caringbaby, what's mine is now yours!!

I gotta gotta go! I have a Tea party at eight, but the boys said that they're excited to see us on the 10th for their month-long party!

Hope to see you soon!! Bye Barbie!!

[ladymiseryy]

Just realized I never reblogged this?? Very excited to be taking part 💕

[phoenix-in-writing]

Earned It

pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader summary | While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief. warnings | MDNI 18+ Barbies only, please | female reader, no use of y/n, vacation fling, porn with a sprinkle of plot, open ended, inappropriate use of towels + massage oils (literally don't...don't do this at home), fingering, dry humping, unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, exactly one (1) clit smack, soft dom Bucky if you squint, slight Romanogers if you squint even further and hold the phone at the right angle, reader is briefly described as being smaller than Bucky (if I missed anything please let me know) word count | 5.6k phoenix chirps | Hi Barbies! It's time for my first installment for the Barbie collab put on by the @stantastic-association. It's been so fun watching this come together that I can almost hardly believe it's my turn to post. I don't have much to say about this one, except that I feel the need to remind you that this is fiction. Please don't engage with massage therapists in this manner out in the real world. Even if they do suspiciously look like Bucky Barnes. dt | Literally everyone who had to listen to me bitch about needing to lock in since...January? Y'all know who you are, and I'm giving you all a big forehead kiss through the screen. I hope you can feel it. Though a very special dt to @miraclediviner who made sure the collab ran as smooth as butter and didn't let me slack off. You're a real one Mecca ❤️

"We should do a girls trip!"

A dreaded six word sentence among friend groups. It always felt like something elusive that would always get talked about, but never actually get planned. In the history of your particular circle, those words were carelessly thrown around during Pinterest searches or doom scrolls after too much wine more times than you could count, but never once made it out of the group chat.

That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.

Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.

And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.

You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.

"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.

"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.

Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.

Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.

Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.

That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.

When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.

His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.

He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"

The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.

And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.

The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.

Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."

The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.

He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.

"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."

And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.

Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.

Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.

"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."

This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.

He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,

"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.

"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.

You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."

Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.

A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.

Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.

"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.

He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.

And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.

But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.

With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.

"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"

Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"

"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."

You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.

You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.

More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.

And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.

If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.

It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.

That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.

His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.

You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.

It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.

At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.

Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."

You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.

You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.

Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."

A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.

"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.

With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.

"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.

You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.

He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.

"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.

Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.

Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?

"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."

Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?

A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."

With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.

"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.

Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.

Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.

"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.

Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."

"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.

There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.

It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.

You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.

But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.

Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.

Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.

Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.

When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.

"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."

You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.

"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.

"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.

A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.

The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.

The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.

The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."

Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.

"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.

"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.

You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.

A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.

He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.

Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.

The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.

Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.

His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.

"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.

Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.

"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.

Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.

"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.

Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.

"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.

He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."

You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.

"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.

You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."

He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."

He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."

Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."

"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.

"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."

Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.

"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"

You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."

The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.

"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."

After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain

Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20 @mathcat345 @highhopes1008 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @scarletkanami

Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel

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[stanmarvelous]

Slippery Slope

౨ৎ Characters: Ski Instructor!Bucky x Snow Bunny!Reader

౨ৎ Word Count: <8.8K

౨ৎ Summary: Bucky Barnes likes order on the mountain: organized lessons, predictable guests, and smooth days on the slopes. Unfortunately, one woman spends the day unintentionally getting in his way. When they finally meet at an après-ski party, he challenges her to prove she’s more than just a tourist with a camera.

౨ৎ Content Warnings: 18+ {MDNI}, smut, strangers to lovers, instructor x student dynamics, pushing professional boundaries, grumpy x sunshine (kinda), mentions of alcohol consumption (not by reader), use of pet names (bunny, sweetheart), slow burn, praise (so much of it. Probably too much. I’m so sorry.), some fluff, consent king!Bucky, oral (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), creampie, aftercare. Reader is described as being clumsy at multiple points. Bucky doesn’t have a prosthetic arm, I couldn’t get it to work :(

౨ৎ A/N: Hi, Barbie! Excited to share my part of the @stantastic-association Bucky’s Dream House collab. A huge thank you to @miraclediviner for setting everything up! I haven’t skied in probably like 15 years at least (which makes me sound so old), so please forgive me for anything that might be wrong.

Main Masterlist || AO3 || Bucky’s Dream House Masterlist

Cool mountain air kisses your skin the moment the lodge doors open. With a deep breath, you plant both boots into the snow, closing your eyes for a brief moment to fully enjoy the crisp breeze and the faint warmth from the morning sun.

A fresh blanket of snow drapes across the ski village and surrounding trees, the mountaintop looming high above the treeline. It's not the Swiss Alps, but the stunning view and relaxing atmosphere is exactly what Alpine Ski Resort is known for.

Phone in hand, you aim the camera and adjust a few settings before taking a picture…until the sound of a throat clearing gets your attention, snapping you back to reality.

Spinning around, a pair of steel blue eyes, hidden beneath dark eyebrows and a black beanie, meet your surprised gaze. He's staring down at you, something akin to annoyance etched in his features. An air of self-importance radiates from him, and without uttering a single word, gives you the impression he doesn't mess around.

It's then you realize people are moving around you like the water of a rushing river, brushing by with barely audible grumbles, while you stand planted in the middle of the doorway like a boulder that refuses to move.

"Oh!" You wince, chin dipping and offering an apologetic smile. "Am I in the way? Sorry! Let me just…" You quickly step to the side, phone clutched carefully in your hand.

He doesn't speak, simply nodding once before heading toward another building. The large INSTRUCTOR patch on the back of his jacket is impossible to miss. As someone who works with the public, he seems…pleasant.

"Grumpy…"

"Who's grumpy?"

Your friend, Lana, pops up beside you, head tilted in curiosity as she tries to follow your gaze. The man has already gone inside.

You shake your head and shrug it off, hooking your arm with hers and beaming brightly. "No one. Shall we?"

Lana returns your smile and pulls you away from the lodge, footsteps falling into sync.

When the day began, being a nuisance was not on the itinerary. You hoped the doorway would be the last time you were in anyone's way.

Yet not even an hour later, you accidentally wander into a training area, too focused on an evergreen tree that had just the right amount of snow on its branches.

"Miss," a deep voice politely sounded from not ten feet away, "Please give us some space."

You glanced up just long enough to see the same man from earlier, his arms crossed over his chest, while a student who couldn't have been more than six wobbled down the small incline.

You rushed away without a word, heat creeping up your cheeks.

By noon, you nearly lose your footing outside the rental shop, arms flailing wildly with a squeak and phone flying through the air before you manage to catch yourself. When you finally spot your phone half buried in the snow, someone is already picking it up. Only—to your utter dismay—to be met with those blue eyes that are growing painfully familiar.

The phone is open to one of the pictures Lana took where your foot was kicked up behind you like a Genovian princess. His gaze glances down at it before he places the device in your outstretched hand, and he looks like he's trying to fight back a laugh—or maybe just stop his eyes from rolling out of his head.

You try to laugh it off, thanking him quickly for the phone, before scurrying off in the opposite direction.

By the time the sun dips a bit lower in the horizon and the après-ski parties begin, you're more than ready for a change of outfit and a stiff drink.

Warmth spreads quickly across your chilled skin as you enter the lodge, the fuzzy oversized coat you slipped on doing little to protect you against the cold evening air after changing out of the snowsuit and into something cute. Though the day had been sunny and warm, the moment the mountaintops began to hide the sun, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.

People are scattered throughout the lodge, some lounging on couches near a large fireplace while others gather around pool tables. Music is faint behind the chatter of guests. It's one of the calmer parties you've been too, but after the embarrassing day of the universe throwing curve balls in your direction, a relaxing night sounds perfect.

"I'm gonna find us a spot," Lana says, eyes already roaming the room for an empty seat. Then she points at you, eyebrows raised, adding, "Drinks?"

"Got it. Scotch on the rocks."

She gasps, eyes going wide, and you almost don't hear her protests when you start walking to the bar, a grin playing on your lips.

Sliding into an open spot at the bar, you wave the bartender down, nearly missing the loud sigh just off to the side.

"There is a line, you know."

Something about the deep voice sounds painfully familiar. A twinge of dread twists in your gut when you finally drag your gaze in the direction of the voice.

"I'm so sorry, I genuinely didn't even notice." You look at the man who spoke, eyes meeting his annoyed blue ones when it hits you—you've seen that hue far too many times today, and always when you're not at your best. Just behind him, there's a small line of patrons watching you; some annoyed, others too busy with wandering gazes to be angry.

Of course it happened again. Of course, despite the various bars and parties occurring all over the resort, the one you pushed Lana to go to for the quieter ambiance is the one where he would be.

"Aren't you that instructor guy I keep seeing today?"

He's changed, no longer in the standard issue red jacket and his perfectly styled hair no longer hidden under a beanie, but it's him. The crease in his brow deepens when confusion crosses his features briefly, then recognition flashes.

He sighs again. "Pink snowsuit."

You nod in silent confirmation, nose scrunching a bit. The way he said it does not bode well.

"You must absolutely hate me by now," you joke with a short laugh, leaning against the bar as casually as you can manage. "I swear I'm not doing it on purpose."

His eyes study you, and you swear curiosity appeared in them before indifference fills his voice. "Could've fooled me."

Lips pressed together and ignoring the inkling of offense tugging at you, you stand a bit straighter, forgetting about the line continuing to form behind him.

"Do you always think inconveniences are solely about you?"

"Considering you've spent all day being in the way and not even touching a pair of skis? Maybe a little."

Your lips part, brows shooting up into your hairline. "I—that's not—I was going to."

"Sure," he huffs.

He turns towards the bartender, effectively dismissing you as he orders his drink. The bartender gives him a nod, eyes flicking to you before getting to work. Chatter from the bar fills the tense silence. You don't move.

"Do you actually ski?," he finally asks, voice gruff. "Or are you just here for pictures?" His hand wraps around a glass of amber liquid as it's slid across the bar.

"I can ski! I was just…planning on doing it tomorrow. Today was recon day."

He lifts a single brow.

That's a lie.

You haven't skied since you were little, school field trips the only experience you've had. In fact, you're confident you'd land face first in the snow if you tried.

"Really?" He mutters with false intrigue, raising the glass to his lips. "I'd be surprised if you made it down the bunny hill without starting an avalanche. How many times did you nearly trip over your own boots today?" He watches you carefully over the rim of his glass, eyes twinkling. Is he amused by this?

"You don't even know me, sir," you retort, crossing your arms. "Skiing is like second nature to me."

Where the hell did that come from?

He smirks knowingly. "Prove me wrong."

You blink at him.

"What?"

"Prove me wrong. You said you're skiing tomorrow? Lucky for you, I just happen to have a free morning." He pauses, leaning forward. "Unless you'd rather stick to the camera."

Your eyes narrow, defiance growing with every second. This man doesn't know a single thing outside of your appearance and a bad day, yet something about the look in his eyes makes you want to dig in your heels.

"I don't just take pictures."

His expression doesn't change. Patience must be his biggest virtue as he takes another sip of his drink, silently waiting. Like he knows you're about to break.

A short scoff slips between your lips. "Fine. What time?"

The corner of his lips twitch, the glass in his hand finally lowering as he turns to fully face you.

"Eight. Think you can be up that early, bunny?"

Bunny. He says it like a taunt, as though you're supposed to be embarrassed that you enjoy cute outfits, snow, and the resort scene.

You force a smile, flashing your teeth and tilting your chin up.

"I have a name," you reply, offering it quickly before continuing, "I'll be there. And I'll look damn adorable, too, thank you very much."

Your feet are carrying you away from the bar before you even think about it, face warm, fists clenched with determination while the feeling of his gaze stays trained on the back of your head. The thought of drinks is long gone, and when you finally plop down on a couch next to Lana empty-handed, her expression shifts to confusion.

"Where's my cocktail?"

— — —

Morning comes far faster than you hope despite sleep evading you.

Tossing and turning didn't help. Neither did flipping the pillow to the cold side. You tried watching a bit of TV, grateful Lana has her own room so you don't bother her, but you ultimately end up pulling up instructional skiing videos on your phone—a futile attempt to reconnect with your memories of skiing as a kid. If you could do it then, you can do it now, right?

By the time your alarm goes off, the knot in your stomach that has been forming for hours is tighter than ever. Food is the last thing on your mind when you finish getting ready, but you shove a granola bar into your mouth anyway to ensure you have some sort of energy for the day ahead.

With one last glance in the mirror to ensure everything is perfect, you're out the door and tugging on your gloves before the sun has even fully risen.

You refuse to be late.

The rental shop is surprisingly busy this early. Gear is organized in perfect rows, employees are assisting guests in finding the perfect fit, and parents are doing their best to wrangle their kids into ski boots. One toddler manages to get a hold of a ski pole, swinging it around like a sword before their dad snatches it from their tiny fist. It's a brief, welcome distraction before a throat clears, pulling your attention to the employee behind the rental counter.

A few minutes later, you find yourself on a bench outside the shop, skis haphazardly laying on the ground as you fight to get the ski boots on your feet. The sun is no longer hiding below the horizon, casting bright rays that glitter across the fresh snow that must have fallen last night. Your fingers fidget with the buckles with no luck, becoming increasingly frustrated. How hard is it to put these things on?

"It's easier if you stand up."

Your heart drops. The voice is deep, a little rough from lack of use this early in the morning, but familiar enough to make you tense.

Eyes widening and gloved fingers freezing in place, you slowly look up to find the familiar deep blue irises staring down at you. A mix of amusement and annoyance dances in his eyes when he notices the skis on the ground. Using the toe of his boot, he gently nudges them closer to where you're seated. He's wearing the same red jacket as yesterday, finally giving you a clear look at the front where the name Bucky is embroidered on his chest, just beneath the resort's logo.

"You actually made it," he grunts, eyes on you again, lips turning up almost imperceptibly. The slight raise of his brows beneath his beanie make him look mildly impressed. You're probably imagining it. "Are you sure you got enough beauty rest?"

"Of course I made it." Your focus returns to the matter at hand, trying to ignore his comment and the feeling of his eyes watching every little movement you make. "Maybe you should stop doubting me."

"Maybe," he responds slowly, dragging the word out, "but we haven't made it onto the slopes yet, bunny."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the nickname he insists on using. When the buckles still don't easily lock in, you sigh, reluctantly standing and trying again. Sure enough, the buckles click tight without a problem. Of course they do.

Bucky doesn't give you a moment before he's adjusting his skis in his arms and turning away.

"Grab your gear, we'll start on the bunny hill."

You scramble to pick up your skis, immediately fumbling when one slips out of your grip and crashes back to the ground. Heat rushes to your cheeks before you're snatching it up again, rushing now to try and catch up with his long strides.

Only it's harder than you expect.

The boots are clunky and heavy, each step far more difficult than you remember. The skis knock against each other, clacking sounds ringing through the crisp air and only adding to the embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck.

He glances back once.

A few steps later, he looks back again.

"You ski often?"

You hesitate. "Obviously."

He blinks. "Mm. Obviously."

You can practically hear the grin spreading across his face when he faces forward again, his pace finally slowing down enough for you to catch up. Bucky stays silent, but the feeling of his eyes on you is unmistakable. Watchful. A little judgemental.

The ski lift for the bunny hill finally comes into view, making the knot in your stomach twist painfully now that reality and exposure are on the precipice. There's only one way you can imagine this going; a face full of snow, dignity gone, and a certain ski instructor watching it all go down. Where's Lana when you need her?

Bucky's gaze flicks towards you again. Lingering. Waiting.

He stops just shy of the line, popping his skis on like it's nothing. Simple. Easy.

Until you try to do it, of course. Heel then toe? Toe then heel? Which way is the ski supposed to face?

Bucky stands there quietly watching as you spin in place trying to figure out how to get it on. The smirk is infuriating, but you're trying not to think of it when you finally get one ski on, the other following suit after a shuffle of your feet has you nearly losing your balance.

"Good job," he says with a nod, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. "Looks like the bar is starting high today."

"Don't you worry your grumpy head, Bucky." You wave him off, trying desperately to hang on to what little pride is still hanging on by a thread. "I'll blow that bar out of the water in no time."

By the time the two of you make it onto the lift—a miracle in itself after nearly running into the employee operating it when you forgot how to stop—nerves have settled fully into your bones. The sun is slowly warming the air, but the cold breeze blows straight through your coat. Or maybe it's the attitude coming from the world's most people-friendly instructor.

The silence is deafening for a few moments, long enough to feel deliberate. He shifts slightly in his seat before speaking.

"Make sure to keep your weight forward when we get off."

Your gaze, which has been focused on the pink knit fabric of your gloves, lifts to see him watching you carefully. There's something in his eyes you can't quite place.

"Yeah, forward. Got it."

His eyes narrow slightly, studying you. Silence fills the space once more.

You avert your gaze to the snow covered trees below, hoping he can't see the way your hands are shaking. The thought crosses your mind to snap a picture from this vantage point, but with your luck this weekend, it'll probably slip from your grip and bury itself in the snow to never be found again.

The lift arrives at the top, and you follow every move he makes as he prepares to dismount, scooting to the edge of the seat. When your skis brush the slick snow below, panic has you sucking in a sharp breath.

Bucky pushes off the seat with practiced ease, already gliding forward and leaving you alone. You don't hear him giving instructions, you simply lean forward and let gravity do the work.

To your surprise, it works.

You glide down towards him, arms out and wobbling only a little bit, before managing a successful stop directly in his path. His eyes flash with something like surprise—vanishing almost as quickly as it appears.

Your back straightens with a bit of pride, then—

"Don't get too excited," he mutters. "You still have to go downhill."

Your heart drops. He's right.

You glance over at the slope just a few feet away. It's not that steep—it is the bunny hill, after all—but the daunting task of staying balanced and sliding downhill without falling on your face or breaking something is suddenly hitting you like a punch to the gut.

All because of pride.

"No, of course," you mumble with a nod. Your throat tightens. "Downhill is the easy part."

A cool breeze brushes against skin that's becoming warmer by the second. Kids and parents ski by, heading down the hill like it's simple. Your fingers curl into tight fists in an attempt to hide the tremble threatening to expose your bluff.

Your eyes are glued to the line of skiers at the bottom, so you don't notice Bucky move closer.

"You don't know how to ski, do you?" His voice is low, warmer than you expected it to be with a hint of amusement. "I need you to be honest with me before I let you go down that hill."

Finally, slowly, you tear your gaze from the skiers to find his eyes in you. Always watching. There's concern there, a slight crease in his brow.

"I know how—"

He gives you a look.

You take a breath, shoulders slumping.

"I haven't skied since I was a kid."

Bucky rolls his shoulders. The concern in his eyes is replaced with amusement, and his lips flatten into a tight line like he's debating between scolding and laughing at your expense.

He settles on neither.

"Let's start with your stance," he instructs, adjusting his own and bouncing lightly on his knees. "Feet shoulder-width apart, not…whatever you're doing."

You blink at him in surprise. Every bone in your body would've bet on him leaving you stranded up here after lying about your abilities, not stepping in to help.

He nods once, silently encouraging you to follow his lead. "Try it. Stay loose or you'll go down."

With a sigh, you adjust your stance, but it still feels wrong. Unbalanced. Tight.

"Like this?"

Bucky looks at you, the corners of his lips twitching.

"…No."

You huff, heat crawling up your neck at his blunt assessment. "Excellent teaching skills, very encouraging." His lips pucker slightly and a muscle in his jaw ticks.

Looking down to avoid his gaze, you attempt to fix it, widening your stance and tucking your elbows in tighter.

"Stop," he grunts. Shaking his head, Bucky moves closer, closing most of the distance. His skis bump against yours. "Knees in."

You try again, overcorrecting so far it feels like gravity caught the hood of your coat and is giving one good pull. His hands shoot out, one landing on your elbow as the other finds the small of your back, catching you before your feet can slip out from under you.

Your heart skips a beat, though you're unsure if it's from the near fall or the sudden contact.

"Not that far." His voice is quiet, a little frustrated, but it almost sounds like he's holding back a laugh. "Shoulder-width," he reminds. His hands fall away, leaving you strangely aware of the space between you.

With a short nod, you find your balance, more aware now of where your knees are. It feels better already, steadier. He gives a grunt—something that almost sounds like approval.

"You're too tight. Loosen up a little," he instructs. "Fingers, elbows, knees…relax. When you go down the hill, you want to be loose. Work with gravity, not against it."

Relax. Got it. You can do that. With a roll of your shoulders, you loosen your fingers and give a small bounce of your knees.

He nods. "Okay, now show me a wedge."

You aim the front of the skis into a triangle, the stance needed to stop.

"Good," he says quickly. "That's perfect."

Oh.

Heat floods your cheeks fast—too fast.

The breeze picks up again just in time to use as a welcome distraction. You turn your face into it, and away from him, hoping to cool down despite the sun now beating down from a cloudless sky. If he notices your reaction, he doesn't say a word. Instead, he starts talking about the hill and how to go down safely, but you're not listening. Until—

"Earth to bunny."

Your gaze snaps back to him at the nickname, though the warmth accompanying it is new. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"Are you ready to go down? Can't stay up here forever."

Your stomach drops at the reminder. Of course, downhill. How could you forget? You swallow hard and brush him off with a dismissive wave of your hand. It's just skiing. Kids do it.

Bucky's eyes are on you, studying. Like he can see the false confidence waving in the air like a white flag.

He doesn't comment on it.

Instead, his voice remains low and steady, running through everything he just covered. You try to pay attention, but as you slowly approach the slope and the point of no return, the hill suddenly looks even more daunting than before. Steeper. Taller.

With a deep breath, and mustering all the courage you have, you begin the descent without waiting for him.

Something feels off immediately.

Gravity feels stronger. The skis feel like they're fighting to pull ahead.

You lean forward—but that suddenly feels like a mistake, and now you're moving faster. Your mind goes blank in the panic, the knowledge of how to stop or slow down flying out the window. The hill's slope feels as though it's pulling you uncontrollably down it.

Suddenly, Bucky's voice cuts through the noise closer than you expect. It doesn't register at first; too focused on watching your skis and the way they're pointing at two different angles.

"Eyes on me, bunny."

When your panicked gaze snaps up to see him moving in front of you, skiing backwards like it's the easiest thing in the world, something clicks.

He was ready.

His hands are outstretched, ready to grab you at a moment's notice.

"Heels out, slow down."

With your mind finally clearing, you adjust your skis until they're wedged, the speed immediately decreasing.

"There you go," he murmurs. "Just like that. You're doing great."

A breath.

It's not like you haven't heard it before. In fact, you've always thought yourself capable…with the unfortunate habit of not always paying attention when your phone is in your hand. But the way the words slip through his lips, warm with the slightest hint of pride, hits harder than it should.

When you finally reach the end of the slope and drift to a stop, Bucky backs off, and it somehow feels a moment too soon.

Everything feels a little strange. The sun is too bright, the air suddenly warm, the crowd nearby a little loud.

With a deep breath and a shake of your head, you force a smile and turn towards the line. "Come on, Bucky. Round two." His brows raise, but he doesn't argue, following your lead.

By the time you're on the lift, you're more determined than ever. It's you that pushes off first. It's you that moves toward that same edge, stopping just before the point of no return.

It's like riding a bike; the first time is a little rusty. Shaky. Every time you get back on, you get steadier and more confident.

Only, when you lean forward and start going down the hill full of confidence you shouldn't have yet, you realize quickly that staying slow can actually be difficult. The wedge isn't working quite the same. Panic starts, but you squash it down and correct. Except the adjustment is too much, and one ski bounces on an uneven dip, making you lose balance.

The world tips as your arms fly out instinctively to catch yourself, and you land in the snow with a soft whump, sending a puff of powder flying into the air.

Your heart is pounding, blood rushing in your ears and making the world fall silent for a moment as you catch your breath.

Then there's laughter. Deep but short, like it came out before he could stop it.

"Please let this be a stupid dream," you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut.

Bucky comes to a stop next to you, still chuckling. "Round two, huh?"

"Please don't."

There's a pause, and you open an eye to peer up at him. The corner of his mouth is still twitching. Then he's crouching down, voice lowering as the crease in his brow deepens.

"Are you okay?" There's a shift in his tone, a softness that definitely wasn't there before.

You don't answer at first, too embarrassed. But then his hand finds your arm, touching it with a gentleness you didn't think he possessed. And it makes your gut do something funny.

"Seriously, are you hurt?"

The genuine concern laced in the deep timbre of his voice is a welcome surprise. It's warm. And professional, you remind yourself.

"I'm fine. I just decided to check the quality of the snow," you say, patting some of the fresh powder. "It's nice and…powdery."

A moment of silence passes where his incredibly blue eyes are narrowed and staring at you, holding eye contact a little too well. Finally, he hums, seemingly satisfied before standing and offering his hand.

You hesitate for a second before taking it and letting him pull you to your feet. Your pride is well and fully bruised at this point, confidence dipping low. Part of you hopes this will just end here. That he'll decide you're not worth the effort when he's not officially your instructor, that his challenge proved him right—

"Let's try again," he says simply, cutting your pity party short. No hint of teasing, no smirk. Encouragement.

It takes only a heartbeat before you're brushing off the snow and nodding. This time, when he starts offering instructions in a low, calm voice, you listen.

"Slow, control your speed."

"Heels out, bunny, you can do it."

When the wedge finally works, not perfect but enough to come to a full stop, a small smile tugs at his lips. "Good. That's better."

The next run comes easier.

So does the next.

It quickly becomes a pattern. He follows closely at your side, eyes analyzing everything you do. Every wrong move is followed by a gentle correction. Every adjustment is followed with some form of praise.

"That's it."

"Yes, there you go."

"Perfect, bunny, great form. Keep that."

And every time you get it right, you can feel it. Your chest tightens. Your breath catches. Your cheeks feel permanently warm, but maybe it's just the sun.

Several runs down the bunny hill in, mistakes are becoming minimal and you find yourself watching him instead of the run. Waiting. Listening. Until nothing comes at all, and disappointment unexpectedly tugs at your gut.

When the sun finally reaches the highest point in the sky, the two of you stop at the bottom of the hill for what feels like the millionth time. Your legs are tired, a little shaky from the exertion.

"You're getting it," he finally says. Bucky looks at his watch before squinting at the sun, a bead of sweat glistening on his hairline. He turns to meet your gaze. "That's it for today."

"Wait, what?"

He nods towards your legs before speaking. "Your legs are about to give out," he says matter-of-factly, "and I don't want to have to carry you down the mountain." The warmth is almost gone, replaced with the same teasing tone he had earlier this morning, but now there's a glint of something in his eye you can't quite name. Lingering. "Besides, I'm sure you'll need your strength for après-ski tonight."

You blink.

"Who says I'm going to après-ski after that?" you ask incredulously, placing your hands on your hips. His gaze drops to the way your knees wobble beneath you, the corners of his lips curling almost imperceptibly before his blue eyes meet yours once more.

His head tilts slightly. "Get a drink, bunny," he replies, voice lowering, "you earned it." He smirks before turning and leaving you standing at the end of the run alone.

— — —

The White Wolf Lodge is crawling with people when you and Lana finally step inside later that night, busier than it had been yesterday. Despite her protests to "find something with more oomph", you insisted on returning…just in case. Lana grins with delight, bouncing in her heeled boots as she takes it in.

"I'm getting drinks this time," she says pointedly. You open your mouth to protest, but she shuts you up with a look before turning and winding her way through the crowd in a blur of hair and perfume.

It's busy. Too busy. And despite the insistence to your brain that you weren't hoping to see a certain someone, a wave of disappointment hits you all the same. Because there's no way he'll be here with this many people around.

By some miracle, two chairs open up just as you push through a small opening of people. You sit quickly and take in your surroundings. A DJ booth is set up in the corner this time, the music loud enough to rattle the seat, and the pool tables are completely surrounded by people either dancing or ignoring the game altogether.

When your gaze finally drags over to the bar where Lana is currently leaning over it and pointing at something to the bartender, your heart nearly stops.

Those incredibly blue eyes, the ones who have seen you hit too many lows for comfort this weekend, catch your attention like a beacon. The eye contact is brief. Too brief…yet simultaneously too long. He turns away, but not before you catch the way his lips curl up at the corners.

Damn it.

"One cocktail for you, madame," Lana announces out of nowhere and hands you a glass. "Drink up."

"Actually," you say slowly, already setting the glass down, "I think I'm going to get some air." Lana doesn't say a word, watching as you leave for the door that leads towards a balcony overlooking the resort.

The sun is beginning to set behind the mountains, casting a pink and orange glow over everything. Lights flicker on across the resort and slopes as the night skiers begin their evenings. It's quieter out here, only the faint thumping of music filling the air.

You take a deep breath and enjoy the serenity for a moment before the sound of heavy boots approaches slowly, stopping just off to your side.

"Still standing, I see."

There's a lightness in his tone—impressed and teasing. Your eyes roll.

"I told you, you don't know me." You glance over at him. "I'm adorable, but I'm not helpless."

Bucky meets your gaze for a moment before looking out at the view. He nods thoughtfully before he shakes his head with a laugh, a real one that catches both of you off guard. He steps forward and rests his arms on the railing, close enough you can feel the heat radiating from him.

"For the record, I never said you were helpless. You just seemed a little too attached to your phone for your own safety."

You scoff, annoyed for a second, before conceding. "Yeah, sure. I'll give you that."

He smirks. "I guess this means I was wrong about you. You proved me wrong, bunny. You successfully made it down the mountain multiple times. Well done."

There it is again. Two incredibly simple words that shouldn't have the affect they do, yet the heat rising in your cheeks is unstoppable. What is it about this man that his approval so addicting?

You release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding and turn to watch the ski lifts sway gently in the wind.

"Thanks," you mumble, trying to keep your voice steady. The world suddenly feels smaller than it should. His gaze doesn't leave your profile, like he's studying you again. Reassessing.

There's a pause in the conversation, allowing the hum of muffled music and the squeal of children throwing snowballs down below to fill the silence.

Several moments pass before he leans a bit closer and breaks the silence. "You're awfully quiet right now. It doesn't suit you."

You raise an eye brow and glance at him. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the peace and quiet."

Something flashes in his eyes too quick to catch.

"Mm. I'm not sure that's it." He turns to fully face you now, elbow resting on the railing. "I watched you today."

Your heart stops, but you try and brush it off. "You were instructing me, of course you watched."

Bucky laughs, a rumble that vibrates deep in his chest. "No, I mean when you thought I wasn't paying attention. You know what I learned about you?"

You don't answer, choosing to focus on the way butterflies are threatening to erupt in your gut.

"You get flustered pretty easily."

His gaze holds yours, searching for any reaction, any hint that his words mean something. When you still don't respond, his voice lowers almost dangerously.

"I think you like the attention."

Your heart skips a beat.

"Maybe I do." Your voice comes out quieter than you intend. "But you're still giving it to me."

The way Bucky is looking at you makes your stomach do a somersault. With a twinkle in his eye and a grin he's fighting to keep hidden, he takes a half-step closer, making your breath catch.

"Probably because I like giving it to you, bunny."

Smooth as silk, and it hits exactly how he wants it to—a sharp breath and the flick of your eyes to the door leading back to the party inside before finding that unwavering gaze again. The sun has slipped completely behind the mountains now, leaving the warm lighting of the lodge's balcony to soften his sharp features.

"You're ridiculous," you whisper weakly, but you both know the tension in the air is thickening fast.

He chuckles softly. "Yet you're still here."

"I was here first."

He hums, looking out at the darkened view for a minute like he's considering something. And then his focus is on you again.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?"

He lifts his hand palm up between you, a silent invitation.

Your gaze drops to it. It's large and unfairly steady compared to the way he just made your pulse flutter. But you don't take it. Not yet.

"My room isn't far," you say without thinking, looking back up.

His expression shifts with a blink—eyebrows raising a fraction as a small smile, warm and satisfied, forms on his lips.

You take that as agreement, and suddenly your feet are carrying you back inside.

Every step is unhurried as you move through the noise and chaos of the lodge. You don't even have to glance back to know he's right behind you, a steady presence.

Each hallway gets quieter than the last, the tension slowly increasing with every corner you turn until finally stopping at your door.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Your fingers are wrapped around the keycard already, and the silence is almost deafening. When you second guess yourself and turn to ask if he's sure, you find him leaning against the wall.

Too casual. Too calm. Too—

Bucky smiles. Slow. Devastating.

Your breath catches.

His eyes flick to your lips, parted with a question that won't come out, then back to your eyes.

That's all it takes before you step towards him. Not the whole way, but enough. He closes the distance.

His hands cradle your face before his mouth finds yours, lips moving at a languid pace like we have all the time in the world. Your hands find the soft fabric of his shirt as he tilts your face just a little.

A soft hum slips from your throat, which only seems to encourage him into picking up the pace.

You don't break apart until the sound of footsteps and laughter sounds from somewhere nearby, and you find yourself gently pushing him away to try and get the door open. He barely moves, watching as you struggle to get the card in the reader twice before it finally unlocks.

Bucky holds the door open for you to go through first, and when it finally closes with a click, he immediately backs you into the nearest wall.

His body is a solid mass against yours, pressing firmly against you. One hand finds your waist, tugging you closer, as the other cups your face with a slow brush of his thumb.

"Tell me to stop," he says, voice strained. "Tell me you don't want this."

His breath fans across your lips in ragged puffs, like he's desperately trying to stay composed. But when your arms encircle his neck and pull him in for another kiss, his restraint snaps.

It starts slow. Tasting. Exploring.

Then the kiss deepens—your hands in his hair, his holding the nape of your neck like he's afraid to let you go. When his knee slots between your legs, pressing right where heat has been pooling far longer than you realized, a small whimper pulls from your throat before you can stop it.

He freezes. A slow curve of his lips accompany a low chuckle, and suddenly his lips are trailing to your jaw and down to your neck, his hands beginning to explore.

"God," he mumbles against your skin, "you sound good. Wonder what other noises you make."

You huff a laugh, half flustered half amused, your own hands beginning to tug at his coat, but your mind is stuck on the hard length pressing into your lower belly.

Bucky doesn't waste another second. He shrugs off his coat before cupping both sides of your face and pulling you in for a searing kiss. Your hands tug at his shirt, more insistent now. He lifts his arms, only breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over his head before it's tossed aside and his mouth finds yours again.

The sudden movement has your head spinning, knocking you off balance when he begins to tug you by the waist one, two steps away from the wall.

You barely register each step as clothes begin to peel away, leaving a trail of fabric to the bed. When the back of your knees press into the edge of the mattress, he follows you down instantly, bracing himself above you with one hand as the other trails slowly down your side.

His eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Still wanting my attention?" he murmurs.

A soft laugh. "More than anything."

Bucky kisses you again with a low groan before starting a slow trail down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. He lingers too briefly at your breasts, kneading, sucking, and groaning softly before continuing down, ultimately settling between your legs with a gentle push of his hand.

You watch as his fingers play with the waistband of your panties, torturing you with a glance back up to your pleading eyes.

His lips part like he's going to say something, but then he glances back down at the fabric clinging to your wet heat and he groans instead. Slipping a finger into the gusset, he slowly peels it down and off your legs.

"Look at you," he whispers. "So pretty."

He starts slow, his thumb brushing carefully up your slit, gathering slick as he goes. Your fingers curls into the plush duvet when he licks his lips, looking like a starving man at a buffet.

And then his tongue is on you.

Hot, flat, and tasting you slowly from entrance to clit.

You gasp, your head falling back to the mattress. He squeezes his eyes closed, an "oh, fuck," slipping from his lips before he's spreading you open with both thumbs and licking again. The sensation has you tingling, fingers gripping tighter, and when his lips attach to your clit without warning, a strangled whimper fills the soft silence of the room.

He hums, seemingly pleased at your reaction. And then his tongue is moving again. Slow. Flat. Flicking your clit before circling it with expert precision.

"Bucky," you whine. Your hips buck up in a silent plea for more.

He chuckles, a deep rumble that sends vibrations through your core. "Oh, bunny, you taste incredible," he murmurs. Your chest heaves as he exchanges his tongue for a single finger, pulling back just enough to look back up at you, lips already glistening with your juices.

He's watching you carefully for every reaction, every hitch in your breath has he rubs tantalizingly slow circles on your clit with too-soft pressure. Seemingly satisfied, he licks his lips again and dips his finger into your entrance, curling it just right and pulling a soft moan from your throat.

Bucky grins like he just won the lottery.

He leans back in, continuing where he left off with unhurried movements as his mouth and finger work in tandem. Pressure is coiling low in your gut, tighter with every brush of his thick fingers against the soft spot deep inside. A second finger joins quickly, stretching you open. One of your hands abandons the duvet altogether, burying into his hair to ground you.

He grunts in approval, picking up the pace. His mouth is relentless, sucking and licking your dripping folds.

"Fuck," he murmurs, "you're squeezing my fingers. You close, bunny?"

You nod quickly, brows drawn together in pleasure as your fingers grip his hair a little tighter. He growls when he feels your back begin to arch off the bed.

"There you go—fuck, you're doing great. Just relax and let go."

You moan loudly when your orgasm crashes over you, a white hot pleasure coursing through your veins in waves. Your legs shake and squeeze around his head, earning a deep groan from him. Bucky keeps up his movements, prolonging the pleasure as he groans against you.

His tongue laps up the juices as you come down from your high.

"Good fucking girl," he mutters, pulling his fingers out. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh before moving back up and kissing you deeply, allowing you to taste yourself on him.

"You've got quite the mouth on you," you laugh breathlessly when he pulls away, lowering himself and pressing his still-clothed bulge against your sensitive folds.

Bucky chuckles.

"I've got more than that." He grins and does one grind against you to punctuate his point. Wrapping your arms and legs around him, your hips roll once with his, not caring you're soaking into his briefs.

"Do you have a condom?" he huffs, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your flesh. "I…wasn't planning for this or I would've stolen one from my roommate."

You shake your head. "I'm clean and on the pill."

He groans, kissing you again and silently thanking any god that will listen for the snow bunny beneath him.

Bucky slips the now soaked material off, his cock slapping against his stomach as he looks at you with a newfound hunger, precum already beading on the flushed tip. Your eyes widen when his hands wrap around the length, giving one slow pump. He's thick and you're already salivating.

He moves to bracing himself above you. His knee pushes your legs further apart before he's rubbing the length through your wet folds, gathering your arousal before lining himself with your entrance.

He stops for a moment, chest rising and falling. Then his eyes are on you. And before you can say a word, he's pushing in.

Slow.

The stretch is delicious, each inch splitting you open. His eyes don't leave yours.

When he bottoms out, your eyes flutter shut, feeling more full than you ever have in your life. You can feel him shift, his body warm and solid as he settles above you, one hand bracing himself as the other gently grips your waist and waits for you to adjust.

When your eyes open again, his blue ones are watching for any signs of discomfort or hesitation.

"You okay?"

You nod, your throat not quite working. He nods in response, doing one test roll of his hips and making you gasp.

He smirks.

"Don't fucking look at me like that." Your laugh comes out strained, your hands somehow find themselves in his hair again.

He chuckles and does another roll. Slower. Just to see if you'll make the same sound. He grins when you do.

"You're so tight," he grunts. "Fucking perfect."

Your cunt clenches around him, and he groans.

His hips begin moving more deliberately, pulling his cock almost all the way out before sliding back in. He moves like he's back on the mountain—controlled, unhurried. Every thrust feels like heaven, dragging against your sensitive walls with increasing ease.

"There we go, that's it," he mutters. His gaze flicks down to where you're connected and licks his lips. He slowly picks up his pace. His hand moves from your thigh to slip beneath you, lifting your hips for a better angle. You mewl helplessly at the feeling.

Bucky's eyes snap back up to your mouth where your lips are parted and panting, each thrust now pulling sounds out like a beautiful symphony.

"Fuck, bunny, you sound—" his hips snap once, harder, and you whimper. He grins. "I'm not gonna last if you keep—" He snaps his hips again and the same sound comes out.

His jaw tightens, like he's trying to hold himself back, but when he does it again, hitting that spongy spot perfectly and pulling a full moan from your lips, he loses control.

The pace picks up faster and harder until you're crying out his name with every thrust.

"You're doing so good, look at you. You're taking me so well, sweetheart, keep going."

The praise hits you hard this time, your cunt clenching around him like it's desperately trying to hang on. Bucky moans, a deep guttural sound as his hips stutter and slow to a near stop. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.

"You—you like that, don't you?" he growls. His eyes snap open. "You like the praise. No wonder you wanted it on the mountain."

You roll your hips up in his in an attempt for more friction. His cock twitches deep inside you. And then he's grinning wickedly.

"Bucky, please," you whimper.

"Please what, sweetheart? You look so pretty like this, underneath me while I split you open."

His words have the exact affect he wants and he chuckles when your body uselessly tries to cling on.

"Don't worry, bunny, I've got you. You're so good for me, huh? Already came on my mouth, think you can come on my cock like a good girl?"

"Oh, fuck…" you whine. "Yes, Bucky. Please."

He leans down, and gently presses a kiss to your lips. It's soft and lingering as he finally begins to move his hips again.

When you moan softly against him, he pulls back just enough to watch your face. "That's it. Let's get you there again, yeah?"

You nod, brows furrowed in pleasure, the edge slowly creeping closer as he slowly picks up the pace again. His calloused hand finds your thigh again, moving it to wrap around his waist. The change makes him feel even deeper when he bottoms out.

Bucky is pounding into you now, the sound of skin slapping skin mingling with heavy breaths.

"Bucky, I'm—I'm close."

He's panting, hips stuttering with his own impending orgasm, his eyes still not leaving your face. He reaches down between your sweat-slicked bodies and finds your clit, rubbing circles with his thumb.

"Give it to me, sweetheart. Come with me."

Three deep thrusts and your back arches as you reach your peak for a second time. You fingers tighten in his hair, tugging the strands. Moans fill the room as Bucky fucks you through your orgasm until his own release has him spilling hot ropes of cum deep inside you.

Hips roll in-sync, each of you pulling every last drop of pleasure possible out of the other before Bucky slowly pulls out with a groan.

"Good girl," he murmurs before climbing off the bed and heading to the bathroom. He comes back with a damp washcloth, cleaning you up carefully before tossing it on a side table. The two of you move to slip under the duvet, a calm weight draping over your bodies. Bucky pulls you into his side before pressing his lips to your temple.

A comfortable silence falls in the room and settles into the sheets, only the sounds of synchronized breaths filling the space between tangled limbs. Bucky's chest rises and falls in an increasingly slower rhythm under your head. His hands, the same ones that spent half the day correcting every mistake, now rub soothing circles on your back. Combined with the day's activities, your body is relaxing faster than you can stop it.

Bucky must sense it because his arms tighten around you a fraction before he murmurs, "Get some sleep, bunny. You had a long day."

— — —

You awake the next morning in darkness—or, you think it's morning—to the sounds of rustling fabric and a zipper being pulled in the door's vicinity.

"Bucky?" you mumble sleepily.

"Hey," he whispers. His voice sounds distant and a little rough from sleep. Soft footsteps on the carpet tell you he's moving closer before the dimmed light of his phone flickers on, illuminating his face as he crouches near the bed. His hair is mussed from sleep, eyes tired. "I don't mean to leave you like this, but I have to get ready for work. Can I see you later?"

Something inside flutters at the thought.

"Of course. I'll be around." You offer a smile before blinking slowly. He chuckles softly.

"I'll find you," he says, pausing for a moment. "Just…don't cause any trouble today, okay?"

You wave a dismissive hand at him before your head plops back down to the pillow with a small "mm".

He laughs softly before leaving and plunging you back into darkness.

The room is quiet again, but it doesn't feel the same. Cooler. Emptier. Which should feel embarrassing, having only known the man for a day. But sleep overtakes you before you can think too much about it, pulling you back into a warm slumber with the promise of later.

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TASTE TEST

EXECUTIVE CHEF! BUCKY X SOUS CHEF! F!READER

SUMMARY. Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.

WORD COUNT. 17.8k (she’s biiiig, i’m sorry) WARNINGS. workplace romance, age gap, power imbalance, lowk grump! bucky, switching povs, smut, lowkey love/lust at first sight, MDNI, 18+, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), soft dom! bucky, unprotected pnv, tit play, food play, public-ish sex, misogyny and sexism in workplace (not from Bucky or Steve), miscommunication, angst, no use of y/n. Switching povs - Reader is always referred to in second person — you/your, Bucky is always referred to in third person — he/him. Reader is able-bodied, has hair, has a scar on her right hand (needed for plot) from a kitchen accident. It’s mentioned a couple of times. Bucky doesn’t have a metal arm, there’s a scar instead. Hierarchy in the kitchen goes like this — executive chef > head chef > sous chef >>> line cooks. ‘Pass’ is the area/counter where finished dishes are kept to be picked up. NOTES. Baby’s first collab yayy. I am beyond excited to participate in the Bucky’s dream house collab with these amazingly talented authors of the @stantastic-association. Thank you @miraclediviner for organising this and making it a reality and a success. I’ll always adore you. Also thank you for the ‘scar on Bucky’s arm’ idea, I owe you baby. Ilysm ❤️

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BUCKY’S DREAM HOUSE MASTERLIST

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.

He should've been able to make out the timeline, but you know he's stressed. "Three weeks ago."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

"Who was I supposed to tell? Bucky? So he could fire them and prove their point?"

"Their point is bullshit —"

"Is it? Because if people find out about me and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will assume I fucked my way in. And worse, they'll think Bucky's judgment is compromised. That he's not professional, and running this place based on who he's with, instead of who's qualified."

Steve lets out a sigh, you know he's not seeing your point. "So your solution is to break up with him?"

"We weren't together."

"Bullshit."

"Fine. It doesn't matter what we were. It matters what it looks like."

"To who? Jason? Some asshole line cook who's probably jealous he's not good enough to make sous?"

"To everyone. To food critics and investors and other chefs, to everyone who's watching Brooklyn's Taste and waiting for Bucky to fuck up. I can't be the reason his reputation gets ruined."

"His reputation? What about yours? And what about happiness? Both of yours?"

You ignore the latter. "My reputation doesn't matter —"

"The hell it doesn't."

"Steve —"

"You think hiding this is going to make it better? You think people are going to stop talking just because you and Bucky aren't together?"

You don't have an answer for that.

His voice softens slightly. "Look, I get it. People are assholes. But you're not protecting him by shutting him out. You're just making him miserable."

"Better miserable than —"

"Than what? Happy? Than having something good for once in his life?" Steve runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice again. "Do you know what he said to me when you started seeing each other? He said he finally understood what everyone meant about coming home to someone. That for the first time in years, he wasn't coming home to an empty apartment."

Blurry eyes make it hard for you to see him. "Steve —"

"He's in love with you. Even if he hasn't said it yet, it's obvious. And you're killing him."

"I'm trying to protect him."

"From what? From people talking? They're going to talk anyway. People always talk."

"Not if there's nothing to talk about."

"You really think that's going to work? You really think you can just walk away and everything goes back to normal?"

"I don't know. I — I don't know, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing is being honest with him."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I tell him, he'll want to fix it. He'll either fire Jason or reprimand him or do something that'll just make everything worse." You swipe at your eyes fast. "Any way this goes, it makes him look bad. If he fires them, people will say he's protecting his girlfriend. If he ignores it, the rumors get worse. There's no winning here."

"So you're just going to keep avoiding him? Keep pretending nothing's wrong?"

"I don't know what else to do."

Steve's quiet for a long moment. "You could try trusting him."

"I do trust him —"

"No, you trust him to cook, to run his kitchen. But you don't trust him to handle this. He's stronger than you think. And he deserves to know what's going on."

"If I tell him —"

"He'll want to fight for you. Yeah. That's what people do when they care about someone."

You close your eyes and let the tears fall freely now.

Bucky's going through the motions of prep when Steve walks back into the kitchen looking like someone just punched him in the gut.

"What's wrong with you?" The question comes out automatically, that reflexive check-in he's been doing since they were kids.

"We need to talk. Office. C'mon."

"I'm working —"

"Now, Buck."

Steve never uses that tone unless something's seriously wrong. Wordless, Bucky puts down his knife and follows Steve into the office. The door closes behind them with a click that sounds too loud in the small space. "What happened? Someone quit?"

"No. But I just talked to her."

Bucky wants to speak, but words fail him. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth hurt. 

"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues. 

"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word. 

Steve runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how to say whatever he's about to say. "Jason and one of the new guys were talking shit, about her. Said she… slept her way into your kitchen."

The words don't register first. Bucky's brain refuses to process them, like if he doesn't acknowledge what Steve just said then it won't be real. "They said what?"

"She overheard them three weeks ago. That's why she's been pulling away. She thinks if people find out about you two, everyone will assume the same thing."

"That's —" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's — that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever — we weren't even —"

"I know."

"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She —" His hands are trembling with the effort of not putting his fist through the wall. He shoves them in his pockets. "Who the fuck do they think they are?"

"Assholes. But that's not the point —"

"They're talking about her like she's — like she —" The sentence dies in his throat. Saying it out loud will make it real, will make him lose the last thread of control he's got. "I'm firing them. Both of them. Today."

"That's exactly what she said you'd do."

"Good. Then she knows me."

"Buck —"

"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't —" Bucky's palm connects with the desk hard enough to rattle the papers on it. "Fuck. Does she really think I'd let anyone believe that? Does she think I give a shit what people say?"

"She's trying to protect your reputation."

"My reputation? What about hers?" The question comes out louder than he means it to, weeks of frustration packed into a question. "She's been dealing with this alone for three fucking weeks because she was worried about what — me?"

"Yeah."

"That's — Why didn't she tell me?" He starts pacing. Standing still feels impossible right now, all this energy with nowhere to go.

"Because she knew you'd react exactly like this."

"Like what? Like someone who gives a shit?"

"Like someone who's in love with her."

Steve is watching him with this knowing expression that makes Bucky want to punch him, mostly for being right. "Steve —"

"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you —"

"I know. Fuck, I know, okay? I'm in love with her." Bucky finally, finally admits. But saying it out loud doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes his chest ache worse, knowing you're out there thinking you have to protect him from gossip while he's in here realizing he'd burn this whole place down if it meant keeping you safe.

Steve's expression softens. "Yeah. I know."

"And she's been avoiding me because she thinks — what? That I care more about what some asshole line cook thinks than I care about her?"

"No. She thinks she's protecting you."

"From what? From being happy?" Bucky lets out a humourless laugh. "I finally — for the first time in years I actually wanted to come home. Wanted to wake up. And she thinks I'm going to choose this place over her?"

Bucky loves his restaurant. Built it from nothing, bled for it. But it’s never felt like this, like something pulling him forward instead of just giving him somewhere to stand. This is the first time in a long while he's felt more than just getting through the day. 

"She thinks if people find out, it makes you look bad. Like you compromised your standards."

"My standards?" Bucky's voice goes sharp. "She exceeds every fucking standard I have. She's brilliant and she works her ass off and she —" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just — it was just us."

"I know. She knows that too, I think. But she's scared of what everyone else will think."

"I don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks."

"She does. Or at least she cares about how it affects you."

Bucky sinks into his desk chair. "So what do I do?"

"Talk to her."

"I've tried. She won't — every time I try, she shuts down."

"Try harder."

"Steve —"

"You love her, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then fight for her. Make her understand that you don't care what people think. That you're not going anywhere."

Bucky looks up at his best friend. "And if she still won't listen?"

"Then you keep trying until she does. Because that's what you do when you love someone." Steve moves away towards the door. "But first you need to deal with Jason and whoever else was talking shit."

"I'm firing them."

"I figured." Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth? She's miserable too. I've never seen someone look that sad while trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing would be talking to me."

"Yeah. But she's scared… and in love. Those people? They tend to do stupid things."

When Steve leaves, Bucky sits there in his office, trying to breathe through the mess of emotions churning in his gut.

Three weeks. Three weeks you've been carrying this alone because you were trying to protect him. Three weeks of him lying awake wondering what he did wrong, replaying every conversation, every touch, trying to figure out where he fucked up. And the whole time you were just scared, of people talking, of damaging his reputation, of being reduced to some cheap rumour.

He gets it. He does. The world's not kind to women in kitchens, not kind to women who get ahead. But what he doesn't get is why you thought you had to handle it alone, why you thought he wouldn't fight for you.

Because he would. He will.

He's in love with you. Has been for weeks, maybe longer. Since the interview, probably, when you looked at him like you could see right through all his bullshit. Since that first night when you fell asleep in his bed and he laid there watching you breathe, thinking this is what he'd been missing his whole life.

He's in love with you and you're out there thinking you have to protect him.

And some asshole has been running his mouth about you and still working in his fucking kitchen.

Bucky stands up. His hands are still shaking for a different reason now, pure, concentrated rage.

When he walks into the kitchen, everyone's in the middle of prep, focused on their stations, and the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the space.

Bucky's voice cuts through the noise. "Everyone stop what you're doing. Meeting. Now."

The sudden silence is almost jarring. People look up from their stations, confusion flickering across faces that quickly shift to wariness when they clock his expression. They start gathering near the pass, wiping their hands on their aprons.

You're standing near the back. When Bucky's eyes find you, his heart breaks clean in two. You look exhausted. Scared. Like you're bracing for whatever's about to happen.

He tears his gaze away from you and focuses on the rest of the kitchen. "Someone want to tell me," Bucky keeps his voice calm even though he wants to scream, "what gives anyone the right to talk about their coworkers like they're pieces of meat? In my kitchen?"

Silence. He watches a few people shift their weight, suddenly fascinated with the floor.

"No? No one? Let me be more specific then. Someone — multiple someones, apparently — have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."

More uncomfortable shifting. 

"You know what the really fucked up part is? She earned this job. She's got more talent in her fucking pinkie than most of you have in your entire bodies. And instead of respecting that, instead of learning from someone who's better than you, you reduce her to a cheap rumour."

"Chef —" Jason starts.

"I'm not done. This kitchen runs on two things. Talent and respect. You need both to work here. Both. Not one or the other. I don't care if you're the best cook I've ever seen. If you can't treat your coworkers with basic fucking human decency, you don't belong here."

Bucky's eyes scan the group, making contact with each person individually. He wants them to understand this isn't just talk. "This is me telling you how this kitchen works. How it's always worked. This isn't negotiable. And if you have a problem with that, there's the door."

No one seems to move.  

"I've spent years building this place. Years earning the stars, making sure every plate that leaves this kitchen is perfect. And I will not let anyone ruin that because they can't keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves."

He turns to look at Jason directly. "Especially when those opinions are rooted in misogynistic bullshit that has no place in my kitchen."

Jason's face goes from pale to flushed red in seconds, stain of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't —"

"You did. I know you did. And you know what really pisses me off?" Bucky takes a step closer and watches Jason try not to flinch. "You made her feel like she had to hide. Like being good at her job wasn't enough, like she had to prove herself over and over again because assholes like you can't accept that a woman earned something on her own merit."

"Chef, I —"

"Save it. You're fired. Clear out your station and get out of my kitchen."

Jason's mouth works like a fish out of water, opening and closing without any sound. "You can't —"

"I can. I just did. Out. Now."

"This is bullshit —"

"It's consequence. There's a difference. And whoever else was part of this conversation? You know who you are. You've got two minutes to come forward."

The new line cook — Miller, Bucky thinks his name is — raises his hand like he's in grade school. "I'll resign."

"Smart choice."

Jason's still rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the kitchen like he's waiting for someone to come to his defense. But there's only silence. Nobody meets his gaze.

"I said out," Bucky repeats.

Jason rips off his apron and throws it on the ground, storming toward the back door. The new guy follows him. When the door slams behind them, the kitchen stays silent.

"The rest of you, get back to work. We've got service in three hours and we're down two people. Figure it out."

The kitchen erupts back into motion immediately, everyone returning to their stations like they can't get away fast enough.

Bucky's eyes find you again. You're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. There's shock there, definitely. Disbelief. But underneath it all there's something that looks like it might be hope. It's breaking his heart and healing it at the same time.

He wants to go to you, pull you aside and tell you that you didn't have to protect him, that he would've done this two weeks ago if you'd just told him, and firing Jason is one of the easiest decisions he's made ever.

But the kitchen's watching. Bucky knows better than to push right now. He just holds your gaze, trying to pour everything he can't say into that single look. Then he turns and heads back toward his office before he does something dumb like forget where he is and kiss you in front of everyone.

Bucky's staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing anything, waiting for the kitchen to clear out, to come find you.

When the office door opens and you step in, he cannot believe his eyes. You close the door behind you and stand there frozen on spot.

You both are. Waiting for the other to make the first move. It's stupid, honestly, the two of you stuck on opposite sides of this tiny office like there's some invisible line neither of you knows how to cross first.

The human heart is a wonderful organ, capable of supplying the entire body without missing a beat. Bucky's heart, though, trips over itself right now, like it forgot how this is supposed to work.

Thankfully, you're crossing the small space in three strides and he's standing, reaching for you, every tense muscle in his body finally remembering how to relax, his heart knowing how to function properly again. 

Your arms wrap around his waist, bury your face in his chest, hard enough he feels the shape of your nose, your forehead. You're shaking, just this fine tremor he can feel everywhere you're touching him. Like you're trying really hard not to fall apart and it's not quite working. His arms come around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses flat against your spine. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. God, you smell the same. Like the shampoo he's still got in his shower, the one you left behind three weeks ago. "I'm here, baby. Please don't cry."

Crying like this is hardly strong. But his arms are around you and he smells like home, and the last thing you want to be is strong. You've missed him so much it physically hurts. The sob that escapes you is wet against his shirt, "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"Yeah? Whose fault is that?" There's a soft, familiar teasing in his tone, makes you pull back just enough to look at him. Your lips jut out before you can help it, the one that only comes out when it's just him, when you don't have to keep your guard up. Everyone else thinks you're tough and competent, and you are, but with Bucky you've never had to pretend you don't also want to be soft sometimes.

He wants to kiss that pout off your face. Wants to do a lot of things, actually, but first he needs to make sure you're okay. His thumb comes up to wipe under your eyes, catching tears.

"You're being mean." Your lips are still doing the thing he adores most.

"You're the one who disappeared on me for two weeks."

"I had a reason —"

"A stupid reason."

You want to argue but he's smiling at you. One of those real smiles that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. You've missed that smile so much you ache with it. "It wasn't stupid. I was trying to protect you."

"I know." His expression goes serious but still soft. "I'm sorry for doing that without asking you first. The meeting, firing Jason — all of it. But I was so fucking mad, and I would never let anyone talk about you like that. Never."

The fierceness in his voice does something to your chest, makes it warm and painful at once. "I know. I just — I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've told you."

"Yeah, you should've." But his voice is gentle, at odds with the words, hands never leaving you, holding you like you're something precious even though you fucked this up. The tears start again, harder this time, and you hate it. You hate crying, feeling this vulnerable, that you can't just pull it together for two seconds.

"Sweetheart, no —" Panic flashes across his face, knows he's said the wrong thing and scrambling to make it right. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have — I should've just read your mind or something —"

That startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little broken but still a laugh. "You're not a mind reader."

"Clearly. Would've saved us both a lot of trouble if I was."

"You would've been horrified by what I was thinking."

His eyebrows go up, that interested look he gets. "Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"

"That I was in love with you and terrified you'd figure it out." The words come out before you can stop them, honest and raw and so vulnerable it makes you want to grab the words back out of the air and shove them back in your throat. But you don't, you can't. Not when Bucky's looking at you like that.

"You're in love with me?"

You can feel your face heating up, but you nod. "Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while."

"Mhmm, that's good. Because I'm in love with you too."

The relief that floods through you is so intense you actually sway a little, his hands tightening to keep you straight. "You are?"

"Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while." He's using your words back at you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. You want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not. I'm —" How does he explain this? That he's been miserable without you? That his apartment felt wrong? That Alpine's been waiting by the door every night? "I've been going crazy without you. Alpine too. Keeps waiting for you."

Guilt speaks for you, "I'm sorry. I should've —"

"Stop apologizing." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We both fucked up. You should've told me what Jason said. I should've pressed more."

Standing in his cramped office with your faces inches apart, it feels like you can finally breathe again after weeks of suffocation. "I missed this."

"Yeah?" His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. "What specifically?"

"You being annoying. Me wanting to hit you. The usual."

A soft smile curves his lips as you study his face, taking in details you'd memorized weeks ago. The small scar on his chin you liked to trace, the way his hair falls across his forehead. But now there's darkness under his eyes, that you've caused. "You look tired."

"Haven't been sleeping." 

You pull him closer, words failing, conveying what you want through touch alone. Bucky seems to understand, a soft kiss placed on your temple as he speaks, "we're really bad at this."

"At what?"

"Being apart." He says it like a confession, like admitting weakness, but his hands are still gentle on your face. "I don't want to do it again."

"I don't want to do it again either."  

Bucky has to kiss you now. Can't not kiss you when you're looking at him like that, all soft and more importantly, his. 

The apartment looks exactly the same as you remember. The book you were reading is still on the table. There's your coffee mug on the counter. From the faint ring outside, it looks like Bucky's been using it.

Alpine appears the second you step inside, meowing so loud it's almost accusatory. She's looking at you like you personally betrayed her. You sink down onto the floor right there in the living room, don't even make it to the couch, Alpine immediately climbing into your lap. She's purring, that rumbling engine sound that always makes you smile. "I'm sorry, baby," you murmur, scratching behind her ears. "I missed you too."

Bucky watches the way you curl around Alpine like you're trying to make yourself small enough to fit in her world. This is what he wanted. This. You in his space, in his world, with his cat, looking like you belong here. Without a second thought, he's drops down next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, arms around both of you. One around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and the other joining yours in Alpine's fur.

You let yourself lean into him, head finding that spot on his chest that feels like it was made specifically for you. Alpine's purring gets louder, pleased to have both her people back where they belong. "This is nice," you say.

His chin rests on top of your head. "Yeah. It is."

"I'm sorry I left."

"I'm sorry too. Can we stop apologising now?"

The laugh out of you, however soft, startles Alpine enough that she whips her head around to glare at you, but she recovers and nuzzles back into you, apparently deciding to forgive the disruption.

It's the most peace you've felt in weeks. Possibly longer. Alpine's warm weight in your lap, Bucky's arm solid around your shoulders.

"I was thinking," Bucky says eventually.

"Mhmm, dangerous."

He pinches your side gently, making you yelp and squirm in his grasp. "I was thinking you should move in."

"What?"

"Your stuff's already here. Work's downstairs. Commute's easier. Just makes sense."

"That's very romantic."

"I'm in love with you and I want you here all the time. Better?"

You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "A little better."

"Is that a yes?"

You think about your empty apartment, waking up alone, not having this — Bucky and Alpine and home. "Yeah. That's a yes."

The kiss he presses to your temple is soft and lingering. "Thank God. Because I actually cleared out more drawer space — you know, before all this."

Alpine meows, annoyed at being squished between you, and you both laugh. But neither of you move. Neither of you want to.

"I love you," you say. Testing the words out loud now that you can, now that you know how to say it, and that he feels the same.

His arm tightens around you. "I love you too." He's smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips on the top of your head.

Alpine purrs louder, like she's agreeing, and you let yourself sink into this. Into Bucky and Alpine and the feeling of home.

COLLAB MASTERLIST ✧ MY MASTERLIST

EXTRAS. Thank you so much for reading! Please do support all the amazing authors who are participating in this collab! Did I know anything about chefs? No. Did I one day watch a random ass movie and decide chefs are hot? You know.

TAGLIST. @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax + TO GET ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!

[ladymiseryy]

Let’s say I did drop a short brother!bucky x reader. Would there be an audience for that?

[ladymiseryy]

Soooo tired of seeing posts in the x reader tag complaining about seeing dead dove content. Block the tag if you hate it.

About to start writing incest out of SPITE.

[slushiesandshowtunesat3am]

Morally repugnant weirdo fucking freak. Just say you find pleasure in innocent people suffering from assault

[ladymiseryy]

I’m not fighting with a 19 year old go find a park to play in or something

[blobfishlol]

I'm sorry but incest is objectively not okay, I'm not gonna shame you for reading it cause it's your life and it doesn't affect me but saying it's okay is just plain wrong

I'm sorry, do i give a shit? Y'all are such weirdos sitting here and negotiating with people because of a literal sexual fantasy they have, it's laughable. You know what fantasy is? You know there are people who have fantasies about fucking monsters? Werewolves?

Fantasy is just that. Fantasy.

Instead of wasting my time projecting here because you see this stuff popping up (because baby girl if algorithm is showing you this stuff I have a bad news for you💆🏻‍♀️) I would suggest donating to some charity that helps victims of DV get back on their feet or something. Since you're feeling so righteous.

Kisses

[ladymiseryy]

Soooo tired of seeing posts in the x reader tag complaining about seeing dead dove content. Block the tag if you hate it.

About to start writing incest out of SPITE.

[buckytakethewheel]

some of y'all are way too comfortable sucking off to mean people just to get an ounce of recognition and that's embarrassing as hell because tumblr fame amounts to literally zero......... but you do what you gotta do i guess

[metal-armed-muse]

LET’S TALK TRUTH

When it happened, I thought to myself, ‘this won’t matter in five months.’ I was wrong.

It’s been more than five months, and we are still getting dragged into this.

We want to come clean before someone else has the opportunity to twist the truth again. Because, we are tired of this happening again and again. I am sharing the truth, however ugly it may be.

I have not blurred out any names. Because I’m not lying or twisting the narrative. Whatever I have is what you have. I don’t know their intentions for posting that with our names struck out, but I cannot help but think it was a ‘warning’ of sorts.

There was a group chat, created way before BWA members started getting hate. It was not created to talk about them. It was a regular gc between four friends. It was nothing more.

(The day the gc was created.)

It was created almost a month before any of them started getting hate. It was mentioned in the recent post that ‘it was created with the intent of speaking about them, hours before I comforted them.’ This is completely false.

And when they started getting hate, we talked about it in the gc. We talked about comforting them, which we did. Without any malicious intent.

We used it to talk about literally anything and everything, including positive things about bwa members, as you can see below.

(Us talking about bwa, much before they said the gc was even created)

As mentioned before, the gc was never created with the intent of hating. it was only meant to be a safe space.

When they started getting hate, one of the people who was on a break came back, so we discussed whether they were sending the anons. Which truly means we do NOT know who were behind those.

(Us discussing one of them might’ve sent those anons)

Other thing they are set on is that, we were drafting anon messages to send to them.

We did talk about it. But we never sent them.

To this day, they think it’s anon HATE. While it was just anon asks, there was no hate involved.

It was spoken in the heat of the moment, taken back almost immediately. None of them were sent. Here are the messages we indeed drafted, which never got sent.

(contents of the anon asks we were talking about. But none of them got sent.)

(Discussion of anons. Immediately after, either the topic got changed or we shut it down ourselves.)

This is all that was talked about regarding anons, or sending anon messages. I am posting it for clarity and so that there are no misunderstandings; we said things because we were upset, but this is the full extent of it.

They had this preconceived notion that we were drafting hate, and spreading hate towards them, which I denied multiple times.

I tried talking to them, particularly Hyde, Uni, Sam, Roe. All of them shut me down and left me on read.

Hyde had recently shared a screenshot of me with a message circled, which was made to look like I was admitting guilt. It was taken out of context.

You can see the whole thread here, I was just apologising to her, I even explained that we did not send hate to her. The whole thread sends another message, while that single circled text sends a different one.

(The whole thread of the final messages to Hyde. I was completely clear that I never sent hate.)

You can clearly see the worst of the gc in the screenshots above, that was what I was apologising for. I was not admitting guilt.

She’d also shared a screenshot where she’s mentioned — ‘i'm fairly sure myself and the other people in bwa have never once brought up nor "exposed" the happenings of this groupchat on tumblr, despite never receiving a real apology.’

I have apologised countless number of times. Apologies I’d rather have not sent because they only fell on deaf ears. Apologies for shit I didn’t do. I could attach a number of screenshots where I’ve indeed apologised, but it is only useless. (If needed, I am ready to share the whole chat, my apologies and her indifference in responses.)

She had also mentioned — ‘kie lamenting about those who she believed didn't deserve to be in bwa over her, and escalated to drafting hate messages that could be sent to us, to keep this whole thing going.’

I would like to take this moment to mention that I, along with a couple of others, were made to believe that we were joining bwa. Ophelia was the person who’d texted all of us about it, she made it sound like they were inviting us to bwa. There was also an instance (which was probably a courtesy call that I might’ve misread) where Hyde herself mentioned that they’ve talked about inviting me. I never asked to be invited in the first place, she made it on her own. When I got to know that they’ve indeed added new members, I asked her about it. I did not lament over it in the gc. I asked her about it straight. To which she claimed that I was only seeing her as ‘a stepping stone into bwa.’ At which I should’ve taken offence, but I wanted to mend our ‘friendship.’

At the end, it’s just tumblr, we are here to write fanfiction. I did not attempt to talk to them after they left me on read and unfollowed me.

Because they have the right to choose what to believe and I did not have the energy to prove myself.

I took multiple breaks, had to work myself through it all, to come back to tumblr.

I was just trying to stay away from all of it when Uni texted me for personal closure, months after it all went down. I texted back asking to end this once and for all, but she blocked me. Another dead end.

(Texts with Uni months after this went down. I was extremely tired of getting dragged back into all of this.)

They started this multiple times over the past few months, even after me explicitly telling them I had nothing to do with this and want to be left alone.

The least they could’ve done is had a conversation with me, listen to what I had to say.

Then came the gossip blog. Immediately after which Pauline texted me, accusing me and my friends of running that blog. Which again, we did not.

(Pauline’s texts to me accusing us of being Cheese. ‘Suggesting’ us to figure this out or they will use their lovely support…)

There were no desperate attempts to make them look bad. Also why do you keep saying the group chat was created to send hate? Is it that impossible to think there’s a group chat that does not revolve around bwa?

The second message seemed a lot like threatening, at which point, I debated coming forward with all this. But then we reminded ourselves it’s just tumblr fanfiction it is not that serious.

But now they have accused us, made screenshots look like we were talking out of guilt. Made it seem like the gc was created for spreading hate. I cannot help but think they’d name us, try to shame us, or get people to report us as Pauline had mentioned in her message.

I truly sympathise with the anons they got. No one should go through that. We get how stressful and exhausting that can be. But they really think it’s us, when some of them who’s shared the anons have blocked us. I’m sorry, we are not making a new account just to send anon to them. I’ve also offered on multiple occasions to block the anon and see if it blocks me. They never entertained it either.

The fact that they got anons, and tried to pin it all on us, with a post where they’d attached both screenshots of our chats and the anons they got, is deeply hurtful. Posting both our screenshots and the anons they got in the same post really makes it seem like we were behind all of that. And it was done without any solid proof.

There also some comments under the post where bwa members we’ve never interacted with, were making fun of us. If you don’t even know us, why would you do that? There were also comments from bwa members jokingly saying they will ‘name them.’ How can you do all this without spending a single minute to talk this out?

All the time you’ve come into my inbox, you’ve either threatened us or accused us. If only you’d listened to us, listened to what we had to say, without already making up your head, this wouldn’t have come this far.

They claim that they’d talked to someone from the gc (who clearly says they were already pulling back from the fandom when this happened), and all they say is that there was talk about anons. The screenshots of which are attached above. Those were all the times we talked about anons, and none of which got sent.

We are sorry you got anons. It takes a toll on mental health. None of us are coming from a hurtful place. We distanced ourselves from everything because it was starting to become overwhelming, because it hurt us.

You kept blaming us over and over again, we did not even know what was going on most of the times. Everytime we got accused, we took a break. Everytime this started again, we took a break. This was supposed to be a fun thing, an escape from reality. But we had to take a break from this multiple times because you made it hard for us when you blamed us without anything. This all could’ve been solved if you could’ve spared a few minutes with a clear head. But you were hell bent on pinning it on us, even when we had nothing to do with it.

TW : DEATH THREATS

But a while back, the cheese blog had mentioned about death threats. And when we reached out to them, they revealed that our names were there. The same names which were in Pauline’s messages cannot be a coincidence.

(We reached out to cheese, them confirming the death threats had our names.)

I understand that they only sent those to cheese and not us. Which again brings us to the point that they truly think we are behind all of this.

I cannot tell you what or what not to believe. But here’s what im saying. This is us coming forward with our truth. The gc was created way before they got hate, it was not created for spreading hate. No anon hate was sent, hell, no anon was sent. Any attempt to reconcile or explain were not successful.

We are also not cheese.

I’ve also read different things from people and there seems to be a lot of confusion between tbc and the group chat where these messages stemmed from. Tbc is essentially a server created by one of the bwa members, half of tbc was bwa. When this situation happened back in November, we left tbc. We do not know if it remains active.

This was not supposed to be posted at all. It seems unnecessary to bring drama into a writing community. But when there’s so much blame thrown without any hard proof — especially with untrue claims about the group chat and us — it’s just a little hard to sit silent and wait for the next bomb to drop. It is making us anxious to sit back and watch us get dragged through the mud.

This is not retaliation. This is just us trying our best to clear the air. Any and all attempts to do so before were unsuccessful and has resulted in them creating a false narrative. We are just making it straight.

At the end of the day, we just want to write and exist peacefully.

If you made it all the way to the end, just know I appreciate you taking the time to hear my side of the story. I think in some aspects, this was blown way out of proportion. What started out as a simple love for writing and wanting to share that love with my fellow writers, spiraled into something else entirely.

I'm not asking you to take sides, I'm simply providing you with the facts because i don't want me or friends' names dragged through the mud anymore than it already has. What started in a group chat snowballed into something so big with a lot of heresy. I just wanted to clear some air.

I hope this space can get back to what it was originally supposed to be. Fun. Plain and simple. But it truly can't be with this shadow hovering over me.

[ladymiseryy]

I don’t really have much to say except that kie (and stevie!) have both been incredibly kind to me ever since I started posting. all of sta has been incredibly kind to me. I joined the server right before all of the anon hate started and the only conversation around it I saw was that no one deserved to be attacked like that.

I’m so sorry this has been hanging over you kie. I hope this can go back to being something fun for you ❤️

[ladymiseryy]

Spilled Secret

pairing: bucky barnes x reader summary: bucky leaves for what is supposed to be several days, giving you the perfect opportunity to indulge in a kink you've long kept secret. cw: 18+ only minors DNI, p!ss kink, w*tersports, dubcon just to be safe. this is filthy i'm so so sorry. no use of y/n. word count: 2.6k a/n: sooo nervous to post this (idk why, I already posted one along these lines??) but here we are! also don't ask me what's going on with the pics at the top. no thoughts just vibes. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.

⋆.˚ Masterlist ⋆.˚

You don’t mean for Bucky to find out like this. You didn’t mean for Bucky to find out about this at all, really. 

This has always been something you did alone. You’ve never told anyone, because how were you supposed to explain… any of it? Every time you came close to sharing, shame bubbled up and stopped you. You never planned on telling Bucky. There were too many what-ifs. What if he thought it was disgusting? What if he was repulsed by it? By you? You can’t imagine he’d look at you the same. 

And so you kept it to yourself. You let it be something you only indulged in when he was away, halfway across the world. Though as much as you don’t want anyone else to know, you’ve long overcome the shame of playing on your own. No one has to know. You’re not hurting anyone. It’s just pee.

You don’t know what exactly it is about holding that gets you off. The build up, the desperation, they way it heightens everything when you resort to rubbing yourself or humping a pillow to help you hold. You swear the release when you finally let go is borderline orgasmic, especially when you really wait, when you really push yourself to your limit. It feels taboo, like you’re doing something you’re not supposed to. It’s dirty. Wrong. Maybe that’s what you like most. 

A whole week Bucky is supposed to be gone, and already you have a list of things you want to do. Old favorites, new things you’ve been working up to trying, a part of you wishes there was a way to know if Bucky would be willing to try any of it with you. A part of you feels guilty for hiding something like this from him, though not guilty enough to not do it. 

In the time since Bucky left that morning, you’d downed several bottles of water. Large bottles of water at that. The faster you grow desperate, the better. You’re too impatient for a long hold today, too worked up at the mere thought of a hold to be willing to wait. 

Sitting in the living room, your bladder gives its first real twinge. You shift in your seat, excited to finally pass the threshold into discomfort. You dip your hand below your cotton shorts and let your finger dip into your slit, biting your lip when you feel how wet you are. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you already leaked. You rub once, twice over your clit — just enough to tease yourself — before withdrawing your hand altogether. You throb.

The more you think about how full you are, the more uncomfortable you grow. Not a bad discomfort. The feeling only turns you on more. You try to distract yourself with chores around the house. The longer you hold, the better it’ll feel. You sit down to try and fold your laundry, legs fanning in an effort to lessen the pressure. It builds anyway. With every throb of your bladder your arousal builds. You let out a shaky breath and begin rocking back and forth. It’s not enough. With a sigh you press your hand between your legs, grinding against yourself. You feel so full. You press against your stomach with your other hand and moan, seemingly feeling the pressure everywhere. 

Unable to stop squirming, you get up, hoping that standing will help. It doesn’t. You whine, your bladder aching with every step but you refuse to give in so soon. If Bucky were here would he tease you? Make you drink more? You bite your lip, clit pulsing at the thought. 

Your first leak happens after you’ve finished vacuuming the living room. Your bladder cramps and you feel a gush of warmth flood your panties before you can stop it. With a gasp you clench, cutting off the leak, and look down to see if it’s visible. A small wet patch has spread in the crotch of your light grey shorts. 

Your bladder twinges again and you double over. Quickly, you abandon the vacuum and hurry to the bathroom. Your shirt is discarded as you step into the large, walk in shower, leaving you chest bare. Even in the shower you can’t stand still, shifting your weight from one foot to another. Another leak and the wet spot on your shorts spreads. You shiver as you desperately rub your clit through the wet material, chest heaving. God. If only you’d thought to bring your vibrator with you. You’d put it on low, let it build with your desperation. Imagining it has a whine slipping free. 

Another twinge of your bladder and you leak again, this time long enough that you feel it trail down your legs. You twist one leg over the other and shove your hands between your legs in an effort to stop the flood. It works for now, but you know it won’t be long until you give in entirely.

You’re sure you’re a pathetic sight: doubled over, shorts half soaked, legs wet. You whimper, humping against your hand. The fullness of your bladder, the warmth of your damp panties and shorts, it’s enough to make you feel dizzy.

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear the front door open, or the familiar thud of Bucky’s boots as he haphazardly discards them by the door as he always does. Maybe that’s why you don’t hear Bucky calling your name until he’s in the bathroom, gaping at you in shock.

“Sweetheart?” You jump and straighten at the sound of his voice, frantically trying to cover yourself but it’s no use. There’s no shower curtain to hide behind — your shower is encased in glass, which until now you’ve prided yourself on keeping crystal clear — and your shorts are too wet to explain away. 

“What- what are you doing here?” You ask, swallowing harshly. You try to compose yourself, to ignore the flaming heat of humiliation that’s flooded your face. 

“Mission got scrubbed,” Bucky says, eyes trained precisely where you wish he wouldn’t look. There’s no hiding the wet spot on the front of your shorts from where you’d leaked, or the damp sheen of your legs. “Barely made it halfway before we were called back. What’re you doing, doll?”

You don’t want to answer that question. You curse whatever it is that caused him to come home at this specific moment.  “It’s not what it looks like?” you try. 

“Really? What is it then?” Bucky raises his brows, finally meeting your eyes as he waits for you to answer. You flounder, searching desperately for something that even made a little bit of sense, your face growing hotter the longer the silence went on. 

Admitting defeat, you close your eyes and cover your face. “Please. Please can we just forget this happened?” You begin to tear up and brace yourself for the disgust, the chastisement, the what the fuck do you think you’re doing that’s sure to come. Your bladder cramps and you wince. 

With your face covered you don’t notice him approaching until he’s in the shower with you, peeling your hands away from your face. “You wanna know what it looks like to me?” He says, a thread of humor coloring his voice. You shake your head. 

“Please don’t laugh at me! Bucky please, you don’t-” He cuts you off, spinning you around and pulling your back flush against him, ignoring tears pooling in your eyes. It’s all you can do to keep from crying. “Bucky! I’m- you’ll get-”

“Don’t care, and I’m not laughing,” he interrupts. His hands settle on your hips and he leans down, nosing against your ear. “Is this what you do when I’m gone?”

You squirm against him, panic building as your bladder throbs incessantly. Shit. You were nearing your limit before he got home, and the longer he stands there the less certain you are that you can hold on. Shit shit shit. You’re already embarrassed, humiliated, mortified.  The last thing you need is to piss yourself with him watching. 

His metal hand slips around to rest on your swollen bladder. You both freeze, your breath caught in your throat as he waits to see if you’ll push him away. You should. You know what will happen if he does what you think he’s about to. You should step away from him, run and make it to the toilet in the other room. Save you both the humiliation of what’s happening.

You do none of those things. He presses down and you choke on a moan, biting your lip to keep it back. By some miracle you don’t leak, but it’s a near thing. 

“Answer me,”  he murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Is this what you do when I’m gone?”

You nod. “Yes! Yes, please! Now please let go of me, I can’t-” You gasp as he presses down on your stomach again. You clench your legs together as you almost leak. Fucking shit. You can feel it pressing against you, barely held back. “Bucky, I can't hold it! Let me go!”

“Hm. You sure that’s what you want?” He kisses down your neck, stopping to bite and suck a mark into your skin, his flesh hand wandering up to palm at your breast. You whimper and lean back against him. He grins against your skin. “That’s what I thought.” 

His metal hand rubs your stomach before pressing in harshly again. This time you can’t stop the leak. You jolt and flinch away from him. Bucky roughly gathers you back to him and presses the same spot again. Another leak and your pulse begins to race. 

You’ve leaked so much it has to… be on him by now, right? Your chest heaves and you don’t know whether to focus on the heat of him behind you, the wet warmth of your panties, the persistent demands of your bladder, or the fact that Bucky can see all of it, can feel it. He rolls his hips against you and you’re so overwhelmed that it takes a moment for you to register that he’s hard. Unmistakably so. He thrusts against you again, grinding against your ass and your breath hitches when he groans. 

“This get you off baby? Huh?” He teased. His hands find your hips again, gripping tightly as he humps against you. “Tell me the truth.” 

“Yes,” you whine. You’re trembling, holding onto what’s left of your dignity with all you have. 

“Fuck,” he growls, his breath heavy against your neck. “You know how dirty that is? Whole time I’m away, you’re getting off on wetting yourself.”

Breathless, you try to squeeze your legs together but Bucky won’t let you. He pulls them apart again “You’ve already been leaking, poor thing. Tell me how bad you have to go,” Bucky demands. Your stomach knots, a bolt of arousal shooting through you, leaving you light-headed.

“I- oh! I have to go so bad! Bucky please. I can’t hold it! Please please please,” you beg. You feel a trickle start and you barely get it under control before you feel another pang. You whimper. 

“Are you gonna let go, sweetheart? Go on, piss yourself for me,” Bucky whispers. His words shoot through you, your head spinning. Never did you think you’d hear Bucky say anything like that. 

“I’m gonna- Bucky- fuck,” you sob as you finally let go. Pee rushes out of you with a force you didn’t expect. Your knees go weak and Bucky tightens his hold on you, keeping you pressed against him. Your head lolls back against his shoulder as you sink against him in relief, the loud hissing echoing around you.

“Oh baby,” Bucky coos. He grips your chin and forces you to look down, his head draped over your shoulder. “Look at that, fuck. You really had to go.”

You look. It’s almost too much, the way your shorts get darker, the rivulets that run down your legs in an endless stream. You moan shamelessly. It feels too good to feel shame. 

You’re so focused on the feeling of relief, wet heat that pools in your panties and soaks into your shorts, the molten arousal that courses through you, your clit begging for something, anything, that you hardly register the fervid way Bucky drives his hips against you, his ragged breaths and moans that border on whiny. 

“You really like this. Shit.” He reaches a hand down to rub against you, uncaring that you’re still going. “Look at you. Such a good girl, wetting yourself for me.” 

The stream slows but doesn’t stop. Bucky curses into your neck. “You’re still going. Holy shit.” He begins to rub your clit through your piss soaked clothes. The sounds you’re making would be embarrassing, if you had the wherewithal to care.

“Ohh, Bucky!” The tension builds before you even know what’s happening. You haven’t even stopped pissing when the coil snaps and you cry out. Your cunt pulsates and clenches around nothing, your pee squirting out of you in waves. You try to form words, to say Bucky’s name but all that comes out are jumbled moans and cries. 

“Holy- fucking shit,” Bucky’s hips roll against you faster, his mouth slack and his head resting on your shoulder. “That’s so fucking hot baby- oh god!”

Bucky’s hips still against you with a gasp that becomes a groan. His cock jerks before he cums with a broken moan, hips lazily rocking against you as he pumps cum into his pants. 

He’s hardly caught his breath when he turns you around and brings your lips to his. He kisses you lazily, messily, letting his tongue swirl around yours and lick into your mouth. 

You’re both a mess: his pants ruined with cum and your piss, your shorts and panties soaked all the way through. Your brain is still too blank, floating away somewhere, to pay much mind to what he’s doing as he strips you both down and starts the shower. 

It isn’t until he has you both in bed, curled around each other, that your mind begins to race. The high gone, shame barrels in. He knows. Bucky knows now. Worse, he’d stood there as you wet yourself, touched you while you let go. He knew that you’d done it before, every time he was away. You begin to roll away from him, to find some clothes and give him space, when he stops you. 

“Stop thinking,” he mutters, pulling you back against him. Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head and you let yourself take a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you were into that, baby?”

You hide your head in his chest. “I was scared. I’ve never told anyone. I didn’t think you’d- that you’d be into it. I was afraid you’d think I was gross.”

“Hey,” he says softly. This time he does make you look at him, and you’re shocked to see his eyes blown wide with lust. He kisses you gently. “Baby, I’m into anything that gets you off like that. ” 

“So you don’t think I’m-”

“No,” he insists. Bucky rolls on top of you, pinning you under him. “Do you have any idea how hot that was? I came in my pants, for christ's sake.” You giggle, and he pushes a strand of hair out of your face. “You don’t have to hide that from me. Or anything. Whatever you want, I’m game.”

Your face warms, but you don’t hide this time. You reach up and toy with his hair, still damp from your shower. “So you’d be willing to do… more things like that?”

He dips down and kisses you again, deeper this time, insistent, before pulling away with a wicked grin. “Sweetheart, I’m already making a list.”

[ladymiseryy]

Part 2 allegedly in the works 👀

[buckytakethewheel]

stepdad bucky headcanons

tags (check before reading): stepcest (stepdad bucky barnes x stepdaughter reader); reader is 21+ !!; cheating mentions; smut; daddy kink; dirty talking; possessive bucky barnes

stepdad bucky who never calls you by your first name when you're alone anymore. Only “bunny”, “sweet girl”, or, when he's deep inside you and losing composure… “my little girl”.

stepdad bucky who told himself it was a one-time mistake the first time it happened after too much whiskey and you in those tiny sleep shorts sitting too close on the couch. Except he never actually tried to stop it from happening again; he just got better at hiding the evidence (and at making sure you were the one begging for it next time).

stepdad bucky who’s obsessed with how small your wrists look when he pins them above your head with just his metal hand. He’ll hold both your wrists in that cold grip and use the human hand to spread you open so he can watch his cock disappear inside you inch by inch while murmuring, “Look how good your little pussy takes daddy, bunny. Made for this, weren’t you?”

stepdad bucky who discovered very early how hard you clench when he growls “shouldn’t be fuckin’ my own stepdaughter” right against your ear. So now he says it every single time he fucks you, all filthy and a little mocking, just the way you like it.

stepdad bucky who started doing “innocent” shower visits that turned into him pressing you face-first against the tiles, metal forearm banded across your chest, human hand between your legs rubbing circles on your clit while he fucks you from behind. “Quiet, bunny. Mom’s still asleep down the hall. You gonna be good and come on daddy’s cock without waking her?”

stepdad bucky who loves to mark you up. And not small marks; dark, finger-sized bruises on your thighs, bite marks on your tits, a handprint on your ass. When you whine that someone might see, he just smirks and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Then keep your fuckin’ clothes on around other people, hm?”

stepdad bucky who hates hearing you call other men “daddy”, even as a joke. One time you said it teasingly about a fictional character; he bent you over the kitchen island within thirty seconds, yanked your leggings down just enough, and fucked you so hard the edge of the counter left a bruise on your hips.

stepdad bucky who’s ruined you for anyone else’s fingers. If you try touching yourself when he’s not home, it never feels right. You end up whining into his neck the second he walks through the door, grabbing his wrist and guiding his metal hand between your thighs. He just smirks, already knows what’s wrong. “Poor bunny couldn’t do it without daddy’s fingers, huh? Let me fix that.”

stepdad bucky who’s started “checking” you before you leave the house. Fingers sliding under your skirt or dress to make sure you’re not wearing panties, because he told you not to. If you are, he makes you take them off right there in the hallway, stuffs them in his pocket, and replaces them with two thick fingers curling inside you while he kisses you and says, “Better be this wet when you get home, or daddy’s gonna be very disappointed.”

stepdad bucky who deep down knows this is wrong, but he stopped caring the first time you looked up at him with teary eyes and whispered “please, daddy, don’t stop”.

Taglist: @astronautlawliet @barnes-babydoll @buckybarnes82 @buck-star @gremlin-girly @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @metal-armed-muse @miraclediviner @overwintering-soldier @phoenix-in-writing @stanmarvelous @sunday-bug @wherewinterblooms @wint3rbarnes

[ladymiseryy]

IM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH

[becca-e-barnes]

BECCAAA!!! This but with Bucky 😫😫

https://twitter.com/0m0hub/status/1471403402936598533?s=21

Warning: watersports

I’m not gonna lie, this has my head totally empty 😳

The little gasps of desperation and the grinding hips are so hot and he maybe set himself the challenge of not holding between his legs. He’s maybe even degrading himself a little in his own head, telling himself not to be so pathetic. He doesn’t need to touch his cock, any good boy would be able to hold their piss without having to feel it drip between their fingers

He’s so into hearing his own desperate moans though. There’s no one around, he can make as much of a mess as he needs and when those first few dribbles soak through his underwear, the relief is instant and suddenly he can’t seem to stop.

He feels the wooden floor under his knees get wet with his own piss. He doesn’t see it though. His head is thrown back and he’s groaning obscenely as he lets his piss flood everywhere.

By the time he’s done he’s half fucking hard and just a few minutes of vigorously fucking his fist has him adding to his mess. He cums over the wet floor, two fingers of his free hand teasing his own tight little ass hole. The flat is empty but he’s sobbing out the filthiest little cries, begging his mommy to fuck his slutty ass and make him cum again.

[becca-e-barnes]

Hiii! I just wanted to say I absolutely love your watersport drabbles/fics, from what I see, it’s not a super common thing to be into and you make me feel comfortable about it lol, plus they’re so well written omg. Do you think you could link all of them in this reply like you did recently with the Bucky and the night emission (is that what it’s called?) drabbles, it’s just super easy to access. If not, just wanted to say I love what your write!!! <3

Hey honey!! You're right, watersports isn't really something that I see talked about a whole lot but I've learned since I started writing it that wayyy more people are into it than I would've expected and that's been so lovely to see!! You're all so kind and encouraging and I really appreciate all the love these get!

But yes, I'll gladly turn this into almost like a mini masterlist! I'll just keep adding to this as I write more! I'm going to link this on my "Miscellaneous and Multi" masterlist. I'm aware it's all been written about Bucky x reader rn but I hope that changes in the future and we add some other characters!

💦 Bucky degrading you while you struggle to hold

💦 Making subby!Bucky hold

💦 Holding with Bucky

💦 Bucky fucking you while you leak

💦 Bucky encouraging you to stop holding

💦 Sub!Bucky wearing your panties and wetting them

💦 Degrading sub!Bucky for wetting

💦 Bucky fucking you and degrading you while you leak

💦 Bucky realising he's into watersports

💦 Bucky and reader recreating her first hold

From the Watersports Day:

💦 Bucky peeing on you while you hold

💦 Steve making sub!Bucky and sub!reader hold

💦 Bucky making you go in ripped leggings

💦 Catching Bucky after he ends a hold

💦 Wetting as Bucky eats you out

💦 Watersports with Nat

💦 Watersports with dom!Bruce Banner

Bonus:

💦 Watersports video links!