pearl🇵🇸 @xummer01 - Tumblr Blog

The Long Game

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/F!Reader

Word Count: 12.6k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: explicit sexual content, mutual pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, flirting, dirty talk, public flirting, model!reader, Avenger!reader, Bucky Barnes is bad at feelings, reader is a menace, oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex, praise kink, light manhandling, possessive sex, multiple orgasms

Summary: You have been shamelessly flirting with Bucky Barnes for months, mostly because watching him pretend not to enjoy it is too much fun to resist.

He thinks he has your little game under control until a gala puts you in front of cameras, admirers, and one man who gets close enough to make Bucky finally stop pretending.

Author’s Note: written for this request

i have been trying to post this since 7 am this morning but the airport wifi sucked and i havent had time until now to sit down and properly format everything for tumblr (and it's 10:25 pm)

Bucky Barnes first realized you were going to be a problem on a Tuesday morning, which felt insulting.

Problems, in his experience, usually had the decency to announce themselves with gunfire, alarms, compromised exits, or Sam Wilson saying, “Don’t be mad,” in a tone that guaranteed Bucky was about to be furious. They did not usually stroll barefoot into the Avengers compound kitchen wearing a silk robe, sunglasses indoors, and an expression that suggested you had never suffered a consequence in your life.

You had been an Avenger for three days.

Technically, you had been an Avenger for longer than that, if he counted the months of files, interviews, mission assessments, and cautious deliberation that had led Fury to finally put your name on the team roster. You had enhanced reflexes, a combat record that even Natasha raised an eyebrow at, and the kind of public image Stark’s media people had described as “valuable but chaotic.” You were a model, an occasional actress when a director could afford your schedule, a fixture at fashion weeks, charity galas, beach clubs, magazine covers, and gossip columns. You were also a very competent fighter with a worrying talent for making people underestimate you until they were already on the floor.

Bucky did not underestimate you.

That was what he told himself, anyway, watching you open every cabinet in the kitchen like you were personally offended by storage.

“Where do rich people hide mugs?” you asked.

Sam, who had been leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal and the grim, protective posture of a man guarding the last of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, looked at you over his spoon. “You mean cabinets?”

“I checked cabinets.”

“You checked one cabinet.”

“It disappointed me.”

“There’s a difference.”

“This kitchen has seven ovens,” you said. “That feels excessive for people who eat protein bars like they’re being punished.”

“That’s because we are,” Sam said.

“You poor thing. Do you want me to call someone?”

“God, you’re worse before coffee.”

You gasped. “I haven’t had coffee?”

“You’re standing in the kitchen.”

“I’ve been betrayed by architecture.”

Bucky had not meant to laugh. It escaped him before he could stop it, barely more than a breath against the rim of his mug, but you heard it. Of course you heard it. Your attention snapped to him with terrifying precision.

Your sunglasses slid down your nose.

“Oh,” you said, with the pleased interest of a cat finding a glass too close to the edge of a table. “You laugh.”

“No,” Bucky said.

Sam snorted into his cereal.

You smiled at Bucky as if he had personally made your morning. “That was definitely a laugh.”

“It was a cough.”

“You should see a doctor about that. It sounded handsome.”

Bucky stared at you.

Sam put his spoon down. “And there it is.”

“There what is?” you asked, all innocence, which made it worse.

“The thing you do.”

“I do many things.”

“Yeah, and most of them are illegal in at least three states.”

You drifted closer to the counter, apparently unconcerned by the fact that Bucky had looked less startled the last time a man had pulled a knife on him in a parking garage. You rested your elbows on the marble and propped your chin in one hand, turning the full force of your attention on him.

“What’s your name again?”

“You know my name.”

“I know lots of names.” You smiled wider. “I wanted to hear you say it.”

Bucky took a sip of coffee. It bought him three seconds and no dignity.

“Barnes,” he said finally.

“Barnes,” you repeated, like you were trying it on. “Cute.”

“No.”

“Strong. Classic. Slightly broody. Very marketable.”

“I’m not marketable.”

“That’s what makes you marketable.” You lifted your sunglasses from your face and pushed them up into your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll win you over one day.”

Bucky blinked.

Sam closed his eyes as if in prayer.

You said it so easily, so brightly, that for a second Bucky did not know what to do with it. People flirted with him sometimes. Not often, not casually, and never with the delighted confidence of someone announcing tomorrow’s weather. The flirting he noticed usually came wrapped in caution, curiosity, or the strange, hungry attention people gave the Winter Soldier when they had read too much, understood too little, and wanted to see what a ghost looked like up close.

This was different. You were not looking at the Winter Soldier. You were not even looking at Sergeant Barnes, the tragedy, the history lesson, the man out of time. You were looking at Bucky, annoyed and under-caffeinated at the kitchen island, with his hair still damp from the shower and his left hand curled around a mug someone had bought as a joke because it said “I survived another meeting that should have been an email.”

“I’m not something to win,” he said.

Your expression changed only slightly. The smile stayed, but something behind it softened with recognition, like you had heard the line he had not said and decided not to touch it in front of Sam.

Then you leaned across the counter, stole Sam’s coffee, and said, “We’ll workshop the phrasing.”

Sam made a wounded noise. “That was mine.”

“You called me ‘worse before coffee.’ This is justice.”

“I called you worse before your coffee.”

“Details.”

Bucky left the kitchen before you could catch the second laugh.

That was where it started.

It should have ended there, but you treated restraint like a rumor and Bucky’s sanity like a hobby. Within two weeks, you had settled into the compound as if you had been born under Stark-grade security lights. You learned where Tony hid the expensive snacks, which elevators were fastest when FRIDAY was not pretending not to judge you, and which training rooms had the best lighting for the occasional sponsored workout post Pepper pretended not to know about.

You were good at being watched. That was the thing Bucky noticed first, even before the flirting became a problem with a schedule. Cameras loved you. Rooms adjusted around you. People tracked your movements before they knew they were doing it, drawn by the easy glamour of someone who knew exactly how she looked and had decided to make that everyone else’s issue. You could turn your head half an inch and change the temperature of a photograph. You could laugh at a reporter’s question and make it sound like an answer.

Bucky understood performance. He had been made into one. The difference was that yours belonged to you. He respected the precision of it. The public saw sparkle, flirtation, lazy smiles, and a model who sometimes saved the world and somehow emerged from the fight with her eyeliner still intact. The team saw more. They saw the hours in the gym, the quick reads you made in the field, the way you listened when Steve gave instructions and ignored him when you had a better plan. They saw that you could play dumb in four languages and threaten someone in six.

Bucky saw all of that.

He also saw the way you looked for him when you entered a room. That was harder to ignore.

At first, he assumed you did it to everyone. You were friendly with Sam, outrageous with Tony, conspiratorial with Natasha, affectionate with Wanda, and shamelessly dramatic with Thor, who adored you after you once told him his arms looked like a horny Renaissance sculptor had carved them. You flirted like breathing, lightly and often, always with enough humor that nobody had to take it seriously unless they wanted to.

With Bucky, you made it personal. You found him in the gym one morning while he was working through a knife sequence alone. The compound was quiet, still blue with early light, most of the team asleep or pretending to be. He caught your reflection in the mirrored wall and kept moving, blade turning between his fingers as he shifted his weight, stepped, struck, pivoted, and reset.

“Morning, future husband.”

The knife stopped in his hand.

He looked at you through the mirror. “No.”

“You’re right. Too soon.” You set your water bottle on the bench. “Morning, future emotionally unavailable boyfriend.”

Bucky resumed the sequence. “That’s worse.”

“Morning, handsome man who definitely missed me.”

“I didn’t know you were gone.”

“That’s hurtful and untrue. You stared at my empty chair at dinner.”

“I was looking at the door.”

“Because you hoped I would come through it.”

“Because I was considering leaving.”

You pressed a hand to your chest. “God, the passion.”

He turned, knife loose in his hand. “Do you ever get tired?”

“Of you? Never.”

“Of talking.”

“Also no.”

Bucky pointed the knife toward the door. “Some of us are training.”

“Wonderful. I love a man with discipline.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not training in that.”

You glanced down at yourself, as if surprised to discover you had arrived dressed for exercise. “This is athletic wear.”

“That sweatshirt has no back.”

“It has some back.”

“It has sleeves and ambition.”

You grinned. “You noticed.”

Bucky made the mistake of looking. The sweatshirt dipped low between your shoulders, leaving a long line of bare skin above the band of your sports bra. It was impractical, which probably meant it cost more than some cars. It was also distracting, which was clearly the point.

He looked away too late.

You saw it. You always saw it.

“I knew you liked me,” you said.

“I noticed fabric was missing.”

“You noticed my back.”

“Hard not to when half your shirt surrendered.”

Your laugh came bright and easy. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to flirt back.”

“I’m not flirting.”

“You’re bantering. That’s flirting with plausible deniability.”

“It’s arguing.”

“With cheekbones like yours? Impossible.”

Bucky exhaled and turned back toward the mirror. “Are you here to train or talk?”

“I can do both.”

“I’m devastated.”

You came onto the mat beside him and held out your hand. “Give me a knife.”

“No.”

“Afraid I’ll impress you?”

“Afraid you’ll stab me to make a point.”

“Only a little.”

He should not have given you one. That was his first mistake. His second was forgetting that beneath the designer nonsense and the sparkling public menace was someone Fury had recruited for a reason.

You moved beautifully. Bucky had seen you fight on missions, but missions were dirty and practical, all impact and adaptation. Here, with nothing exploding and no one yelling in his ear, he could see the shape of your training. You were fast, lighter on your feet than he expected, with a dancer’s control and a vicious sense of timing. You let him push you back twice, then changed rhythm on the third pass and came under his guard, stopping the dull practice blade a breath from his ribs.

You looked up at him through your lashes.

“Oops,” you said.

Bucky’s hand closed around your wrist.

You did not pull away.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your pulse beat steadily beneath his fingers, quick but controlled. You were warm from sparring, a flush high on your cheeks, and a loose strand of hair caught at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky noticed it. He hated that he noticed it.

Your smile softened into something less theatrical. “You okay?”

The question slipped under his ribs more effectively than the knife would have.

He let go. “Fine.”

You tilted your head. “That means yes, or that means stop asking?”

“It means fine.”

“Mm. We’ll workshop that too.”

“There’s no we.”

“There will be.” You spun the practice knife once and offered it back handle-first. “I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“Foreplay.”

Bucky choked on air.

You patted his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ll win you over one day.”

He watched you leave because apparently he had lost control of his eyes.

From the doorway, without turning around, you called, “I can feel you staring.”

“I’m checking that you’re leaving.”

“Progress!”

After that, Sam started keeping score.

Every compliment became a point. Every accidental smile became evidence. Every time you blew Bucky a kiss across a briefing room, Sam looked personally blessed by the universe. Bucky threatened to throw him off the roof twice. Sam remained unmoved.

It would have been easier to ignore if you flirted with Bucky the way you flirted with everyone else, bright and careless and harmless enough to laugh off. But you saved him seats. You asked him to watch your back even when you did not need watching. You looked for him when you entered a room, and sometimes, when the joke softened at the edges, Bucky caught the dangerous shape of something honest underneath.

He liked your precision. He liked the moments when the smile slipped sideways into something observant. He liked that when you teased, you watched for the line. He liked that you had never once called his left arm cool, had never asked to touch it, had never stared at the place where metal met skin with anything but the same open appreciation you aimed at the rest of him.

He liked you, and that made the flirting dangerous.

Bucky had spent too long as a weapon in other people’s hands to enjoy becoming anyone’s entertainment. He knew that was not what you were doing. He knew it with the part of him that assessed threats and the quieter part that had begun to understand kindness when it wore teeth. Still, knowing did not make it easy.

You were a public person. You had exes whose names still trended whenever you attended the same event. Actors, athletes, heirs, musicians, one princess whose denial in an interview had been so unconvincing that even Steve had understood it. You had a reputation the tabloids loved because it sold beautifully: glamorous, flirtatious, unserious, impossible to keep, impossible not to want.

Bucky did not care about tabloids. He cared that you laughed when other people flirted with you. He cared that sometimes you touched their arms. He cared that you were generous with your attention in a way that made everyone feel chosen for exactly as long as you wanted them to. He cared that he had no right to care. He cared that the idea of being one more person orbiting you, one more name in a gossip column, made something old and defensive curl beneath his ribs.

So he pretended not to want.

It worked about as well as all his other bad ideas.

The mission in Prague should have helped. It did not.

You handled a weapons broker with old Hydra ties in a red dress and heels, broke his composure with a smile, and nearly broke his foot when he touched you without permission. Bucky watched from surveillance while Sam and Natasha pretended not to notice the exact moment his jaw locked.

By the time the mission went bad, you had already put two men down, stolen a handgun from a third, and greeted Bucky in the hallway with blood on your knuckles and a cheerful, “Hi, handsome.”

He caught your chin to check the graze on your cheek before he could stop himself.

“Careful,” you said softly. “A girl might think you like her.”

“Extraction first,” he said.

“Romance later?”

“Move.”

“Bossy,” you said, and then you moved.

After Prague, the teasing changed.

Not enough for anyone else to notice immediately. You were still shameless at breakfast, still dramatic in the gym, still prone to calling him gorgeous in public just to watch his left eye twitch. But sometimes, when the room was empty or nearly empty, you let the joke soften at the edges.

You brought him tea one night without making a big deal of it, setting the mug beside him on the balcony and leaning against the railing with your own. The city glittered below the tower, restless and alive.

“You’re thinking loudly,” you said.

He looked at you. “Didn’t know that was part of your power set.”

“It’s not. You get a line between your eyebrows.”

“Maybe I’m brooding.”

“You do that too, but this is different.”

He huffed, taking the mug. “You catalog my facial expressions?”

“Only the handsome ones.”

“Sounds time-consuming.”

“It is, but I’m committed.”

The familiar rhythm was there, but gentler. Bucky let it sit between you.

After a while, you asked, “Do you hate it?”

“What?”

“All of this.” You gestured vaguely, meaning the tower, the team, the city, the life none of you had chosen cleanly. “The attention.”

He looked down at the tea. “Some days.”

“Yeah.”

“You?”

You smiled without much humor. “Some days.”

It should have surprised him. It did not.

You turned your mug in both hands, rings catching the light. “People think it’s the cameras that get old, but cameras are easy. They don’t want anything you can’t predict. It’s the people who look at you and decide they know what’s there. The ones who think access and affection are the same thing.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “You’re good at making them think they got something.”

“I had to be.” You glanced at him. “It’s easier to choose what they take.”

He understood that too well.

Something in his expression must have shown it, because your voice gentled. “I don’t flirt with you because I think you’re easy to embarrass.”

“I am not easy to embarrass.”

“You once short-circuited because I called you pretty.”

“I didn’t short-circuit.”

“You walked into a chair.”

“It was in the way.”

“It was furniture, baby. That’s where it lived.”

Bucky shook his head, but the laugh came easier this time.

You smiled into your mug. “I flirt with you because I like you.”

The air changed.

You did not look away. Neither did he.

“You like everybody,” he said, because old defenses were familiar and his voice still worked around them.

Your smile stayed, but something in it dimmed.

“I’m nice to everybody,” you said. “That’s different.”

He knew that. He had known it for a while, which made his answer crueler than he meant it to be.

You looked back out over the city. “Anyway. Don’t look so scared. I wasn’t asking you to catch up all at once.”

He should have said something then. He knew that later, with a clarity that annoyed him. He should have told you that he liked you too and had no idea what to do with it because wanting things still felt like reaching across a minefield. He should have done anything except stand there holding the tea you had brought him and watching you retreat behind a smile.

Instead, he said nothing.

You did not punish him for it. That would have been easier. You kept being yourself, kept calling him handsome, kept saving him the seat beside you in briefings and pretending it was because you needed “emotional support eye candy.” But you stopped letting the softer moments linger.

Bucky noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything about you now.

Which was why the gala was a disaster before it even started. The event was one of Tony’s, though Pepper had done the actual work and Tony had mostly provided money, branding, and three separate opinions nobody asked for. Bucky tried to get out of it. Steve said attendance mattered. Sam said Bucky needed to stop treating black tie like a war crime. Natasha said nothing, which was worse because her silence contained judgment.

Then you walked into the common room before the cars arrived, and Bucky forgot every argument he had prepared.

You were wearing gold. Not bright gold, not the kind that shouted for attention because it did not know what else to do. This was deeper, warmer, a liquid shade that caught the light when you moved and made your skin look sunlit. The dress crossed over your chest and left your shoulders bare, fitted through the waist before falling in a long line that split high over one thigh. Your hair was styled away from your face. Your mouth was painted soft and glossy. Diamonds winked at your ears like little threats.

The room went briefly, stupidly quiet.

Tony recovered first. “Okay, great. So we’re all underdressed at our own event.”

“You look beautiful,” Steve said.

Wanda smiled. “Very beautiful.”

Sam whistled. “Damn. Barnes, you breathing?”

Bucky looked at him with murder in his heart.

You turned toward Bucky last, which was deliberate. He knew it was deliberate because he knew you now, knew the rhythm of your performances, the way you built a moment and chose where to land it. Your eyes moved over him in his black suit, slow enough to be rude, warm enough to make his spine tighten.

“Well,” you said. “There goes my ability to behave.”

Tony groaned. “Please don’t start before we’re in public.”

“I make no promises.”

Bucky adjusted his cuff because his hands needed something to do. “You ever behave?”

“For you? I could be convinced.”

“Unlikely.”

“Progress,” you said, pointing one manicured finger at him. “You didn’t say impossible.”

Sam leaned toward Steve. “I give him two hours.”

Steve looked confused. “For what?”

“For whatever emotional constipation this is to resolve.”

“I can hear you,” Bucky said.

“I know.”

You crossed the room and stopped in front of Bucky. Up close, your perfume wrapped around him, warm amber and something floral he could not name. Your smile was bright enough for the room, but your eyes searched his face with a quieter question beneath it.

“You clean up nice, Barnes.”

“So do you.”

For once, the answer came without a fight.

Your expression flickered.

Then Tony clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Compliments exchanged. Sexual tension acknowledged by everyone except the two people causing it. Let’s go raise money.”

Bucky was going to kill him.

The gala was worse than he expected. Not because of the security. That was manageable. Not because of the crowd either, though he disliked being surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand and pretend they were not checking whether the metal one felt cold.

It was you. It was the way you belonged there.

The second you stepped onto the carpet, the cameras found you. Your whole posture shifted, not into someone false, exactly, but into someone sharpened for public consumption. You became the woman from magazine covers and fragrance campaigns, the one whose face sold fantasies Bucky did not want to examine too closely while standing three feet away from you.

Reporters called your name, and you gave them what they wanted. A smile over your shoulder. A laugh when one of them asked who you were wearing. A teasing answer when another asked whether there was anyone special in your life.

“Oh, I’m working on it,” you said, and somehow your eyes found Bucky past the cameras.

The reporters followed your gaze.

Sam made a sound as if he were choking on joy.

“Is that Sergeant Barnes?” someone called.

You widened your eyes with perfect innocence. “Is it?”

“Are you two here together?”

Bucky braced himself.

You only smiled and said, “We’re teammates.”

It was the right answer. The professional answer. The safe answer.

Bucky hated it.

Then you reached back without looking, caught his sleeve, and tugged him forward.

“Come on, handsome,” you murmured, low enough that only he heard. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”

“You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Depends where.”

His brain briefly stopped producing language.

You smiled for the cameras.

Bucky stood beside you under the lights and tried not to look like a man thinking about teeth marks on your skin.

Inside, the ballroom was all polished marble, tall windows, white flowers, and wealth pretending to be benevolence. The Avengers were strategically scattered around the room, mingling with donors and keeping a casual watch, but Bucky barely paid attention to any of it.

You disappeared into the crowd like light through water.

He tried not to watch. He failed immediately.

Everywhere you went, people leaned in. Men and women, donors and celebrities, people with expensive watches and practiced laughs. You gave them that glittering public smile, touched a forearm here, accepted a kiss on the cheek there, let someone admire your dress with a grace that made Bucky’s hand curl around his glass until he heard the stem complain.

Sam appeared at his side. “You’re gonna break that.”

Bucky loosened his grip.

“You know,” Sam said, accepting a champagne flute from a passing waiter, “for a guy who’s not interested, you sure look like you’re planning to challenge half the room to ritual combat.”

“I’m watching security.”

“Security is not six foot two, British, and trying to make her laugh by the ice sculpture.”

Bucky’s gaze moved before he could stop it.

Sam hummed. “Interesting.”

“I hate you.”

“That has been established.”

The man beside you was exactly the kind of person Bucky had seen in magazines he pretended not to notice on coffee tables. An actor, probably. Handsome in a polished, expensive way, with dark blond hair, a white dinner jacket, and the lazy confidence of a man used to doors opening before he touched them. He was standing too close. You did not seem bothered. That was part of the problem.

You laughed at something he said.

Bucky hated him.

“Who is he?” Bucky asked.

“Oh, we’re doing that?”

“Wilson.”

Sam took a sip of champagne and looked delighted by the entire situation. “Julian Hale. Actor. British. Very famous cheekbones. Dated a princess once, if the internet is to be believed, which it isn’t, but sometimes it gets lucky.”

Across the room, Julian Hale touched your waist.

It was brief. A guiding hand, barely there, the kind of touch that could be explained away by the crowd, by the noise, by the half step he encouraged you to take so someone could pass behind you. You did not flinch. You did not step away. You kept smiling.

Bucky’s vision narrowed.

Sam’s voice changed. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to invent a new international incident.”

“His hand’s on her.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s tone was careful now, without the teasing edge. “And she can remove it if she wants to.”

Bucky knew that. The knowledge landed hard because it was true. You were not helpless. You were not cornered. You had broken a weapons broker’s foot in heels and threatened his hand in Russian. If you wanted Julian Hale away from you, he would be away from you.

The problem was not that Bucky thought you needed saving. The problem was that he wanted to be allowed to care.

That was worse.

You looked up then, as if you felt the weight of him watching. Your eyes met his across the room. For half a second, the public smile slipped. Something else took its place, something private and questioning.

Bucky did nothing.

Julian leaned down to say something near your ear.

You looked away first.

Bucky set his glass on the nearest tray and walked toward the balcony. The night air helped, but not enough.

Outside, the music softened behind the closed doors, reduced to bass and strings through glass. The balcony overlooked the city, all lights and distance, and Bucky gripped the stone railing with both hands until the cold settled into his metal palm and the other hand stopped wanting to hit something.

He was being ridiculous. He knew that. He had no claim on you. He had made sure of it, in fact. Every time you had stepped closer, he had stepped back. Every time you had offered him a joke with honesty folded inside it, he had taken the joke and left the honesty untouched.

Except you had never been holding a knife.

You had been holding out your hand.

The door opened behind him.

Bucky did not turn around. “I’m not in the mood, Wilson.”

“Tragic,” you said. “I wore the good dress and everything.”

His eyes closed briefly. Of course.

You came to stand beside him at the railing, close but not touching. For once, you did not fill the silence immediately. Bucky could see you in the corner of his eye, gold dress shifting in the wind, one hand resting on the stone, the other holding your shoes by their delicate straps.

“You left your own party,” you said after a moment.

“Not my party.”

“You’re on the posters.”

“Against my will.”

“You look very handsome on them.”

He glanced at you despite himself. “That why you came out here? To tell me I photograph well?”

“I came out here because you disappeared.”

“You were busy.”

Your eyebrows rose slightly. “Was I?”

“With Hale.”

Bucky regretted it the second it left his mouth. Not because it was false, but because it sounded exactly like what it was: jealousy dressed badly as observation.

Your mouth curved. “Julian?”

“You on a first-name basis with everybody who puts a hand on you?”

The silence that followed was not loud, not dramatic, but it cut cleanly through the air between you.

Your smile faded.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“That came out wrong,” he said.

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

“What part?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your posture had changed, the playful ease folding away into something guarded. Not hurt, exactly, or not only hurt. Disappointed. That was worse. He had seen you deflect rudeness from reporters, donors, strangers who thought your smile gave them permission. He had never wanted to be counted among them.

“All of it,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, then looked out over the city. “He’s an actor. We did a campaign together three years ago. He flirts because he likes attention, and I let him because attention is half of this room’s currency.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Bucky’s jaw worked.

You turned toward him, shoes dangling from two fingers, the city light catching in your earrings. “Because that sounded a little like you think I don’t know when someone is touching me.”

His chest tightened. “I don’t think that.”

“Good.”

“I know you can handle yourself.”

“Great.”

“That’s not what bothered me.”

Your expression shifted.

The admission sat between you, more revealing than he had intended, but Bucky forced himself not to retreat. He was tired of retreating. Tired of watching you offer him chances while he pretended they were traps.

Your voice went softer. “What bothered you?”

He looked down at his hands on the railing. Metal and flesh. Past and present. Both capable of holding too tightly if he was not careful.

“I didn’t like him touching you.”

The honesty was rough, but it was honest.

You inhaled slowly.

Bucky made himself meet your eyes. “I know I don’t have a right to that.”

“No,” you said. “You don’t.”

The answer landed where it should.

Then you stepped closer.

“But you could,” you said.

Bucky stared at you.

The city noise seemed very far away.

You smiled faintly, but there was no performance in it now. No cameras, no audience, no easy escape disguised as a joke. “That’s been on the table for a while, Barnes.”

His heart beat once, hard.

“You flirt with everyone,” he said, because apparently some stubborn, stupid part of him needed to hear you say it again.

“I perform with everyone.” Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. “I flirt with you.”

He had no defense against that.

“You told me you liked me,” he said.

“I did.”

“I was an ass.”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your expression softened. “I know.”

“I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“I know that too.”

The gentleness nearly undid him. Bucky could handle anger. Anger had edges he understood. He could handle teasing because it gave him somewhere to hide. But you were looking at him like you had seen the frightened thing beneath the jealousy and decided not to make it bleed for your entertainment.

He wanted to kiss you so badly it felt like pain.

You seemed to read that too. Your mouth curved, the menace returning just enough to make his pulse jump.

“Careful,” you said. “You’re looking at me like I’m winning.”

Bucky turned fully toward you. “You always this smug?”

“When I’m right.”

“You think you’re right?”

“I think you’re jealous, annoyed about it, wildly attracted to me, and about three seconds away from doing something reckless.”

He stepped closer. “That so?”

Your eyes brightened. “Two seconds.”

“Still think this is funny?”

“A little.” Your voice dipped. “I also think you should kiss me before I start flirting with someone else just to prove a point.”

His hand caught your waist. You went still, but not with fear. Bucky felt the change in you beneath his palm, the quick breath, the way your body answered before you had time to make a joke of it.

“Don’t,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his. “Don’t what?”

“Flirt with someone else.”

The words should have embarrassed him. Maybe they would later. Right now, with you this close and the city wind moving around you, he could not make himself care.

Your smile faded into parted lips.

“Bucky,” you said, and it was the first time you had used his name instead of Barnes.

That was what broke him.

He kissed you. For a second, it was almost careful. His mouth found yours with all the restraint he had spent months pretending was indifference, one hand at your waist, the other still braced on the railing because touching you with both felt like admitting too much at once.

Then you made a soft, pleased sound against his mouth and everything careful in him snapped. Bucky pulled you closer. Your shoes dropped to the balcony with a quiet clatter, your hands coming up to grip his jacket as he deepened the kiss. You tasted like champagne and gloss, sweet and warm, and you kissed him like you had been waiting to do it for so long that patience had become offensive. Your fingers slid into his hair. He groaned before he could stop himself.

You smiled against his mouth.

He nipped at your lower lip in warning.

You gasped.

The sound went straight through him.

“Still annoying?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Still not interested?”

He kissed your jaw, felt your pulse jump beneath his lips, and tightened his hand at your waist. “Don’t push it.”

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, and the endearment hit differently now, stripped of performance and made intimate by the way your voice trembled. “Pushing it is my best quality.”

Bucky drew back enough to look at you. Your lipstick was smudged. Your eyes were dark. The woman who had smiled for a hundred cameras looked at him like she wanted to be ruined somewhere private and had already decided he was the only man in the building qualified for the job.

His entire body went hot.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

Your brows lifted. “Are we?”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

He gave you a look.

There it was again, that wicked smile. “Just confirming. You’re new to this whole admitting-things process.”

Bucky bent, picked up your shoes, and caught your hand.

You laughed as he pulled you toward the door, bright enough that two people near the bar turned to look when you stepped back inside. Sam spotted you first, his face transforming with open delight.

Bucky glared at him. “No.”

Sam’s mouth opened.

“Wilson.”

Sam closed his mouth with visible effort.

You wiggled your fingers at him as Bucky guided you past. “Goodnight, Sam.”

Sam looked as if Christmas had come early. “Goodnight, future Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky kept walking.

You nearly tripped over your own laugh. “Future Mrs. Barnes?”

“Don’t encourage him.”

“I don’t know. It has a ring to it.”

Bucky leaned closer as you reached the corridor. “Keep talking, and I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”

The sound you made was small, sharp, and not laughter.

Bucky stopped walking.

Your voice softened. “Promise?”

Something dark and hot moved through him.

“Car,” he said.

“Elevator,” you countered.

“We’re not doing this in an elevator.”

“Cameras?” you guessed.

“Cameras.”

You paused. “Right. Sensible. Deeply disappointing, but sensible.”

The ride back to the tower was torture. The partition stayed up. Your shoes lay abandoned on the floor. Your lipstick was ruined, his tie was crooked, and every time your hand drifted toward his thigh, Bucky caught your wrist before you could make the driver’s job any more uncomfortable.

“You’re very strict for a man who just dragged me out of a gala,” you murmured.

“You were going to behave until we got upstairs.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“No,” he said, pulling you across the seat and into his lap with one arm around your waist. “You didn’t.”

Your breath caught, hands landing on his shoulders as your dress rode higher over your thighs.

Bucky’s hands settled at your hips. “This a problem?”

“No.” Your voice came out softer than before. “Definitely not.”

“You wanted attention.”

“I usually do.”

“You’ve got it.”

Your smile flickered, and for the first time that night, you looked almost overwhelmed.

Bucky stroked his thumbs over your hips. “Still with me?”

“Yeah.” You let out a breath and laughed quietly. “Sorry. It’s just…”

“What?”

“You.”

That did something stupid to his chest.

His hands tightened on your hips.

“Me?” he asked.

You nodded. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Barnes.”

His body reacted hard to the words, but underneath that, something else opened, uncertain and hungry in a way that had very little to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted by someone who knew he was difficult.

“Bucky,” he said.

Your brow creased. “What?”

“My name.” He swallowed. “When it’s like this, use my name.”

The softness that moved through your expression was almost unbearable.

Then you leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, your hands gentle at the sides of his face.

“Bucky,” you whispered against his mouth.

He held you tighter.

By the time the car reached the tower, both of you looked bad enough that Natasha stopped in the lobby, took one look at your face, Bucky’s mouth, and the shoes in his hand, and smiled.

“So I see,” she said.

Bucky kept walking. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“Eventually.”

Clint, who had been crossing the lobby beside her with a pastry in hand, pointed at Bucky. “Steve owes Sam twenty bucks.”

Bucky closed his eyes.

You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the elevator. “Goodnight!”

Natasha’s voice followed you. “Hydrate.”

The elevator doors closed on your laughter. Bucky hit the button for the residential floors.

You leaned against the wall, still laughing. “Hydrate.”

“Don’t.”

“I like her.”

“Everyone likes her. That’s how she gets away with everything.”

“You like me, and I get away with almost nothing.”

Bucky looked over at you. “You think you get away with nothing?”

“With you? Absolutely not. You’re very mean to me.”

“You’ve been sexually harassing me for months.”

“I have been romantically persistent.”

“You called me a slutty Victorian ghost in front of Fury.”

“You were wearing that coat.”

“It was tactical.”

“It had drama buttons.”

Bucky stepped closer. “You like the coat.”

“I love the coat. I wanted to climb you like a tree in the coat.”

His mouth twitched. “At a debrief?”

“It was a very boring debrief.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet.” You hooked one finger into his loosened tie and tugged him closer. “Here you are.”

The elevator rose.

Bucky let himself be pulled. Your smile softened when he came near, and he thought, not for the first time, that the worst thing about you was not the flirting. It was the moments after, when the joke stepped aside and left all that wanting visible.

He cupped your jaw. “You sure?”

You blinked. “About you?”

“About tonight.”

The question sobered you slightly, but not in a bad way. You held his gaze. “Yes.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Two glasses of champagne over four hours, one of which I abandoned because Julian started explaining his movie to me.”

“Tragic.”

“Deeply.” Your fingers slid over his wrist. “I’m sure, Bucky.”

His name in your mouth still hit like a touch.

“And if I say something you don’t like?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you.”

“If I do something you don’t like?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“If you want to stop?”

“I’ll tell you.” Your voice softened. “I need you to believe me.”

He nodded once.

You leaned in, brushing your mouth over his. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

The elevator doors opened.

Bucky caught your hand and pulled you into the hall.

“Tell me,” he said.

Your steps faltered.

He looked back. “You had plenty to say before.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

Bucky smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

“Oh,” you said faintly. “You’re going to be awful.”

“You like awful.”

“I like you.”

He nearly lost the thread entirely.

His room was closer than yours. He chose his because it was familiar. Controlled. Sparse, though less than it had been when he first moved in. A few books on the shelf. A jacket over a chair. Clean sheets because Steve had once broken into his room, taken one look at the bed, and muttered something about “bachelor despair.”

Bucky unlocked the door. You stepped inside and went quiet. That, more than anything, made him nervous. He watched you take in the room, the low light, the neatly made bed, the absence of clutter. There was no judgment on your face. Just curiosity, and something like care.

“You can say it,” he said.

You turned back. “Say what?”

“That it looks like nobody lives here.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“But you thought it.”

“A little.” You walked to the bookshelf, trailing one finger along the spines without pulling anything out. “Mostly I thought it smells like you.”

Bucky shut the door. “That a good thing?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Very.”

The lock clicked. The sound changed the room.

He crossed the room slowly. You stayed where you were, one hand still on the shelf, chin lifted like a challenge.

“Last chance,” he said.

Your eyes darkened. “For you or me?”

“For behaving.”

That smile again. “I already told you I’m bad at that.”

Bucky stopped in front of you. “I noticed.”

“Still interested?”

His hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing the ruined edge of your lipstick. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Could be a friendly escort.”

“To my bedroom?”

“You’re old-fashioned.”

His thumb pressed lightly against your lower lip. “Open.”

Your lashes fluttered, and for one perfect second, you did exactly what he told you. Your lips parted beneath his thumb, breath warming his skin.

Then your eyes narrowed with returning mischief. You bit his thumb. Gently.

Bucky stared at you. You smiled around it.

He laughed once, low and disbelieving, and the sound seemed to please you until his metal hand closed around your hip and turned you, backing you into the shelf with careful force. Your breath caught. A few books shifted behind you.

“You think you’re cute?” he asked.

“I know I am.”

His mouth brushed your cheek. “You’ve been poking the monster for months, sweetheart.”

The pet name slipped out before he could stop it. He felt the effect immediately. Your breath stuttered, your hand tightening in his jacket. His gaze sharpened.

“Oh,” he murmured. “You like that.”

You looked irritated, which would have been more convincing if you were not flushed to your chest. “Don’t be so smug.”

“You’ve been smug since March.”

“I was charming.”

“You were a menace.”

“You liked it.”

His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, following the open slit in your dress. Your words caught as his fingers found warm skin.

“I did,” Bucky said.

Your eyes snapped to his.

He held your gaze, hand moving higher by slow degrees. “‘S’that what you wanted to hear?”

For once, you did not have an immediate answer.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. “You wanted to get under my skin so bad.”

“I did get under your skin.”

“Yeah.” His fingers tightened on your thigh. “You did.”

Your lips parted.

Bucky kissed you before you could fill the silence with something clever. He kissed you deep, pressing you back against the shelf until he felt your body yield beneath his. Your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid under his jacket, pushing it down his arms with impatience.

Your fingers went to his tie next.

Bucky caught both your wrists. You stilled immediately, breathless against his mouth.

His eyes searched yours. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Bucky,” you said, and the impatience in it soothed him more than any soft reassurance would have. “I swear to God, if you don’t touch me, I’m going to become difficult.”

“You’re already difficult.”

“I can get worse.”

“I know.”

You tugged against his grip. “Then do something about it.”

The last of his restraint went very, very quiet. Bucky released one wrist and guided you back toward the bed. You went willingly, though you tried to keep your smile in place. It slipped when the backs of your thighs hit the mattress. He stood in front of you, close enough that your knees brushed his legs.

For a moment, he just looked at you.

Your chin tipped up. “What?”

“Trying to decide where to start.”

Your breath caught.

Then, because you were you, your smile returned. “I can make suggestions.”

“I bet you can.”

“Several.”

“Generous.”

“I’m a giver.”

Bucky’s hand went to your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to quiet you. “You’re a brat.”

Your eyes lit.

He felt that reaction everywhere.

“And you like that too,” he said.

You swallowed. “Definitely.”

“Better.”

Your thighs pressed together.

Bucky noticed.

He lowered himself slowly, one knee touching the floor between your feet.

Your expression changed at once.

“Oh,” you said, much smaller than before.

Bucky looked up at you, his hands sliding over your calves. “Still got suggestions?”

Your mouth opened.

No sound came out.

He smiled again, slower this time. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His lips brushed the inside of your knee.

You watched him like you were afraid to blink.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” you said.

His mouth moved higher. “Did you?”

“Very persuasive.”

“I’m sure.”

“I was going to tell you how much you want me.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, just above the slit of your dress. “I know how much I want you.”

Your breath hitched.

“Do you?” you asked.

Bucky looked up at you. “You want me to prove it?”

The answer left you quickly. “Yes.”

He smiled. “Good.”

His hands slid farther beneath your dress, slow enough to make it deliberate, warm flesh and cool metal moving over your thighs with the same careful pressure.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the mattress. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’ve listened to you run your mouth for months.” His lips brushed higher, close enough that your next breath went uneven. “Let me have my fun.”

“Your fun is very mean.”

His mouth curved against the inside of your thigh. “You want me to stop?”

Your answer came too fast to be dignified. “No.”

Bucky’s smile deepened. His hand slipped higher, thumb tracing the edge of your underwear beneath the dress, and your knees tried to close around his shoulders. He let them. He even turned his head and kissed the inside of one thigh.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

You gave a breathless laugh. “I’m being polite.”

“Liar.”

“I am a delight.”

“You’re soaked.”

Your entire body went hot.

Bucky looked up at you with the unbearable calm of a man who knew exactly what he had found. His thumb pressed again, dragging lightly over damp fabric, and your grip on the mattress tightened hard enough that your knuckles ached.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “All that talking, and this is what you wanted?”

You swallowed. “Among other things.”

“Still making suggestions?”

“I’m trying to decide if I hate you.”

His eyes warmed. “You don’t.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but then he leaned in and kissed you over your underwear, and the argument vanished somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The sound that came out of you was embarrassingly soft. Bucky heard it anyway. His fingers flexed against your thighs, and the next kiss was slower, firmer, open-mouthed enough that your hips lifted before you could stop them.

He made a low sound of approval that went through you like heat.

“That’s it,” he said, the words rougher now. “There you are.”

His fingers hooked into your underwear. He paused there, waiting.

You looked down at him. “Bucky.”

That was all you had to say.

He drew them down your legs, taking his time despite the way his breathing had changed, and tucked them into his pocket with a look that made your pulse jump.

“Really?” you asked.

His hands returned to your thighs. “You want them back?”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

His smile was sharp. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he leaned in.

The first touch of his mouth was enough to knock the air from your lungs. Bucky groaned like he had been the one waiting, like the taste of you had answered some question he had been refusing to ask all night. His hands gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed, and you fell back onto one elbow, the other hand flying to his hair.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

He hummed against you.

His tongue moved over you again, and your hand tightened in his hair.

“Bucky.”

He groaned at the sound of his name, one hand sliding higher to hold your hips down when they jerked toward his mouth. His mouth was hot and merciless, his stubble scraping the inside of your thighs, his metal hand cool against your hip where the dress had bunched around your waist.

You tried to say something. It came out as a broken little sound.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark enough to make your stomach twist.

“You had a comment?”

“I forgot it.”

“Good.”

“Smug,” you accused, but there was no strength behind it.

He kissed your thigh. “Pretty.”

That was unfair.

You made a sound that was half a laugh and half a whimper. “You can’t call me that when you’re down there.”

“I can call you whatever I want when you’re this wet for me.”

Your head tipped back, eyes closing. “Jesus.”

“That bother you?”

“No.”

“Then take it.”

His mouth returned before you could recover, and this time, two fingers pressed against you, spreading slickness before easing inside. Your body took him greedily, clenching around the slow push of his fingers, and Bucky’s groan vibrated against your clit.

Your hand tightened in his hair again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He set a steady rhythm, fingers curling inside you while his mouth worked over you with devastating focus. The room narrowed to the scrape of his stubble, the pressure of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the soft obscene sounds of his mouth between your legs. Your thighs began to tremble, and his metal hand shifted from your hip to your stomach, pressing you down when you tried to arch away from how good it felt.

“Don’t run,” he said against you.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m preserving my dignity.”

He laughed softly. “Little late for that.”

You would have cursed at him if he had not chosen that moment to curl his fingers again, hitting the place that made your whole body go tight. His name broke out of you, too loud, too needy, too honest, and Bucky made a sound like that alone could have ruined him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me have it.”

The orgasm hit hard enough that the room went white at the edges. You came with his mouth still on you and his fingers buried inside you, thighs shaking around his shoulders while he worked you through it. He softened his mouth, slowed his hand, but kept touching until your breath turned into little broken sounds and you had to tug at his hair.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “Too much.”

He stopped immediately.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing.

Then he kissed the inside of your thigh, gentle now, and stood.

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His hair was a mess from your hands, his tie loose, his shirt still buttoned but wrinkled where you had grabbed him. His mouth was wet from you. He looked wrecked and controlled at the same time, which felt deeply unfair when you were sprawled on his bed with your dress around your waist and your ability to speak in complete sentences somewhere on the floor.

He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head. “You okay?”

You nodded, then remembered words. “Yeah.”

His gaze searched yours. “Too much?”

“No.” Your hand lifted to his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. “Just enough to make me regret every time I let you leave a room without doing that.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Every time?”

“I’m dramatic, not dishonest.”

He turned his head and kissed your palm.

You caught his tie and pulled. “Come here.”

He came willingly, covering your body with his and kissing you deep. You tasted yourself on his mouth and moaned into it, hips lifting against him. He was hard where he pressed between your thighs, thick and restrained by the fabric of his pants, and the feel of him made you impatient all over again.

Your hands went to his shirt.

This time, he let you.

The buttons were more difficult than they had any right to be, mostly because he kept kissing you and partly because your fingers had not fully recovered. Bucky made a low, amused sound against your mouth when you fumbled with the third one.

“Don’t laugh,” you warned.

“I’m not.”

“You are spiritually laughing.”

“Spiritually?”

“Don’t question me while I’m undressing you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The words were dry, but his breath caught when your hands finally pushed the shirt open. You smoothed your palms over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the hard lines of muscle, the scars where skin changed and history refused to be quiet. He went very still beneath your touch.

You noticed immediately.

Your hands slowed. “Okay?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

For a second, the room held its breath.

Then he nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Using my lines on me?”

“They’re good lines.”

His shoulders eased, just a little. “I’m sure.”

You sat up enough to kiss his chest, right over his heart. Bucky’s hand came to the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. You kissed another scar, then another, careful not because you thought he might break, but because you wanted him to know you saw him and wanted him anyway.

When you looked up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that stole some of the teasing from your tongue.

“Still with me?” you asked.

His hand slid along your cheek. “Yeah.”

The word came out rough.

You kissed him again. This time, the kiss was slower. His hands moved over your back, finding the closure of your dress, and you let him turn you enough to work it open. The fabric loosened with a soft whisper. He drew it down carefully, and you lifted your hips so he could pull it away.

Then you were in front of him in nothing but jewelry and the ruined remains of your composure.

Bucky stared.

You gave him half a smile. “Careful. A girl might get shy.”

“No, she won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

The answer landed low in your stomach.

He touched you then, both hands moving from your waist to your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he lowered his mouth to follow. Your head fell back as he kissed and licked and learned you with the same terrible patience he had used between your thighs. When his mouth closed around one nipple and his metal hand held your waist still, you arched hard enough that he had to press you back down.

“Sensitive,” he murmured.

“Observant.”

“Smart mouth.”

“You like my mouth.”

“I do.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

Heat rushed through you. “Have you?”

“Every time you called me handsome in front of half the team.”

“You poor thing.”

“Every time you blew me a kiss across the gym.”

“I was motivating you.”

“Every time you bent over a briefing table like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You blinked. “I always know what I’m doing.”

His mouth curved. “I know.”

Then he kissed lower, over your stomach, and the laugh that had been forming turned into a gasp.

You reached for his belt. “Bucky.”

He caught your wrist again, but only to bring your hand to his mouth and kiss your knuckles. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“Specific.”

“You are such an asshole.”

He smiled. “Specific,” he repeated.

You stared at him, breathing hard, pride fighting a losing battle with need.

“I want you inside me,” you said finally.

His expression changed.

“I can do that,” he said.

Your smile came back, softer this time. “Competent?”

His hand went to his belt. “Very.”

He stripped without performance, which somehow made it worse, shirt hitting the floor, belt sliding free, pants pushed down with a controlled impatience that told you he was closer to the edge than he looked. When he finally climbed back over you, bare and warm and heavy between your thighs, your ability to joke deserted you entirely.

He noticed.

“Quiet again,” he said, mouth brushing yours.

“Busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Reconsidering all my life choices.”

His smile softened. “Regrets?”

“Mostly that I didn’t try harder.”

Bucky laughed, but it caught when your hand slid between your bodies and wrapped around him. He was hot and thick in your palm, his hips pressing forward before he could stop himself. His forehead dropped to yours.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Not so cocky now, are you?” you whispered.

His eyes opened.

You smiled up at him, thumb stroking over the tip of his cock, and watched his restraint fray in real time.

He caught your wrist after another stroke. “Condom.”

It was not really a question, but you nodded toward the nightstand. “Please tell me Steve’s bachelor despair intervention included supplies.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and reached for the drawer. “He’s thorough.”

“Heroic, really.”

He found one, tore it open, then paused. “You’re sure?”

You looked at him then, at the seriousness under the heat, and something in you softened so quickly it almost hurt.

“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want you.”

His jaw tightened.

You touched his face. “Bucky.”

He kissed you as he rolled the condom on, and the kiss was so intimate that it made the next moment feel even sharper. He settled between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to you. The first press of him stole the air from your lungs.

He stopped immediately. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Your hands gripped his shoulders. “Just go slow.”

His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve got you.”

You believed him.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust even though his breath was rough against your mouth and his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. The stretch was intense, almost too much, then perfect, then overwhelming all over again. You clung to him, nails pressing into his back, and Bucky whispered praise against your mouth until he was fully inside you and both of you went still.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved.

You had flirted with him for months. You had imagined this, wanted this, teased him because wanting him quietly had started to feel impossible. But imagination had not prepared you for the weight of him, the heat of him, the way his body covered yours like he had finally stopped deciding whether he deserved to be there.

Your throat tightened.

Bucky brushed his nose against yours. “Hey.”

You swallowed. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You managed a smile. “You’re just a lot.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve heard that before.”

You pinched his side.

He laughed under his breath, then groaned when the movement made you clench around him. His eyes dropped closed.

“Oh,” you said, interest returning through the haze. “You like that.”

“Don’t start.”

“I think I should start.”

He drew his hips back slowly and pushed in again.

Your words dissolved.

Bucky’s smile was brief and devastating. “That’s what I thought.”

The pace stayed slow at first, deep enough to make your breath catch every time he filled you. His metal hand slid beneath your hip, lifting you slightly, changing the angle until pleasure sparked bright and sudden through your body. Your head fell back into the pillow.

“Bucky.”

“I know.” His voice was rough. “I know, sweetheart.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, needing more of his weight, more of his heat, more of the quiet sounds he made when you clenched around him.

He kissed you through it. Messy, breathless kisses that kept breaking when one of you moaned or when his rhythm faltered because you dragged your nails down his back. He muttered your name against your mouth, then against your throat, then into the curve of your shoulder as the careful pace began to slip.

You liked the moment he lost patience.

You liked it more than you should have.

One second, he was controlled, moving like he could make restraint last all night if he had to. The next, your hips lifted into his at the wrong angle or the right one, and something in him broke. He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with his metal hand, the cool pressure making your whole body tighten around him.

His eyes snapped to yours. “Okay?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, don’t stop.”

He did not.

The next thrust drove you higher on the bed, hard enough to pull a cry from your throat. Bucky made a low, wrecked sound and did it again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours into the mattress while his free hand gripped your hip. Every thrust pushed the breath out of you. Every drag back made you desperate for the next one.

“Still got something to say?” he asked.

You tried. You really did.

What came out was not language.

Bucky’s mouth found your neck, teeth scraping just below your jaw. “Mouthy little thing until I get my cock in you.”

The words should have embarrassed you. They did embarrass you, which was unfortunately part of the problem. Heat rushed through you so sharply that you clenched around him, and Bucky swore, hips stuttering before he recovered.

“There it is,” he said. “You like being talked to like that?”

“Yes.”

His hand tightened on your wrists. “You like me jealous?”

Your eyes flew open.

He lifted his head, looking down at you with his hair falling loose around his face and his mouth swollen from kissing you. There was vulnerability beneath the possessiveness, something exposed and honest enough to change the shape of the question.

You pulled against his hold, not to get away, but because you wanted your hands on him. He understood after a second and let go.

You touched his face at once. “I like when you want me enough to stop pretending you don’t.”

His expression shifted.

Then he kissed you, and the kiss was almost too much, too deep and too honest for the frantic movement of his hips. You held onto him as he fucked you harder, his body heavy over yours, your name breaking out of him like a confession. Pleasure built again, faster this time, sharpened by the orgasm he had already given you and the steady drag of him inside you.

“Bucky,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m close.”

His hand slid between your bodies.

You nearly sobbed when his fingers found your clit.

“Come for me,” he said. “Let me feel it.”

You did.

The orgasm tore through you, harder than the first, your whole body locking around him as pleasure crashed hot and bright through your veins. Bucky held you through it, thrusting shallowly while you clenched around him, his mouth at your temple and his voice rough with praise you could barely understand.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, that’s it. So pretty like this.”

The praise only made it last longer.

By the time you came back to yourself, Bucky was shaking above you, jaw tight, every muscle in his body pulled taut with restraint.

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Come on, baby.”

His breath caught.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I want it.”

That was enough.

Bucky buried his face against your neck and came with a broken groan, hips pressing deep as his body finally gave in. You held him through it, fingers in his hair, your own body still trembling beneath his. For a long moment, he stayed there, breathing hard against your skin, heavy enough to ground you but not enough to hurt.

The room went quiet around you.

Eventually, his arm shifted, bracing some of his weight. “Am I crushing you?”

“A little,” you said.

He started to move.

You tightened your arms around him. “I didn’t say stop.”

His laugh was exhausted and warm against your shoulder. “Brat.”

“Sweetheart,” you corrected.

He lifted his head.

You smiled up at him, softer than you meant to. “You said it first.”

Something flickered through his face.

Then he kissed you, gentle now. “Sweetheart,” he said, quieter, like he was testing how it felt when nobody was hiding.

You felt embarrassingly close to crying, which was rude of your body after everything else it had already done tonight.

Bucky noticed. His thumb brushed your cheek. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

His brow rose.

You huffed. “I am.”

“That means yes, or that means stop asking?”

The echo of your own question from months ago made your chest ache. “It means I’m fine.”

“Mm,” he said. “We’ll workshop that.”

You stared at him.

The smile came slowly.

“Oh, you absolute nightmare.”

He kissed you again before you could say anything worse.

Afterward, Bucky cleaned you up with a gentleness that left you strangely quiet. He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, his boxers pulled on haphazardly, his hair a disaster and his expression too careful. He moved slowly, checking your face more than he needed to, watching for any sign that you had changed your mind now that the wanting had settled.

You caught his wrist when he finished.

“Bucky.”

He looked at you.

“I’m fine.”

His shoulders eased by a fraction. His fingers turned in your grip until he was holding your hand.

“Yeah,” he said.

You tugged lightly. “Come back to bed.”

He did.

The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted toward him immediately, which seemed to surprise him even after everything. You rested your cheek against his chest, one leg thrown over his, the sheet pulled messily around your waist. His arm hovered for half a second before settling around you.

“You’re thinking loudly again,” you murmured.

His fingers moved once over your back. “You’re going to be unbearable now.”

You smiled against his skin. “I was unbearable before.”

“Worse, then.”

“Probably.” You lifted your head enough to look at him. “You can handle me.”

His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”

“You’re very competent.”

That got you a small smile.

You rested your chin on his chest. “Are you okay?”

He was quiet for long enough that you did not think he would answer. Then his hand slid slowly up your back, warm and steady.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.

There was no self-pity in it. Just honesty, rough around the edges.

You softened. “Do what?”

“This.” His fingers brushed your shoulder. “Wanting someone. Having it. Keeping it without waiting for it to go bad.”

Your heart hurt.

“I don’t need you to be good at it right away,” you said. “I just need you not to punish both of us because you’re scared.”

His eyes met yours.

You held his gaze. “And I need you to talk to me before you start glaring at actors like you’re deciding where to hide the body.”

His mouth twitched. “He had it coming.”

“Bucky.”

“He touched your waist.”

“You dragged me out of the gala and fucked me in your bed. I promise you won that exchange.”

A laugh broke out of him, surprised and real, and you grinned because you had earned that.

After a moment, he said, “I don’t want to be one more person in the crowd looking at you.”

You went still.

Bucky looked away, as if the confession had cost more than he meant it to. Before he could retreat completely, you touched his jaw and guided him back.

“You’re not,” you said.

His eyes searched yours.

“You were never that,” you continued. “That’s why it was so annoying when you kept acting like you were.”

His brows lifted. “Annoying?”

“Deeply. Tragically.” You tapped his chest. “I was doing excellent work.”

“You were harassing me.”

“I was courting you.”

“You bit my thumb.”

“You liked it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “I did.”

Your pulse jumped, even now.

Bucky noticed that too, and his expression warmed with a darker kind of satisfaction. “Interesting.”

“Behave,” you warned.

His mouth curved. “That’s my line.”

“You’ll live.”

“I might.”

You were smiling when the next words slipped out, too soft to be a joke and too honest to call back.

“I wanted a boyfriend, you know.”

He froze.

For one terrible second, all the warmth in the room seemed to hold still.

Bucky lifted his head.

You tried for a smile, but it felt shaky at the edges. “Emotionally unavailable boyfriend, technically. I’m flexible.”

His expression softened in a way that made your throat tighten.

“Yeah?” he asked.

You could have backed away. Made it a joke. Given him the escape hatch you had always been so good at pretending you did not need. Instead, you looked up at him and let the truth sit plainly between you.

“Yeah.”

Bucky’s hand came to your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, so gentle it made the rest of him feel even heavier beside you.

“I can do boyfriend,” he said.

Your heart gave a stupid, hopeful little kick. “Can you?”

“I’ll probably be bad at it.”

“I’ll workshop you.”

He huffed a laugh. “Of course you will.”

“I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“Foreplay,” you said.

His mouth curved.

Then he kissed you, and this time, there was nothing frantic in it. It was slow and deep and almost painfully sweet, a kiss that felt less like surrender than arrival. You wrapped yourself around him and let him take his time, because Bucky was warm and solid beside you, because his mouth was soft when he wanted it to be, because the man who had spent months pretending not to want you had finally stopped pretending.

Much later, you woke to pale morning light and the smell of coffee.

For one disoriented second, you thought you were in your own room. Then you shifted and felt the pleasant ache in your thighs, the warmth of a body beside yours, and the weight of Bucky’s arm around your waist.

You opened your eyes.

He was awake, propped on one elbow, looking at you like he had been caught doing something private.

“Hi,” you said, voice rough with sleep.

His expression eased. “Hi.”

“You watched me sleep? Very gothic of you.”

“I woke up two minutes ago.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe ten.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

His mouth twitched. “Apparently.”

The answer was too easy. Too honest. It warmed you all the way through.

You stretched carefully, then winced.

Bucky’s hand moved at once. “Sore?”

“A little.”

His face changed. “Too much?”

“No.” You turned into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Exactly enough.”

He looked unconvinced, because he was Bucky.

You sighed. “I will accept pampering, though.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I’m very delicate.”

He looked down at the marks his mouth had left on your neck, then back at your face.

You smiled. “Emotionally.”

That got you a quiet laugh. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your mouth, soft enough that you melted into it despite the morning breath concerns you decided not to acknowledge because romance required sacrifice.

A knock sounded at the door.

Both of you froze.

Then Sam’s voice came through from the hall. “I’m not coming in because I value my life, but Steve wants to know if you two are alive, Natasha says hydrate again, and Tony says if the bed is broken, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

You buried your face in Bucky’s chest.

Bucky closed his eyes. “Go away, Sam.”

“I also brought coffee.”

You lifted your head. “Wait.”

Bucky looked betrayed.

You patted his chest. “Baby, I love whatever brooding domestic morning-after thing you’re doing right now, but I need coffee if I’m going to survive the team knowing you rearranged my insides.”

From the hall, Sam made a delighted choking sound. “Oh my God.”

Bucky threw a pillow at the door.

It hit with a soft thump. Sam laughed all the way down the hall.

You collapsed back against the mattress, laughing too, and after a second, Bucky gave in. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until your laughter softened into a smile against his skin.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“You knew that on Tuesday.”

“I knew it before then.”

You tipped your face up. “And yet.”

His eyes moved over you, warm and a little helpless, the way they had looked last night right before everything changed.

“And yet,” he agreed.

You smiled, pleased enough that he narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was letting the moment breathe.”

“The moment can suffocate.”

Your smile widened. “You’re so romantic.”

Bucky rolled you beneath him before you could laugh again, his body settling carefully over yours, one hand braced beside your head. His hair fell around his face, soft with sleep, and he looked less like a ghost, less like a weapon, less like the man who had spent months standing at the edge of his own wanting.

He looked like yours.

Or almost yours. Enough to make your chest ache. Enough to make you brave.

“So,” you said, touching his jaw. “Did I win you over?”

Bucky looked at you for a long moment, then bent until his mouth hovered over yours.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm, “you have no idea.”

Then he kissed you, and because you were a menace, because he was smiling against your mouth, because you had never known how to leave a victory unannounced, you wrapped your arms around his neck and whispered, “Progress.”

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @saradika-graphics for the Winter Soldier divider ❤️💛

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